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Zache has never had a more attentive audience. Tasaristina never interrupts, never derails the story but her bright eyes remain fixed, focused. The swashbuckler gets the odd feeling the woman is somehow...trained to listen to stories. As if, once heard, the Desnan could flawlessly recite everything he had said, word for word. Not as a trick of magic but as a skill of memory.

The air of the garden is cool, just a hint of a scented breeze. It was hard to imagine that just shortly before he had been toiling under a glaring sun. This could have been the imperial gardens of Taldor or some other plane.

When he finished, Tasaristina was silent for a brief moment. She looked up at the stars, now bright above them, a vast net of white and blue. When her face meets Zache's again, there is a smile.

"Well, first of all, I want to say well done. To get through all of that in one piece and in only a few days...I think bodes well for the Hakimlyq. Bodes very well. Take courage from it and strength." The smile blossoms slightly, a bit of pride, "And you told the tale well. You could have made a fair bard, and travel seems to suit you."

Then she grows more serious, and takes a seat near Zache on the bench. The swashbuckler catches a strange perfume about her, light and delicate. Her long cloak rustles lightly over the grass. "You have said much that interests me, although I am not yet sure of the import of much of it. The vision, after your fall...that, at least, was sent by Lady Luck or I'm a cave troll."

She tilted her head toward Zache, face catching some bit of light. "Tell me Zache, do you follow any of the gods? Because certainly Desna is following you. It is not something to be taken lightly. The ways of the Great Dreamer can be...strange. Dangerous even, to the unwary."

Her voice is soft, "I have followed her star for many a year, and learned much. Yet, she still often surprises me. Like this. To interrupt a hag's vision...." A dusty smile crosses her brown-skinned face, "That must have infuriated the old woman! Hags have always had a special hate for Desna, for obvious reason. They thrive on hate, on fear, on the dark as terror. Desna values trust, bravery and exploration of the deeps. For her followers, the dark holds no terrors."

'I am no expert on hags." Tasaristina goes on, 'But if I guessed, it was her vision that clouds your eyes. A side effect of the foul magics she employed, or consulted. Maybe even the Blood Watchers knew it as a sign? That is the only reason I do not offer to heal it. It grieves me to see you struck so. You did a good thing, in removing her from the world. It will be a safer road, now." Zache gets the sense she doesn't just mean literally.

A longer pause, and the bard enters a new tune. It is slow, sweet and sounds very old. An ancient air. Tasaristina gives a slow smile at the music, and listens quietly to it for awhile. For a moment she seems to walk in some memory, in some distant time or place. The song fades, and gently, she returns to the here and now.

The woman stands up again, moving gracefully.

"So, I suppose you want answers concerning this mysterious stranger? How could you not? To trust so blindly...."A small sigh, as if the woman wished it could be so. She looks up again at the stars in thought. Or silent prayer.

Decided to break things up

"We had remnants of the storm here." Tasaristina says simply, nodding to them. "The only way to find a friend is to be one." She adds, obviously quoting some Desna proverb. "It is a true pleasure to meet you. Traveling can be tiring work, I know that more then most. Please feel free to enjoy the gardens, the proprietor is a friend of mine. I highly recommend the phlox, it blooms so wonderfully after dark." Her smile is clear but the obvious edge of dismissal is hard to miss. Tramp and Lessi give Zache a look then wander off between the shadowy trees.

Tasaristina gives Zache a long look, focusing on his eyes. She raises a hand and then drops it back to her lap.

"Well, I must simply know everything. Come, sit." She pats the stone bench and gestures for the swashbuckler to rest. "In exchange I can tell you a bit of what I have been up to. I must confess, I thought I would have more time to prepare. You travel fast, Zache." Her bright eyes flick to Zache's newest friends, "My news may prove to be a boon for your new companions, actually. Funny how things work out sometimes. But come, first tell me your thrilling tale and leave nothing out."

Still standing, the tall woman looks down at him with...

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (14) + 4 = 18

A certain gentle fondness and approval. It seems she really does care that he made it back (mostly) in one piece.

Feel free to summarize. Just tell me what you leave out, if anything

"She said she wasn't sure when you'd be through," The tanner says, "Anytime between today or a week from now. She seemed to think it would be longer. Works for me, I get my gold sooner and less work. Good luck to you, whatever it is." He nods in a friendly fashion and heads back into his workshop.

Ewahee replies, "I don't think so. I will give my own report and views tonight. For yourself, I would just come back to the Main Plaza, there should be some Blood Watchers there to continue." She pauses and looks at Tramp and Lessi. 'As for them, I will note my views in my tale, of course."

She stops and Zache senses some struggle within the young woman. The swashbuckler isn't sure what, but she is battling two thoughts. Finally she says, "But I will omit the names. Perhaps that way, even if the story reaches Vakk Zush's ears, it will reveal less."

Tramp and Lessi are clearly unsure how to take this and merely shrug.

Ewahee turns back to Zache and bows a bit formally, "You saved my life at least twice on this journey. I will not forget it. Good Luck, Zache Slobodo." With that she marches straight toward the distant city walls, little more then black cliffs in the growing dusk. Overhead the very first and brightest stars start to shine.

With nothing else, Zache follows the directions given. They wind through busy streets and alleyways, through tents and shacks. Tramp and Lessi's remarks lead Zache to believe they only saw the early days of this land rush, not the full blown chaos Outwall has become. They are quickly completely at sea but it gives Zache hope. Perhaps their return will be unnoticed against the great matters of the city.

He hoped.

To his surprise the directions did not lead to a teahouse. Instead they sent them to something he didn't even know Outwall had, let alone expected to find. Between a dusty livery stable and fabric stall (closing up for the night) was a patch of bright green. It was as if someone took a garden from some softer clime and transported it via magic. Perhaps they had?

It is small and trim, surrounded by a simple wooden fence. Trees taller then Zache arch over the thick grass, providing pleasant cover. A small pond takes up nearly a quarter of the small lot, a tiny waterfall sending up a silverly tinkling sound. Colorful flowers grow here and there, interspersed with some benches and tables. In a corner a lutist plies his trade with skill, sending soft notes into the growing night. The smell of jasmine and moonflower wafts through the breeze.

Seated at one of the stone benches near the water is Tasaristina, her hood pulled up. She is so still she seems a statue overlooking the pond, some graven structure. Shadowed, her fair face is lost in some distant thought, or memory. At Zache's approach she glances up however, and it is replaced with a smile. A real genuine smile.

"Ah, Zache! Welcome to my new favorite place in the city. Reminds me of the gardens of Kasai." She says, standing up. "Well, quite ahead of schedule, I must say. I dared not even hope to see you again so soon. All went well, I trust? Congratulations in order?" Something in Zache's gait or face must have given it away because he smile grew, if possible. "Excellent, excellent."

Then she spots his eyes, the smile softens, "A pity. Some lingering curse of the hag?" But then she turns to Tramp and Lessi who, obviously unsure of all this, hang back. 'Ah, friends met along the road? Would-be allies, dare I hope?" Their rough features do not, apparently, bother the woman.

It is, again, brutally hot. The sun pounds down on the flat desert landscape as if wielded by a fire giant. Once again Zache can see the shimmering heat haze in every direction, a sizzling reminder of just how blasted the landscape around the city is. Still, he is too excited by victory and the future to let it depress him. Even better he has new companions and talk has always been a source of joy for Zache.

"Not a bad tale." Tramp judges when Zache wraps up his version of events. "I'm not I believe half of it, mind. Still, well told. That old master of mine would have paid a few silvers for it. He would change the part about the toad though. The crowd likes a good fight. Maybe it would swallow you whole, or something."

Slowly they march towards the city. At first it is a mere dark line on the horizon, barely visible among the swelting air. It grows clearer and darker as they approach, slowly resolving into view. Ewahee picks up her pace, eager to be home, just as Tramp and Lessi slow their own. Clearly, whatever else they said and thought, the city itself was no friend to them. Fair enough. In many lands Tramp and his friend would be considered thieves, stealers of themselves. And what thief enjoyed returning to the scene of the crime?

Finally, after what seemed like a hot age, they reached the outskirts of Outwall. The isolated shacks and huts along the old Ash Road replacing the more natural piles of sand and rocks.

"This far out?" Tramp says in wonder, "Just how big is the city getting?"

They go farther, their way eased both by the fact the road is better here and the sun is starting to set behind them. Their shadows stretch out in front, as if pacing them.

"Hey, Zache Slobodo!" Zache turns to see a halfling running out of an isolated tanner's shop. He has never seen this man before in his life, but the tanner is looking at him with a grin only gold can buy. His clothes are stained and smell of the unpleasant materials he worked with. There was a reason tanners were stuck way out here.

"Ah good, it is you." The little man says, coming up. "She gave me a pretty good description, so I guessed." He squinted at Zache, 'Although she didn't say you were blind. You think she'd have led with that."

A pause and then, 'Um, sorry about that. Anyway, a lady with a Desna holy symbol told me, to tell you,.." He pauses and visibly searched his memory, 'Upon your return, I would be happy to receive all news, post haste. '

Then the halfling rattled off a series of what passed for directions in Outwall.

'Follow this road till the broken wagon, take a left, down until you cross that gnome bookseller's tent. Bright red, can't miss. Then-'

It was not far, but also not on the way back to the city proper.

When the halfling finishes he grins and says, "A full gold crown in it for me, if I caught you, she said. Been watching out my shop window all day. Was worried it'd be dark soon and I'd miss you."

To Zache's surprise, it is Ewahee who reacts the strongest. The Blood Watcher had done her best to leave center stage to Zache, but she nearly jumps at his words.

"Trarn Igzuuk?!" Ewahee says, her voice a mix of confusion and disapproval. "But he retired and with good reason. After all he said about the Blood Watchers....I wasn't even sure if he was still alive..." Ewahee realizes everyone is staring at her. She reddens somewhat and falls into awkward silence.

Tramp raises an eyebrow but looks back at Zache, "I was a slave once for a bard, not for long but I heard some of his tales. One was about this Thassilonian Emperor who said, 'I don't want smart generals, or clever generals. I want lucky generals.' The same goes for me and my friends. Lessi, what do you think? Think this one is crazy enough to do it?"

The woman gives Zache a look, glances at her spear and then nods, "Good enough for you, good enough for me."

"Done." Tramp says and offers his arm in Kaer Maga street fashion. "Together till the Gray Lady calls in the chips, then." The battered former slave glances up at the sun, squinting, "Back to Urglin tonight. I wonder how it has changed..."

Shall we?

Tramp nods and there is even a hint of a smile there, at the crack about Kaer Maga. No one who grew up in the Asylum Stone could ignore how clever the city's inhabitants considered themselves, especially in matters of bargaining.

"Well enough. Been talking over your offer." The man says and Lessi nods in agreement. He notes Zache's roving eyes and adds, "The other two have already made their choice. They headed off south, away from the city. Back down toward Kaer Maga maybe, or beyond. They wished you luck but I think they wanted to avoid your silver tongue."

'Lessi and I will risk the danger." The bandit says, leaning on his spear, giving Zache a steady look. It is the look Zache knows all too well. After all, slavery held no secret terrors for Zache. He knew it's horrors all too well. For example, even after escape, the lash lingered. Tramp had learned hard lessons in life and any promise of hope, of change, would be sorely tested. This was a man who would not blindly leap toward a passing light.

"Do you really think you can help us?" Lessi says, breaking in for the first time. "Really keep us safe? Gods know it would be nice to live among people again, instead of scraping a living off rocks." A lizard darts over a stone, vanishing into some hidden crevice.

Tramp spoke again, face dark,"Now is not the time for comforting lies, Zache. We have heard too many of those. They do not fill the belly or guard the back. Be straight, even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts."

The day is filled with travel.

They get a fairly late start, both somewhat reluctant to leave Whiteroot's glade. Not only because of how peaceful it is (and how good the water tastes) but because Zache wishes to thank the treant. Part of him knows, luck and chance aside, the tree-beings help was probably indispensable with his success (and even his survival).

Yet by mid-morning the treant has not returned and there is no sign of them. Reluctantly they both leave, Ewahee mentioning this is only a day or so travel out. It is possible for them to come pay suitable respects at some later date. The Blood Watcher does wonder what gifts one might get a treant.

Saplings?

The journey through the burned forest goes smoothly, with no sign of fiery fey or other beasts. Zache figured the former have been dispersed by the hag's death and the eruption has probably dislodged the more mundane creatures. The bright light of day also helps and probably dissuades any ambush predators.

They get another stroke of luck at the cliff. They descend without incident (and no rope!) to find the lahar has subsided to a thin slurry of ash and water. Still disgusting and muddy, but narrow enough they can manage without trouble. Ewahee looks very pleased to have avoided another dip in the mixture.

The desert is still hot as ever. More so, now that the sky is no shield against the savage sun. It reminds Zache of that first furnace-like morning when they had departed. Still, they have plenty of water and at least a guess of the distance. They pace themselves as they slowly wind their way through the jagged rocky knives.

Eventually, after considerable sweating, they reach a place near the bandit's hideout. Now which one had it been? They had run to it before the storm and the morning after they had left so quickly....The sun was so bright, Zache was nearly blinded.

"It was the third one to the left." A voice calls out from a nearby crag. Tramp steps out of the shadows, spear in hand. He looks thin and dirty as ever, but he looks glad to see them. Above Lessi the would-be spearwoman sits on a rock.

There are no signs of the others.

"So, you survived?" Tramp says, waving them into the respite of the shade. 'How did it go with the hag? Bargain away any treasured memories or souls?" The ex-slave gives the dark laugh of a man with neither left to lose. Then he gives Zache's face a long look, "By the Lucky Drunk, you've lose your eyes‽ But surely you aren't blind, we've been watching you both walk for miles." Lessi clambers down to take a look.

"I imagine it is probably a warning left by any survivors." Ewahee says, pondering, "Or, if it is very old as you guess, maybe by traveling quahs. I wonder why they did not undo it. Maybe the hag was a problem? I am curious..." But then she shakes her head, "No, our task is to get you to the hag, back and report on your actions. At least my task is. We shouldn't be distracted by personal interest. Besides, the last thing we need is to go poking around and upset the dead." The thought of that seems to bother her.

They find Whiteroot's home by midnight (finding it was harder then they guessed). The treant is absent but the pool's gentle tinkling is a pleasant sound that wards off the nightmare evils that plague Zache's thoughts. Taking care to set no fires, they make camp inside the huge fallen tree. Inside the air is warm and laced with a fragrant mustiness, dry leaves of centuries. Indeed there are enough needles and leaves to create thick pads under their sleeping rolls.

Both are too tired to set watch but neither think it is required. Whatever evil may still dwell in the forest, surely it would not challenge Whiteroot.

Zache sleeps as one might expect. Completely, utterly and, thankfully, without dreams. His weary body aches for sleep and when finally offered, seems to grasp it with a wrestler's grip. The swashbuckler's eyes close before his hear even hits the ground.

He wakes to find a bright morning filtering into the huge cave-like interior of the trunk. Ewahee is sleeping near at hand, blankets drawn around her. Motes of dust dance above their heads, filtering in the sunlight. There is no sign of Whiteroot but the sky outside, what Zache can glimpse of it from his bed, is clear. The smoky ashen skies of the volcano have finally be dispersed.

A new day. In more ways then one.

Zache can tell his words wash over the Blood Watcher in a torrent not unlike the lahar that had battled the previous day. It's just too much for her to fully process all at once. She remains silent as they walk under the trees, heading back down the rocky slopes to Whiteroot's home. The burned trees are silent and watchful.

Eventually Ewahee decides that sticking to Zache's questions and more direct statements is the way to go. First, his eyes.

"They are all gray, almost like Small Tree's. It's a bit...unsettling."[/.b] But she nods, [b]'At least you can see. Do you think maybe the hag did it to you?"

At his question about proof Ewahee doesn't look overly troubled, "My Father did not mention any proofs to me. Still, there are magical ways to find lies and ferret out the truth. They don't always work, of course, but maybe they could use them here? As far as the hag is concerned, they could confirm that at least. The Hakimlyq is almost a month away, someone could come here and find she is dead."

About the burial ground, Ewahee is obviously interested but not surprised. "That is very sad...and disturbing. I know the Shoanti of the Cinderlands are war-like people, always fighting over grazing rights, family feuds and anything else. Still, to not be buried properly....Horrible." She shakes her head, "When we get back to the city, perhaps we can have some clerics come here and properly put them to rest? Not only for their own sakes but for any travelers that come through..." She trails off in thought.

Ok, anything else? How shall I move us along?

Zache has a great deal to think about as he retraces his steps toward the burned forest. His feet ignore the rocks and dust, the odd fissure and vent. The swashbuckler doesn't even feel the new breezes until the skies start to clear above him. The volcanic ash seems to finally be dissipating, pushed away by the gentle wind. Like a ragged cloak it is slowly torn and rent, revealing hints of stars above. In the East the moon is rising, only slightly waned from the full. Had Ewahee moved on then?

Still, despite that worry, the swashbuckler feels surprisingly...alive. Sure he is drained as if never before, his muscles weak and shaking. But all of that is a small price to pay. He had defeated a necromancer, stolen from a toad and partially outwitted a hag and seen glimpses of the future. All with his soul, apparently, still intact. Much of it had been blink luck but still, not bad for a single night's work?

Gain a level! Technically you got it when the vision ended but there was a lot going on.

To his surprise, he sees a figure running swiftly toward him out of the dark. Gods, what now? Some friend of the hag? Hags had covens, right? Or had the longcoat wearing stranger changed his mind?

No, it was Ewahee!

The Blood Watcher shouts with joy when she spots him. "You are alive!" She says, stopping to catch her breath. "I feared the worst when I heard that boom. What on Golarion happened? Are you hurt? Are you being chased?" The Shoanti looks up at him and then jumps back, startled. "Your eyes! What happened to your eyes?" Carefully, awkwardly, she waved a hand in front of his face, "Can you see?"

"Well you aren't getting it. At least not from me." The figure says with no hesitation or, apparently fears of offending the swashbuckler. "That's the entire problem here. Getting you, and others, all mixed up in this. Classic Tasaristina, meddling in things best left unmeddled."

The figure gives Zache a long look with their bright eyes. It is not a comfortable feeling. "If I thought it would put an end to things, I'd nip this in the bud right now. It would be worth all the explanations. Could just add it to the pile I'm already going to have to do, thanks to you."[/b A thumb indicates the ruins behind them.

Zache is still processing what 'nip this in the bud' might mean for his life expectancy when the figure goes on, half to themselves, [b]"But no. It wouldn't work. It's never that easy. Starsong knows, it's never that easy. Gods I hope Tasaristina appreciates all this, but of course, she never does."

A long sigh, and a final spit. "Well, if you have nothing to say, then I have places to go. Places nicer then a hag den. Have a nice hike back to the city. Maybe do a bit of thinking about what you want in life and if you are really cut out for all this. Tonight could have ended very badly for you, my friend. Luck is a fine thing, but you can't always count on it." They raise a hand then pause, and give another weary sigh. The tired sigh of the good who wishes they were not so good.

"By the way, don't worry about the eye color. It'll all come back in a few days. A week tops." Then there is a tiny pop of displaced air and the figure is gone.

The dark world settles around him, feeling less evil then before. A tiny night breeze brushes his skin, cool and dry. Which is good because the swashbuckler's clothes are soaked in smoke, sweat and Gods knew what else.

Survival is often measured in seconds. In nature this could be osprey snatching a fish, a fox pouncing on a mouse, or a tiger leaping on a deer. A single moment of change would allow the fish to jump free or the deer to escape.

Zache had seen the same in the city. An inch could mean the difference between escape from a lifetime of toil or instant death. How many times had a Freemen's life been saved by a quick reaction and ever quicker retreat?

Even as the shell flies through the smoky air, Zache is darting out the door. As he runs the swashbuckler hears something snap behind him, an ever so fragile sound of seashell cracking.

He runs faster.

Behind hm he hears the hags shriek in anger. "How dare you! In my own home...I will eat you up. I will boil your liver, I will drown you in ash. I'll flay every inch of skin off your ungrateful hide, I'll-"

The voice cuts off as a massive boom rocks the earth. The black cat runs yowling, vanishing into the shadows. Against his will Zache glances back at the small hut. To his surprise it is aglow with a silvery light, bright as a falling star. Echoes and booms fill the air as the stones of the hut are shaken. Screams and shrieks fill the air. Fire leaps out of the top of the hut, orange and red, licking toward the sky. The dry ground trembles under Zache's feet as he stumbles backwards over the fence.

A voice. "No, no. It hurts! No, I won't-" There is a blinding flash of light, so intense Zache can see only colorful stars. Blinded he hears the rumbling of falling stones, a miniature landslide. Then silence.

Slowly, and with much blinking, his sight returns.

The little hut is a ruin, a jumbled heap of loose stones. A tiny halo of smoke rises out of it, ash gray against the black sky. Out of the wreck a androgynous figure walks, wearing a long duster and wide hat. Their clothes are spattered with dust but there seems to be no wound or damages. A dim light gleams around them, as if someone has tossed bright dust on them.

The face is shadowy and hidden.

"That wasn't very nice." They say, giving a heavy cough. "Having a stranger do your dirty work for you is very....unprofessional." A hand slaps at some of the glowing dust, puffing off the coat like baker's flour. They spit on the ground and grimace. "Gods above, I hate hags. Such angry little women."

The unusual person gives Zache a long look, "Did I really treat you so bad? Worth sending me right into a hag's lair on a darkling night? That seashell was expensive too. Handmade it myself. Gods, all that effort wasted on some foul hag." The stranger shook their head, spitting again, "Last time I ask you for a favor, eh?"

A sigh and then, "I am going to take a stab in the dark and say you don't have anything to relay about Tasaristina?"

To his horror, Zache sees his silence has somehow added fuel on the fire. "Thou seek to defy me, dreamling? In mine own home?" The archaic speech seems unbidden, an accent surfacing under stress. The black-burning hand is raised high. "Impudence! I shall strike ye down where ye stand, mortal!"

But then the hag stops, frozen in place. In an instant the rage boils off, replaced by an icy ashen hate that is no less potent. The eyes become crafty again, thought returning. A tiny gesture and the fire goes out.

Zache is plunged in utter blackness, as if he has been blinded.

'Ah. You are cunning, little blade. You openly seek to tempt my anger? You hope the deal we struck will protect you?" A long pause, "And perhaps it would." The voice is quiet now, and Zache has to make an effort to catch the words.

"Speak your secret, dreamworm. Say your share and then be off. You have befouled this place and I will not forget it. Speak and be gone! Leave me be. Just leave me be." A note of anxiety enters the voice, the merest edge of pleading. Zache has no idea what is going on.

Go ahead

The falcon lifts its head in a silent scream, razor beak opening wide. The huge wing beat once, and Zache swears he could also feel a rush of wind. The smoke billows and then it all fades. The smoke losing shape, the colors draining away. The fire gutters, flames visible for the first time. That feeling of angry power returns, ten-fold, so intense that Zache nearly physically recoils. Rage, raw unbridled rage flooded the air, so thick the swashbuckler could taste it.

"GET OUT!" Mother Ember shouted, voice loud enough to hurt his ears. The rock's rang with the fury in ever syllable. Zache sees, wile she had not changed shape, the old woman is more horrible then ever. Gone is the quiet bitterness of aged, the banked up sort of anger at the world. In it's place is white-hot hate. Her eyes are wide, mouth agape, body actually quivering with sheer outrage. The hag's voice rises in a screech, 'GET OUT! You have defiled this place, dreamling! Get ye gone and take your foul moon goddess with you!"

She lifts a hand and black light flashes there, swirling like an abyss of pain and suffering. Zache's throat goes dry and it isn't because of the acrid smoke.

The room beyond is bare to the point of spartan. The inside walls are just as unfinished as the outside, stacked together to create a claustrophobic cone so narrow Zache has to avoid hitting his head. A smouldering fire on the fire is ringed with simple stones, letting up clouds of pungent smoke. A small hole at the top of the hut lets some of the smoke out, but enough remains to make Zache’s lungs wheeze and his eyes tear.

The only seat is a simple board hutting out of the wall where Mother Ember already sits. Seeing nothing for it, Zache simply stands, wreathed by endless coils of gray smoke. It is perfectly silent, even the fire seems oddly quiet with none of the usual popping or shifting of logs. It seems to press in on the swashbuckler and he feels….watched. A great eye focusing on him, stripping away his layers of armor and defense. Naked, helpless…..

The feeling does not go away as the hag starts to speak in a low, rasping voice. ”Hear me now, Hag Queen! A bargain has been made, between man and woman, magic and blade. We seek to peer beyond the veils set by gods and time. O Gyronna, hear me and lend me your power, to see what should not be seen. To break the limits set by others, to uncover secrets, to disturb what is best left alone. Aid me in this!”

That feeling of being watched intensifies painfully. Zache can feel his skin being slowly peeled away, to find what hide beneath….

”I give these offerings.” Mother Ember went on, reaching into her dark robe. She pulled out a small glass jar, sealed with wax. ”A child’s laughter, given to quicken the air.” With a flourish she removes the lid. A sighing whisper emerges, a distant echo of a laugh. The laugh of the dying. Instantly the smoke livens, starting to writhe and pulse. Like a musician’s strings, the thousands coils thrum.

”Ankeg liver, for color and clarity.” The hag retrieves a bloody mass from another pouch. She tosses it on the fire with a sickening hiss and pop. The reek of burning flesh fills the air, making Zache’s stomach do a slow, painful flip. At the same time however he marvels as the smoke shifts from smoky gray to every color. Yellows, reds and blue appear, paint given mist form. The colors are dull (nothing like the vibrant hues of the geyser pool) but still quite clear. Towers of green, clouds of pink, masses of blue fillt he small hut.

”And a scalding toad egg for potency.” Mother Ember extends a claw-like hand to Zache, who fumbles and hands over the gooey egg. With horror Zache watches as the hag’s jaw, like that of some twisted snake, unhinges and she swallows the egg whole with a slurping noise.

’Behold, what may be!” The hag cries, spreading her arms wide.

The smoke swirls and Zache peers at it, seeing nothing. Then, like a window forming, a portal opens in front of him. Within the smoke takes shape, tiny tendrils painting out images of hazy shapes. Like ink dropped in a pool of water, colors blossomed upward toward him..What was-

He saw himself, gird for battle, clambering into a pit of bones. Or was it a well of dark dangerous water? Others were in the pit, swords and axe…

The image shifted and he saw a rambling building, full of light and bustling folk. Was that Tramp? Then the building was aflame, a rising inferno….

Trarn Igzuuk pushing Zache off a ledge into darkness, face unreadable….

A high tower reaching into a star-light sky, overlooking a vast desert plain. He yearned to climb it….

A maze of passages, light and dark, flickered by. A sense of confusion and fear.

Tasaristina, head bowed, deep in thought. Others gathered around her, over her, near her…..

Zache saw himself falling to his knees on bloody sand, chipped rapier un hand. Was he dying or just an injury? A shadow stood over him- the image flicked away before he could see for sure.

A huge roaring beast, charging, a storm of razor-teeth.

A shadowy figure watching him from the shadows.

A hulking orc whipping a pitiful slave while a Chelish nobleman pitilessly looks on…

They came faster and faster, with little detail. Just a blur. Then the portal shifted slightly. Before there had been one shape at a time, one moment of time. Fast but in sequence. Now it changed, and there seemed to be rival images competing. Shifting for dominance , and even more faded. It all seemed so unsure.

An image of Urglin from above. But not Urglin. The city was dominated by towering spires of glittering stone.

Or wait, was it instead torn apart by bolts of raw arcane energy, the ground b lasted wasteland?

Maybe not, maybe instead it was a well ordered city mastered ledgers and coins.. Magical portals gleamed with trade. Slaves loaded and unloaded, bent to breaking.

No. It was a fair city of trees and peace, of order and law. Where orcs and men could walk together, to share a city.

The image seemed to glow for a second, the smoke fading. The hag hisses in anger, ’No, not here! This is not your place!” Then she recoiled in fear as a smoky butterfly filled the small hut, wings reaching wall to wall. For a moment it gleamed the dusky silver of twilight, bedazzling to the eye and mind. Then it began to dissolve into…what? Some other animal, some beast. Zache stared at it, for the first time feeling not horrified by the images but intrigued.

Give me your reactions so far AND please name what animal it is. This will be a symbolic feature that may crop up again so I want you to choose. What fits Zache?

The hag eyes the egg but does not take it. Instead she shrugs, "Then we shall begin, and see what the future may hold. With any luck, nothing pleasant." She sounds bitterly hopeful of it. Turning on her heel Mother Ember shuffles toward the small hut, smoke now pouring out of some hidden hole.

The cat watches them silently from a fencepost, eyes like lamplights in the dark.

Zache follows, trying to be ready for anything.

The hag pauses at the threshold to the little building. Up close the swashbuckler can see the stones are uncut fieldstone, stacked without mortar or skill. They seem oddly stained, dark blotches splashed at random on them. Many are cracked, spiderwebbed with cragged fractures. How long had it stood here? It felt very old and very vile.

Over the door itself there is a crude symbol of a bloodshot, lidless eye. The carving seems to give off an aura of anger, of unpleasant vengeance and sleepless spite. There are strange runes hacked into the lintels, repeated signs in some fixed pattern.

"Zone of truth." Mother Ember says, pointing her cane at the marks. Zache is very surprised and very suspicious. What would a hag want with, or even recognize, truth?

She cackles at his obvious confusion, "Good things truth is it's domain. Ha!" She spits on the ground, careful to hit dirt, not the doorway. "Nonsense. Truth, or at least half truth, is the sharpest knife, my little blade. Far worse then your partly sword. Maybe you will learn that tonight."

Her face is a bare mask, all shape and features hidden by darkness. "No tricks or traps inside, for either of us. What will see if the truth, or at least as far of the truth as the Hag Queen will allow. Follow. If you dare."

With that the hag stumps over the threshold, cane loud on what sounds like a stone floor. In a trice Mother Ember vanishes into the thick smoke. Zache sniffs the air and the smell of resinous brunt wood fills his nose. Thick and cloying, as if driving away the night air, replacing it with a ashen haze.

Zache makes his way across the flat plain faster then he crossed it the first time. While danger still lay ahead (Gods only knew what the hag had in store), he could see the finish line now. Deliver this unwholesome egg, get a reading and hopefully escape to Ewahee before the hag got hungry. Or the cat turned into some unholy beast.

He finds the hag's yard much the same, except the hag is not there. It is silent and empty, nearly dark as a mineshaft. A tiny curl of smoke out of the smaller hut is all he can see. Zache is just reaching the little fence when a door opens on the smaller hut. Mother Ember stumps out, cane in hand, smoke wreathing around her.

Her eyes gleam like twin fires, visible at a distance. They focus on Zache, making his skin crawl.

"You survived." The hag says with obvious disappointment, shaking her head. Then she sniffs the night air, aged nose working. A shadow of a smile crosses her features, 'Grave dust? Ah, so you did run into that little necromancer, eh? I hope you put him in the ground for good this time. He was starting to get delusions of grandeur. Ah, little blade, a shame you escaped yourself, but the fates can be cruel to the old. One is better then nothing." She leans on her cane and jabs a bony finger toward the swashbuckler, "And the price? Did you bring the toad egg? Or did you fail and merely come back to complain it was too difficult?"

Zache heaves the stone with all his might. It doesn't fly very straight but this isn't a matter of accuracy. The rock hits the boiling water with a loud splash, audible even over all the hissing and bubbling. In an instant the toad is alert, eyes opening wide, throat swelling. It turns toward the sound, crawling a few feet toward it. The bulging eyes sweep the area, looking for what creature would dare invade it's private domain.

Meanwhile Zache creeps in from the side. He leaps from stone to stone, dodges a burst of hot water, and lands cat-like near the mass of eggs. They looks slimy up close, like some sort of hellish dessert. Enough to feed a legion of demonic gullets. He reaches out to snatch one of the exposed eggs. His heart races expecting, any moment, the toad to whirl on him. The swashbucklers soles scrape slightly over the wet stone...

Toad Perception: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (1) + 11 = 12

Success! The egg is slippery in his hand but he stuffs the bulbous shape in a pocket. Without delay he darts away, fast as Jack ever ran from the giant. Behind him he hears an almighty croak, loud enough to make his ears ring. If Zache had bothered to glance behind him, he would have seen a very angry toad indeed. The powerful legs tenses and heaved, throwing the huge magical amphibian high into the air.

Zache can hear it behind him, like some huge bird of prey stooping on him. A dark shadow flashes near at hand, the shape dancing on the colorful water before-

SPLOOSH

With a bellowflop worthy of a giant, it hits the water near him. A huge wave crests over Zache, dousing him with steaming water.

Hot Water Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 3

Acrobatics, DC 20: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (18) + 12 = 30

But Zache is too clever (or too scared?) to be thrown off by such a trick. Ignoring his burning eyes and singed skin he dives for the shore, throwing himself over the lip of the crater. The swashbuckler hits the ground in a tight roll, acrid dust flying everywhere. He almost overshoots and rolls into a lesser (but still scalding). But he doesn't.

Behind him the toad is letting loose more horrid croaks but seems reluctant to leave it's home. For the moment anyway.

He had done it, and only a handful of angry welts to show for it. Somewhere, high above the steam and smoke, a single bright star seems to blaze for a second. Then it vanishes, covered up again, and Zache is plunged back into this weird night.

One of the Freemen's favorite stories was Jack and the Giant Oak Tree. It was a simple sort of story. Jack escapes from his unfair captivity in a cloud-giants stormy castle, reaching human lands below. There, often after many adventures, he befriends a druid who gives him a magical acorn. Upon planting it a magical tree grew, so tall that Jack could once again reach the giant's castle. This return usually took the form of sneaking around the vast labyrinthine structure to help free other captives, steal magic items or even just plunder exotic foods.

Zache felt much like Jack.

Carefully he set off into the misty pool, trying to steady himself on the wet stones. Most were close that only a long stride or short hop was required to move between them. It wasn't the boiling water underfoot that worried him however, it was the massive toad.

First Check, 100 feet, Resting: 1d20 + 11 - 5 - 10 ⇒ (10) + 11 - 5 - 10 = 6

Jack's luck was with him. Using the swirling clouds of steam and the occasional eruption as cover, he crept closer toward the toad. It gave no sign of noticing him, huge eyes still half-closed. Easing closer....

Second Check,50 feet, resting: 1d20 + 11 - 5 - 5 ⇒ (15) + 11 - 5 - 5 = 16
Zache Stealth: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24

A huge eruption throws up a huge sheet of billowing curtain colors. Seizing his chance, Zach scurries behind it and, with skill that any thief would admire, follows it closer. Step by step, he crosses the delicate stones, nimble as a dancer.

You are 30 feet away, still unseen.

Man's Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (11) + 5 = 16
Quietly Awenasa continues her climb, hand over hand. Focusing on her task, she finds the last distance is carried out quickly. The man still has no idea she is there, pacing occasionally. So close she can hear them muttering to themselves, in another language. Still, it seems clear they are trying to decide what to do.

Patient as an angler, Awenasa waits for the right moment to strike. Waiting under he is close to the edge but back turned-There! With snake-like speed Awenasa vaults up to the edge, lashing out with a fist.

Awenasa Stunning Fist Attack: 1d20 + 13 - 3 ⇒ (1) + 13 - 3 = 11

Was it the dark? Was it her hurried speed? or did the man react faster then she expected? In either way he iron-hard fist missed. The man reeled back, cloak billowing in the darkness. He shouts in some unknown language nearly falling over in surprise. He looks terrified and awkward. Here is someone not used to battle. Awenasa is ready to grimly finish the attack when she spots something out of the corner of her eye.

An imposing metal man looms out of the shadows. It is taller then Awenasa and heavily built. The face is merely one crystal eye burning bright as a lantern. One arm ends in a heavy shield while the other is simply a malformed club. The scrabbling man points to the machine and then at Awenasa.

Clearly he plans for it to defend him.

Awenasa looks around. They are on a small cleft on the mountain side, a tiny grass covered ledge. It is maybe twenty feet from edge to edge and only ten feet deep. A small camp has been made here, a ring of stones, a small pile of camping supplies. She has time to see naught else before the machine is on her, joints creaking like a rusty door.

Golem Initiative: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 10
Awenasa Initiative: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (14) + 3 = 17

You are up, it is ten feet away. The man is trying to crawl away from you. The sheer cliff is behind you, right behind your heels.

Zache goes forward into the center of things, moving carefully. Around him the geothermic activity increases. More geysers, more boiling pools, sweeping clouds of shifting steam. The air reeks like a million rotten eggs left out in the sun. The ground under his feet is not only bare but it is hot, even through the soles of his boots. It quivers too, like a sleeping animal.

To his surprise Zache sees light ahead. Carefully he douses his torch (easy enough, just dipped into a pool of crystal clear water) and ventures ahead. He climbs a slight rise and is confronted with a wondrous sight.

The swashbuckler is at the tip of a wide shallow crater, at least 200 feet from edge to edge. It is filled with perfectly simmering water, like Golarion's largest saucepan. Under the surface however, lies the true wonder. It is as if Sheyln herself had painted it. Under the water is a startling rainbow of colors from dazzling tangerine to glittering emerald to a deep azure blue. Now and then a tower of water bursts from the surface, sending a sheets of water into the air. They gleam like rainbows, a thousand prismatic colors flashing. All the colors ripple and dance, a stunning vista that nearly makes up for the horrors of the dead behind.

Still, Zache is not here to sight-see. Focusing, he looks more closely.

The pool is dotted with stones that rise a few inches above the water. Like a goldfish pond's stepping stones, they are scattered in random patterns, some large as a room, some too small to stand on. All seem washed by the hot water however, slick as a fish's skin.

In the center of the vast pool is a large stone, the biggest yet. At one end he can see his prize. A thick mass of soft toad eggs, black spheres encased in a white jelly, each larger then his fist. It is half submerged in the boiling water, stuck onto the edge of the rock. Standing guarding over it is the largest toad Zache has ever seen.

As big as a horse, it has saffron colored skin, streaked with fiery scarlet. It looks wet, as if it has just emerged from the steaming waters below. Huge black eyes are half closed in rest, the fleshy pouch under his chin swelling slightly with each breath.

It is the only sign of life in the place and, happily, it has not yet seen him.

Ok, so. Acrobatics to leap from stone to stone, higher the faster you are moving. Everything inside the crater counts as a 20% miss chance due to the steam. Putting any part of your body in boiling water is 1d6 damage unless you fall entirely in and it will be more. Feel free to ask more questions

Zache maneuvers, placing the pile of bones between himself and the spear wielding Shoanti. Still, he covers the fallen skeleton with his blade ready for any tricks. Mistress Zahira would be proud.

From the ground the skeleton shouted, 'Attack, attack! End his miserable life. How dare he attack me, the mightiest wizard in- " The Shoanti seems to rear back, summoning some power. Water gushes more freely, flowing like a veritable waterfall. The skeleton curses and hurriedly shouts, 'No wait, idiot, not -" But it is too late.

A huge wave of water is conjured up behind the Shoanti. It slams the undead warrior forward in a blind bullrush, spraying water everywhere. Zache's torch gutters out, thrown to the side in the onrush. The pressure throws the Shoanti forward like a cork from a bottle, arms reaching for Zache.

It, also, scatters the undead caster's bones to the four winds. Ribs, legs and arms go flying in the sudden deluge. The skeleton's final curse is drowned out in a rush of flowing water as the skull is tossed into the boiling pool. The Shoanti undead falls limp, some magical connection broken.

Yet the body is still flung at Zache, along with a torrent of water.

Falling Damage for ten feet: 2d6 ⇒ (5, 3) = 8
Zache Reflex Save Half, DC 18: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (15) + 10 = 25

The swashbuckler manages to dodge the worst of it, and only a leg of the undead warrior hits his back. The water subsides nearly instantly, draining into the bubbling, boiling pools. It leaves behind a diminished and strangely sad Shoanti warrior corpse, empty eyes staring at the black sky.

Torch is gone, lost in the boiling water. Good Combat!

Zache brings down his blade on the skeleton's spine like a butcher cutting steak. There is a sharp snap and crack as it totally severs the bony string. Bone dust puffs up like the geysers around them, the smell dry and unpleasent.

"You..you...How dare you attack me! I am a being of raw power. Of hate and will!" The skeleton rages impotently, bones cracking. It is still holding together but only barely. Zache guesses one more blow...

The fallen mage shifts tactics shouting, "Don't attack it! Drown it, you oaf! Use that magic!"

retcon

The watery Shoanti silently follows the order and instead of attacking with the rusty spear, simply reaches out a grasping hand. It is a pallid slimy thing, fingers clenched in dying rictus version of a fist.

Slam: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (5) + 10 = 15

But Zache slaps it aside with his blade. The Shaonti undead shifts, leaving and opening. An Opening Zache is waiting for. With ease he runs the fallen warrior through the shoulder. Instead of blood, streams of filthy water pours out, greenish and slimy. The undead doesn't react with pain but that arm falls limply and Zache feels he has struck a solid blow.

The skeleton is now cursing in languages Zache doesn't even know. Enraged it once again tries to cast. Bright red light shines around the hand, the bones set in a rising flame. This time however, it tries to avoid Zache's lashing blade.

Casting Defensively, DC 18: 1d20 + 3 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 + 3 = 8

But even though Zache's blow doesn't land, it is enough to disrupt the skeleton's concentration. Again his magic fails.

The skeleton resumes cursing, teeth literally gnashing the ground in frustration.

Zache dodges past the waterlogged Shoanti with a burst of speed, kicking up acrid dust. It barely has time to move by the swashbuckler is already past it, sword in hand. It glitters in the torch's flame, his weapon becoming a flaming brand of orange light. Unlike using it to for a holy smite, like a paladin, Zache fights like a swahsbuckler.

With a flick of the wrist and twist of the blade, he shove sit between the exposed leg bones of the skeleton. With a sound like a musical instrument being kicked, the undead being is knocked to the ground in an ungainly pile.

'How dare you!" The skeleton roars, bones rattling.

Meanwhile Zache is already turning toward the undead warrior. He bends his knees in an agile stance, ready for anything. He drops the torch and it flickers as it strikes the ground, sending dancing shadows in all directions.

Shoanti Spear!: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (18) + 11 = 29
Damage: 1d8 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6

The Shoanti's fighting style is unusual however, and his jab stabs Zache's arm. It does little damage but a well of red blood does appear. The Shoanti seems unmoved by the success but the fallen skeleton shouts, "Good, good!"

Then the skeleton waves a bony hand and starts to cast a spell, a unhealthy violet light forming around its fingers. Zache, waiting for this, instantly lashes down with his sword. There is a grinding sound o steel on bone as it chips at the undead being's ribcage, sending white splinters flying. Bones crack and Zache is happy to see considerable damage, even if his blade is not designed to destroy bone.

A second strike misses however, not making contact.

A 13 misses
Concentration Check, DC...27,lol: 1d20 + 3 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 + 3 = 24

The skeleton tries, very hard, to finish the spell but Zache's attack is simply too much. The arcane powers fizzle with a flat zap and the skeleton starts to curse a blue streak. Even Zache, who has heard plenty of swearwords is surprised at the skeleton's diverse choices.

You are up! Doing well so far

Zache ventures ahead, where the sound of bubbling water is growing louder. The swashbuckler leaves the mud pots behind, and soon finds himself confronted with a series of ponds and pools. The water here is clear, almost eerily clear, and in various states of boiling. Some of the ponds are a slow bubble, the surface barely rippling while others steam like a pot left on the fire. Now and then he hears a gushing sound a spray of steam shoots into the dark sky, a shimmering curtain of silvery gray.

The roiling clouds are growing thicker and the pools larger. Surely the geyser must be near. The swashbuckler assumes the toad probably lives at the center of the hottest and largest...

"You are either very wise, or very cunning." A dry hollow voice says, drifting out of the clouds of mist. Zache whirls and finds himself confronted with two horrifying figures.

One is a skeleton, right out of a bard's yarn. White bone gleams in the torchlight, empty eye sockets black as pitch. It about the same height of Zache and bears no weapons, although it does have a belt of pouches at its waist.

The other is stranger. It is an undead Shoanti warrior but....drowned. The gray dead being seeps water, constantly dripping. The eyes are featureless pale whites, the once fair face frozen in fear and terror. The clothes are rotted and tattered, with algae clinging to them It carries a sopping spear with a rusted point.

"Disturbing the treasure would have aroused the dead." The strange voice says again, and Zache realizes it is coming from the skeleton. "You were wise to avoid the trap. Few that come here do. Still, I will not allow trespassers in my kingdom. The power here is mine, no on else's! Perhaps a lesson taught to you can reach the old hag!" The skeleton raises a hand, "Attack!"

Zache Initiative: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (14) + 7 = 21
Skeleton: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16

You are up first. The skeleton is standing behind the weird watery Shoanti warrior. The warrior is 25 feet away, the skeleton another ten behind that. It is clear ground between, but pools of boiling water on both sides. Right now the air is clear enough for no effects but that might change. With the torch up, all is dim light.

Despite being outside, Zache can't help but feel like a miner as he ventures forth into the blackness. The torch lights the area around him, making it safe to step, but it also remove his night vision. If anything is out here, it will see him coming long before he sees it.

The ground becomes somewhat uneven, rolling slightly under his feet. Little dips and divets become common, making the swashbuckler step carefully. There is no vegetation however, just bare sandy soil. The sound of bubbling water grows louder, filling the air.

Only a short walk in, he is glad he has the torch. Dead ahead, and right in his path, the swashbuckler finds a pool of thick mud, boiling like an unwholesome stew. It stinks like it too, the bubbles seeming to belch as they pop. Without his light, Zache might have stumbled right into the natural trap. He skirts it, only to find the area is filled with such spots. Some of the pools are even walled in by blobs of mud, thrown free and then hardened, creating pots big enough that he could have sat in them.

Zache avoids them, yet he doesn't feel safer. Something is...wrong here. Something beyond the sticky, smelly heat or sticking mud. Something that makes his heart louder.

He finds the dead horse shortly. It is a dark mass lying on it's side, in a deep mud pit. The swashbuckler peers at it and learns several worrying things.

The horse seems to have been here a long time. Despite the water which should break it down, it seems almost...mummified. Eerily preserved. He can still make out finely braided reins and a well-made leather saddle. It had once been a fine warhorse he guesses, of the local variety. A Shoanti horse.

Then he spots the rider, laying close at hand. Thankfully they are face down in the mud, revealing only a back. Still, it seems oddly preserved yet weathered. A Shoanti rider wearing rusted armor, a blade still clutched in dead hands.

A few more steps and he finds more. Many more. As he advances Zache finds himself surrounded by a landscape of death. Bodies of horses and men lay everywhere, dark huddled shapes heaped in every spot. Weapons glitter dimly in his light, as well as other finery. Beaded necklaces, silver thread twisted through dead hair, shimmering shields. All laid out. Some figures are still locked in battle, swords intertwined, spears shattered.

Beyond larger shapes loom in the dark. War animals bigger then horses. Some kind of elephant maybe, like a small dead hill. He sees wagons as well, broken and crumbling. Some still hold loot, mixed in with cracked axles and rusted wheels. Gold coins wink at him, or heavy bronze chains. A jeweled scepter lies forgotten, half encased by mud. A fine helmet, probably worth thousands of crowns lays cast aside, only a few feet away on bare earth.

Despite the heat, despite the water...Zache feels cold.

Zache got the sense few people laughed at Mother Ember. Her wrinkled face twisted in anger, skin blotching red. "So confident, eh, boy? We will see. You may soon wish you had asked for help. Foolish child." The words are mixed with spittle, with real rage. "Back shortly....impudent" The hag trailed off to dark muttering.

But she did not attack.

And so Zache left the hag's somewhat forbidding yard and walked westward toward the cloud of steam.

The world was dark and strangely shapeless. The mountains were invisible now, lost in the pitch black of night. With no heavens above, Zache could almost convince himself he was on some endless plane of ash and dust. The crumbling of it under his boots was the only sound, apart from his own breathing and heartbeat.

He walked on.

Slowly the world did change however. The first was, to his surprise, taste. There was a strange metallic tang in the air, reminding Zache of tarnished metal. There was a growing humidity too, a dramatic shift from the desert dryness he had become accustomed to. After only a short distance his shirt was soaked, sticking to his back. It felt like he was nearing one of Urglin's supposed bathhouses.

Out of the gloom a shape emerged. Zache saw it was a wooden post, weathered and cracked, spilt with age. Carved deep on it's face were strange symbols, almost like runes. Zache recognized them vaguely as Shoanti but knew nothing else.

Beyond it, Zache could see plumes of steam and smoke rising from the land but few other details. The roiling sound of bubbling and hissing water reached his ears.

If only you spoke Hovitos

It is not a pleasant feeling. It is a surge of magical power from...somewhere. From somewhere in this fiery world around them it press in. Judging, binding, connecting. Zache can feel it enter him and, somehow, link his soul to this hag's own surely crippled spirit. To his surprise he notes the hag grimace, as if drinking something she didn't like the taste of.

To Zache, at least, it didn't hurt. Strange.

Still, the moment passes and the hag stands up off her seat. "Bargain struck, my night and ash. Good, good. Yes, the egg is needed, unless you wish to merely pay and not get your end." A laugh, "Although i think you are not as fool as that."

The hag just her cane again westward, "It is not far. A scalding mother toad has made up a nest in the big geyser there. Been watching her for months and the time is now ripe. She won't give it easily but I am sure a young fine blade as yourself can retrieve it. " The eyes are dark and unkind.

"I could help you, if you wish." Mother Ember says, her voice dropping in a softer rasp. On the porch the cat stands up, stretching languidly. Silently, it pads over the dusty yard toward them, barely visible in the darkness.

The hag pulls something out from a pocket. "Power, perhaps? It would be a great shame for you to come so far, bargain so well and to fail at the task." She hold sup a hand and reveals a small black stone. A small uneven hole has been bored through the black material. "Take this, and you fill find the toad easy prey."

Taking that stone will instantly cause you to level up. No tricks, no downsides

"And my price is cheap, little bargainer." Mother Ember says, eyes glinting. It is clear she wasn't happy with the deal so far. "Just a future favor, to be carried out when I desire. Something in equal value to the stone. Nothing more, nothing less." The cat arrives, winding between the hag's legs, but the woman ignores it.

The hag looks slightly disappointed but not wholly surprised at Zache's counter offer. Had any pervious seekers really been so desperate as to agree to the first offer given?

"Requirements for the spell are as they are." The old woman said, "A child's laughter, anhkeg liver and a scalding toad egg. Luckily I have the first two already gathered." A brown teeth show in a dark grin, "Fresh as well. Very potent. The toad egg will need to be sought after by you. There is one nesting in yonder geyser." She waves a hand westward where Zache can just make out that silvery mist.

The woman taps her cane with long nails, pondering the swashbuckler's counter offer. The aged face is full of calculation, thought and annoyance. Whatever her words, the hag did not like this give-and-take.

Then she gives a harsh laugh, "Fair enough, my little blade. Two out of three, is still fair price to pay. Such a deal is favorable to me but remember. Even your blessed Lady Luck cannot protect you from the price you pay. To cheat, to break this promise would be very....very unwise." The hag laughs again, a hint of the evil cackle just behind it. The dark hot night seems to press in.

"So, we are in agreement? A True Reading for Something Given and Something Done? For a secret offered and a promise broken?" The hag says, suddenly quite intent. There is some power behind her words now, some dark power weighing in. A deal with a hag seemingly requires no contracts, no papers, no handshake. Simply agreement. Words on a moonless night on a plain of burning earth.

It was enough to make any man uneasy.

"You think you desire it." Mother Ember corrects but then shrugs her hunched shoulders, "Your loss. You could have profited much from what I could tell you. Very well, my young blade. Who am I to stop your mistakes?"

The hag gives a fey little grin around her pipe and goes on, "The price will be steep. Peering into The Beyond is not something one does lightly or for free. Even a caravan dice rattler or palm reader will charge you. The real thing? Is much more dear, my dear." She cackles a bit again, swaying a bit on her stump seat. The cat wakes, gazing at them with slitted yellow eyes but it is ignored by the hag.

”The price will be three.” Mother Ember says in her aged voice, ”Something Given, Something Taken and Something Done.” She raises three gnarled fingers, the jagged nails yellowed and brittle.

”First, Something Given. You refused knowledge offered so you will give some in return. You must tell me a secret you have never told another soul. Something meaningful, mind.” the old woman says warningly, giving him a stern look, ”No tricks now. The Magic has ways of making cheats pay. But you freely decide, something given.” She lowers a finger.

”Second, Something Taken. You spurned the taste of bodily pleasure, so now you will have your taste taken from you. You will no longer be able to take joy or comfort from food. It will fill you but nothing more, to the end of your days.” Another aged finger is lowered.

”And finally, Something Done. You ask something of me, so you will offer service in return. Before the next moon, a fitting guide given your little goddess, you will break a promise to one your trust.” On a distant peak red light silently flares up, some distant hellfire spouting.

Mother Ember leans back, joints creaking loudly in the silent night. ”That is my price, little blade. For that, I will conduct a true reading and gaze into your future.” She shrugged slightly, ’Well that and the usual material elements, of course.” The hag puffs on her pipe, dismissing this apparent minor matter.

I am curious to hear your counter offer, if you have one

The hag accepts his greeting in silence, hunched in her seat. It is nearly full night now, the sunset a mere haze of fading gray. The mountain is merely a black outline against an endless black sky. Just as in the wood, the air around him is smoky and hot, somehow pressing close to his flesh. It will be a black night the swashbuckler guesses, with no hint of stars or Moon.

The only lights are dim fires on some of the mountainsides, dark orange flames on the edge of sight.

Mother Ember stirs suddenly, lifting the pipe out of brown teeth. The hag puffs a smoke ring into the dark air. The acrid smell reminds Zache of the smelters on Forgehammer's Row in Kaer Maga.

"Polite." Mother Ember says with no warmth. "One good turn deserves another, eh? I'll give you some advice, boy." Bright eyes with fire look up at him, too brightly.

"A reading is a bad idea. People don't like their futures, never do. Never can stand what they might see." A harsh laugh, "There are other things though, more profitable, if you are willing to pay the price. As you said, I am gifted with the Sight. I could do much for you. Find your lost parents, reunite with a lost love, learnmore about your suppose destiny."

Something on Zache's face must have given away because the old hag cackles again, deep in her throat. "How did I know? You are a wandering hired blade, of course you have missing parents or a missing love. Always some long lost destiny." She frowns, leaning back, waving a hand 'And yes, you are a hired blade. Even if you hide it, Mother Ember can see it." She taps the side of her head, eyes flicking to the pouch on his wrist.

"Just like how I can smell the Moon on you. Although the so-called 'Tender of Dreams' has fallen on hard times if she is looking to such as you as champion." This is said with utter contempt and disgust.

"Curious boy, eh? Curious what old Mother Ember can do for you? If you pay the price, the promised prize will be yours, I can tell you that." She bites down, hard, on her pipe again sending up more smoke signals.

Zache gets the sudden sense many had stood where he is now, and heard similar deals. To what ends however, the swashbuckler cannot tell.

Oh yes, this is a real offer. This hag can totally tell you about those mysterious parents in your backstory or more about all this destiny stuff that seems to be on the edge of the story. Or turn a lady's head, although I don't think Zache is actually tempted by that one. Knowledge though.....

Ewahee looks around at the creepy trees but steels herself. "I will remain here for awhile, at least till real night. The way was pretty easy. If you don't come back by the time the Moon is up, I'll go back to Whiteroot's." She nods absently at his discussion about finding him the next day. Clearly something is bothering her as well.

"Good luck, and may the spirits watch over you, Zache." She says, finally, and finds a log to sit on.

And Zache ventures forth. Alone. Into a darkling wood in the trail of an evil hag.

The swashbuckler was still in a story but not the kind that ended in friendly trees giving out gifts.

The way became less appealing as he walked. The ground sloped upward even more steeply, his feet finding a hazy path between the trees and exposed rocks. The dark mountains seemed to grow closer, leaning out over the land like frowning gods.

Still, Zache was not looking at the scenery. Instead he was racking his brain to think of tales where the hero overcame the hag. There were not many. In the few Zache could recall the general theme had been, the hag offered real power but with ever greater costs. Wisdom and discretion were needed to avoid chasing off after endless glory.

He could think of none where the hag was slain.

The swashbuckler was still pondering this when he suddenly stumbled out of the forest and onto flat open ground. Zache found himself on a dark plateau of dry, brittle earth. There were no trees here, but the plain was broken up by occasional chimney-like funnels and vents. The reek of sulphur was thick and cloying. Farther to the west, a pale gray cloud seemed to shimmer in the dying sunlight. Behind and below him, the burned forest was like an inky pool that vanished from sight. Dead ahead, but still miles away, was the great mountain. A huge root of stone branched out from its base, a spur of black volcanic rock.

At the base of this imposing outthrust, close at hand, were two small stone huts. They were poorly made, simply stacked stones in a conical shape, one larger then the other. A simple fence of dried wood ringed them. There were more fissures in the ground here, sending up tendrils of black and gray smoke. Under his feet, Zache felt the earth twitch and quiver, like a feverish man.

He strode closer until he was at the edge of the fence. Sitting on an old stump outside one of the houses as Mother Ember, cane laid across her gnarled lap. The hag was smoking a pipe, ashen colored clouds hanging around her aged head. A cat was sleeping on the porch of the larger hut. Otherwise all was still, dark and dead. There were no plants, no animals, no song of night insects.

Just the hag.

She sat silent and still, the only movement were the embers in her pipe glowing. It makes Zache think of some unwholesome stone statute, perhaps with a dim yet infernal candle in hand.

"Hardly ready." The hag sneers, "You cannot see what is plain in front of your face. This form is as false as the other. More so, because once I was truly beautiful." She lifted her hand and it lowered again over her body.

Again she changed.

This time she simply became a normal looking elderly woman, with a bent back and beady eyes. Her skin was still dark, but mottled with the usual liverspots and moles of advanced age. The imp on her shoulder vanished and the basket was full of simple bits of firewood. The dress was simple gray homespun, the color of old ashes. The eyes though, the eyes were still sharp and bright as any spark. Despite the normal appearance, Zache still felt cruelty flowing off the hag, blatant malice that no longer bothered to conceal itself. It was worse then the fiery, blackened apparition of a moment ago. Far more real.

She had a stout walking stick in one hand, clutched in a knobbled, arthritic hand. Zache could see dark veins under the dry skin, yet the grip seemed tight and strong. At his side Ewahee seemed horrified, unsure of where to look.

"Don't like what you see, girl?" Mother Ember says, voice edged with an unpleasant hiss. She held up a time-ravaged hand, fingers bent like claws "Too bad. It'll happen to you too. By Gyronna, you've never seen an old woman before? Bah."

Mother Ember turned her ire back on Zache, looking at at the taller man. "Well, I'm not hedge diviner, tossing chicken bones by the side of the road. If you want to haggle, then you can do so at my home." She pointed a bony finger dead north, where the frowning cliffs of the mountain were vanishing in the dim light. "Not far. Be warned, boy. Such things are not cheap. Few enjoy paying the prices I ask for and I do not suffer fools. Only come if you are serious."

Without a further pause the old woman turns on her heel and melts into the shadows. The swashbuckler is unsure if the hag is just faster then expected or used magic of some kind, but in a twinkling she is gone.

Ewahee looks at the forbidding trees, the darkening sky (and secretly at her own youthful hands) before saying, "I don't think she is going to give you what you want cheaply."

Stories of hag bargains fill Zache's mind. Trickery abounded, usually to the poor hero's detriment. Zache knew that hags differed slightly from devils and their famous contracts. A devil saw a deal as an investment, had quotas to meet, a inbuilt desire to ensnare with legalistic words. Hags on the other hand, simply enjoyed cause pain and misery.

They always upheld a deal (the strange fey power they wielded demanded it) but they sought to make it as painful and difficult as possible. To a hag, the suffering was the point and the deal itself mere byproduct. And to break such a bargain often incurred strange and horrible penalties, enforced with a fey's twisted sense of 'justice'.

"In a hag's den..." Ewahee said, shaking her head. Her face reddens slightly, as she mutters half to herself, half to her companion. "For all my brave words, I was of no help in dealing with her. I am sorry Zache."A pause and then, "You should go alone, if you intend to."

His words stung the woman, Zache could see that, even if she tried to hide it. She withdrew a few steps, although the fiery intensity of her presence did not seem to fade much.

"Straight to business?" The unknown woman pouted prettily, fit for a painting (or a rather lewd ballad). 'A pity. You would have had fun...for awhile." Her smile looks very dangerous.

She raises a fair, delicate hand, an actress taking the stage. "Perhaps this form is more what you desire?"

The woman lowered her hand, fingers tracing over her enticing shape. Then it all...changed. The thin pale dress became a mass of dark rags, charred and burnt. The basket of nuts flickered to reveal itself as a mass of horrid purple mushrooms, leaking noxious violet ichor. Her hair shrank and become a brittle husk of blackened strands, like star caught in a wild fire. But Zache's eyes were drawn to the woman herself.

The tall maiden was replaced by a gnarled crone whose hunched back only rose to Zache's torso. Her skin was hard and knotted, as if someone had carved it out of an old weathered log then burned it too long in a campfire. The nose and chin came to wicked points, sharp and hard. Hollow cheeks seemed hacked out of her face, and she had far too many sharp brown teeth. Worse were the eyes, hot glowing embers that seemed to burn in the deep eye sockets, living fire.

On one shoulder sat a hellfire ignis, burning bright. It giggled and juggled tiny flames, sometimes stopping to whisper in Mother Ember's ear.

This was the horror bard's sang of, that parents warned children about. here was the monster that stole away babies in the night, that stalked young dreams.

Ewahee was startled out of whatever reverie she had been locked in. The Blood Watcher recoiled a step saying, 'Spirits, protect me."

The crone laughed, like wood popping in a bonfire. "Your ancestors won't save you, girlie. Now Mother Ember is going to eat you up!" She then gave a high-pitched cackle that made Zache's hair rise on the back of his neck.

The burning coals of eyes turned back to the swashbuckler, full of contempt and hate, "Still feeling ready, boy?" The heat coming off her felt baleful now, hot enough to scald skin or to perhaps simply burn him away.

Zache Will Save, DC 15: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (7) + 4 = 11

Maybe not.

At the work luck, there is a marring flash across the beautiful face. For a second thinks seem to slip and look...wrong. Something not wonderful or attractive at all. In a moment it vanishes however, and the woman seems as lithesome as ever.

She gives a small laugh and a flip of a dainty wrist. "But that name makes me seem so old! Still, flattery will get you everywhere." She takes a step closer and Zache can feel a heat radiating off of her, an alluring powerful incandescence.

Yet for all the obvious power of this woman, Zache's mind strangely feels clearer. It is as if a cool breeze as swept over him, something more fitting a clear star-spangled night. A free, fresh flowing wind, with a hint of mist. Zache glances at Ewahee and the Blood Watcher seems listless, almost like one asleep. She is standing very still, eyes slightly glazed.

The world around them seems more unfriendly then ever. The trees nearby seem to shie away slightly, branches warping away from the woman. There is no birdsong and a deep shadow seems to settle around them, darker then before. No trace of the hidden Sun can be felt here, all seems wrapped in a smoky twilight.

The woman seems unaware of this and purrs in a throaty voice, "There are things more fun then readings. Forget your quest for awhile and maybe I can show you some of them." Her smile is radiant as a bonfire, teeth white against her dark skin. The red flecks in her eyes seem to burn with invitation and promise.

Ewahee considered his 'offer' in silence, looking at the forested world around them. She bent down and picked up a dried discarded pinecone. After considering it for awhile she tossed it into the air, bouncing off the massive hulk of the fallen tree.

"I will come." She finally says, firmly, "To watch, as my mandate. I will come to the hag but if you convince her to give a reading, I will excuse myself. That should be yours and yours alone." As usual with Ewahee once she had made a choice, there is no doubt. The Shoanti helps Zache gather up their things, they fill their water bottles at the bowl and then venture forth into the woods.

Following Whiteroot's directions, they head northwest. Away int he distance the brown line of high mountains are closer then Zache would have guessed, hard lines outlined against the cloudy hazy sky. They are unleavened by snow or ice, merely stark masiffs of stone. Some do have columns of smoke and steam rise from their shoulders, curls of billowing black.

The slope goes upward from Whiteroot's home, and Zache finds they are in the low foothills, undulating here and there. The soil grows rockier under their boots, gritty with red dust. Here and there large outcroppings appear near the crests of the hills, bare rock seeming to erupt. There are still trees although they are once again burned and blackened. They are fewer here, standing farther apart as if keeping distance.

They walk on, clambering up and down slopes. It is slower going then Zache expected, over broken ground. The swashbuckler wonders if Whiteroot understood how short their legs were. The air is dry here, tinged with a sulfurous stink that makes every breath unpleasant. The sky, still heavily shrouded from the eruption yesterday (had it only been yesterday ‽) grows dark early. An early quasi twilight fills the strange empty woods with long shadows. They meld and twist, turning the landscape into something unsettling and unknown. Trees with branches like grasping fingers seem to loom over them, while the rocks seem like hungry animals bursting forth. Oddly the day does not seem to cool as the Sun sinks. Indeed it seems to somehow grow hotter, more stifling.

Zache is just about to wonder out loud at their plan when he hears a voice.

"Well, aren't you just a tall glass of cool water on a hot day?" A warm, inviting voice says, with a strange but pleasant accent. Zache turns to find, among the trees to his left, a woman.

Quite simply, the most attractive woman he has ever seen.

She is lithe and tall, with flowing hair black as an alley cat. Her skin, the color of dark mahogany wood is smooth and clear without blemish. Her eyes are deep and dark, flecked with tiny sparks of light. On one arm she carries a basket half-filled with gleaming tree nuts, clearly freshly picked. Her dress is sheer and leaves little of her figure to the imagination.

Ewahee looks just as gob smacked as he Zache feels. In fact there is more then a trace of the involuntary attraction he is feeling on the Blood Watcher's features as well.

Taking a few graceful steps closer the woman goes on, shifting her basket, "Well, what brings a fine strapping lad like yourself into these woods, so close to nightfall? It's dangerous about, you know. It's lucky you only ran into little old me!"

The glade seems slightly less magical with Whiteroot gone. True, the tree trunk is just as large, the pool just as sparkling and the grass as green. Still, somehow, it seems diminished, more mundane.

Ewahee looks unconvinced at Zache's words. She frowns under her newly applied paint, "Are you planning on going without me then? There is one problem with going now, apart from the hag. What if you don't find her and end up blundering around a burning forest in the dark?"

She does nod when he 'asks' for healing. The bard steps toward him and places a callused hand on his shoulder. There is a brief burst of arcane power.

Cure Light Wounds: 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (5) + 4 = 9

"Are you sure you don't want me there? I was told to not interfere with the hag, but my magic might be useful. She sounds quite dangerous." Ewahee says, and Zache can't disagree. 'I don't think your blade will do much good."

She will not insist though, so if you do wish to go and leave her here, she will reluctantly agree. Seems a bit cold to take her most of the way and then make her wait in the woods or whatever. Even assuming you can manage things so well. Who knows what lies ahead...

The treant ponders his first question only for a moment, "It depends how you measure it. As the bird flies, not very far." The treant waves a hand west and northward, "Mother Ember's home rests near the roots of the mountains, where the trees are thin. In other ways it is quite distant." The tall being does not fully explain this. "On your feet, it would be nearly twilight if you left now."

Ewahee returns his look with some obvious concern. Surely Zache wasn't thinking of going today and meeting a dangerous hag at night?

Whiteroot gives a bit of their windy laugh again, swaying slightly at Zache's concern. "Mother Ember knows me well, too well perhaps. You need not hide me or my help. She will know more then you guess about many things. Do not burden yourself with protecting me, again."

"I have things to attend to, in the woods." Whiteroot says slowly, "Things are still troubled by the fire and storm. Much to repair, much to tend. You are welcome to stay here, of course. There is plenty of room inside." He indicates the vast cave-like tree behind him. "I only ask, no fires inside. I did much to protect it, and such effort should not go to waste." The treant gently lays a hand on a exposed root, twisting out from the unfathomable mass behind them.

Zache takes up the fruit and it feels firm and pleasant in his hand. It is slightly warm, as if it has been sitting in a sunbeam. The treant's twinkle grows and they say, "Good, good. I think you will find it most useful, Zache. Or, at least, the lightest!" The treant lets out a deep whoosh that is clearly some sort of laughter.

It tastes like pure summer and gives you a permanent +1 in any ability score you wish.

Zache is still feeling a bit light-headed at the rush of power and wholeness the fruit engendered when Ewahee appears. She is wearing damp but clean clothes. Scrubbed clean, she has also re-applied her Blood Watcher paints, which look stark in the green world of Whiteroot's home.

"Now that you are both here," Their host says, looming over them like a tree in a park, "I will also share what I can to help you in your dealings with the hag."

The twinkle leaves those deep green eyes, and the treant seems to grow still. Zache gets the feeling Whiteroot is very good at this and, if they wished, stand motionless for days.

"She is a dangerous creature and old. One does become both without power and cunning. Wily, Mother Ember can be quite reclusive and few travelers get a glimpse of her, if she wishes to be unseen. Somehow, I feel that will not be a problem for you. Indeed, maybe the hag will seek you out."

"I can only help a little. Like many of her kind, she is a master of illusion and shape. Fair and foul, light and shadow, she is deft with them all. You must be on your guard for both the obvious and the subtle. The hag is a recalcitrant aide and many, even after great effort, find her unwilling to help. However, do not fear her refusing. I believe your real danger will be if she agrees to help you."

The treant makes a solemn woodwind note, somewhere in his deep chest. "A hag's help is a treacherous thing and often comes at a high cost. Be careful what bargains you strike with Mother Ember. The hag may uphold her end, but you may find the price far too dear to pay. She has ways of making renegers pay..."

'She is not without her own weaknesses however." Whiteroot goes on, sounding thoughtful, "Despite her claims she is hardly all knowing and this eats at her. Beyond the wood, much is a blur to her, vague and unclear. The hag is both vain and greedy in equal measure, qualities that can be used by the wise. But there is a single weapont hat will help you more then any sword, spell of clever trickery."

The treant bends toward them, creaking loudly, "Goodness. The hag plays on vices, on weakness, on Evil. If one goes to her with a pure heart and a soul, they have donned an armor better then anything made by hand." A long pause, as a slight breezes riffles the leaves. Amongst the healthy vibrant tress, Whiteroot's burns and scars look even worse, a leper among the healthy.

"I hope you find it useful, Zache Slobodo. Take heart, not all who have found the hag have come to grief."

Perhaps not the most comforting words.

Zache had once heard a street preacher for Shelyn talk about the wonders of Nirvana. A supposed paradise of pastoral hills, breathtaking mountains, and lush woodlands. The very air there was said to make men and women weep.

That is how Zache felt after washing and putting on clean clothes. It was so comfortable he almost fell asleep. Yet, his body was not weary. Indeed the swashbuckler felt awake, somehow alive after the cooling pool. To his surprise many of his wounds were healed or mere shadows of their former selves. The pool had no only refreshed his soul, it had also healed his body.

Gain half your HP back

Ewahee's turn took much longer. Then again, she had been the one to take a dip in the lahar, which was enough grime to last a lifetime. The Blood Watcher was still washing away when Whiteroot emerged from their strange home. They waved Zache over, a majestic motion that made the swashbuckler think of tree limbs in a summer breeze.

As he came over Zache was surprised to see the treant had set a large block of wood the size of a table on the ground. It was bare and clean, the grain swirling as if drawn by an artist.

"You did me a great service today, Zache from Urglin." Whiteroot said, solemnly. "Helping a stranger is such a thing that should be rewarded." There is a twinkle in the giant's being's eye. 'Give and take, such is the way of things." A gnarled burned hand swept down and placed three things on the table.

It was not quite the rewards of legend, that bards sang in taverns and king's halls. There were no jeweled swords and enameled shields. No piles of coins or blocks of gold. Indeed they seemed quite humble, things that you'd almost see on the side of a forest path.

The first was a thin tangle of vines, coiled into a confusing loop big enough to fit around Zache's waist. While brown and dried, it still looked quite springy.

The second seemed to be some sort of nut, crushed into a fine powder. The powder was blacker then ink, darker then obsidian. It seemed to be a total absence of light, a bit of the abyss. Their was enough to powder to hold in one palm perhaps, with a bit of dried seed pod to hold it.

Third was a simple fruit, although Zache had no idea from what tree. It was the size of an apple, but a warm honey color. It seemed to nearly glow in the afternoon light, a wholesome smell rising off of it. It reminded him somehow of the water he has just bathed in.

"Choose one, Zache." Whiteroot said slowly, "As a reward for a good deed done fairly in the light of day. And, perhaps, as a shield against nights to come."

Ok, so I have thought about this. You can either pick based on the above or, if you want OOC spoilers, I will provide info on their crunch below behind spoilers. No judgement on how you pick!

"No." Ewahee said but doesn't like quite as surprised, "Although I knew many strange things lived in the Outlands. I had always hoped to see some. A treant you say, so they are not just..one of a kind? They are of a whole people?" She looks down at the treehouse and adds absently, "They would be a formidable fighter. I wonder if one has ever fought in the Bloodworks?" A small grin crosses her plain bruised face, 'Do they even have blood?"

The bowl is old, old as the hills. It is weathered stone, pitted with age yet perfectly solid and hale. The faintest outline of lettering danced on the rim, some language Zache did not know. It did not seem like something a treant would make.

The water tastes....fresh. In a way water has never tasted to Zache. Granted Kaer Maga was not known for it's waterworks. The public was generally watered by Yondabakari River, where they also dumped much of their waste. A few fountains captured clean water upstream, but even this was warm and often silty. Water in Urglin had been much the same but even worse. The Ooze River had a nasty reputation and most folks had the sense to drink wine, beer or magically created water. Zache had tasted such conjured liquid but it had always tasted flat and stale to him.

Not this. This water was bright and clean in his mouth, refreshing him from the inside out. It was also cold, far colder then it should have been. To his surprise it also seems to ease some of his pain, a cooling balm applied to his worn out body.

When Zache turns to Ewahee, the woman is already starting to strip. She looks confused when he blunders awkwardly about taking turns. "What, why? There is room for two. It is no different then a bath house." The Blood Watcher shakes a mud covered leg, the dried stuff clinging to both her and the clothing. 'Don't they have them in Kaer Maga?"

They do not. Kaer Maga doesn't have anything of the sort and Zache has no idea what Ewahee is talking about. One thing is clear, Ewahee clearly doesn't have the same cultural values as himself! Still the Blood Watcher gets over her amusement and sees what Zache is trying to say.

'You go first then. I'll muddy it up." Then with a small smile, wanders behind a nearby tree and goes through her things. A tall order since everything is coated in layers of thick mud, sweat and ash.

This is just for cultural flavor. Urglin has a rich sauna and steambath culture, Zache just hasn't seen it yet. You are alone by the pool. Feel free to get clean. The water is fine!

Zache knows that Shoanti tattoo's often relay a person's entire history, with a particularly focus on their family and quah (the Shoanti word for 'clan') connections. A single glance can relate an entire family tree, when done right. They also often mark important occasions in a Shoanti's life, such as initiation rituals, marriages and adoptions.

When Zache mentions the bond, the treant seems to ponder this for a long time. "Many things in nature are bonded that do not seem to be, Zache. One cannot have dry seasons without rain, or sunrises without sunsets. Is it so unnatural that a being of growth and a being of fire are connected? "

"This is not say she is good, of course." Whiteroot says in his considering voice, "Although such distinctions are less important to wind and rock, root and branch. Still, she can be vindictive and dangerous, particularly to strangers. Cunning, very cunning."

'Would I want her dead?" Whiteroot says mildly, as if pondering this for the first time. The trees around them are green and full of life, the air heavy with the resinous scent of sap. For the first time Zache spots animals, birds living in the high branches. The ground tips downward in a rolling gully.

"Difficult to say, Zache. Difficult to say. I would confess, it may make the woods friendlier, and less prone to mischief. Still, it would be a mighty task to confront Mother Ember, one far greater then her...pets you saw today. The hellfire fey. Pet, servant, parasites... they are attracted to her power and often linger near. She uses them, but also abuses them. As is her way. Usually they are little danger but the eruption has stirred them up and I was greatly weakened by protecting the forest. Fire is natural but some trees must be saved. A weakness of mine, perhaps."

Whiteroot stops stock still suddenly, long legs firming into the earth. They are at the lip of a round dell, surrounded by green trees. At the bottom is a small shrunken pool. A tiny spring tinkles into it, first filling a large stone bowl poised above the pond. The water is fresh and clear, untouched by ash or dirt.

Farther on is....Zache blinks. A fallen tree of such size the swashbuckler can barely comprehend. The huge tangle of roots is tall enough that it would tower over even Whiteroot. The huge trunk, smooth and bare of bark, is hundreds of feet long. To his surprise he sees there is a entrance near the base, something like a wooden cave leading into it's heart.

"My humble home." Their guide says, waving a hand toward the pool. "You make drink and bathe, if you wish. I think you would find it very refreshing." A long pause and then, "I will go inside first, I have...something to attend to." A bit of wry amusement there and, without further words, he strides down to the great tree and vanishes inside.

The treant's green eyes look at Zache with some surprise, "Sent to meet Mother Ember? Some new punishment by the city? Crossing paths with a hag is not something done lightly, although perhaps you can guess that. Zache Slobodo." The heavy voice is slow and serious, yet tinged with a bit of wry amusement at Zache's fast talking. Clearly it is something the tree is used to.

"I can tell you something of her, although even I do not know all her secrets. Still, this is no place for long talk." With surprising grace the treant slowly rises to their feet, legs like massive pillars. Their body creaks like an old sailing ship putting to sea, and his head sways like a mast.

"We will go to my home, it is not far from here. I think you will find it suitable for a rest." The fact that Zache is weak as a newborn kitten seems to be understood but too impolite to say out loud. Zache and Ewahee agree and the Blood Watcher actually adds a question of her own, sneaking around Zache's peppering like a skilled duelist.

Whiteroot slowly sets the pace into the woods. It is a strange gait, deliberate but with very long strides. Zache finds it a challenge to correctly maintain the pace in his exhausted, battered state.

"How do you know Shoanti?" She says while they walk at his side. Zache's neck twinges already at looking up all the time.

"The neighboring quahs come to the edges of the forest sometimes." Whiteroot says simply, "With their herds. The wiser ones ask my permission for firewood and such. I learned their tongue long ago. I have always felt it good to learn the ways of one's neighbors."

Whiteroot's word's trial off and they tramp in silence for awhile. The treant's path takes them deeper into the wood. The trees are packed closer together, and their is a gentle incline downward. As they walk, the fire damage seems to grow less severe. Here and there trees are only partially burned, merely scarred by the flames. The ash grows thinner and the soil underfoot thicker and richer.

When the treant speaks, it is as if the silence hadn't happened and the conversation was ongoing. "Mother Ember and I are....bonded in a way. Both aspects of the nature around us, the nature we both call home. In wet and fruitful years I am strong and she fades, in droughts the reverse. She is....very powerful this year."

"The volcano is not her doing, but it too is part of the cycle of seasons and change. She is connected to it and grows strong when it is awake. You will find Mother Ember to be quite...formidable."

The woods around them looks nearly natural now, the trees whole and hale, with only minor signs of the fire. Zache sees leaves and needles on the ground, and even some undergrowth here and there. As Whiteroot passes under them, some seem to whisper or murmur. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears some branches actually reach out for the tall striding being.

'their own injuries' No gender for Whiteroot, noticed too late to edit

There is little Zache can do to help the tree right itself. The being is nine feet tall, wide as a large tree and made of solid wood. It must weigh thousands of pounds. Still it doesn't seem to mind Zache's attention and it slowly rolls to a sitting position.

It blinks slowly in the hazy light of afternoon. The treant turns to Ewahee first and says, "I think I must thank you for the rain? It was well done, and felt good after so long a drought." He narrows his eyes at the Blood Watcher. "And a Shoanti too."

The tree then says something in a liquid, flowing language. Ewahee's eyebrows rise in surprise although she eventually replies, much more haltingly.

"That would explain the lack of tattoos." The treant says sagely if mysteriously, then turns back to Zache.

"Mother Ember...is that what they are calling her these days?" The treant says, sighing long and slowly. It is an oddly musical sound. "As good a name as any. But no, you would say we are friends. That is not an easy thing between an ash hag and a treant."

"But where any my manners? My name is Whiteroot, or at least that is a close translation to your language." Another sigh as it looked around the burned glade, now soaked with wet ash. A thoughtful sigh and one huge hand brushes away some of the muck. It reveals a tiny green shoot, barely visible, emerging from a charred cone.

"Firecones." Whiteroot says, "They only grow if the ground grows hot. To them, it signals there is open sky above, the old giants burned away. Rebirth and cycle anew. It is a comfort, I suppose." The treant sounds sad, but maybe it just his own injuries. If Zache was burned that badly, he would not be discussing the finer points of ecological succession.

Zache slashes at the injured fey, opening up a huge gouge in it's body. Flames spurt like blood down it's side, hissing in the drenching downpour.

Ewahee stabs down at the fallen fey, no mercy on her face.

Sword: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (20) + 7 = 27
Crit Confirm?: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24

Crit Damage: 2d6 + 3 ⇒ (4, 6) + 3 = 13

Slow your roll Ewahee, he only had one hitpoint left

Ewahee's blow smashes the fey to merely a rolling pile of ashes, steaming and sputtering in the rain.

Fey Bite: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (18) + 8 = 26
Zache dodges the attack, although is attempted follow up misses. Maybe the rain is messing with his form, however good it feels.

However, finally the fey notice their fallen comrade. Both fey spring back, hissing in confusion. They seem surprised more then anything. Almost...offended. As if they hadn't really expected danger.

"We are telling Mother!" One shouts, shaking it's head in the driving downpour. Clearly this has been enough for them. Together the pair of fey dart off, out of the rain and into the dead trees.

Ewahee watches them go and then toes the fallen fey with her boot, the hot ash cooling to mud under the lashing rain. In a few seconds the rain stops, like a bucket emptying. At least both of them are clean.

On the ground the treant stirs slightly, turning so a aged, weathered face turns to them. The wood is burned, the bark blistered off on much of it. Still the green eyes deep in old folds are bright.

"You might regret that." It says with a deep sonorous voice, a woody bass rumble. It's Common is surprisingly good. "Although I would be amiss to say I did not require your help..."

Zache's stab nearly penetrates the fey entirely, blade untouched by it's fire. With a dancer's grace, Zache whirls away from it, throwing himself right into the middle of the action. Water splashes all around him, thrown up by both the spell and his speed.

For her part, Ewahee strides forward, pulling out her sword for once. The fey Zache already attacked turns toward her, peering through the curtain of rain (which is still pelting everyone).

Ewahee Attack: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22
Damage: 1d6 + 3 ⇒ (5) + 3 = 8

Her blow smashes the fey to the ground. It lies prone for a moment, sizzling in the rain.

To his surprise, the treant stirs. One woody hand raises up, holding a hunk of burned wood. With obvious effort it hurls it at one of the fey.

Treant Throw: 1d20 - 2 + 7 - 2 ⇒ (17) - 2 + 7 - 2 = 20
Damage: 2d6 ⇒ (1, 6) = 7

The branch hits one of the fey, creating a shower of sparks.

The other fey crowd in toward Zache, trying to attack. They have not noticed their leader has been taken out of the fight.

Bite, First Fey: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (19) + 8 = 27
Damage: 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4

Bite, other fey: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21
Oh the dice hate you

One fey is down, one is wounded. Ewahee is just outside the rain, the treant looks like it won't be helping again, it has nothing else to throw.

'I was thinking the exact same." Ewahee says, brushing off some of the dried mud still clinging to her. 'It doesn't seem like a very fair fight, to me."

Zache moves ahead to intercept any attackers that come their way. Even as he steps through the ashy dust, he feels a change in the air. A drop in temperature and a promise moisture he has not felt since...well, a long time. All of a sudden, quicker then he thought possible, the air is full of dousing, whirling rain. It is a cleansing fresh squall, and it feels good on his skin. Mud, ash and sweat is washed away by the torrent.

The fiery fey react instantly, with a series of hisses (although Zache isn't sure if the sound comes from their mouths or their skin). Steam rises off of them in a sudden cloud as they scamper around in confusion. They wave arms at the sky, as if trying to strike at the clouds. Finally one spots Zache and his sword.

"You!" It shouts in high pitched Common, 'Stop it! Stop the rain!" Without even waiting for a reply is screeches, "They are making it rain!"

"Let's make them stop!" The largest one shouts in reply and they all hiss an agreement.

Hellfire Ignis Initiative: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (18) + 5 = 23

Two of them, to Zache's surprise rip chunks out of their own flaming bodies and hurl them at the swashbuckler!

Ranged Attack: 1d20 + 7 - 1 ⇒ (2) + 7 - 1 = 8
Ranged Attack: 1d20 + 7 - 1 ⇒ (11) + 7 - 1 = 17

Damage, Force and Fire: 1d3 + 1d3 ⇒ (2) + (1) = 3

Happily for you, the rain spells gives you Fire Resistance 5! so the fire part does no damage, you take 2 points of force damage

Zache bats one of the flames bits aside with his blade, but the other hits him. It is like being hit with a burning brick, although he finds Ewahee's water douses the flames instantly.

The leader of the fey charges toward him, red-hot claws extended.

Claws: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (18) + 8 = 26
Damage: 1d4 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 2 = 5

The claws slash at his legs, reaching around his buckler and cutting his thighs. Blood mixes with the rain pouring down his body.

One fey is next to you, the other ones are about 20 feet back. You get the sense they really don't like staying in the rain.

Ankhegs are generally regarded as oversized pests, not even Shoanti tribesman actually eat them. Zache does recall seeing their parts sold however, just not in butcher shops. Some of their organs were sold in the nicer markets (where he was generally chased off) dedicated to wizards and alchemists. They possessed some kind of magical or chemical benefits, he just wasn't sure what.

They walk westward through the burned forest, threading between the trees. They avoid the hotter ones, although some are warm enough that Zache can feel it from several feet away. Still the forest was fairly open in life, and there is plenty of room to walk.

Ewahee answers, injured face in thought. She sidesteps a perfectly preserved branch, saying, "I am not sure. My father made it sound like the hag would be impossible to miss but the bandits have come here several times and never saw her. Strange."

"Maybe she will be drawn to us, for some reason? Or maybe finding her is part of the challenge?"

They wander farther, moving with a steady but careful pace. The last thing Zache is any surprise. The silence and stillness is eerie however. There are no animals here, or signs of them. Clearly all has been scoured away by the volcanic wind.

So it is with some surprise when Zache finally sees some movement in a nearby glade. In what had once presumably been a grassy meadow, only blackened soil remains, alongside a few stands of brunt grass. In the center a single fallen tree lies on the ground, not quite as burned as those around them.

Three flaming figures dance around it in a frenetic mockery of a festival. Only child-size, they seem to be made of molten stone and fire. Now and then one of them tossing a ball of fire at the fallen tree, laughing cruelly at the swoop of orange flames. Others kick and prod the log.

Then the log groans painfully and shifts slightly. Zache blinks and is surprised to see it is not a fallen tree at all, but a badly injured treant, one of the fabled tree shepherds. An arm feebly moves, helplessly trying to ward off the imp-like creatures, but to no avail. They merely laugh and throw more fire at it, scarring the fallen giant.

They seemed to have not noticed Zache or Ewahee, intent on their fun.

fey

They reach the top of the steep slope without further incident. Emerging from the smoky shadows would have been a relief except for the sight that greets them.

Once Zache had seen hunks of petrified wood for sale in a Kaer Maga market. They hadn't seemed very interesting to the young street urchin but others had marveled at the strange wood-like stone, seemingly complete with bark and grain, all solidified to granite. The swashbuckler had forgotten completely about it, until now.

Ahead lies the a gaunt skeleton of what had once been a forest. The trees remain, indeed most retain even their smallest branches but everything has been scorched black. More then scorched, charcoaled into glossy black pillars of burnt wood that march to the edge of sight. Not just trees but logs, fallen limbs and brush have been instantly turned to standing char. Only the leaves are gone, burned away by the fiery energies that created this haunting place.

And yet, it is no without a strange austere beauty. The black branches outline against the hazy gray sky like fingers, stark and clear. Their gleaming trunks shine in the sunlight, some almost iridescent. In other places whorls of flames have etched strange rune-like burns along smooth wood, endlessly rippling. Zache notes some of the trees are not merely burned and black, but still smoking and hot. Fire lurked in their hearts, pulsing red embers on the edge of sight.

It is a strange and quiet place.

There is also no sign of the Ash Road. The wide lahar must have buried wherever it climbed up the cliff behind them in tons of mud.