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The strange shape says nothing, and seems as emotionless as any natural rock. Awenasa's friends hurry after her, looking quite confused.

'Floating rocks?" Perey whispers, as they step into the shadow of the vast cube.

"I wonder if they are naturally those shapes or they chose them?" Thak says musingly, "Many of my countrymen would envy them. No emotions, no feelings, no passion. Only logic and reason, encased in a perfect shell." Seeing Perey's look the small man shakes his head, "I am not one of them. Still, if they do not feel....they acted as if they did, when in disguise."

They cross over the threshold and Awenasa fins herself inside the massive structure. The inside is much like the outside, made of smooth polished stone. There is no decoration, no artwork, not even carpeting. Awenasa doesn't see a single scuff mark or bit of dust. Just dully gleaming stone, cut into a perfectly square corridor. The only outlier is the ceiling, which every few feet, glows a soft red, providing light. There are no windows.

Awenasa wanders along the corridor for awhile. Other hallways branch off at right angles, endlessly long and unmarked. There are no maps or signs, no labels. How was she supposed to....

"Awenasa Windkeeper." A voice says behind her. Awenasa whirls, surprised anyone can sneak up on her, even in this strange place. Her elders would be shocked.

Standing behind her friends is...another Shoanti elder. This one a woman, carrying the many tattoos that show great age and wisdom. She bows slightly, "You seek Asny Kolbeindottir. I shall guide you. " The elderly woman smiles, revealing a few bent and gnarled teeth.

"It can be confusing for outsider. We do not provide much in the way of direction, I am afraid. Follow me."

And they venture ever deeper into the vast Cube, until Awenasa is totally lost. Indeed, it feels as if they are entering a vast mine or cavern deep in the bowels of the earth. Even Awenasa, who fears little in this life, gets a growing sense of claustrpobia. She knows, if left on her, own, she might wander here until she runs out of food or water.

Perey leans in at one point however and mutters, "I have magic that can get us out."

Their guide says nothing.

Their are no stairs, just long, smooth ramps leading up and down. Now and then, they pass other rooms. Most of these are empty, of sizes ranging from tiny cells to vast amphitheaters that could fit entire towns. Awenasa sees no furnishings, no furniture. Just blank walls of stone.

A few times they spot other people, all appearing as Shoanti elders, some less aged or with less tattoos. Once or twice however, they see other people that Awenasa marks as natives of this planet. The reddish skin, purple eyes and dark hair. Other pilgrims? Students? Wanderers? Merely magical phantoms conjured to put her at ease?

They keep walking, the silence so thick Awenasa can count her heartbeats. Finally, after what seems like hours they reach an open door. Their guide pauses and beckons them on, "Inside, Awenasa Windkeeper. Good luck with what you seek."

Awenasa passes through, Perey and Thak close behind, happy to be leaving the endless maze of hallways.

They find themselves in a long, low room. At the far end a few humans stand, none of them Shoanti illusions. Most are local people but Awenasa's eyes focus only on one.

A tall (taller then Awenasa even), imposing woman of indisputable Ulfen descent. Pale skin fairly glitters until the dim lighting and her hair is a snowy white, braided and coiled. Her clear face is sharp and angled, intense and stern. She is wearing light armor, clean and well kept, if old. Asny Kolbeindottir the White, it must be.

But this woman was young, not much older then Awenasa herself. How could that be? She was from her grandmother's time, at least. Magic?

"So you can see, every general must be aware of all aspects of war. Even as something as shooting a bow." Asny said to the other, turning. Her frigid blue eyes caught Awenasa, widening slightly. For a moment she surveyed her new guests and then, rasied her bow.

Without a change of expression, she shot an arrow directly at Awenasa's face.

The Shoanti smiles but says gently, "Let us keep the terms of our agreement, all shall speak privately in turn. And then we shall see what we see." The man pauses, cocks his head, and adds, "Dangle a carrot. An interesting turn of phrase. Curious."

So it goes. Awenasa withdraws from her private sphere and Perey takes her place. Her friend looks very nervous and is sweating far more then the rather cool, dry day would suggest. His talks with the elder, while unheard, seem to go much longer then Awenasa's.

At her side Thak is silent but obviously excited. He shushed Awenasa when she mentions something saying, 'I want to be a tablua rasa for this experience. Has it occurred to you, we might be the very first people from our world to undergo this initiation? The very first! How valuable."

Eventually Perey walks back, looking quiet and thoughtful, but no longer anxious. He merely says it was 'interesting' but leaves it at that. Thak trots off like a dog to a bird hunt, moving quickly enough to stir the ancient dust. Curiously Thak's interview doesn't last very long. Awenasa wonder if the little man simply chattered so fast the Elder dismissed him in bemusement.

In short order all three of them are in front of the Elder, the path to the inside of the Halls just off to the side.

"You have all been judged worthy to enter." The aged man says, nodding, "Indeed, it has been many a year since we have had such an unusual and varied group. You will honor us by sharing things you know, if you wish. You may find such discourse to your own advantage as well. The Halls have much to teach."

Then a small smile, "I have been asked to...offer a carrot. Awenasa Windkeeper has asked to see my true form. If you others allow it, I will indulge." Thak nods so formerly, Awenasa is afraid is neck might snap. Perey looks more uncertain but eventually shrugs assent.

The Elder spreads his arms slightly and starts to shimmer, like hot air above a rock. His shape twists and flickers. Awenasa wonders what might appear in the place of the Shoanti. A demon, with wings and barbed tail? A slavering pile of teeth and eyes? Perhaps a hyperintelligent shade of blue?

The shimmer slowly fades and the aged, Shoanti elder is gone. In his place is....not much. Simply a floating triangular pyramid floating in midair, about the size of a large dog. It is seemingly made of the same shiny stone as the vast cube behind them. It gleams in the weak sunlight, casting a slight shadow.

"A tetrahedron?" Thak says, naming the shape.

Yes Sounds a voice inside Awenasa's head. It is a dry, clinical voice devoid of all emotion and inflection. And it seems to come from somewhere inside her, not from the floating shape at all.

You may now understand why such forms can be off-putting to strangers. A pause and then, You may enter the Halls. Others inside will guide you further.

A long pause and then, Good Luck, Awenasa Windkeeper.

The huge beast stands still for a moment, the massive head swinging from the forest to Sigmar and then back again. It stamps the ground once (in doubt?), and lets out a bone rattling bellow, more felt then heard. Then, without further ado it ambles down the hill at an easy pace, not even pausing as it casually crashes through two hedgerows and a wooden fence. Sigmar can't be sure but it seems, for now, to avoid the exact same trails as the lizardmen took.

Who knows?

Well, that was nice. Freedom and stuff. Good vibes.

A tiny whisper. What was that?

"I said, GOOD VIBES!" Ozzy shouts in his battered, mangled ears. "Dude, I've been talking for awhile but I think you checked out there. Everything ok?"

Before Sigmar can answer his sandy friend, another voice can be heard.

"You got lucky." Turning, Sigmar is confronted with Herluf, the old soldier carrying a bloody rapier in one hand. His tattered uniform is a bit mud spattered and he is missing a boot, but otherwise seems unharmed. In fact, he seems more spry then ever.

"Very lucky," He goes on, sniffing a bit, 'Going off on your own, no plan, no reserve. Grabbing an enemy mount and stomping around the battlefield. Could have killed half a dozen of our own men."

A long frosty silence but then the old man shrugs, "But you didn't. My old commander used to have a saying. 'Better to be lucky the good.' Well done, young man." he claps Sigmar on the shoulder. He turns to the slowly growing assembly.

"Casualties?"

The Fort Holiday force seemed to have gotten off lightly. There had been no deaths, only some injuries. Even now they are being healed by a ramshackle collection of potions, a wand and a few spells by the gifted locals. Even Oyok is pressed into service, the ranger helping heal a shattered leg.

Quite a few dinosaur corpses are scattered around and three dead lizardmen. They stink to all the high heavens, a acrid scent that reminded Sigmar of old milk and bad eggs mixed with more then a touch of dead animal. A few of the other sailors report two other corpses hauled off by the enemy.

Most credit Sigmar and Uzhg as the two most stalwart defenders. The short-lived debate between the two factions is still ongoing when Arianne comes over, covered in blood from head to foot. The mute is grinning like a madwoman, and holds up a bloody hand to Sigmar. He watches as she reveals a sharp dinosaur tooth, nearly the length of his finger. Some of the fleshy root is still clinging to it, hacked out by the gunslinger. She holds it out, indicating Sigmar should take it.

'Well done, men and women." Herluf says shortly, "That could have gone a lot worse. We saved the farms so we will eat next month. Let's head back up to town and tell the others. Gods only know what they are doing."

Despite her whisper, Awenasa's words ring like a cracked bell, filling the air. There is a long quiet moment, under that strange sun. To Awenasa's surprise the Shoanti elder looks moved by her words, face creasing in pity. He raises a scarred, battle tested hand as if to touch her shoulder but halts, shaking his head instead.

"A weighty answer.' He says simply, nodding. He pauses in thought and then goes on, speaking carefully, not too loud.

"We study many things in the Halls of Reason, Awenasa Windkeeper. Craft and industry, nature and the world. History and the guessing future. Good, evil and the gods between. The structure of the very universe itself, of all seen and unseen. But I have found, it is really the study of one thing."

"Cause and effect. How one thing causes another, how a stone thrown into a pond makes the endless ripples. It is complex, intricate and often beyond our understanding, this interlocking of the world. A man takes the step and all is changed. It is a subtle, dangerous study that one can dedicate a lifetime towards. 'The cause is hidden, but the result is known.' , one of our thinkers said once.

A short pause and then, "Do not be overly sure, Awenasa Windkeeper. Causes come from many places and to holding guilt over something unsure is unwise. The world is more complex then you know, then any of us know and even the wisest cannot foresee all the chains of action that bind us together."

The man straightens then, blinking up at the sky, "Or maybe that is a comforting lie we tell ourselves. Maybe you are the wiser one." A small shrug, "You are worthy of passing into the Halls, Awenasa Windkeeper. It has been a pleasure to learn some of your mind, perhaps we may learn more, to both of our benefit."

He waves idlily at the gargantuan Cube only a short distance away. As Awenasa watches, the landscape changes slightly. The simple sand around the Cuba's base dissolves, replaced with a fine flagstone plaza, and the road intersects. There, at the base of the mindbogglingly huge building, appears a grand double door, flung wide open. There are no guards or other wardens, just a quiet invitation.

"I shall test your friends, you may wait here or proceed inside. Your choice." The Elder says gently and then, with a slightly child-like smile, "If you remain, and your friends agree, perhaps I shall reveal my true self. Even if it is unimportant.' A wink.

The would-be elder grins at her unimportant truth, showing bright white teeth only slightly stained with age and wear. "Ah, a bold start. Saying I am unimportant." He chuckles slightly but then went on, "Or is unimportant because my true form is not material? That the mind inside, the internal world of logic and thought, is all that matters?"

"Or, perhaps," The old eyes are piercing now, "Is it because you value your own wishes and desires as unimportant? Hmm, telling, very telling."

The old man looks away, staring at the sky in obvious thought. He scratches at his face, idlily tapping fingers along a long tattoo that signifies he once bested ten men in a fight. All lies? Are they important ones?

When Awenasa speaks her important lie the man's eyebrows narrow, "An interesting statement, reversed from the previous. Here the importance is obvious, but where is the lie? That you are not indifferent is perhaps the most obvious but there may be other lies hovering there. Perhaps home itself is a lie, if an important one. For nothing stays still and unchanging. One cannot step into the same river twice. Perhaps home is not waiting for you?"

The sham Shoanti elder clearly ponders this for awhile before saying, "Curious. It bears further thought. Thank you for suggesting it." A pause and then, "Your question, Awenasa Windkeeper."

“What truth do you believe would remain true even if no one remembered it?”

Sigmar's rough handling of the dinosaur climaxes with a blow to the nose of the unruly beast. It does not growl, snap or hiss at the dragonling. Thoroughly chastened, it simply takes off running, clearly heeding his last command. The fleeing creature leaves a slightly smoky trail, vanishing back into the undergrowth of farm and fence.

Around them, the battle seems to be dying down. Sigmar's capture of the titanic beast of war has turned the tide. The former sailors have also done yeoman's work about the cornrows, sheds and hay bales. Eve as Sigmar studies the scene he spots lizardmen heading for cover, often with a limp or bleeding wound. Half a dozen dead dinosaurs of the type he just bested lie on the field, mere corpses.

But not all. Close at hand, a seeming twin to the one Sigmar just spanked runs alongside, snapping at the massive trunk-like legs of Sigmar' steed. Before he had do anything though, Arianne is moving. She hands Sigmar her weapon, still smoking, before drawing a long knife. With a wild glint in her eyes she gives Sigmar a roguish wink. Then, without delay she jumps down and tackles the running reptile to the ground. Soon both are a muddy mess of leather, scales and a single gleaming knife. Quickly though it turns from fight to butchery as the mute quickly dispatches the dinosaur in a series of cuts more suited to a butcher's shop then a battlefield.

Around them the other sounds of battle dissipate as the lizardmen retreat. Under him, Sigmar feels the huge beast grows restive, stamping the earth. Did it desire to follow it's former comrades into the bush? Or was it merely celebrating victory?

Or, like Arianne, was it just reveling in destruction for its own sake?

"I don't think you can keep it, lad." Oyok shouts, coming up from behind a hedgerow, apparently unharmed. "I don't think Vrilu would allow a pet. Although, I have to confess, it has style."

The seeming elder seemed unsurprised by Awenasa's request and says freely, "Yes, Master Kolbeindottir still dwells within these walls." A moment and then, "I hope your intentions are peaceful, for we allow no violence or barbarism in the Halls. We are an outpost of thought, exploration and discovery, not a hotbed of thuggery. If you have old scores to settle, leave them here, outside. Such transgressions are....not allowed."

It was strange to Awenasa to hear these words in the tongue of her own people. It was Shoanti words but not Shoanti thoughts. Transgressions? That wasn't even a word among her people, and the 'elder' had to use a workaround or two. Curious.

"But with that in mind, we accept your promise." He looks at the others. He doesn't need to wait long.

"If Awenasa will do it, so will I." Perey says, shrugging, "Besides, lying is part of good music anyway."

"I also agree. I greatly desire to see your Halls, master." Thak says, "I come from a people who greatly value learning and study." The elder smiles at this and nods, accepting their agreements.

"Very well. Then we shall take each in turn as they agreed. Please walk away and give Awenasa Windkeeper and myself some privacy. No need to avoid eyesight however." A glance toward Awenasa, 'I understand some travelers are wary of being spilt apart. Have no fear, we do not resort to tricks here. Although, I suppose that is what a deceiver might say!" The elder chuckled to himself.

Perey and Thak took a few long strides backward down the ancient road, close enough to still be at hand in a moment, but too far to hear anything but a shout. A thin wind rises, just enough to play with the dirt and sand around her boots. The air feels oddly cold.

The elder waves a hand at Awenasa, "You may begin. Please, an unimportant truth and an important lie. As you say, which is which is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps that gives you an insight into why we do this."

Awenasa is still speaking when, to her surprise, Thak also starts talking. Not that her Vudran friend is usually silent, but he usually has the good graces to not interrupt. Even more surprising is his words. The reddish man shuffled forward, bowing low, obviously surprised.

"Master. I did not expect to see a Champion of Iro-Shu here, particularly one wearing the Platinum Chain. You have traveled far indeed." A small chuckle, 'I must admit, I hoped to be the first."

Perey laughs, "Thak, what are you talking about? It's not a Champion or whatever. Awenasa is right, it's a Shoanti story-master. You can tell by the drum."

Story-master? Awenasa's people do have such traveling bards, those who know all the old sagas and tales, who roam from quah to quah, part priesthood, part entertainer, held in equal among all the Shoanti. But this man is not one of them and he has no drum, at least as far as Awenasa can see.

The old man chuckles, a rich, throaty sound only slightly tinged by dust.

"Ah, yes. The downside of the enchantment." He waves a hand, gesturing to himself, "A champion of Iro-shu or a ..what was it? A Shoanti story-master? I hope I do them justice." His language is pure Shoanti, down to the exact right accent and yet....there is something off about it. The words, the phrasing...it is like listening to a skilled actor play a part. It is almost too convincing to be real.

He smiles but goes on, "I am the door warden of the Halls of Reason. What you see is a reflection of yourself, a form of the what you consider authority and rightful leadership. We find it helps. Our natural forms can be....difficult for strangers to interact with. At least at first."

"You wish to enter the Halls then? Few come this far for any other reason." The elder nods, "It is open, for those with minds and eyes to see. We ask for no payment, no fee. Instead, we only ask the following. You tell me a unimportant truth, an important lie and answer one question of my choosing. Then I shall judge if you are permitted to pass."

The figure bowed, "Each answer will be held in secret, and not shared with your friends, so do not fear that." Then the misplaced Shoanti looked up, face inscrutable yet so familiar "Do you agree?"

The dinosaur lets out a guttural bellow that rattled deep in Sigmar's stomach, like a miniature earthquake. The huge frilled head tossed back and forth, for all the world like a racing horse before a sprint. Then, feet digging into the turf, it took off at a rumbling gallop that shook the ground.

Arianne clung tightly to his waist, caught off guard by the rolling gait, more like a wagon with a broken axle then a gallant steed. Sigmar can feel her hot breath on his neck as she is thrown against him. She smells of sweat, oil and, of course, bat guano.

The dinosaur rampages into the cluster of enemies like a bull amongst a flock of crows. Clearly expected the huge beast to be friendly, most don't realize the danger until it is far too late. Two are trampled into the mud, churned into little more then battered remains. Another is gored by a huge bloody horn, and tossed twenty feet into the air. There are hisses and screams by the strange creatures, as they start to break.

One holds their ground however, a thick-set lizardman covered in moldy old bones. They have a staff in their hand, which they raise high. It starts to glow with an unwholesome green light, that swirls around it. The lizard starts to chant something, eyes focused on Sigmar. It begins to point toward him-

KA-BLAM!

With a roar like a thunderstorm, blacksmith accident and a dozen trumpets, Arianne's long barreled weapon goes off. Sigmar's vision goes pure white for a moment and his head rings like a bell. By the time the dragonling regains his bearings, the gunslinger's weapon is a spouting a thick plume of black smoke, acrid enough to be be smelt among the blood of battle.

The staff-wielding lizardman is dead, head smashed like an overripe melon dropped by a careless merchant. The staff rolls away, magic dissipating. The other lizardmen either run or die, crushed by the stampeding dinosaur.

From above in the tree, the sailors let out a lustily cheer.

"Sigmar and Arianne!"

Around them the battle is flowing against the attackers now, and the Fort Holidayers clearly have the upper hand. Sigmar is debating where to steer his mount next when he spots a shadow out of the corner of his eye.

A brightly colored two-legged dinosaur is leaping up toward them, claws legs and arms outstretched.

Jump to Pounce: 1d20 + 22 ⇒ (9) + 22 = 31

Raptor attack: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (10) + 5 = 15
Raptor attack: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (20) + 5 = 25

Bite: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (11) + 5 = 16

Crit Confirm?: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8

Damage: 1d8 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3

Despite the surprise of the attack, however, most of the claws and teeth miss. Only one long talon catches Sigmar's leg and it is more of a scratch then anything. Still, the hissing dinosaur is clinging to the harness like a sailor at sea, remaining close and within range. It snaps and kicks, long tail thrashing wildly.

Perey and Thak are both intrigued by Awenasa's idea of having to break into the building. Clearly both expected welcome parties and open doors, the concept of a test seems to surprise them. Yet it seems natural to Awenasa. Nothing worthwhile was given away for free.

"Maybe it is not the season." Thak said when she asked where others are. "There are many pilgrimages in my land that are seasonal, and only take place once a year. The Yellow Night for example. Thousands come and it is the biggest gathering in Vudra, but the rest of the year it is an empty field. A traveler would not even notice if they came out of time for the celebrations."

The cube grows larger as they approach. It gains little more detail though as their are no windows, no towers, not even any art to break the monotony of smooth, straight lines. The stone does gleam slightly, as if wet and it reminds Awenasa of obsidian from her homeland. Had this place been carved out of an impossibly large block? Impossible.

Surely?

The road becomes a fair avenue, broad and straight, flagged with broad stones. They are fit together so tightly, there is barely any grit or sand between them, neatly aligned. Wide gutters stand on each side, and Awenasa even spots a few old benches here and there. Boulders begin appearing, scattered over the flat, dusty ground. They are larger, standing taller then Awenasa, but seem unworked and natural. Awenasa, to her growing alarm, sees no farms or gardens.

If these are the Halls...where are the people?

Finally the road....ends. A few hundred feet from the base of the cube it simply cuts off, vanishing into rough dirt. There are no ruts or footsteps beyond, just unbroken ground that leads to the base of the strange monolith. There are no stairs or doors there, just smooth stone.

Perey leans back and stares up the vast cliff, huge beyond reason. He almost falls over, craning upwards. Thak blinks, "Maybe there is no one home?"

Awenasa is grappling with this horrifying possibility when she hears something. Footfalls on the stone. Instinct flaring, she whirls toward the sound. Out from behind a massive boulder steps a humanoid shape and Awenasa's jaw drops. Whatever she expected, feared or hoped for, this was not it.

She sees a Shoanti elder standing there, half in the shadow of a mighty rock. They are small and wiry, stooped slightly with age. Braided white hair blows slightly in the wind, slipping over their shoulders. Their skin is windburned and criss-crossed with burns, scars and, most importantly tattoos. To Awenasa's shock she can read them perfectly well, they are of the same type as her own quah! They tell a lifetime of raids and battles, of leadership and struggle. Successes mostly, a quah leader of a life well lived. This is the epitome of a Shonati leader, proud and brave who lived to the quiet dignity of old age.

The figure silently watches them all, making no move. The wind whistles over the sand, but there is no other noise.

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?"