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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I leave it to you to do a victory celebration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Begin!" Herluf shouts, voice strong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clearly he means business.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awenasa does not like to be stymied. From the very start of this whole quest, she has felt a rush, a desire to be moving, to get it done. Rightly so, her entire people and way of life might be hanging in the balance. So it was with some reluctance that she took up a seat in a shaded spot near the docks and watched Anno's house.

Still, what else could she do?

Time passed.

The day remained hot and even in the shade, Awenasa was sweating. Towns people came and went by, generally ignoring them although a few paused and look, as if trying to see what they were watching so intently. Nothing really, just a damp shack sitting motionless against the backdrop of a overgrown swamp. Bugs flew and bit. Somewhere, Awenasa heard an drum beat and Perey cocked his head like a dog. The sun moved deep into the west and the shadows started to grow very long, reaching across the swamp like fingers. They would need to figure out a place to sleep soon. She doubted the locals would let her camp at the dockside.

Even as she pondered this Thak appeared. The small man tossed Awenasa a small round fruit, something like an apple but yellow. 'Here, have something to eat. It's a local delicacy." The man handed Perey one as well, before taking a seat nearby.

"Well, I did find a few talkative people." Awenasa's friend said, sighing as he stretched his legs. "Which I needed because our newest friend is not the most popular guy in town. Apparently he has been a crotchety fellow his whole life, from a whole family of grumbling watermen."

"He is, however, regarded as the best swamp traveler alive. Amadillo seemed to have been right about that. Very few locals actually go deep into it. Used to make a living fishing, catching turtles, that sort of thing. Never took guests." He points a hand, "But not anymore, and that's our trouble."

"He had a wife, loved her dearly they say. The man lost her in the swamps and has never forgiven himself since. Spent the time since then drinking his life away and being a public nuisance. There is a movement going around to kick him out of town and burn down his house. Public eyesore, they say. Poor guy."

Then, as if on cue, the hut's flap opened. Anno appeared in the growing twilight, holding a long stick and a bucket. He peered around then stomped up the wooden pier, feet heavy on the moldering boards. When he reached dry ground he turned to Awenasa and said flatly, "We are going fishing. Come." And he waved her to follow. With that, the waterman was walking again, moving down the waterside.

Clinne laughs shortly, "There is night...after a fashion." The lanky woman pauses and peers up at the aquamarine sky, narrowing her eyes. She shrugs, "it's about...midday, you'd call it back home. Plenty of light left."

Well that's something.

Emory's next questions are asked while they walk (Emory moving like an old man on black ice) toward the free settlers. To his surprise they seem offended when he mentions that they might have duties. He was just trying to be polite but his new hosts don't take it well.

'Duties? What do you take us for? We aren't some of Ivrolla's sapliners, tied down to a rota. We are free laborers, free people. Our profits, and our work, are our own." Emory has to laugh, hearing such Nirmathas phrasing in the mouths of a Druman. It was like being back at Dun Hollow, hearing Old Man Thom talk about his 'rights' regarding pig wallows.

Clinne sniffs but does add, "It isn't every day we get to see new fish come to the Other Side. I wouldn't miss this. The only thing we need to do is hand out the receipts." She pauses and looks at Trevers, "You do have 'em, right?"

The smaller man nods and pats a leather satchel. He frowns though and says, "Not that they will last long. Miallme gave them to me on paper. We need a better solution."

Clinne shrugs, "Anyway, other then that, we can do as we like. Why else would we come here? To be free."

To be free. Some things never change.

"Not much to say for lodging." Trever says, "Just mostly shacks and tents. The prospectors travel alot, ranging, they like to get uo and go."

Clinne shrugs but says, "Don't let Trevers fool you. We might live like alpaca nomads but he has a cushy set-up. Treehouse, indeed." But she grows serious and answer Emory more clearly, "The climate is generally fair here, far as we can tell. No sign of winter, not so far at any rate. That'll help, but I agree. People need a place to live. A mosshack or slingbed won't do it for your people."

By now they have caught up to the main grouping of people and clearly Emory isn't the only one discussing places to live. Allader breaks off fevered financial talk with green-bearded mountain of a man and looks to Emory, "What do you think Sheriff? Do we all stick together? They told us we'd be roughing it, but I expected something, more then open woods."

The big man, clearly an experienced Other Sider, says, "Huts work for anyone. A few sticks, a bit of rope, some moss sheets, comfy as a mother's breast."

Clinne rolled her eyes, "Kors, these people need real homes."

To Emory's surprise one of the settlers, an elderly woman missing most of her teeth smiled, "My grandfolks lived in a sod cabin when they were young, it can be done."

Clinne shook her head and said, "I prefer those caves to uphill. Some of them are plenty big to house a whole family. "

Trevers breaks in, "I've been telling you for weeks. it's the Plane of Wood, we should be living in trees! Up off the ground!"

You get to decide, or at least guide the conversation

Clinne laughs at his compliment, "Where do you think I learned? You'll get the hang of it quick enough, most do." she hauls him to his feet with surprising strength.

On his feet again, Emory takes a better look around. To his surprise, while the place feels strange, it actually does not look that alien. Only two features really stand out. The weird, uneven ground made of interwoven roots and the sky overhead which is a strange shade of aquamarine. Otherwise, it could be a forest grove back home in Nimarthis.

The trees are mature, but of normal size, with thick trunks dotted with moss. They thrust right out of the rooted terrain, flaring deep into unknown depths. Spread out, they link overhead in a thick, leafy canopy that dapples in the flickering light. Emory isn't quite sure what kind they are though, apart from deciduous, yet they would not be out of place outside of Dun Hollow.

There are other familiar signs as well, for the hand of man has been here. Flat stumps dot the landscape, hacked down with axe and fire. A few clearings have been cut out of the living landscape, near the portal. Judging from the remains of ropes and containers, they were marshaling yards for the cargo. A sizable operation, judging from the cleared areas. Someone, at least, was doing some planning.

Two paths lead out from the portal, one moving dead ahead among the trees, the other sloping downhill to the right, lost in a green twilight. Wait, paths? Emory peered closer and indeed, their were paths. It seemed, to his untrained eye that the roots grew closer here, more tightly knit, forming a slightly smoother walkway. The Sheriff wondered what caused such things. Magic?

Trevers gave Emory a look at his last question, "The accommodations are...sparse."

Clinne nodded, pointing at the downward sloping path. 'Irvolla's bunkhouses are down there, along with the oil works. "The rangy woman shifts and points along the flatter path. "The free workers live in some shacks down there, not too far."

Free workers?

Emory glances around at the others in the forest, curious how they are making do. Gruiitsen is already starting to lead the noble entourage for one of the clearings, with a few household memebrs already pushing the few boards and bits of cargo out of the way. Spar and his Blackjackets are surveying the scene, probably hating what they see. Endless cover for enemies, no fortifications and not even a defined area to defend.

The settlers look the most lost, many simply wandering around, looking at the trees.

But there are others too. Emory notes a gnarled figure standing near the sloping path. It is a middle-aged human with a bad hunch, skin mottled with a long life outdoors. His clothing is battered too, stained and greasy looking, matching very worn boots. But it is not his appearance that makes Emory freeze. It is the short iron rod in his hand, the length of a forearm.

Nirmathas and Druma both banned slavery, if for different reasons. Emroy's homeland has outlawed it due to it's inane oppressions and disrespect to the human spirit. He had been told Druma had done so because slavery was 'economically undynamic'. So it had been with surprise that when he was in Kerese, the Druma capital, he had seen gangs of workers chained and shackled, forced to labor at hard tasks.

Emory had quickly been informed these were not slaves, merely debt 'peons', those who were sentenced to labor to pay back defaulted debts. Not slaves at all, of course! And everyone of of their overseers had carried such an iron rod, a symbol of the harsh violence inherent in such systems.

Yet Emory saw no one in chains, even though he glanced a few workers moved down the path, past the gnarled man. Yet there was an aura of respect there, of fear.

In contrast there were a few other newcomers as well, standing along the road Clinne said led to the 'free workers'. About a dozen men and women were standing there in the shadows of big trees, peering at the newcomers. All look hard bitten and tough, reminding Emory of the wandering trappers and mountain men he had met in his old homeland. Had they come to taunt the greenhorns? Maybe laugh at the fish out of water?

No, this was Druma. They had not come to laugh. They had come to make money.

"Right this way!" One said to Allader, "I can show you a good spot to make camp. Best place around."

Another grizzled veteran offered a basket of apples, "Freshly picked, your first taste of the Other Side."

Others had approached Gruiitsen and Spar, already deep in talks. Even now, coins were changing hands, deals being made. Not even another plane could take the merchant out of a Druman.

Anno takes all of Awenasa' word's in silently, from her claim of determination to her reasons for coming. The Halls of Reason, the Man Breaker and Eivind the Heavy Hand seemed to roll off the worn waterman like water off a duck's back. He tries to meet her gaze but something about Awenasa's intense gaze makes the smaller man finally turn aside.

He shakes his head, finally saying, "I never said life was perfect. Look at it, does it look perfect?" He waved a gnarled hand at the rotting, stinking shack. "There is nothing anyone can do to change it, that's all."

"And that includes you. My answer is no, whoever you are." With that, he slips back between the animal hide, which falls back into place with a wet, soggy snap right in Awenasa's face. Her and her friends are left alone on the rickety, mushroom laden dock.

Thak frowns but Perey laughs, shaking his head. "Well, now what, Awenasa?" He says, tilting a head at the shack, "Are you going to manhandle him into the boat and make him row? While I think you can take him in a fight, I doubt it'll work."

Thak seems puzzled at a man who doesn't want anything. "Awenasa," he finally says, after staring at the door, "I exchanged some of your gold for fossils back with Amadillo. Give me some of them, maybe I can go into town and pick up some information? Might be a job left to me. The small man smiles slightly, "This time, I promise not to be kidnapped and beaten."

"And what, we just wait here?" Perey asks.

Emory’s rather clever and diplomatic language clearly wrong foot’s the shriven dwarf. Gruiitsen looks like he’d enjoy nothing more than correcting the new Sheriff, but what is there to disagree with? Sending in the hired troops first makes sense. Spar merely gives a satisfied grunt at the words, nodding slightly.Clearly putting his Blackjackets at the top of the hierarchy is agreeable to the Lieutenant.

The dwarf might have said more but Miallme shouted, ”He’s right. What do you think we are paying these Blackjackets for anyway? To look good?” She does steal a glance at Corporal Zarhia rather pleasing form before smiling. ”Come on, market’s closing folks. Get a move on.”

And with that, the Blackjackets march through the portal, heads held high, backs straight. Their evenly measured steps fade out as they leave this plane, shimming out of existence itself. The air under the portal seems to glow ever so faintly and shimmer, but otherwise there is no sign of the fracture of reality here. No lightning bolts or ethereal voices. A bit boring, actually.

Lady Vanandl’s household goes through next, with no more difficulty. The bodyguards go first, stepping into nothingness and soon the swaying palanquin chair follows suit. Emory spots the curtains flick open at the last possible moment, as if the noble did not wish to miss the show. Still, the sheriff doesn’t even get a glance at her before she too sinks into the portal.

Allader’s people take longer, of course. For one thing there is more of them, for another a few of them seem scared of stepping into the magical vortex. Particularly among the children, there are a few crying faces by the time they reach the threshold. Still, there is no turning back now and a few toddlers are bodily picked up and held close, as they pass through. Emory notes that while these people may seem cold and mercenary to him, they clearly care for their children like anyone else.

Soon the whole little community is through, and Emory is standing alone near the portal. At least until Clinne and the short man who had been arguing about paper before, walk up. The rangy woman gives the Sheriff a nod. ”Time to go, Sheriff. Brass before gold.” She toes him with her boot. ”I’m always the last. Go on.”

And with that, Emory steps through the shimmering portal. Even as he does he glances back and spots Miallme giving him a formal wave, fist held above her head. The last sounds of the Material Plane are her words, ”Good luck, Sheriff!”

Then everything goes dark.

Then light.

And then Emory is standing in a very different place, or at least he thinks so. His ears popped painfully as if he had just descended a high peak. It takes a moment for his senses to come back, one at a time. First was the smell. A fruitful richness in the air that reminded Emory of hidden springs or of golden summers of his childhood. Chasing the calves through the meadows, or catching fireflies in the evening. The smell was a rich blend of grass, water and most of all…life. Abundant and fresh. Even now, barely aware of where he was, it was a soothing, calming tonic. It felt good to just breathe.

He could even taste it, on his tongue. It was a deep rich taste, almost like old loam, with a bit of a tart aftertaste. It was as if Emory had taken a bite out of the last winter apple, old and tough but still hearty, left in the barrel.

Then sound, as his ears grew unmuffled. It was a strange mix. Loudest were the familiar ruckus of many people, talking, laughing, crying. Feet stamping, animals grumbling, wheels creaking. A person coughed loudly, while another one whistled loudly in wonder. A few were harsher, barking an order or command, too vague to make out. Yet, over all of it, somehow, Emory could hear the true sound. A natural stillness, a thick level of quiet that seemed to exist despite the temporary noise of the settlers. A quietititude that seemed hard to dislodge, gathered over endless seasons of tranquil nature. Somewhere, wind riffled the leaves of trees in a soft, endlessly cascading symphony.

The air felt cool on his skin, softer than the lakeside winds of Druma. There was only the most gentle breeze here, just enough to feel. The light was dimmer, nothing like the bright noontime radiance he had just left behind. It felt more…diffuse, filtered, like the sun through a leafy canopy. Yet it wasn’t quite the same. Something alien….

After all of that (which took maybe three heartbeats), his eyes opened. Emory was standing in a dappled grove of large mature trees, well-spaced, with light pouring in. The others were standing around, clustered in uneven groups among the trees, clearly unsure what to do next. Blinking, Emory craned up at the high arcing branches above, outlined against the bright, oddly greenish sky. He took a slight step and almost broke his neck, losing his footing.

Slamming awkwardly to the ground he saw why. The ground was not ground. Instead it was a tight mat of interwoven wooden roots and branches, like a basket. Looking around, Emory saw some areas were as tight as a blanket, almost a solid sheet of wood while others had gaping potholes big enough to swallow a child. It made for uneven, undulating footing. Emory was still processing this when he saw Clinne and Trevers materialize beside him, clearly unphased by the trip.

The woman laughed at seeing Emory sprawled out on the ground, but she did lean over and lend a hand. ”Don’t feel bad Sheriff, happened to me the first time. It’ll take a bit to get your wood legs. Just step carefully and you’ll do all right.”

There is a ton to describe, so just ask what you look for. I didn't want to overdue it.

And Emory was surprised because he had little to do. Someone must have already spread the word for the others who intended to venture forth to a new plane for the groups below were already moving. So Emory merely had to stand and wait with the others, watching.

It was a study in contrasts.

Leading the way was the vanguard of Blackjackets, moving in a parade ground phalanx. Lieutenant Spar led the way, carrying his huge battleaxe with surprising ease. They marched up the wooden stairs in such unison it was as if someone was drumming on the freshly cut wood, a single rythmic beat.

Behind was the entourage of Lady Vanandl, moving with perhaps less precision but more panoply. A new bearer must have been found because the palanquin was fully manned again, moving with a gentle, swaying motion up the stairs. Gruiitsen led the way, holding a ceremonial flag bearing what must have been the family crest, a white gloved hand dropping gold coins. Behind was clustered the entire household and staff of a rich noble. Clerks and servants, close family and distant relatives. People carrying heavy crates, boxes and bags. Everyone seemed to be laden down with...stuff.

Lastly came the settlers, who made up for their lack of pomp with numbers. Yet the families did not come in pell-mell chaos. Emory detected a hierarchy even here, between families nd groups. Allader is in the first rank, carrying a bag over his shoulder. Everyone behind clambers up the stairs, doing their best to avoid the piles of goods stacked everywhere. Which was not easy considering the quantity.

Heaps of dark-grained lumber, barrels of oil, sap and syrup. Crates of fruits of every possible size and hue, many of which Emory did not even recognize. What were those funny long yellow shapes? Buckets full of seeds gleamed in the sun, next to coiled stacks of vines.

For a moment all was silent and watched the empty portal.

Miallme looked around, gave a small sigh and climbed up on a small pyramid of basket stuffed with flowers. At reaching the summit the clerk looked out over the groups and said loudly, "A new venture begins! Druma sends you forth, emissaries of our nation and our ways. A new life and new beginnings. Today the Other Side is just a work camp, a transient place to plunder. Tonight, it becomes a home." She bows to the all.

"Good luck."

Lady Vanandl's people start to move forward obviously intending to go first, but the Blackjackets also surge forward, probably intending to lead the way. A traffic jam starts to form instantly.

Going to step in?

Clinne pauses and looks at Emory with a curious face, obviously surprised by his question. "of course. The Other Side is a strange place and we barely know anything about it. A few of us venture out, looking for valuable things. Some one has to do the exploring."

Her eyes grow distant, thoughtful, "I have seen some amazing things, out there, alone. Upside down waterfalls, groves of singing trees, vines that can break an arm with a single snap. And strange things...." The guide shakes her head coming back to the present, 'Well, if you can get time away from doing whatever Sheriffs do, I can show you around."

A bell started to ring and Clinne looked up, quick as a bird. "Cargos almost loaded. Time to start heading back." Without preamble the ranger starts moving toward a set of the clogged stairs leading up the platform. The workers give the rangy woman breath though, clearly respecting her. For once, Emory doesn't need to form his own bubble, he can just follow in Clinne's wake.

The woman nods to most of them, waving to some, exchanging a word here or there. It is an easy going, gruff acceptance that Emory is used to seeing among workers who share a dangerous field. Miners, lumberjacks, fishermen, all share that sort of casual camaraderie with their fellows. If someone shares those same dangers, it engenders a connection. Even if such people were rarely the most social types.

They are just reaching the platform itself when Emory's tuned ears catch an argument. Turning he can see a short man and Miallme arguing. Well, the man is shouting loudly but the Amber Clerk's body language just signals bemused confusion.

'I'm telling you, paper doesn't work!" The man was shouting waving his hands dramatically, "It all turns to green mush on the Other Side."

Miallame shook her head, "Listen, Trevers, if you can't protect your paper from the elements, that's not my problem. the forms needs to be kept-"

"It's not the elements!" Trevers shouts, 'It's not like I'm leaving them out in the rain or the damp. The paper comes back to life...you don't get it. We need an alternative."

Miallme shrugs and turns away, shaking her head, "Just get it done, Trevers. I need full reports or heads will roll."

The Amber clerk caught sight of Emory and nodded, "Well, Sheriff, ready? Time is moving on, faster then I'd like. We have to get the settlers moving. Don't want to miss the window, after all of this."

Clinne gives Emory a long, steady look. ”You are a smooth talker, Sheriff.” She says gruffly but then smiles, revealing a mouth of surprisingly bright, even teeth. ”I like that.”

’I’ve made the crossing nearly every month the portal opens, unless I was out ranging. I like to come back, see the real world, as often as I can. The Other Side has its beauties, but nothing can hold up to home./” She waved a hand at the sandy hills and waving lake grasses dancing under the bright sun. ”I was born here, my father was a fisherman on the lake.”

She pauses, actually stepping up on her toes to try and see the water. The woman shrugs, ”He is gone now but my Mother and sister live a day's walk from here. I send them my pay as I can. I’d like to visit but no rest for the weary.” She shakes her head.

”Logiscitcs.” Clinne says, slowly. ”Big words, but I get the gist. It isn’t easy, if that is what you mean. The big companies are used to that though, there are ways to get things done. Mostly with lots of sweat.” She juts a chin toward the hard working laborers up and down the platform. ”Druma likes to talk about the Trade Masters and such but…well,t here are others involved too.” Emory can hear the strains of a work song as a group of men manhandled a heavy load of timber down the side of the platform, easing onto the sand with surprising grace.

’I’ve never had a Sheriff before.” The woman says thoughtfully, looking at Emory again. ”I’ve never even lived in a town before. Time for everything, I suppose.”

Oyok gives Sigmar a bright wink at his nose remark and taps the side of his beak with a claw, making a slightly hollow sound. "A nose? What do you call this thing, lad? "

The ranger seems amused by this and stirs the fire some more, breaking it up until it is just scattered embers. "Fighting? Hell's Harbor has some wild things inland, or so I've heard. I've never been. Big ruins, monsters, all that horrible stuff."

Ozzy seems interested in the idea of ruins, perking up at the mention.

Oyok moves on though, pondering the Sunrise Seeker question. The tengu scratches his feathered chin thoughtfully, one clawed leg absently rubbing the other, chicken-like. Finally Sigmar’s friend shakes his head, ’Sorry, lad. I don’t know the term.” Then, to Sigmar’s surprise, adds, ”What about you, Ozzy? You seem well traveled."

The sandy creature seems to consider this, swirling slightly before saying, obviously disappointed, ’Sorry dudes, never heard of it. Cool name though. Maybe we can just ask them?Lots of people just like talking, you know?” What an interesting thought.

With the fire out, Sigmar and Oyok head for the door. As they move, Ozzy slips off the table with a slithering rustle, like a miniature waterfall. In a trice he has caught up and vanished into Sigmar’s clothes, grains sliding between folds. In his ear he hears the little being ask, ”So like, do I stay for the fight? Like, front-row seats man. Or would it be distracting?”

Oyok watches with a curious eye then shrugs. Just as they cross the threshold though, the tengu answers Sigmar’s last and most important question.

”Wondered if you’d ask lad. I think I heard a goat this morning, but didn’t have time to look.” he laughs, ”Coconut milk! Not bad, actually, had a swig myself.”

”Neat!” Ozzy remarks.

Outside, the shacks and walls of Fort Holiday block a true panorama but the cloudless sky is brightening with full dawn. The air is oddly cool and crisp, a brief illusion before the usual tropical hammerblows begin. Sigmar wasn’t sure if it was Oyok’s drink or the excitement of a big fight, but he feels very..alive. The breeze on his skin, the feel of his clothes, the tang of sulfur on the breeze. It all felt very real.

He also felt really lost. Where was the fight taking place again?

Oyok seems to have no idea but they notice quite a few people heading down some side streets. After a silent shrug they follow suit, heading toward a part of the small village Sigmar hasn’t seen before. It doesn’t take them long to find a small corner of the Fort, nestled against the wooden palisade wall.

It seemed like a large building once stood there, but had burned down and the foundation removed. All that was left was a shallow pit, maybe twenty feet across, wedged against the wooden wall of the fort. Sizable stones surrounded it, acting like an impromptu amphitheater. The pit seemed to act as a sometimes refuse dump for the locals. Even from here Sigmar could see some broken crockery, a mushroom ridden chair and chicken bones clustered in a corner. A far cry from the ornate gladiatorial fighting arenas Sigmar had glanced in his youth. Vast collections of gold trim, finely graded sand and cushioned seats where slaves wafted the visitors with scented fans.

Still, the locals seemed to enjoy their version. There was a festive, community spirit in the air. People talked and joked in small groups, seated on the stones. Children ran about, playing tag or simply shouting insults at each other. A few people have even brought breakfast with them, small loaves of bread or handfuls of fruit. Clearly watching a fight is a big social event at Fort Holiday.

Sigmar spots Vrliu and Shi, (the Tian woman on the Steering Committee) talking intensely in the shade of a ragged looking shack. Farther away, Edward Morgan is seated cross-legged on a rock, the wild looking figure seeming more primal than ever. The morning wind tosses their unkempt hair and tugs at the stained burlap sacking. Yet a small group of supporters huddles around them, remoras to a shark.

Kell and Arianne are by the wall, the former sailor leaning on the splintery wood, deep in talk. Down below, a solitary person stands in the pit. Not Uzhg, but the one-armed Herluf Trolle, who seemed half-asleep last night. Today though he seems spry enough, pacing off the fighting ring and talking to himself, as he kicks aside garbage. Sigmar even sees Ryzhov Ilyich there, peering down into the fighting pit with obvious distaste.

There is, as yet, no sign of Uzhg.

Not tattoos like that.

"Everyone?" Anno waves his arm toward the broken down shack and then to his own battered body, "There is nothing you can give me, stranger."

The man turns slightly, looking out over the oily water. Awenasa follows his gaze, seeing beds of rank swampgrass, dead snags and green brush. It is a formidable sight, a maze of mud, water and plant life, quite at odds with the dry expanses of her homeland. A buzzing bug lands on her neck, seeking blood.

Anno shakes his head, "I doubt you'd make it anyway. The Black Break isn't for the weak." He points to the swamp, "It's eaten up tougher people then you. Tougher then me."

He runs a finger through his lanky, wet looking hair. "What's so important anyway. There is nothing on the other side. All the money is on this side, up the canal." he absently scratches an armpit, still watching the swamp.

Silence filled the room after Sigmar’s words, an uneasy silence like that which precedes an earthquake or tidal wave. Vrilu stared at the youth, unblinking.

”Ozzy. Ozzy?” She asks, voice rising dramatically, ”Ozzy?!” She repeated, looking around as if seeking an escape from the insanity. A drowning man looking for a spar of sensibility. Clearly finding nothing, she focused back down on Sigmar.

The company woman took a step toward him, eyes fixed. Her clenched jaw worked, chewing on some unspeakable annoyance. Vrilu raised one clenched fist, and Sigmar could see the fingers twitching painfully. She raised it over her head and Sigmar was waiting for a curse (either verbal or arcane) when the woman let out a long sigh and relaxed.

Blinking her eyes slowly Vrilu finally and simply turned toward the door. As she stalked away she threw her hands up in the air, utterly defeated. ”I give up! I really do.” Still heading toward the entrance the woman growled, ’Oyok, get him to the ring in time. He’s your problem.”

She stomped out of the door, muttering about steamy caverns and gelatinous cubes. With a flick of her dark cloak, she was gone. The wood golem, after a short pause, silently followed after her, passing out of the threshold into the thin gray light of dawn.

”I like her.” Ozzy said absently from the table, ”She’s got style.”

Oyok let out a whistling laugh and said to Sigmar, ”Don’t push her too far, lad. She’ll eventually kill us both, you know. “ Sigmar is unsure if the tengu is joking.

The birdman nodded at his description of the drink adding, ”Mother Oyok raised no weaklings. I couldn’t do it justice though, the milk was a day old and the kaffe beans were dried out. Some day we should visit my home and you can have the real thing. “ The tengu stood up and cracked his feathered back, shaking his head.

He sniffed the air, his beak whistling slightly as he did so. The tengu’s bright eyes fixed on Sigmar, ”You smell like bats, lad.” Sigmar is surprised, he magicked away the stench but the birdman touches the side of his hard black beak.

”The nose knows.” He nodded but went on, ”What are you doing, taking a nice girl to a place like that, lad? I get adventure, but caves?” The jinx eater lets out a whistle and stirs the fire a bit, watching the sticks falls apart.

The tengu turns toward Ozzy and says, ”Plane of Water? I bet that was an adventure.”

The little sand shape swirled over the table, forming a blue orb of shifting sand, ”Oh yeah, it was totally something, man. Coral, rip tides and fish. And like, big sharks. Huge.” Black shapes flitted across the blue orb, like shadows sliding across the ocean floor. ”I’d totally check it out again.”

Oyok nodded but seemed distracted, and faced Sigmar again, ”So, ready for the fight, lad? Uzhg seems serious, when I talked to some of the others last night. He’s been known to put a man in a grave, a time or two.”

Clinne seems unimpressed and pockets her witness coin. "Taking oaths is always the painless part. Keeping them, that's where it gets rough."

Emory didn't need education on that front. How hard had that lesson been for him? How many miles did he walk to escape it? How much farther would it chase him?

Miallme looks over the portal, "Good question. How is the transfer going, Clinne?"

The rough looking woman shrugs, rubbing her nose, "'Bout half done. Irvolla is getting better about organizing it. It's running smooth as a tax gatherer's operation. " This last does not sound like a compliment.

"He will not be gracing us with a visit?" Miallme asks, glancing at the portal, where a heavy load of timber is appearing.

Clinne snorts, "Hardly. He is too busy driving the workers to eat, let alone social calls." The woman shakes her head, cracking her neck as she does so. In a lower voice she adds, "It's getting bad, Miallme, you have to do something. He is squeezing so tight, the fruit will burst. It'll be bad enough, when all these free settlers show up. You know he sent a private letter off to Kerse."

Miallme is unmoved and says, "Well, nothing we can do about that. He is allowed to voice his concerns to whoever he wants. As long as he pays postage." A short laugh, "As for the settlers, that's what the sheriff is for. Keeping the peace and maintaining the law. Irvolla falls under that too, whether he likes it or not."

Clinne shakes her head and says, "I gotta get a move on, gotta talk to Misiamy. Come along, Sheriff, if you want. Maybe you can accuse me of stealing too." This last is said roughly but not unfriendly. Emory gets the feeling this woman speaks her mind, and is used to being understood.

Miallme waves and says to Emory, "Good luck, if you have to hustle. Dot he right thing and follow your gut. Keep these people safe, that's all I ask." With that she is gone, moving to talk to some of the settlers while Emory follows Clinne.

This is easier said then done, for the woman moves with a surprisingly fast pace, her stride eating up distance like magic. Suddenly Emory finds himself at the very base of the portal platform, shading out the sun. The sound of heavy banging fills the air as feet and cargo thump way overhead.

A young woman stands there, counting loads of barrels being lowered over the side in a net sling. At Clinne she frowns and raises a ledger page.

"It's not adding up." The woman says sharply, looking frazzled.

Clinne seems unmoved and shrugs, "That's your problem, not mine Misiamy. I just gather the stuff and see it over. I'm not in charge of counting it. Ask Trevers, he is around here somewhere."

Misiamy shakes her head, "This is the second time now. Someone is messing up the count and I want to know who."

Clinne just yawns, "I don't know what to tell you. It is what it is."

Misiamy looks frustrated and throws up her hands. Before she stalks off though she says, "If any of this is being diverted on purpose, I'll report it."

Sigmar’s eyes are already closed again when he hears Ozzy say, ”Cool, cool.” A slight whispering sound of sand over wood and then the little being is gone. Leaving Sigmar quiet and alone, nestled in his pile of blankets. Maybe it was the long night battling lobsters, a memory of good dreams or just the novelty of having a bed, but for some reason Sigmar was very reluctant to get up. It seemed much more pleasant to chase after those pleasant dreams.

So the youth did.

What was it? The Pillar of Forever? Hellbringer? No…that wasn’t it…something about a dragon….The soft, warm glow of sleep creeps up on him,as his thoughts grow fuzzy…

”YARRRGH!” A female voice screams, loud enough to banish all the sleep from Sigmar’s mind, along with the shattering crash of a smashed plate. ”What in the…..SIGMAR!” Virlu’s voice booms like a roll of thunder. There is a series of loud thumps and then, before Sigmar can even roll out of bed, his door slams open hard enough to crack the hinges.

Standing, framed like an avenging angel in the doorway, is the wood golem, silent as ever. From somewhere beyond Sigmar can hear Vrilu say, ”By all the Gods, get in here Sigmar or I’ll have the golem drag you. For the love of…” She angrily trails off, distance dampening her words. The construct stares down at Sigmar, unblinking.

Sigmar decides that sleeping longer was not an option.

A few minutes later, dressed, Sigmar finds himself curtly escorted by the golem down a hallway, to the main room of the house. Faint gray light filters in through a few open windows, allowing a trace of a sulfur tinged breeze to waft inside. The fireplace has a small guttering fire going, crackling softly. Oyok is sitting at a table, mixing some brown liquid together in a tankard. Vrilu is standing by the fire, arms crossed.

The room feels cold enough to freeze a ifrit.

The Company woman turns at Sigmar's entrance, giving him a chill glare. ”The sheer unmitigated gall. Sending a familiar to me, as if you have staff. What even is that thing, anyway?” She points a finger at the table where Sigmar can see Ozzy busily swirling near Oyok, clearly interested in the tengu’s work. A sandy tendril seems to rise like a half-hearted wave.

Without waiting for an answer Vrilu barrels on, ”I knew you would not take this seriously. This whole mission might ride on the help of these people, and here you are. Sleeping in, like a child the day after Silverglazer.” She frowns and looks closer at Sigmar, taking a step closer. Her green eyes narrow dangerously, ”Did you even get any sleep last night? You look like sh#&.” Shaking her head the woman dismisses the teenager with a handwave. Instead she points to Oyok, "Drink this. It should help, although I am not sure if we should bother. Maybe we should have let you sleep. Better them embarrassing us in front of everyone.”

Oyok holds up the tankard proudly, ”A mixture of crushed kaffe beans, sugar cane and creamed milk.” The tengu lets out a delighted whistle, "Just like mother used to make. It’ll straighten out your pinions, no matter what you did last night.”

”Just drink it.” Vrilu cuts the ranger off sourly. "Before I change my mind and throw you off this hill instead."

Oyok is handing you a strong double espresso, basically. Have fun describing it

Miallme's face works slightly, mouth pinching, "Druma has any number of rivals in the world, both commercial and...otherwise." She juts a chin toward the portal, now as busy as any stretch of Absalom docks. "Not everyone consider such a planar gateway as a money making enterprise. Some would have more....ideological uses." But then the Clerk shrugs, "Still, I have not heard of anyone making serious attempts. I will report it and we shall see."

At Emory's questions about the Blackjackets the Amber Clerk nods again, "Yes, Lieutenant Spar and his comrades will be traveling to the other side. They will, of course, have their own orders and command. Still, I hope you can work together."

She pauses and looks at the assorted Blackjackets, standing off to the side. They are healing wounds, gathering supplies and generally regrouping after the battle. Emory can see no serious injuries or wounds among the troopers, or much sign at all. They seemed just as casual and collected as before the fighting. All in a day's work...

Miallme is caught off guard by Emory's joke about 'Miallville' and stares at him. Then, she bursts into a peal of laughter at the Sheriff, eyes lighting up. It goes on for awhile until she finally manages to calm herself, taking deep breaths.

"Miallville....right." She shakes her head, still grinning, "Clearly you have not spent enough time with us yet. No, this might be a sizable town, when things are all said and done. If the portal pans out." A nod of the head toward the arcane entryway. "The naming rights will be sold for a good price, I think. The various noble companies and families will bid for it. The Blackjackets might even put in a offer, considering their fight here."

"In any case, it'll be far out of reach for an Amber Clerk, Second Class." She smiles though, clearly enjoying the thought of a town named after her. Then she shakes her head, "Back to work."

She takes a step and then stops, turning back to Emory, "Actually, starting with you." The woman reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small leather book, embossed with gold. "We need to swear you in, Sheriff. Preferably before you start your duties."

"We need a witness, someone who will be, notionally, anyway, under your watch..." She says absently, looking around. 'A magistrate would be best for the actual swearing, of course, but one hasn't arrived yet. I'll have to do..."

"Clinne!" Miallme finally barks at a passing person. Tall and rangy, she is wearing stained leathers and a sour frown. A puckered scar trails up on forearm like an old tree root, vanishing under the short sleeves of her tunic. Brown hair tumbles down in poorly maintained braids, with plenty of spilt ends and stray tendrils. Dark brown eyes survey the world around her, looking quite old despite the fact that she is probably only Emory's age. The Sheriff realizes she must have been on those that crossed over.

Clinne pauses and her frown deepens, "What is it, Miallme?" She growls, "I'm on my way to argue with your clerk. Misiamy is accusing us of smuggling. Again."

Miallme seems to take the attitude in stride saying, "This is Emory, your new sheriff. I need a witness to swear him in." The clerk reaches into a pocket and pulls out a gleaming silver. "Market rate, eh?"

She flips the coin and the rough-looking woman snatches it out of the air on instinct. Clinne moves toward them, moving with a innate grace and lightness of step quite at odds with her wayward appearance. "Sheriff, eh?" She surveys Emory up and down, then snorts shortly.

"See if he can take it." She then looks directly at Emory, "We've never had a Sheriff before. Think you are the man for the job, eh? We'll see." Then she turns back to Miallme and nods, "I'll witness."

Miallme lets out a small sigh, "Good, then let's get this over with."

She offers the book to Emory, "Please place your palm here and speak after me." The woman takes a quick breath and then says with a flourish of formality,

"I, Emory Moore, swear by the balance of coin and creed,
To uphold the honored laws that bind our land,
To protect the contracts forged in trust and trade,
And to keep the scales of justice steady in my hand."

"In the name of Druma and her interests, I take this oath,
With a steady hand, an open eye, and a clear mind.
May my actions reflect the will of the people,
And may justice always be served, fair and true."

Emory is unsure of the impact of his words, but at least the muttering seems to die down. He gets a fair share of looks with Gruiitsen favoring him with a particularly cold one. Not surprising since, Emory reflects, he did basically blame those injured for not listening.

Miallme seems to take heart however and says, "That's right, listen to your Sheriff. We are embarking on a new venture here, with no surety." A note of iron enters her voice, 'And there is another matter to consider. You all signed contracts." A wave of reaction at this, feet shuffling, eyes not meeting hers. Clearly the word 'contract' is something to conjure with in Druma. In Emory's homeland, bringing up a legal agreement at a time like this would get you laughed out of town but here?

"That contract never guaranteed safety. It stated that those operating the portal would take all due care. Do any of you deny this? You were protected not only by a officer of the law and a trained wizard but also contingent of Blackjackets! Hired at no cost to you and with no real danger planned. merely an extra precaution. Would any of you deny we have done our due diligence, any of you want to defend that case in front of a magistrate?"

No one speaks up.

Miallme nods, "Good, then let's get to work."

With that, people start to pour out of the portal behind her. People rolling barrels, pushing handcarts and heaving crates. Most are men, burly, rough looking types that Emory is used to seeing in lumber camps or mining towns. Men for whom work is a hard, tedious toil. They work fast though and soon tons of cargo is being manually heaved through the portal.

Miallme hops down from the platform with a sandy landing and walks over to Emory. She nods, "Not bad, for your first speech." Her eyes go back to the busy workers magically appearing and vanishing through the portal. "Incoming first. kolobo sap mainly," She points to a few wet looking barrels being manhandled off the platform. "Valuable stuff, if dangerous. Even if the Plane of Wood provided nothing else, it's enough to make a profit. Powerful magical healing agent, arcane reagent and, if processed correctly, potent hallucinogenic drug."

She shakes her head, her face growing more concerned. "That portal...Kandor says it might happen again. The folks from the Other Side said they encountered no trouble. " She trails off, lost in thought.

Emory does not want to dance with the strange, astral charged grub for too long. The poison coursing through his veins, combined with the grub's love of grabbing confirms that. So, with all of his remaining energy, he raises Contretemps above his head. Then, with a sharp exhale, he brings it down like a woodcutter finished off a knotted log.

The blade smashes into the blind creature's bulbous head. With a wet crunch whatever passes for a skull breaks open, spilling like a dropped melon. Gouts of silvery mist pour out, swirling into quicksilver puddles on the sand. The grub itself topples over, falling to the ground with sickening exhale, legs twitching. Then it stops moving, clearly dead (or what passes for dead with a mist creature from another Plane).

Emory looks up and sees the rest of the fight is mostly over. The Blackjackets seem to have defeated the rest of the misty invaders, leaving a few rapidly decomposing bodies on the field. The portal seems to be back to normal, a huge archway depicting some kind of forest scene.

Everyone has mostly stopped running away, pausing to stare back at the former battlefield. A strange quiet settles over everything. Then, the bell starts to ring again and Emory sees Miallme holding the bell pull.

"Good work, ladies and gentlemen." The Amber Clerk says. "But we don't have time to sit around and congratulate ourselves. We are still on a schedule here, the portal won't stay open forever. Stay by and prepare for incoming!"

Despite her crisp business-like tone, the crowd isn't having it. Emory hears mutters from both the settlers and the assembled workers. Even over his pain the Sheriff can catch snippets of it.

"They said it was safe!"

"What else can't they telling us?'

"Are we getting hazard pay, here?"

Emory sprints toward the slug, his boots kicking up clods of the sandy loam. His sword hums through the air, thrumming alongside him. The noble's entourage falls back before the slavering, disgusting beast. All except the palanquin which mostly holds in place, lacking enough bearers to truly move.

Emory only has eyes for his opponent though. Up close the huge grub is even more unlovely. Not only does it have a repulsive shape that brings to mind rotting meat and dying animals, it seems to be made of that same silvery mist. With the headless figure the mist had been mysterious and haunting, here it was like a creeping growth, a lingering miasma. It smelled like old, stagnant water.

Yet it cuts.

Emory's blade slashes open the side of the huge maggot, letting a small torrent of misty fluids gush onto the ground. The monster gives a gurgling grunt of pain and rolls toward Emory. The strange jaws open wide, slick with noxious poisonous rot.

Bite: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (12) + 6 = 18
Damage: 1d6 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

The sheriff has no room to dodge and the mandibles clamp down on his left shoulder, punching through leather with ease. Muscles slice and he can feel blood running down his arm, under his shirt. Worse, he can feel a burning, sizzling sensation as the misty maggot drips something into the new wound.

Emory Fort: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9
Str Damage: 1d3 ⇒ 1

Emory can feel the poison seep into his muscles. His arm feels weak and his vision swims for a brief moment. Still he gathers himself and wrenches free from the biting jaws of the maggot.
Grab: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (2) + 8 = 10

In a moment he is free, if injured.

Around him he can hear yelling and see people moving but they are all blurs. Then two of Lady Vanandl's bodyguards come up, wielding sword and shield. They advance slowly but surely, keeping up their guard. A welcome sight for the injured Sheriff. Still, they do not quite have time to attack by the time Emory catches his breath.

You are standing right next to the grub

A laugh erupts from the inside of the dilapidated hut. "Look around. You think I care about money?"

Awenasa had to admit this was a good argument. She was from a people with little attachment to physical comforts but this oozing, mushroom ridden shack pushed even her far past her limit. Anyone who lived here was clearly a bit strange.

Thak took a canny look and added, "We are talented people, we could offer much. Can't you just hear us out?"

There is a long silence and then a thumping noise. Without warning the sodden animal hide is thrown back. A black and orange cat runs past, darting down the dock silent as a shadow. Meanwhile, a figure fills the doorway. A short man, gnarled and bent by a painful looking hunchback. His skin is a dark reddish color, reminding Awenasa of old rust. Wearing little more then a cloth skirt, his skin is peppered with old scars and faded tattoos. His eyes, one dark and one a rich purple, stare from a lanky growth of unkempt hair.

The man snorts wetly, "Amadillo talks too much." Another snort as he looks up at Awenasa, who overtops him by several feet. "Aren't you a tall one?"

Anno shakes his head and goes on, "I'm not going into the swamp, stop wasting both of our time. Go get someone else."

The knock sounds wet and soggy, even to her own ears. Still the entire shack seems to shake under her hand, wobbling enough to make her fear it might tumble into the oily, greasy water below. Yet, it stands.

For a long moment there is only silence and then, a gruff voice says from inside, "No. Go away."

Ozzy swirled around the floor a bit, investigating the damp and unkempt corners with obvious interest, even when a centipede broke cover and darted across the floor.

"Neato!"

At Sigmar's first question the strange being laugha, an oddly sibilant pleasant sound. "Sleep? It's like, the family business, my man. But no, I don't really sleep. it's cool though, I won't bother you. I'll just look inward, inner peace and all that, you know? Become one with things. Reflect on the day. Totally chill, I won't stare."

"The chick was pretty tight, eh?" Ozzy adds, waving a few particles toward the still open window. "I think she liked you."

At Sigmar's sleepy question about the fight, the sand being seems to think for awhile. Voice quiet in the dark he starts to talk.

"Request? Let me see, I've seen some wild stuff, man. What's been cool?" A moment of thoughtful silence then, "Oh, I saw a dude gore a rhino with its own horn once. That was pretty sick, you could try that. Does the other guy have a horn?"

"In the Royal Fighting Pits in Arl, I saw a kid get swallowed by a sandworm then burst out of the thing with a fiery great axe. That was a big crowd pleaser, went nuts. Bit bloody for my taste but it was pretty wild. Maybe you could let me eat you?"

"Then there was that time in the Plane of Water I saw a lady ride a shark into a volcano. That one might be, like, hard to arrange. You'd need a shark..."

Sigmar found Ozzy's voice strangely soothing, despite the litany of horrific injuries and battles. Soon, the youth was drifting off to sleep, dreaming of heroic triumphs and roaring gladiatorial crowds.

And roaring dragons.

BANG

Sigmar bolted awake as someone hammered loudly on the door. Outside the sky was a gray pre-dawn roof over the world, hinting at the day to come. The air felt chill and dry.

"Wake up." Vrilu's voice floated through the thin, splintery wood. "I want you fit for this fight. Get dressed and come eat something." Not exactly the most maternal spirit.

Sigmar glances around and spots Ozzy clumped along a wall. The sand creatures starts to swirl a bit at his stirring.

"Cool, breakfast. What do you guys eat here?" A pause and then, "Can I hitch a ride to the fight? Or was that like a one-time thing?"

Emory shouts orders to the noble entourage, painfully aware of their delay. If they refuse to move, it is likely these mist creatures could kill them where they stand. To their credit , at his latest shout, a few do start to take action. The chair rises, wobbling, into the air and a few others form a protective barrier around it. Soon the sheriff has no eyes for this however and becomes focused on the wraith-like shape in front of him.

It gives no reaction to his words, remaining a haunting, silent figure. Emory struck out with his blade, thrusting into the swirling mist. It dazzles the eye and suddenly the man fears if his strike has gone awry.

20% Miss Chance, Low is bad: 1d100 ⇒ 34

It does not and the sheriff's blow strikes true. The blade shines brightly as it sinks right into the thing's chest. Emory feels only a trace of resistance, as if he had jabbed a fluttering curtain. Withdrawing, Emory notes that instead of blood Contretemps simply glitters with beads of pure water.

The misty thing thrashes though as a hole appears in the dark humanoid outline. Clearly, whatever else it is, real swords can bite. With some rage it flings itself toward Emory.

Slam: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13
Slam: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

Either luck is with the sheriff or his blows unsteadied the misty figure, because the reaching arms go wide. Emory dodges one and smacks the other aside with with the flat of his sword. He is about to stab it again when a small ball of bright red light zips past his head and slams into the Astral being. With a burst it explodes and the figure is gone, crumbling back into unformed mist.

Emory glances over and spots Kandor off to the side, giving him a business-like nod.

"My lady!" Emory hears someone shouts and wheels again to see Gruiitsen standing between the palanquin and another misty creature. This one is not humanoid but is instead a foul looking maggot nearly the size of a horse. It crawls along the ground, blind head waving back and forth as heavy jaws slice at the air. Pearly white liquid drips from the maw, sizzling on the grass.

The palanquin falters as one of the bearers simply flees, running pell-mell into the sandy grass. The few bodyguards look wary but unsure what to do, eyeing the creeping horror with obvious disgust and fear. The huge grub lumbers closer, crushing a path in the sandy soil.

Emory is annoyed when Allader rejoins his commands by saying, "These things are our lives!" And no one leaves anything behind, with Allader seeming to linger over a particularly heavy handcart, heaping with furniture.

Emory perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25

The Sheriff notices however, the man seems determined to be last, placing himself as a sort of rearguard, behind event he oldest and slowest. Maybe the obsession with mere things is more complicated then Emory thought...

The Sheriff is distracted by Gruiitsen's reaction to his gentle push though. The dwarf freezes in place, giving Emory a wild, surprised stare as if the man had spit on him or perhaps asked him to strip naked.

"Never touch me again!" He hisses, seemingly ignorant of the impending disaster around them. "How dare you? An unclean outsider-"

Emory does not have time for this rant. Time, time! The lady's conveyance is still on the ground, unmoving when a swirl of congealing mists approaches. A few of the entourage runs but Emory is surprised when most, even the stable hands, remain at their posts. But without orders, they are merely sitting ducks.

Out of the fogbank emerges a vague humanoid figure, little more then a dark silhouette. The strange pearly mists clings to it, wreathing it like a long cloak. The weird being's feet do not touch the ground, instead it floats eerily through the misty air.

Suddenly it stretches out two long arms and the mist blossoms out, uncurling like a flower. Delicate tendrils envelop Emory, soft and cool. It is a comforting, numbing feeling that urges him to rest, to sleep....

Emory Will save: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (19) + 4 = 23

But the Sheriff is made of sterner stuff then that, and shrugs off the effect.

Your turn, the misty thing is ten feet away. The rest of the entourage is sort of behind you, Gruiitsen being the closest.

Arianne considers this question with more serious then Sigmar expected. The mute rubs her chin and looks from the brash youth in front of her to the small house, eyes flicking several times. Finally her brown eyes settle on Sigmar and then eloquently shrugs. What else is there to say? What else can she say?

She sheathes the knife with a trace of reluctance. Then she points to Uzgh's house and then once again makes the throat slicing gesture. After which she points to the ground and counts five fingers, ostentatiously pulling each down in slow order. Then, after a nod and another shrug, she leads Sigmar on.

They soon return to the house on the square where Vrilu and the rest were put up for the night. Arianne leads the way, creeping over the window with cat-like grace in the dim moonlight. Sigmar follows suit, dropping back into the bare spare bedroom.

So he finds himself alone, at night, with a woman. The gunslinger looks at the pile of collected bedding, raises and eyebrow and looks directly at Sigmar. Those brown eyes seem very intense, filling his sense. The youth suddenly feels very vulnerable, far more then when confronted with a steaming, hulking lobster. The silence builds, Arianne takes a half step toward him-

"So this is your place?" Ozzy breaks in with a slight rustling sound as he pours out Sigmar's pant leg. In short order the sandy creature is a swirling puddle at his feet. "Same sort of vibe as that dragon place. Sleeping on the floor? Authentic, man."

Arianne stops shorts, rolls her eyes and then smiles. Still close, the woman offers Sigmar a handshake. Her skin is rough callused, hardened by years of burns and violence. Yet it is warm to the touch, a feeling that remains even after she pulls away.

Then she gives Sigmar a roguish grin, a salute and vanishes out the window. Soon Sigmar is left with moonlight and a trace of her scent.

"So, you hitting the hay then?" Ozzy pipes up.

This was not Emory’s first emergency. Fires, floods, wild animals, the Sheriff had seen most of the tribulations that could befall a small town and he had learned that the real danger was often not the event itself. Usually such problems could be migrated or handled with proper leadership. No, the real enemy was time, delay. A few minutes, or seconds, could turn a small problem into a cataclysm. An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.

To Emroy’s surprise, the regular settlers actually partially respond to his pleas to move. Perhaps the average Druman peasant is used to being ordered around? Or, more charitably, they have more respect for authority? In any case, they reacted better than any Nirmathas crowd. In short order children are grabbed, and feet start to shuffle. The only downside is, they clearly refuse to leave behind their belongings. Carts, bags and wagons are hauled alongside, slowing down the whole convoy considerably. Still, at least they are moving away from the portal even if slowed by the weight of worldly goods.

Ironically what he hoped to be a lodestone, turns out to be a millstone. When he shouts toward the noble entourage only a few feet away, no one moves. The curtained palanquin does not even so much as sway. Gruiitsen, deep in conversation with one of the retainers, does look up at Emory’s commands. To the Sheriff’s resigned annoyance, it is clear the dwarf has no idea what is going on.

Delay.

The beardless figure frowns and stomps over toward Emory. ”We will not be ordered like cattle at a market. What are you even talking about, the portal is fine. Lady Vanandl will be the first to cross over, as is her right by station and purchase-”

The rest of the argument is cut off as a bell starts to ring from the platform. Emory looks toward the portal and sees a sudden change. One moment the space under the arch is a roiling, bubbling distortion of the lake-side landscape of sandy dunes and grass. Then, with a flicker, it changes. Instead it as if Emory was looking out of a window, one overlooking a serene green forest. From this distance the sheriff can’t see much, but he spots towering trunks and dappled sunshine.

Then his vision is blocked by a hazy cloud of silvery vapor, steaming from the arch. Like a noxious fog it builds and grows so thick, it entirely blocks out the portal. People on the platform start to yell and run away, clearly surprised by this sudden change. The bell starts to ring again, this ime frantically, without measure or rhythm. There is a rumbling clatter as a stack of barrels topples, sending rolling barrels everywhere. People jump off the platform, avoiding the overcrowded stairs, everyone trying to escape.

Meanwhile the fog starts to take defined shapes. Swirling mist, gleaming brightly, gathers here and dissipates there. There the shape of a hunting hawk with wings outstretched, there a lumbering bear with massive paws. Not all are animals though, Emory spots a headless man forming out of pure fog while another section seems to be a swirling mass of eyes.

”Blackjackets!” Lieutenant Spar roars, voice audible over the rising din. ’Forward, square formation!” Without hesitation, the heavily armored mercenaries form a tight square and advance on the swirling fog creatures. Kandor meanwhile just stares in horror, uselessly.

All right, what do you want to do? Probably have a bit to decide before stuff starts to go down

Thak gives Awenasa a little spiel on what the little stone can do. By itself, nothing but if the delicate leaf is snapped, it confirms both feather fall and invisibility. A useful, if slightly niche, tool. Awenasa's friend seems happier about the bargain then the result. Still, the Shoanti could think of times when being unseen would have been useful.

Soggy wood seeps under their boots as Awenasa and her friends patrol the waterfront. It is a sad, lackluster sort of place, clearly built on a former, larger city. Many of the buildings are of stone or metal, but in long despair, half empty. They obviously pre-date the swamp because, many stand out in the oily water, looking like rotten tree-stumps. At the waterline, rows of hastily built wooden piers cradle small rafts and ships. The main import seems to be fish but Awenasa also spots baskets of greenish grass, cargos of lumber, and tubs of thrashing eels.

It is mostly a human crowd, although their are a fair number of ratfolk mixed in. There seems to be two class of people in town. The better dressed, cleaner folks who live on land and the muddy watermen piloting the swamp-borne craft. Many of these have slightly darker skin emblazoned with tattoos. They are a stand-offish, quiet bunch who say little, even when pressed.

Awenasa is forced to ask over a dozen people until a landsman finally grunts and says, "He lives at the end of that pier." Awenasa is unsure if all the people are unfriendly because she is a stranger, or because Anno is not well liked.

The house seems to provide an answer.

It is a tiny, dilapidated shack perched on the end of a long, rickety pier. The wooden walls are covered with greenish moss and the thatched roof has several obvious holes. The 'door' is nothing more then an animal hide hung from an iron hook. There is no chimney, no windows, not even a chair to sit and watch the sunrise. If Awenasa hadn't been told, she would have assumed it was long deserted. The only sign of life is a long, low boat tied up nearby.

The stinking reek of the swamp is very strong here, filling Awenasa's nostrils with the smell of rotting wood, stagnant water and old fish.

"Ozzy" The sand creature says, rolling it around. "Ozzy."The sand rolls into a very misshapen ball and rolls around the floor like a misshapen tumbleweed for a few moments before dissolving back into a pile.

"I dig it. Call me Ozzy for the duration, man. " It finally says, "Ozzy, Sigmar and Ann. Totally tight, having a ball."

When Sigmar agrees that the little sand creature can come along Ozzy says, "All right, all right! No worries, like, I'll keep a low profile. Keep it real cool, I know." Then without any warning the being slithers across the floor and up Sigmar's pantleg. For a second the youth dreads feeling a surge of dry, itching granules but instead it just feels slightly warm. Clearly the sandy creature is not sliding up his skin but skillfully between the layers of his clothes, not actually touching him.

Then, coming somewhere from the vicinity of his left shoulder, as if he was an unseen parrot, Ozzy voice says, "What do you think? Totally invisible. Playing it cool, no need to rile up the Man. Pretty slick, eh?" Sigmar looks down and has to admit, the creature is entirely hidden. Not a grain out of place.

Feel free to freak out if you don't like it. I didn't want to end the post here though, too short

After scouting out the rest of the dragon lair, Arianne and Sigmar are forced to realize their is nothing of interest left. Just the sad remains of the treasure room and a crumbling plinth. Still, Sigmar cannot be disappointed. The visit had been quite something. He had fought two monsters (and won, of course), explored a dragon liar AND experienced a draconic memory. This is no to mention the loot and hanging out with Arianne.

Sigmar had spent worst nights.

They cross the steaming pool with little difficulty, taking their time to cross the slick, hot stones. There is no sign of the steaming lobster or any relatives, just a quick glimpse of the swimming fish. The guano rock pile also proves little difficulty, due to the absence of a fungus-ridden snake. The biggest issue is clambering up the steep slope without getting horrible dirty.

Throughout this, Ozzy is fairly quiet along he does comment a few times, clearly quite excited about the whole thing. "Far out!" when Sigmar shows him the ruins of the mangaled reptile.

So soon they find themselves outside under the starry sky. The air feels cold and thin now, after the humid heat of the cave. A chilly night breeze flows over his skin, drying his sweat.

"Oh, pretty wild." Ozzy says then, clearly taking in the scenery "I always liked places that have night time. Very relaxed, chill you know?"

Sigmar would have had a hard time finding their way back to town, but Arianne has no trouble. Along the stream, and up the hill, they find the gates of Fort Holiday locked. Arianne taps them gently and they creak open. A face appears and says, "Come on, inside thee, you crazy woman. Hell of a date, asking to get eaten by dinosaurs. or worse."

When they slip through the guard, still half-hidden by shadows waves them off, "No, don't linger here. I don't want to know. Just go!"

Arianne smiles and leads Sigmar into the small village. They creep through inky shadows, around broken barrels and muddy potholes. Then, at one small shack the mute pauses suddenly, as if struck by an idea.

She points at the rather sad-looking building for a long moment. Then she mimes a muscle-bound figure and broken teeth. It takes Sigmar a moment to realize. Uzhg. Then Arianne draws her knife, it glitters silently in the cold starlight. The gunslinger draws it across her throat and then points at the shack with a questioning shrug.

"Woah, man." Ozzy mutters in his ear. "Hardcore."

The Lieutenant is about to answer when Emory hears steps behind him, boots swishing in the sandy grass. Turning he sees Kandor, the wizard's hood pulled back, revealing a worried looking face. Without preamble he strides up and faces Spar.

"Looks like trouble." The wizard says shortly, shaking his head.

"What kind of trouble?"

At these words, a change comes over Spar. It is subtle but a lifetime of reading people lets Emory see it. The man's muscles tighten, his shoulders tense. His weight, before resting easily on his heels, suddenly shifts to the balls of his feet, making him suddenly seem more active, agile. Predatory a predatory gleam enters his eyes, which sharpen. Even as he focuses on Kandor, his eyes roam past him, taking in the scene.

Emory does as well but sees nothing. All is as it was. People hurrying everywhere, carrying goods, bumping into each other and clambering up rickety wooden steps. No fights, no riots, no dragons falling out of the clear blue sky. A lively, busy scene full of confusion but nothing Emory's finely tuned sense note as trouble.

"It's the portal." Kandor finally says, turning his own gaze on the imposing structure. It seems the same although the air under it seems more agitated then ever, roiling and bubbling till all vision is distorted.

"Seeing something strange with it, something I've never seen before. Weird outpourings of sidereal confluences, astral misalignments." The wizard shook his head.

"In layman's terms." Spars says and then without turning his head barks, "Blackjackets, condition Silver!"

Another change sweeps over the troops. Packs are dropped, weapons picked up, stances shifted. They remain in a line but it becomes slightly more ragged as each man and woman obviously prepares for action. Knives are checked, belts tightened, hair tied back. One man even starts to cast a few spells on his comrades. There is no hurry though, no trace of fear o concern. It has all the routine of watching a carpenter check his tools, or a roofer climbing a ladder.

Just another day of work.

"We might have visitors." Kandor says shortly, "Backwash from the Astral Plane. I'd put a gold against copper they won't be friendly."

Spar nods, eyes fixed on the portal.

Everyone, so far, has ignored Emory.

Early afternoon I'd say, 3-4

The merchant waves away her compliment, saying, "If I was a better salesman, I'd have convinced you to stay. I do not take defeat lightly!" And with that Awenasa leaves the traders, moving through their marketplace with only casual interest. Like most of her people, the hum of buying and selling held no appeal for her.

As they move around a few racks selling leather jackets and hats, Thak says, "Can I have some of the gold, Awenasa? I think I found a trader who will accept it. These people travel a long way and some of the cities in this place do take gold. Who knows when we might get a chance to spend it." Awenasa agrees and hands the small man her money bag. In an instant he is gone, vanished into the press.

Figuring he would catch up, Awenasa and Perey approach the main gates. There a few slovenly dressed soldiers eye them. They ask a few basic questions but nothing too pressing. Clearly exotic travelers are not unknown in Arkin. Still, they are not overly friendly and when Perey ventures a question about Anno, gets no real reply.

They are about to enter through the gates when Thak comes up, all smiles. "Ah, here you go, Awenasa." he hands back her money bag, considerably lighter. "I could have done better but we were pressed for time. " He bows and formally hands Awenasa a small stone, carved like a leaf.

It is a Snapleaf

"Should come in handy," Thak went on, "Although I doubt you'll fall very much in a swamp." He rummaged in the bag, 'I also got a compass and a few other survival items. I'm tired of having to watch the sun for a few hours to get our bearings. This way, we'll know which way north is at a glance."

So, any plans to find Anno?

Sigmar's hope of getting some inside intel on the giant flying reptiles is dashed when the sand being sounds surprised saying, "Dragon? Sounds pretty cool but I don't remember any dragons."

When the youth mentions the bottle, the sand slithers silkily, "Like, it's a long story man, but sure. I travel a lot, you know? Other countries, planets, whole other planes of existence. Wild stuff! Mostly hitching rides, bumming along. Just minding my own business, looking for neat stuff to see. Just keeping it rolling." As it talks the sand flattens and forms all sorts of shapes, mostly too quick for Sigmar to make sense of. Colored blobs circling a yellow blob, or an intricate web of carefully arranged lines, or a bunch of colored jigsaw pieces.

"Anyway, found myself in this really neat place. Big city, lots of cool art and people, totally digging it. I was doing my usual thing, talking to people, you know? Just hanging out, being present. Anyway, these totally harsh guys didn't like it, grabbed me right out of this temple I was talking in. Dragged me, like, into this big trial thing. You know, with a judge and all? Told me I needed to change my mind, renounce it, they said."

The sand shivered, "Totally negative vibes, man. I told them to stuff it, you know? Be true to yourself and all that, never back down to The Man. Anyway, they didn't like that, said I was guilty and stuffed me in the jar as punishment." For the first time the sand's voice grows wistful and a bit sad, "I mean, I didn't want to make waves. Lots of stuff I still wanted to see. Still do want to see, you know? Pretty lame, locking me up like that."

The pile of sentient silicon seems to shrug, "Well, they locked me up and wham, I find myself here. No idea who passed me where. Shame, I bet they were pretty cool, trading stuff with dragons."

When Sigmar asks for a name the sand swirls around, creating a small flowing orb. "I'm not really into, like labels. Names are so limited, you know? Chaining us down. You said your name was Sigmar, right? Like, don't you sometimes feel like Not-Sigmar? Like, you'd rather be someone, something else? That name is tying you down man." The sand pauses and adds, "Cool name though, got a good sound. Yeah, Darastrix, pretty good."

The sand flattens out again to a pancake and says, "But like, I get it. Gotta have a shorthand for talking, cool cool. You can call me whatever you want, but make it neat. Nothing lame, man, nothing to harsh this cool vibe we got going on."

The sand swirls around and asks, somewhat tentivaely, "So, like this big fight you got coming up. The one you are going to win? Been awhile since I've seen something that cool, with the lighting and all. Sounds awesome, can I come with?"

The sand swirls around on the floor, rippling waves of red, green and blue.

"Time like, just an illusion man. It's all just a big circle, if you think about it. Now, then, next. All one big thing. Totally. Nothing wrong with some quiet time, just sitting and thinking. Just getting in touch with things, settling into a groove. You know?"

The being said with an easy going confidence, a sort of simple statement of truth. It reminded Sigmar of some of the better behaved drunks he had known, the winos of the gutter.

At news of the fight the sand bubbles slightly, "Woah, totally harsh vibes man. Like, nothing wrong with a bit of a rumble but live and let live I say. Life's too short, you know? Still, pretty cool, with the lighting and all. Sounds sick. I'd like to see that." A pause as the sand heaped up a bit higher, turning this way and that.

"So like, do you live here?" The magma bubbled slowly, and the steam hissed. A tiny bit of plinth crumbled into the fiery pool with a plop. Somewhere out of sight, a bat screeched loudly. "Pretty nice place, really has that casual, lived in look, you know? It's got a nice aesthetic. Sort of rustic, underground feel. I dig it."

A pause and a tendril of sand indicated Arianne, waving slightly, "So, what's your story?"

The mute gunslinger stared at the sand, amused and confused. Finally she just shrugged at the thing, eyebrows raised.

"Cool, cool." The sand said easily, "I get it. Like, just let things speak for themselves. Very cool, timeless."

The mustached man surveys Emory for a long, silent moment. His bald pate gleams in the sun, nearly as shiny as the polished war-axe at his feet. Every buckle, every medal, every rivet amid the black glints like a diamond set on velvet. Brighter still are the commander’s blue eyes, deep set and surrounded by a map of faint wrinkles. His skin is deep tanned, weather worn and wind burned. The short man has the barest trace of a gut, a bit of a middle-age swell. Under one ear, Emory notes a strange tattoo. An upturned black money pouch, spilling gold coins. The Sheriff looks and sees all the Blackjackets have such marks with only the number of coins varying. Most only have one or two, but the stout commander has seven coins, dropping down past his collar.

”Keeping the peace.” The commander muses, repeating Emory’s words in a rough voice. Then, eyes still on Emory, abruptly barks, ”Corporal Zarhia!”

A rather attractive brunette wielding a heavy broadsword stepped out of the line. Her stance is the perfect parade rest, shoulders square, feet planted firmly, eyes on a middle distance. The corporal gives a crisp salute saying, ”Lieutenant Spar, sir!”

Spar, still facing the would-be Sheriff shouts, ”What is the oath of the Mercenary League?”

”To defend the state of Druma, her people and markets to the last coin and the last account, sir!” Zarhia says in a single, practiced breath.

Spar nods and waves a hand, ”Well said, corporal.” Zarhia slips back into line, just another perfect soldier among a line of perfect soldiers. They barely seem to be breathing, as they stand at ramrod attention.

Turning his attention back on Emory Spar goes on, voice rough but not unkind. ”That is our command, Sheriff Moore. To defend, to the last coin and account. And that is what we shall do, no matter what happens. You have your place, and we have ours. We value you, Sheriff, but each in their turn. We are the hawk among lesser birds, the pike among the smaller fish.” He nods firmly, pale mustache bouncing slightly at the motion, the only soft space on a hard face.

”Recognize that and all will be well.”

Then the man unbent slightly, and rubbed his smooth chin thoughtfully. Eyeing Emory closer he said, ”Nirmathas? I have fought with your countrymen, I defended caravans during the Ironfang Invasion. Emory knew the conflict well, it had been a massive invasion of hobgoblins of both Nirmathas and Molthune a decade ago. Both nations had beaten off the attackers, but only at a heavy cost.

”Fair fighters,” Spar allowed but added, ”But better warriors than soldiers. Too eager to die for a lost cause, to fight in a hopeless struggle. “ The Druman mercenary shook his head, ”A bad weakness in an army, to never retreat. Do you have the same liability, Sheriff Moore? To dig in, no matter the cost?”

Amadillo looks at Awenasa's face and sighs heavily. Then, adopting mock sadness says, "So I cannot convince you? Woe is me, to be handed such amazing talent, only to see it slip out of my fingers..." The merchant passes a hand over his face, the picture of despair.

Then he laughs and says, "Very well then. Yes, I pass through here once a cycle, following the trade." He rubs his chin and says, "The song was good, very good. Here is a final trade for it. You are crossing the swamp, yes? You will need the villagers to make the journey."

"I have dealt with them for many a year and they...are not to be relied upon. They are clannish, lazy and generally unhelpful. There are few that would actually carry their end of the bargain." Amadillo says this as if it is the worst crime a person can commit. [/b]"They would take your money, but leave you stranded somewhere, or turn back at the first bad turn. No, few you'd hire would be dependable."[/b]

"You want a man name Anno." The merchant says firmly, " I have worked with him before. He is not the most pleasant man, but he is honest. Anno, that's the man."

The party has fully broken up now, as the various merchants turn back to their stalls, preparing for customers. A few of these have started trickling out of the gates now, wandering over to the wagons, carefully casual.

Ok, anything else?

To Awenasa’s surprise (when does anything go right?) Ardile nods when she speaks of who she seeks.

”Yes, Asny was there, although she did not call herself The White. Her name was Asny Efterladt.” The word obviously means nothing to the serious young man but Awenasa knows enough Ulfen stories to recognize it. It means ‘left behind’.

Unaware Ardile goes on, ”I did not study under her, she teaches the way of the warrior. Not so much fighting, at least that is what other students said. They said Asny taught one how to think, how to achieve victory over any foe. Many traveled a long way to learn at her feet. She was still there when I left.”

Well, at least Awenasa knew where one of them was.

At her question Ardile’s already somber face grows quite still, very much at odds with the convivial meal happening around them. Slowly he nods, ”Yes, but that is the way of wisdom. It is unpredictable, winding this way and that. Things which you did not guess can become the most valuable, and the things you most fear, the most sought after.” The man stands up and inclines his head, ”I wish you luck, Awenasa. May your time at the Halls of Reason, if you find them, open your mind.”

Around Awenasa the meal is winding down. Amadillo and Thak are deep in conversation, gesturing and nodding. The others are gathering up the communal bowls, rugs and other remains of the meal. Awenasa notes with approval that every bone, seed and other food waste is gathered up and saved. Her own people would do no different.

Then, just as she was about to stand up, music started. A thrumming, rattling beat that filled the air. Awenasa looked around and spotted Perey not too far away. The man was sitting cross-legged on the ground, with a large rattan covered drum tucked between his legs. Eyes closed, he beat on the top with his bare hands, keeping a steady rhythm. The other merchants and travelers paused and looked over. A few nodded and gestured, clearly approving of the musical sounds. Awenasa knew better though, her friend was just warming up, getting the feel of the instrument. When he finally got it, he would-

The steady rhythm died away, replaced by a deep pulsing beat. Somehow, he provided his own counterpoint, using his other hand to strike the rim of the drum, creating a hollow, echoing snap. Then, mixed in with the weaving music Perey starts to sing.

”Aho! The insects of the night, they are speaking, they are speaking!”
”Aho! The deer of the highlands, they are speaking, they are speaking!”
”Aho! The owls in the old trees, they are speaking, they are speaking!”

Awenasa knows the song well, for it is often told to children, a way to teach them the ways of nature and the animals. Repeated over and over, it is usually done in a large group and sung as a round, each child adding their own animals. But in Perey’s hands the simple child’s tune becomes a smoky, mysterious thing, conjuring up wild wastes and open skies. For a second Awenasa can see the stars of her own and smell the cookfires. Animals flicker on the edge of her sight, and she swear she can hear their cries.

”Aho! The trout of the deep pool, they are speaking, they are speaking!”
”Aho! The insects of the night, they are speaking, they are speaking!”
”Aho! The swifts of the morning, they are speaking, they are speaking!”

Awenasa shakes off the strange visions long enough to glance at the others. Everyone seems enthralled with the music, listening silently. No one dances or joins in, or even looks around. Instead they stare at the little man playing the drum, who seems surrounded by a wild world of speaking animals.

”Aho! The wild worms of the high desert, they are speaking, they are speaking!”
”Aho! The spiders of the canyon, they are speaking, they are speaking!”
And, as it always ends-
”Aho! The stars of the night, they are speaking, they are speaking!”

Some very rough outline of the song taken from the Iroquois people

Silence reigns for a moment, as the sounds and sights of the animals fade from eye and mind. Then everyone starts to clap. Not their hands, as Awenasa had seen in Riddleport and other lowlander towns, but they slap their thighs. They roar encouragement and praise as they applause louder and louder. A few stand up, shouting for more. Perey blushes and shakes his head. Still, the crowd won’t be silenced and soon he is mobbed with questions.

Meanwhile Amadillo slides over to Awenasa and says, in a low voice, ”Your friend is skill in such things. You could make a fine living on the traveler's routes, your strength and his skill. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

His final speech is not a magic spell, something that can bend reality with sheer will. There is still a sense of confusion from the settlers and Allader still seems doubtful of this new would-be Sheriff. Yet, something about that last line seems to have rung true and gotten through the cloud of cultural misunderstanding.

’My goal is to make your lives easier, safer, and your work more profitable, not less.’ This seems to make sense to them, and not just the part about profit. Emory is still chewing this over as he trudges through the sandy soil to greet the noble and their entourage. Could have gone better, could have gone worse. This next meeting though….

Once, as a child, Emory had left the house on a cold Crystalhue night to visit the neighbors. Despite the winter weather, it was a routine trip, a path he had taken a thousand times before. Yet between the dark, the snow and plain bad luck the youthful Emory had quickly become lost in a glittering snowfield, wandering among silent trees. The only sounds had been the crunch of snow under his boots, the creaking of the frozen trees and the chattering of his own teeth. The lad had just about frozen to death before finding his way, body shaking uncontrollably, feet like leaden weights.

That chill was nothing compared to the frosty gale he felt now. Every single member of the noble’s troupe glared at him with baleful cold fire, from the well-armed bodyguards to the youngest stablehand. Every single eye turned on him with experienced contempt and disdain. The center of this wintry blizzard was the noblewoman whose glacial sneer was so finely tuned, Emory assumed she practiced in front of a mirror.

Despite the frigid stare though, Emery had to admit the youthful woman was even more striking up close. Deep amber eyes fairly glowed in a pale face free of the slightest imperfection or blemish. Her blonde hair was tied up and pinned with jewels that caught the morning light like fish scales. She looked down a long, perfectly sculpted nose and Emery just caught the glint of straight, perfectly white teeth. Her robes were long and billowy but seemed to cover a thin, athletic body.

Then, with a well-practiced flick, the woman closed the palanquin curtains.

A person strode between Emery and the conveyance, stepping lightly over the uneven turf. They were short and rather delicately built, a pale face shining in the bright sunlight. Deep cream robes just brushed the soil, mostly hiding heavy boots. His hands were long and thin, topped with white finger gloves. To Emery’s shock he saw it was a dwarf, without a beard (although the rest of his hair was long, if well kept). The Sheriff had never seen such a thing. Weren’t the beards religious or something?

”You can direct all future communications to me, Sheriff Emery Moore.” Seeing Emery’s eyebrows raise at the use of his full name, the dwarf simply said, ”I have good ears.”

”My name is Gruiitsen, and I am Lady Vanandl’s sensechal. I speak for her, and her household, in all matters.” The dwarf went on, sizing Emery up and down. With an audible sniff, the Nirmathan was clearly found wanting. ”I hope such inquiries will be far and few between. Good day.” The dwarf adds, half turning away, clearly dismissing Emery entirely.

Emory had not expected much from his small speech, which was only meant as a brief introduction, just a way to show his face. Perhaps polite interest in a new public official, with the real discussion taking place later in private. Emory knew how all pervasive and comprehensive small towing gossip could be. All the more reason to put a good foot forward now, before the mill got up and running.

So it was with great surprise that his words set off such an obvious wave of confusion among the loosely assembled settlers. Even as he watches as each family huddles together, chattering quietly, often turning a gaze on their new self-proclaimed Sheriff. Emery can’t hear much of what they are discussing but he hears two words most often.

Nirmathas and Sheriff, and neither are said with much relish. Emery occupies himself by watching the cavalcade around the portal, which seems to be reaching a fever pitch. Goods are being stacked everywhere by gangs of burly men, while empty carts are also queued nearby. The air under the arch seems to grow more distorted by the moment, swirling now in a rather dizzying manner. Kandor, the wizard, is standing at the base, staring up at the imposing magical artifice as if expecting something to happen…soon. A sense of fevered anticipation builds, like a thunderstorm growing in the distance.

Finally, after much consultation a middle-aged man with broad shoulders and a serious face steps forward from the settler families. He is wearing common working clothes, only slightly stained by years of labor, except for the heavy boots which look quite worn. He gives a nervous cough and says in a rather pleasant if uncertain voice , ”Greetings, Sheriff Moore. We are, um, appreciative of your presence. No one told us the new settlement would have a Sheriff.” A vague murmur of agreement from the crowd which the man quells with a glare.

”Law is, of course, important.” He adds lamely, clearly unsure what to say. He coughs again and says, ”My name is Allader, that was my daughter’s doll you saved, and we thank you.” The last part seemed real enough, as if he was much more comfortable talking about this one singular act than anything else. Still, clearly he is working his way up to…something.

Allader gives the crowd another glance, which seems to indicate he needs to continue. The man grits his teeths, sighs and takes a step closer to Emory. Dropping his voice to a private whisper the man goes on quietly, ”We do not have much money for your services, Sheriff. Most of us are looking for a fresh start on the Other Side. We are not asking for charity,” he adds hastily, and that last word is said with a fervor that Emory usually associates with cursewords. ”Just making things plain, for both our accounts. You will not find us to be a well paying group, I am sorry to say.”

The man wipes a hand on his trousers nervously, ”Again, no offence to your living, Sheriff. We understand how things are done. Just, using your own words, we don’t have much gold in our pockets. That’s why we are here.” He coughs again, and looks away obviously not expecting anything good to come from this. ”Still, if you could tell us your rates, we will do our best, of course. The law is important.” He repeats and grows quiet.

Still looking over the hustle and bustle of the street, Miallme gives a thankful grin at Emory’s offer. The Amber Clerk shakes some sucking mud off her boots as they dodge a wagon laden with bricks. ’Well, I won’t refuse an offer of help. As you can see, things get a bit chaotic during a transfer.” A sounder of grunts pigs, herded by a disheveled looked man wanders past, nearly blocking all traffic. Somewhere, kids are screaming and the hammer of metal on metal rings out.

Miallme seems to take all this in before saying, ”Go keep an eye on the new settlers. Traffic from the Other Side comes through first, and then we go. So they will be standing around for a while. Try to keep the number of fights, vendettas and other crimes to a minimum. Good chance to meet your new…” The Druman woman searches for the right words, ”Your new responsibilities.”

An imposing word.

Miallme points the way and Emory sets off into the crowd, the usual small bubble forming around him. He shortly finds himself past the ramshackle buildings and the muddy street, standing on some sandy turf. The large wooden platform is dead ahead, stairs crawling with people arguing, shouting and directing. Barrels and crates are manhandled up, sometimes being dropped with cracking rumbles. Emory peers up and sees a large arch, big enough to drive a cart though, on the platform, a dark shape outlined against the bright blue sky. It is empty, nothing more like an empty passageway to nothing…yet there is something wrong with it. A shimmering glaze hangs in the air under the arch, like heat rising off a rock. Emory can clearly see the next hill through it, but the vision dances and distorts.

Closer at hand, Emery sees a bit of field set aside, somewhat apart from the chaos. Clearly the new settlers, there are not that many. There are three distinct groups , apparently instantly. The first and largest is what is clearly four or five large extended families. Clustered around a few handcarts, children dart among the legs of the adults, generally ignored. They all have a hard weatherbeaten look, with worn clothes and tanned faces. Hands covered with the calluses of a lifetime of toil, matching hunched backs and drooping shoulders. Most are carrying sizable bundles, probably all of their worldly possessions.

A short distance away is a totally conflicting collection. A dozen or so people centered around a proud, young woman on a semi-covered palanquin. She is wearing well-tailored off-white robes that shine like ivory in the bright sunshine, with matching elbow length gloves. Gold thread winks as well, inlaid into the formal dress as she gazes at the platform and arch. The rest seem to be hirelings, attending to their mistress. Some sort of Druman noblewoman, clearly.

Last but not least is a group of ten men and women in black uniforms. Even Emery recognizes them as members of the Mercenary League, the hired military arm of the Druma state. Reportedly very well paid and very well armed, they are usually called the Blackjackets after their trademark dark uniforms and armor. Looking at the well ordered and heavily armed group, the lawman has to admit they at least look the part of imposing mercenary crew. Their commander, a bald stout man with an enormous moustache, is looking at the unbridled chaos a few feet away with clear contempt.

?: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20
?: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (11) + 8 = 19
?: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

To Sigmar’s surprise, he is stopped when he starts to turn toward the mysterious jar. Not by the increasingly irritated Jasiime but instead by Arianne. The gunslinger still has her hands on her hips and fixes the dragon youth with a steely glare. More than steely, a fiery angry glare, one that reminded Sigmar of a smoldering flame, ready to burst into outright flame at any moment. Then, to his utter bewilderment Aranne lets out a strangled, gurgling cry (the first sound of hers Sigmar has ever heard) and flings herself at him! Arms stretched wide, the short woman moves with surprising speed through the sulfur ridden air. Her hair trails behind her, eyes wild full of nothing but total rage.

Sigmar is still processing this when, even mid-flight, he catches something on the woman’s face. Barely noticeable amid the mask of pure, utter fury was a hint of a wink. The merest glint of a smile. Was this an act? Sigmar was unsure enough that instead of defending himself, he allows the woman to slam into him.

Whatever else is going on, Arianne does not hold back. She slams into Arianne seemingly as hard as the steaming lobster, and they both fall onto the ground with a loud thump. Arianne grips Sigmar tightly and in either a death roll or a lover’s embrace starts to roll him. With a smashing clatter they ram directly into Jasiime’s small stall, knocking it over. Next one of the chests is toppled as Arianne continues to struggle with the larger youth. Crash, slam, bang! A literal cloud of dust is raised at the ruckus as she wordlessly roars, clearly straining her throat.

”Stop, stop!” The poor clerk says, trying to gather the fallen items. Arianne responds by nearly throwing them directly at the saleswoman, entangling her in the tornado of arms and legs. After a few seconds stands up straight, escaping the morass.

’That’s enough of that.” The red-skinned woman says to herself, dusting off a dirty handprint.

Then, falling back into rote, Jasiime says, ”Yuabraam’s House of Wealth thanks you for your kind attention and patronage. Please consider us for all your future needs, both magical and mundane. Thank you and have a nice day.” With a rap of her knuckles on the disheveled counter, she vanishes. An instant later, with an audible pop, so does the rest of the pop-up magical stall.

At that, Arianne suddenly breaks off her demented tussling. With grace she bounds to her feet, a devilish grin on her face. After rolling her eyes at Sigmar she withdraws something from a pouch with a metallic clatter. A small tin box, which she holds out to Sigmar, s a sort of peace offering.

It is the Clamor Box. The gunslinger must have snatched it in the chaos!

You will respond of course, but I also want to open the jar, so we will do a two-parter

Still figuring Arianne out, Sigmar almost absently walks over to the decrepit shelf and plucks the jar of multi-colored sand. It feels quite heavy in his hand and strangely mobile, as if someone else had just finished shaking it, and the interior was still settling. The lid is sealed tightly but not not leaded shut and with a bit of a twist-

POP!

The lid shoots off, ricocheting off the stony wall with a clang. The jar tips over and a swirling stream of sand pours out, a many colored waterfall spilling onto the floor. For a moment it just sits there, a weird pile near Sigmar’s boots. Had the associate of Yuabraam’s House of Wealth been wrong? Was it just some weird sand?

Then it starts to move.

The sand starts to flatten and swirl, spreading out into a wide pool. Intricate patterns arise in the colored sand, delicate gossamer lines of red, blue or green against vibrant yellow backdrops that switch to deep amethyst and then to magenta. Strange harmonies play out, just on the edge of Sigmar’s imagination, a strange dance of shifting shapes and likes. A living, moving mandala of every color the youth knows, and plenty he cannot place. Then, out of the sand a voice says-

”Like, woah man.” The sand stops and piles up into a multi-colored heap not quite knee high. ”That was, like, totally something. What an experience. Totally wild.”

”So what’s going on with you?” It asks Sigmar, still shifting slightly near his boots, like an overly active anthill during an earthquake.

The sand voice is, of course, that of Matthew McConaughey

Sigmar has never really mastered what other people were feeling. He was too exuberant, too self-involved, too spontaneous to consider the inner lives of others. Who had time to ponder internal worlds when jumping off a cliff or sprinting after a rollicking wagon? Yet, despite this, Sigmar found himself drawn to rianne’s face during his speech, searching out her hidden feelings. Maybe it was because she was mute and confined to such silent expressions, but the youth had little difficulty reading the gunslinger for her feelings.

There was much there, as a welter of emotions flickered across her tanned skin. Annoyance, bemusement, embarrassment, each flash in their turn. Sigmar is unsure which feeling comes out on top after his spiel winds down, to be replaced by the quiet sounds of pooling lava and hissing steam. The gunslinger does stare Sigmar down for a bit, a belligerent gleam in her eye. Sigmar gets a quick sensation that Arianne is not someone who enjoys being told what to do. Her hands reach for the wooden stick but, with surprising speed, Jasiime snatches it back.

The red-toned sales associate lets out an annoyed sigh and for the first time, the carefully built shield of apathy slips. With obvious frustration the clerk says, ”I am a saleswoman, not a counselor. While this is all very meaningful and moving, but not very relevant. I feel I have been more then understanding. Are you two going to buy anything or just sit around talking about your feelings? We have a business to run here.”

And commissions to make!

The woman slides gaze toward Sigmar and the red-tinged glass orb still in his grip, ’Do not overstate the importance of the bauble, sir. It is a courtesy calling card, nothing more. A signal to our home offices that a commercial visit is requested. We are not jinni, to be summoned by the rubbing of a magic lamp.” She rolls her eyes at the trope, ”And, considering the state of your financial resources, I doubt we will be attending any future requests. Coming to this plane costs money, you know.”

Money? It’s magic!

Arianne gives Sigmar a long stare, hands on her hips as if to say,’Well then?’

Perey nods and notes, "I don't see any instruments. I will ask around."

Awenasa is surprised to find that Ardile holds up under her steely gaze, a rare thing among lowlanders who often quail under the Shoanti's unflinching stare. His eyes, brown with a small hint of purple look back unperturbed. Awenasa gets the sense the man has encountered far worse.

"Ah, you do not seek the wisdom of the Halls themselves then." The young man nods carefully but adds knowingly, "Many feel that way before they arrive. I would warn you, an open mind is a valuable tool in the path ahead of you."

He settles back on his rug, legs neatly crossed under him. "The Halls are not a curse but they are a doorway to many things. Their lesser gifts are knowledge and information, the who and where. Far more potent, and dangerous, are the ways of wisdom. Of why." This all seems a bit much to Awenasa. She really only wants the who and where.

"To many, finding what they seek is not what they expect. Many gifts come with barbed edges." The young man carefully picks up a bit of grilled cactus and chews it slowly. After swallowing he goes on, "The Halls of Reason are dedicated to all those who seek them. You will not find a locked door or barred gate. There are, however tests, for those that seek entry."

Before Awenasa can ask the young man shakes his head, "I can not tell you what they are, even if I wished. They are different for each visitor. Tests of hand and heart, or mind and soul. Steel yourself for the test, be true and you shall pass." He inclines his head and adds, "What person do you seek? I did not meet all that lived there, for my time was brief. I...I was not worthy of the questions I sought. Still, I learned much."

Miallme listens intently as Emery talks, her eyes focused tightly on the rough stranger sitting across from her. She does not interrupt or even speak but she nods a few times. A strange look crosses her face, like a farmer who upon surveying a rather unpromising bit of land, and instead finds deep rich soil.

As Emery’s speech (what else could one call it) winds down, the woman nods speculatively. ”I am guessing you did not tell any of this to the folks down iN Kerse.” She smiles knowingly, swirling the Wildgold in her glass before going on, ”They tend to prefer their employees like their children. Seen and not heard. I doubt they’d want anyone with such wide-ranging philosophical views holding power.”

”I think it’ll suit you well though. A vision like that…it’ll hold you together when things get tough.” She pauses, lost in thought a bit, ”And they will get tough, just like you said. That is the way of things, even on the Plane of Wood. Maybe especially there.”

When Emery asks for more information about the people of Druma she actually laughs out loud. ”Now that is a big set of questions, and I certainly don’t know all the answers.” She rubs her chin thoughtfully though, green eyes gleaming. ”But that’s fair enough I suppose. Where to start…..It all began with a man named Kalistrade, several thousand years ago. A craftsman he-”

Miallme is interrupted as her door bursts open with a bang loud enough to make Emery jump. Turning the former lawman spots a dark figure standing in the doorway, dark cowls hiding their features. Miallme relaxes and says, ”Oh, it’s just you. Knock next time.”

”Emery, meet Kandor, our resident wizard. He is in charge of the Portal. Kandor,t his is Emery Moore, the new Sheriff for the Other Side.” The new Sheriff. It felt suddenly real to Emery, hearing two strangers talk about him. Was this finally, really going to happen?

A fresh start.

The figure pulled back the dark hood, revealing a rather plain looking man with brown hair and dark eyes. He did not smile as he said, ”Sheriff? Good luck, you’ll need it. Spent a month on the Other Side. Hellish.” Without further explanation he shifted his gaze to Miallme. ”It’s happening. “

’Right now?” Second Class Amber Clerk said in obvious surprise.

’Sure as bankruptcy.” The wizard replied, and then ducked out the door, quickly as he had arrived.

Miallme shook her head and stood up. With a jerk she downed the rest of the Wildgold with a smooth, practiced gulp. Then she grinned at Emery, ”Hope you are ready then, because it seems to be trial by fire. “ She sat down the empty glass on the desk, ”Walk with me.”

As they leave the Clerk’s room and enter the warren of office, Emery can feel a change of energy. Already frenetic, now it feels like an anthill kicked by a boot. People are bustling everywhere, carrying stacks of papers, fumbling over each other, nearly tripping. As they go, Miallme barks orders.

”Dis, get the latest settler list! I want it in my hand by the time I reach the street!”

”Protcor, full accounting of supplies going out.”

”Misiamy, eyes on the barrels coming in, nothing gets missed this time.”

Then she turns to Emery, ”We are still learning the rhythm of it all. The portal usually gives us some warnings but only vaguely, it can still sneak up on us.” She makes a sour face, ”Like today apparently. It’ll open up and we will have an hour or so to hustle everyone in and everyone out. It can become quite a fiasco.” She shakes her head, ”I hope you packed a bag?”

They finally enter out into the street, where the chaos is even more pronounced. Every wagon, handcart and person is heading up the street toward the wooden platform Emery spotted earlier. Everyone is shouting and waving, reminding Emery of a old-fashioned hunting drive, except with less grace and purpose. The muddy street is churned up into a thick morass of slime and grime, sucking down boots and wheels with abandon.

It’s a madhouse.

The merchant pauses from his labor, and turns toward Awenasa. He bows slightly, saying, ”Amadillo Portia, at your service, Awenasa Windkeeper.” The man squints his bright eyes at the Shoanti, ’A strange name, one I have not heard before. And I have heard many names. You must have come a long way, if you are strange to me. “ He rubs his chin for a moment then shrugs. ’Still, your business is your own, although I admit I am curious.”

Amadillo turns back to assembling the stall, as he answers Awenasa’s questions, clearly happy to talk. ”The water used to run into the Old Canal, a long time ago. If you go into town, you can see where they used to join. Something broke it though, there is a huge crater at the old intersection. No one knows what happened. Some say it was a war, others claim it was some sort of gigantic monster. A few even blame the Gods, but they get blamed for everything.” the merchant snorts, ’Anyway, the water flows out of the break now and onto the plain, instead of down the canal. It’s too expensive to fix, so it makes the swamp. “

”Not bad for Arkin, mind, apart from the smell. Now everyone using the canal has to stop here, to change from boats to wagons, or the other way around. Good for business.” He waves a thick hand at his own assembled wagons and stalls. ”As for the customers, oh...they’ll come.” Armadillo says with the air of an angler discussing a well known fishing hole.

”Let me guess.” Thak breaks in with a smile, ”I have seen such things before. The town has a tax for merchants who do business inside? So you stay outside the gates?”

The brightly colored merchant laughs and points a finger at Thak, ”Ah, I knew it. You are a merchant! Yes, I could see it in your eyes. Not an honest woman like your friend, but another greedy money man. ” he wags a finger at Thak but nods, ”But yes, that is the way. When we stay longer, I pay the fee and set up inside, more customers. This is just a quick stop though, long enough to rest and sell the horses, before we take the canal north to Arl.” he sighs happily at this thought adding, ”A proper city.”

Awenasa enjoys the work, letting the man’s words wash over her. The manual labor is a welcome break from the tedious political battles she has been fighting. She would much prefer to lift a thousand crates then deal with gambling gnomes, indebted merchants and kidnapped children. The air, more humid then she has felt since coming to this world, makes her sweat, a fine sheen gleaming on her tanned skin. Her muscles move easily though, strong from a lifetime of practice.

It is with surprise when she reaches the last crate.

Amadillo grins, ”You work fast. I could use someone like you at every stop! Come, let’s take a break and eat. We can talk and I can give you the rest of your pay, eh? My son can cook and I’ll find my cousin’s son somewhere in this madness.”

The meal turns out to be an odd one, at least for Awenasa. Their are no chairs or seats, everyone simply squats or sits cross-legged on rugs surrounding a large firepit. This is familiar to Awenasa of course, her own people always sat this way. Frankly, she had found the lowlander’s obsessions with seating unusual. How many hours had she sat around the communal camp fires on the Plateau?

But everything else was strange. The food, the smells, the sounds, all were different. Most of all were the people. They shouted and yammered, far too much without a trace of decorum. They interrupted with ease, constantly overtalking one another until Awenasa’s ears hurt. Even taking food was a free for all, with the quick taking their share firs.t Among the Shoanti, all in the quah ate in order of age, with the eldest taking the first morsels. No one would go hungry (except in the worst times) but it was a sign of respect to let the wise eat first.

Not so among these people! First come, first serve. Still, there was plenty of food and it was surprisingly good, if spicy. The grilled saguaro turns out to be some sort of charred melon-like fruit, juicy yet flavorful. A good treat after a hot day of work, hydrating as well as filling. The others were moving on to some sort of honey cake dessert when a young man sat down next to her. His skin was very dark and he had long hair tied in a ponytail that hung over his shoulder.

He nodded formally at her, looking quiet and serious among the braying flock of the others. ”I am Ardile. The Trademaster said you wished to talk of the Halls of Reason? I have traveled there, not long ago. “

The serious young man adds something after a moment, ”Before we talk, I must ask you a question however. Why do you seek the Halls? They are not for the faint of heart. I must warn you, as I would warn anyone, sometimes finding what you seek is a curse, not a blessing.”

Emery Perception on papers: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13

Emery doesn’t get much of a look at the papers but most of them, oddly, seem to be math. Not just columns for adding and subtracting but some kind of complex mathematical formulas? And some phases of the moon? Interesting.

The woman chuckled a bit at Emery’s high praise of her liquid welcome. ”Not for all the people, just the officials. So far, rare enough that I can afford a glass or two. I figure they probably weren’t so giving down in Kerese?”

No indeed. Emery hadn’t been offered so much a crumb down there, not in any of the multiple meetings. The people had been cold and standoffish, as if he was nothing more than a hired servant. In a way he was, of course, but that hardly excused such rude behavior. Emery might have left it all as a bad job right there, but he was desperate. How many places were looking to hire a sheriff? Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

The clerk smiled at Emery’s face, which must have revealed some of his thoughts. ”Exactly what I thought. The city folks can be a cold bunch. Great wine producers, but they don’t drink much of the stuff. At least the high-ups don’t. Well, no gloves on me, right?” She held up a hand, showing the bare skin, a shade darker than Emery’s own.

The ex-lawman had no idea what to make of her statement however. Yes, most of the men and women in Kerse had worn gloves, many of them elbow length but Emery had assumed it was just fashion. People wore many stranger things every day. Was there a deeper meaning to it?

”Miallme” The woman says to the question about her name, ”I am no Miss, just Miallme, Amber Clerk, Second Class.” The titles meant nothing to the Nirmathan man. Instead of explaining further, Miallme eyes the Wildgold bottle, ”Now that is a fair way to open negotiations, Mr. Moore. Fair enough. One good turn deserve another.”

She pours Emery a cup of the Druman wine, and she takes a cup of the Wildgold. The woman swirls it a bit, sniffing the rich aroma with obvious approval. ”The good stuff.” She grins, emerald eyes lighting up. Still, she does not drink it yet. Instead she settles back into her simple wooden chair, leaning as best she can.

”So, sheriff, eh? A big job, and a new one. They’ve never had a sheriff before you know, on the Other Side. Just been a work camp mostly, collecting the kolobo sap. Timber crews as well of course, and a few other things. They had a few foremen, of course, but few can hack it. With all the new settlers Kerse is trying to send over, they need some real law and order.”

She sets the glass down and leans forward, chair creaking under her fairly stout frame, ”Did my illustrious overseers in Kerse tell you anything about this job?” Emery’s face must have said a great deal because she snorted, ”Typical.”

Shrugging, ”A wizard-inventor managed to create a portal to the Plane of Wood out here. Prophets only know why he chose the back of beyond, but it is stuck here now. Curious thing, it only opens up for an hour or so every other week. There isn’t a fixed pattern, at least far as we can tell.”

The woman finally sips the Wildgold. Her eyebrows raise again, blinking as she sets it back down. ’Potent stuff.” She coughs politely, then goes on, ”Anyway, when news got out, the merchants in Kerese went nuts. A new trade route, every Kalistocrats dream. Almost caused a civil war over which faction should control it. In the end, they decided it was everyone or no one. They went with the former, of course. Too much gold to make.”

”At first, it seemed simple enough. The companies set prospectors, miners, lumberjacks, whoever to the Other Side to gather resources. Just strip what was valuable and return. Profit, you see? But things didn't go so well. The Other Side is a dangerous place and besides, no one could keep an eye on the workers. Worst of all, miners don’t build trade routes.”

Another careful sip of Emery’s proffered gift. ”Anyway, about six months ago some bright spark in Kerse thought of turning the Other Side into a real settlement, a town eventually. Full of everything a town needs, including, apparently, sheriffs.” She inclined her cup toward Emery.

”Now, my job isn’t to interview you, they already did that. Hopefully.” She thumps the packet of papers with a finger. ”I think of myself as…the last hurdle. A final sieve. A final doorway out of this, if you want it. I can reject you, if you want, and no one will blame you. Are you sure you are up for this job?”

At least the brightly dressed man did not simply sit and watch her work, as she had seen lowlanders do before. Instead the man starts to rummage through the crates Awenasa unloads, picking through them with care. The goods inside are a strange collection of practical and decorative. One wooden box might contain nothing but tin cups, gleaming dully in the sunlight, while another is glass beads. Needles and thread in another, with the next being wide brimmed, floppy hats.

The man sets up a few planks to act as simple shelves and stacks them with items, carefully arranging them to catch the light or enhance their sparkle. Awenasa wondered why the man was making a market stall outside of town, but she had given up trying to figure people out a long time ago.

As he works, the man does answer her questions.

"This is Ardkin, often reffered to as Edgerwater, for obvious reasons." He waved a hand to the unseen (but still fragrant) swamp. "A common enough stopping point by those using the canal between Arl and the southern cities. You did not know?" He gives Awenasa a quick glance and chuckles, "Well, travelers do not always pick their roads, do they? We go where need must."

At her second question though the man stops working and gives the Shoanti a second, longer look. He grins, "The Halls of Reason? Then you are a traveler. " The merchant frowns though, one hand holding a bit of raw leather absently. "You do not look like a scholar or a pilgrim though. That usually who goes that way, those that seek to learn. It is the source of all wisdom, they say."

He turned back to his work, fussing with propping up a brightly striped awning over a stack of pewter plates. "I have not gone that way myself." The stout man went on, kneeling in the reddish dust, "But have met a few who have. You are on the right path, through the swamp and a few days past. I think my cousin's son went that way, we can ask him at dinner."

The man looks up as Awenasa easily lifts the crates over her head, her natural strength making the job routine. He whistles appreciatively, "I could use a porter like you in every town. Do you plan to be at the Halls long? I could find you work, if you and your friends need it. " Awenasa gets the feeling he is being honest but also is nosing about her business a bit.

Around them other members of the caravan are doing the same, setting up market stalls for everything from pots and pans, to corrals for horses. So far however, there are no customers.

Up from the Roots

Laws, like houses, lean on one another.
Edmund Burke

When the Stranger says: “What is the meaning of this city?
Do you huddle close together because you love each other?”
What will you answer? “We all dwell together
To make money from each other”? or “This is a community”?
T. S. Eliot, The Rock

This is the only time I shall control your character. Enjoy

Looking for.... Adventure? A chance to prove yourself? A fresh start?

Move to the Plane of Wood!
Please apply in the city of Kerse and earn your spot today!

A fresh start. A potent promise to many and Emery Moore was certainly no exception. It was that phrase that had brought him here, to a remote beach of Lake Encarthan. Just making it this far was a decent beginning on outrunning his past, it must be at least six hundred miles from Dun Hollow to this isolated patch of northern Druma. It certainly felt remote enough, an isolated tongue of land thrust into the ultramarine waters of the vast lake. The one map he had glanced at weeks ago had shown no towns, let alone cities, anywhere close to here.

Still, it was not far enough, not nearly. No, if Emery wanted to start over, to truly begin again, he needed to go much, much further. Which is why he was here, of course. How much further could one go then a literally other plane of existence? That would surely be enough to leave his troubles and doubts behind.

Right?

Distracted by this troubling thought, the former constable stepped into a muddy pothole. Feeling the sandy water fill his boot, Emery pulled his leg up and shook it out. All around him the sandy, beachgrass hills gently rolled, as if a child had taken a brown sheet and rumpled it. Here and there a lone scraggly tree stuck out, dark green against the yellowish grass. In a few places the ever present alpaca herds could be spotted, vague brown shapes nibbling at the landscape. They and their itinerant herdsman had been a familiar sight for days now, during the long trek along the empty coastline. More than once, he had stumbled upon a lone alpaca in the wild, staring at him with alien animalistic eyes, clearly curious if he was friend or foe. Emery wondered what the locals did with the strange creatures. Shear them like sheep or did you eat them, like pigs? Who knew?

To the north, just visible, was a glimpse of the Lake itself, low waves sparkling in the noontime sun. Seagulls circled above it, their faint screaming just audible over the breeze tugging at his hair. He wondered if the sea looked like this. Travelers said it was different but it was hard to imagine anything bigger than Lake Encarthan. He was not headed to those waters however, at least not directly. Closer at hand was his destination, the as yet unnamed settlement that supposedly held the new portal to the distant Plane of Wood.

Calling the settlement a town would be stretching things, probably past the breaking point. Situated at the base of several hills, it consisted of one long muddy street dotted with a few buildings. Most were mere construction sites, a square foundation hacked out of the sand soil and a few standing beams. A few were more established, actual buildings of rough cut lumber and roofing. At the far end of the lane was a large wooden platform or stage, flanked by bulky storage buildings. Shacks and tents clustered in the outskirts, creating muddy satellite camps that dotted the areas around the housing. The smell of sawdust and mud filled his nose, even at this distance, combined with the usual odors of human waste, cooking oil and lake water. Not bad, honestly, as far as such things went.

Other details filled in as the man got closer. Stacks of lumber and bricks huddled here and there, haphazardly piled out of the way. People were busy everywhere, like bees in a hive. Some were building, others carrying, some seemingly hurrying with no set task at all really. Just getting from one place to another very quickly. Wagons, handcarts and wheelbarrows clogged the little street, etching ruts deep enough to trap a man, or so it seemed. Much of this activity seemed contracted around that stage at the far end of town, people climbing endlessly down the many stairs. Crates, barrels and boxes were piled man high, and still being added to.

At the near edge of town a long, low building had a large sign that in several languages that said Settlers so Emery went there first, supposing it applied to himself. Before ducking under the low door frame, the man noticed a holy sign carved into the fresh, splintery wood that still oozed sap. A circle set inside a triangle, a sight Emery had seen many times in the bustling city of Kerse, some sort of Druma thing he had gathered. The Druman religion still eluded him, mostly because it seemed to lack any gods or faith. Instead it mostly seem focused around making money and then not spending it? Curious nation, Druma. More interesting, at least right now, was a phrase below the symbol, carefully engraved in deep Taldane letters.

The power to destroy a thing is the absolute control over it.

Inside, was a busy office with half a dozen people working at desks. A few were carefully reading over long lists, adding notes to seemingly endless scrolls. At another a woman weighed a number of silver and gold coins on scales, making intricate tally marks on a wax tablet, as she added and removed weight. At a few others, interviews were apparently being held, questions asked of hard-looking men and women. It was a room full of whispers, scratching pens and the delicate clink of coins.

Emery, as instructed, handed over the sealed packet of papers he had been given after all the interviews back in Kerse. The plump clerk gave it a glance and promptly waved him deeper into the warren of offices. Emery walked past chests overflowing with papers, wax boards etched with columns of names and entire rooms full of leather ledgers. Finally the labyrinth came to an end and he was ushered into a tiny office at the rear of the building.

It was spartan, with just room for a desk, two chairs, a bookshelf and a small window that looked out on the windswept hills. Seated behind the desk was a heavy-set woman with green eyes and wearing bronze colored robes that swept to the floor. She sets down a quill and closes a book as the clerk hands her Emery’s papers. One of her jet-black eyebrows raises in surprise as she reads.

”Our new sheriff?” She says in a rather deep voice and waves Emery to the only available seat. It creaks loudly under him and the ex-lawman's fingers can feel the grain of the wood. Freshly made local fare, no doubt.

The woman opens a drawer of her desk as she asks, ”Well, the arrival of our new lawman surely deserves a toast. I have some applejack here, or maybe some Encarthan Gold? I snagged a bottle last time I was home.”

Jasiime looks unimpressed when Sigmar points to the large jar of sand on the shelf. The multi-colored grains inside are, to the youth’s surprise, moving slightly, as if someone was slightly shaking the jar. Well, even better surely? Moving sand has to be worth a pretty penny, eh? Don’t see that down at the beach everyday.

The red-skinned woman barely manages to restrain a heavy sigh however and mutters, ”By the Lord of Fire….do people just refuse to read?” Shaking her head, she points a long, well manicured finger at the metal list of rules, still clutched in Sigmar’s grip.

”The regulations clearly state we do not accept sentient beings in payment.” Jasiime says with a weary annoyance, a wanderer covering ground walked many times before. She does relent a bit at seeing Sigmar’s clearly uncomprehending face and adds, ”Yes, there is a being in the jar. Open it and find out.” The associate holds up a finger, ”On your own time if you please, I don’t have all day here.”

Without missing a beat the young woman goes on, ”It also goes without saying, attempting to take merchandise without proper payment will result in serious ramifications.” Arianne fairly jumps and there is a clatter as some doodad slips out of her pocket and back into the chest.

”Seriously…mortals.” Jasiime murmurs.

"A memory?” The representative of Yuabraam’s House of Wealth considers Sigmar’s second suggestion for a moment. ”Possibly. It would have to be valued, of course. And, as required by planar law, I must inform you that the selling of memories can have unintended side effects such as confusion, loss of self, depression and in extreme cases even death.”

Before Jasiime even finishes though, Arianne waves her hand, trying to catch the customer service lady’s attention. ”Yes?” The woman says, ’You have something to sell?”

The gunslinger’s face darkens a bit as the associate patiently waits for an answer that will never come. Finally Arianne opens her mouth and points. Sigmar notices the gunslinger's entire tongue is absent and the rest of her mouth is blackened and scarred, as if someone had poured hot tar down the young woman’s gullet. But surely no one could live through such a torture…right? Jasiime’s face remains bland at the horrific sight but she does say, ”Of course, Yuabraam’s House of Wealth prides itself on making reasonable accommodation for communication difficulties. One moment please.”

The sales clerk fishes out a long wooden stick out of some hidden compartment, and points the far end to Arianne. ”Simply grasp and it will allow telepathic communication.” Somewhat hesitantly, Arianne grabs the stick with her worn, callused hand.

A moment of silence falls, only broken by the slow bubble of the magma pool. Then Jasiime says impatiently, ”Yes, yes. I can hear you, no need to yell.”[/b[

[b]”Really, miss, this is not a translation service. I really can’t-” Jasiime says but is interrupted by a slam as Arianne smacks the hilt of her dagger down on the simple wooden stall. Jasiime rolls her eyes but turns to Sigmar nonetheless.

"Your companion wishes me to inform you that you should not sell your memories. She goes on, at some length, that our memories make up who we are, even the bad memories.” A pause, and more in a very bored tone "She actually waxes quite poetic about the whole concept and stresses being yourself, good and bad, is the point of personhood. More relevantly, she also says the memory is irrelevant because she has something more valuable to sell." There is a longer pause and Jasiime cocks her head slightly, as if hearing a distant noise.

For the first time, the young saleswoman looks interested, "Are you sure? That is a potent dream to sell.”

The gunslinger hesitates then nods firmly, looking not at Sigmar or Jasiime, but off into the middle distance instead. Something only the gunslinger can see.

Jasiime looking more awake now, ”It will fetch a fair price for sure. Dreams are more highly valued on the markets than memories anyway. Potential is worth more then past.” Sigmar wonders if the red-skinned associate gets paid on commission.

”Probably enough for any two of the magical items and a few mundane oddments, if you go this route.”

The red-toned associate ignores Sigmar’s instant nickname with practiced ease, borne of a long time in customer service. She does say however, in that same bored tone, ”Yuabraam’s House of Wealth is proud to call the City of Brass home, the largest city on the Plane of Fire. After eight centuries of serving its customers and service branches spread throughout the Great Beyond other businesses may forget their roots, but Yuabraam’s House of Wealth has not. From our time as a simple stall in the Suq al-Azzmir Bazaar to our current role as the finest purveyors of goods on the plane, we hold true to our core ideals of honesty, integrity and customer service.”

Breath.

”Any further inquiries to the history, customs and nature of Yuabraam’s House of Wealth can be directed to our main offices during regular business hours.” Jasiime does not look up from her nails throughout this smooth and incredibly dull spiel.

At Sigmar’s remark about what is on offer the young woman does not say anything. Instead she raps a knuckle on the slightly battered wooden boards that make up the humble market stall. With a loud bang that makes Arianne reflexively go for her knife, the few chests and the wardrobe spring open like children’s toys. After this impressive display, they sit still and innocent, waiting to be perused.

I’ll assume you look

Sigmar roots around in the chest and wardrobe, curious what such a shop might sell. Frankly, he is a bit disappointed with what’s on offer, after the great display earlier. Mostly it is mundane stuff, the same things you’d be able to buy from a merchant in Port Peril or Quent. Still, at least it is mostly aimed at survival, fitting considering their current location. Coils of rope, neatly arranged bedrolls, fishing poles. Stacks of rations, carefully arranged into vegetarian and carnivore options. A few more exotic things too, extendable poles, a thief lantern, a small travel-sized barrel of dwarven mead.

If you want anything mundane, bring it up, they probably have it

More interestingly though, at the bottom of one chest, Sigmar finds a few magical items. After a bit of poking, prodding and guesswork, the youth thinks he has them identified. A coil of gray iron rope, a small metal box he thinks is a clamor box and finally an iron spike of safe passage.

When Sigmar asks Arianne about money, for once the mute can answer as fully as anyone. With a shake of the head she opens a small leather pouch at her waist and turns it upside down, shaking it slightly. Nothing falls out. Not really a surprise, what would a marooned woman need money for? It wasn’t like Sigmar brought any either, he hadn’t expected many shopping expeditions on Raptor Island. Vrilu had said something about payment at the end of all this, if it went well, but the Company Woman did not seem the type to make advances on pay.

To his surprise Jasiime looks up at his remark about being broke. A flicker of resigned annoyance crosses it, as if she had expected nothing else from the ragged pair. She does go on though, ”While gold is the preferred multi-versial medium of exchange, Yuabraam’s House of Wealth understands that not all patrons have such items. As part of our commitment to quality customer service, we have developed a number of payment options for all budgets and beings.”

At this she pauses and starts to rifle through a crate at her feet, making a clattering metallic sound. ”What plane is this again?” Before Sigmar can begin to answer (not that he really knows the answer anyway) the young associate straightens and sniffs the air. Wrinkling her reddish nose Jasiime says, ”Must be the Material Plane. It always has that same smell, you know?”

In short order she finds something in the crate and hands Sigmar a thin sheet of silvery metal. It is covered with tiny letters, etched directly into the shining surface, rows of them. Sigmar is about to reluctantly inform the woman he can’t read when, to his surprise, the letters start making sense. Letters swim into understanding and join up to form meaningful words. Was this the same as that writing on the dragon pillar?

Arianne, overlooking his shoulder, suddenly looks with surprise at the metal plate. She gestures wildly in surprise and delight, pointing at the letters and her own head. In puzzlement she clearly indicates she can read it as well, and apparently did not expect to. Interesting stuff!

Sigmar peers down at the words and makes sense of them.

Material Plane

Yuabraam’s House of Wealth is happy to extend lines of credit to worthy patrons, please submit your application directly to our home offices at the City of Brass.

Jasiime, still clearly bored, patiently waits for a reply.