Chapter 1: Mortuary

CHAPTER 1

I feel like I've woken up inside someone's dream. I don't know who I am...
I don't know how I got here... and I don't know how to get out.

First thing I remember is crawling off a metal slab in some vaulted
monstrosity called the Mortuary, and some floating skull asking me a bunch
of damned questions.

I've lost my memory, I've lost my possessions, and the only thing I seem to
know is that I can get stabbed, beaten, burned... and I get better. This
regeneration of mine hasn't done much for my looks, but no one seems to
notice.

I need to figure out who I am and how I got this way... I feel like
something's missing, something inside, but I don't know what.
—Biography of The Nameless One.


He dreamt. Within the darkness of sleep images raced through his mind and he tried to desperately hold onto them: A pillar of names, racks of skulls and other images, perhaps fragments of days long past, though he couldn’t say. He tried to hold onto them, like a thirsty man tries to hold water in his hands, and like the water, the memories trickled away, leaving only a nagging moisture that suggested that there had once been something more. Time passed: hours, days perhaps… or merely a few minutes. He awoke.

The first thing he noticed was a skeleton hovering over him. The second thing he noticed was that it had no body. The third thing he noticed… was that it was talking.

“Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? I thought you were a deader for sure.”

He slowly picked himself up from the cold slab he was laying on, “Wh…? Who are you?”

“Uh… who am I? How about you start? Who’re you?”

“I… don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember your name? Heh. Well, next time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. Name’s Morte. I’m trapped in here too.”

“Trapped?”

“Yeah, since you haven’t had times to get your legs yet, here’s the chant: I’ve tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt.”

“We’re locked in… where? What is this place?”

“It’s called the ‘Mortuary’… it’s a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider.”

“’The Mortuary?’ What… am I dead?”

“Not from where I’m standing. You got scars a-plenty, though… looks like some berk painted you with a knife. All the more reason to give this place the laugh before whoever carved you up comes back to finish the job.”

“Scars? How bad are they?”

“Well… the carvings on your chest aren’t too bad… but the ones on your back…” Morte paused. “Say, looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. Spells out something…”

He looked over his arms and his chest. He noticed several scars, and also noticed the grayness of His skin and the leathery texture. Plus there was the matter of His back… this puzzled Him. Surely He would have remembered a tattoo like that… “Tattoos on my back? What do they say?”

“Heh! Looks like you come with directions…” Morte cleared his throat. “Let’s se… it starts with…


‘I know you feel like you’ve been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to center yourself. Among your possessions is a journal that’ll shed some light on the dark of the matter. Pharod can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he’s not in the dead-book already.’

“Pharod…? Does it say anything else?

“Yeah, there’s a bit more…” Morte paused. “Let’s see… it goes on…”

‘Don’t lose the journal or we’ll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, Do not tell anyone who you are or what happens to you, or they’ll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: read the journal, then find Pharod.’


“No wonder my back hurts; there’s a damn novel written there. As for that journal I’m supposed to have with me… was there one with me while I was lying here?”

“No… you were stripped to the skin when you arrived here. ‘Sides, looks like you got enough of a journal penned on your body.”

“What about Pharod? Do you know him?”

“Nobody I know… but then again, I don’t know many people. Still, some berk’s got to know where to find Pharod… uh, once we get out of here, that is.”

“How do we get out of here?”

“Well, all the doors are locked, so we’ll need the key. Chances are, one of the walking corpses in this room has it.”

“Walking corpses?”

“Yeah, the Mortuary keepers use dead bodies as cheap labor. The corpses are dumb as stones, but they’re harmless, and won’t attack you unless you attack first.”


“Is there some other way? I don’t want to kill them just for a key.”

“What, you think it’s going to hurt their feelings? They’re dead. But if you want a bright side to this: if you kill them, at least they’ll have a rest before their keepers raise them up to work again.”

“Well, all right… I’ll take one of them down and get the key.”

“Well, before you do that, arm yourself first. I think there’s a scalpel on one of the shelves around here.”

“All right, I’ll look for one.”

“One last thing: Those corpses are as slow as molasses, but getting punched by one of them is like being kissed by a battering ram. If they start getting an edge on you, remember you can run, and they can’t. Use it to keep some distance if you need to recover.”

“All right. Thanks for the advice.”

He glanced at the slab where He had been resting previously. It was covered in dried blood and other remains. There were other similar slabs in the room. There was a body on the second one that appeared to have been partially dissected, and the body on the other table looked to be turned inside out. A machine at the head of that table had peeled the skin off of the forehead to give direct access to the skull. Another one was merely covered in blood, and on another one, a bloody cloth covered the remains of a corpse. The stench that rose from the body was almost unbearable. On the last slab was a corpse which, like the other ones was covered in blood and completely gutted.

He noticed a set of jars by His slab. They contained a murky liquid. It smelled like a cross between vinegar and formaldehyde.

The scalpel turned out to be on a nearby cabinet.

“All right, you found the scalpel! Now, go get those corpses… and don’t worry, I’ll stay back and provide valuable tactical advice.” Morte congratulated.

“Maybe you could help me, Morte.”

“I will be helping you. Good advice is hard to come by.”

“I meant help in attacking the corpse.”

“Me? I’m a romantic, not a soldier. I’d just get in the way.”

“When I attack this corpse, you better be right there with me or you’ll be the next thing that I plunge this scalpel in.”

“Eh… all right. I’ll help you.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Time to introduce these corpses to the second death, then…”

“Let’s go.”

He walked up to one of the zombies. The corpse stopped and stared blankly at Him as He approached. The number ‘782’ was carved into his forehead and his lips had been stitched closed. The faint smell of formaldehyde emanated from the body.

“I’m looking for a key… do you happen to have one?”

“This looks like the lucky petitioner here, chief. Look… he’s got the key there in his hand.”

The corpse looked like the one with the key. It was holding it tightly in its left hand, its thumb and forefinger locked around it in a deathgrip. It looked as thought He would need to hack the corpse’s hand off to free the key.

“I need that key, corpse… looks like you’re not long for this world.”

A single slash brought the corpse down, and He quickly snatched the key. The head of the key had been twisted around itself several times, to that it resembled a screw. If Morte was to be believed, it unlocked one of the doors in the Preparation Room. And it did, unlocking a door to the northwest.

“Pssst… Some advice, chief: I’d keep it quiet from here on – no need to put any more corpses in the dead book than necessary… especially the femmes. Plus, killing them might draw the caretakers here.”

“I don’t think you mentioned it before… who are these caretakers?”

“They call themselves the ‘Dustmen’. You can’t miss ‘em: They have an obsession with black and rigor mortis of the face. They’re an addled bunch of ghoulish death-worshippers; they believe everybody should die… sooner better than later.”

“I’m confused… why do these Dustmen care if I escape?”

“Weren’t you listening?! I said the Dusties believe everybody's got to die, sooner better than later. You think the corpses you’ve seen are happier in the dead book than out of it?”

“The corpses I’ve seen here… where did they all come from?”

“Death visits the plains every day, chief. These shamblers are all that’s left of the poor sods who sold their bodies to the caretakers after death.”

“Before you said something about making sure I didn’t kill any female corpses. Why?”

“Wh-–are you serious? Look, chief, these dead chits are the last chance for a couple of hardy bashers like us. We need to be chivalrous… no hacking them up for keys, no lopping their limbs off, things like that.”

“Last chance? What are you talking about?”

“Chief, they're dead, we're dead… see where I’m going? Eh? Eh?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Chief, we already got an opening line with these limping ladies. We’ve alll died at least once: we’ll have something to talk about. They’ll appreciate men with our kind of death experience.”

“Wait… didn’t you say before that I’m not dead?”

“Well… all right, you might not be dead, but I am. And from where I’m standing, I wouldn’t mind sharing a coffin with some these fine sinewy cadavers I see her.” Morte started clacking his teeth, as if in anticipation. “Course, the caretakers would have to part with them first, and that’s not likely…”

“All right… I’ll try and remember that.”

“Look, chief. It’s obvious you’re still a little addled after your kiss with death, so I got two bits of advice for you: one, if you got questions, ask me, all right?”

“All right… if I have any questions, I’ll ask you.”

“Second, if you’re half as forgetful as you seem to be, start writing stuff down—whenever you come across something that might be important, jot it down so you don’t forget.”

“If I had that journal I was supposed to have with me, I’d do that.”

“Start a new one, then, chief. No loss. There’s plenty of parchment and ink around here to last you.”

“Hmmmm. All right. It couldn’t hurt… I’ll make a new one, then.”

“Use it to keep track of your movements. If you ever start to get cloudy on important things, like who you are… or more importantly, who I am… use it to refresh your memory.”

He walked up to one of the female corpses. The shambling corpse gazed at him with vacant eyes. Her skin was paper-thin, almost wispy… like someone had draped a sheet of cobwebs across her frame. The number “594” had been scratched onto her forehead with a charcoal pencil.

“So… doing anything later?”

The corpse continued to stare at him

“Farewell then.”

“Psssst. You see the way she was looking at me? Huh? You see that? The way she was following the curve of my occipital bone?”

“You mean that blank-eyes beyond-the-grave stare?”

“Wha—are you blind?! She was scouting me out! It was shameless the way she wanted me.”

“I think you’re imagining things. She’s a zombie. A corpse. A dead person. You probably didn’t even register to her senses.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you’ve been dead as long as I have, you know the signals. They may be too subtle for you to pick up on, but that’s why I’ll be spending my nights with some luscious recently-dead chit while you’re standing around goin’ ‘huh?’ ‘Whatzz goin’ on?’ ‘Where’s my muh-muh-memories?’”

“Whatever, Morte. Let’s go.”

In the next room He searched the cabinet and found a Receiving Room Log Book. The huge log listed Mortuary procedure in a tight, crabbed script:

Following this list were thousands of entries of bodies that have been sent to the Receiving Room. As He flipped through the rest of the book, however, He noticed the last page had been cut out.

The number ‘1201’ had been inked on the forehead of one of the corpses, and the ink had run down its eyes, cheeks and jaw. As He followed the ink tears down the corpse’s face, He noticed it had run into the stitching sealing the corpse’s lips and had caught on what looked like the corner of a note stuck in the corps’s mouth.

The note had mingled with the ichor in the zombie’s mouth. If He tried to pull the paper out through the cross-stitches, it would have torn the paper to shreds. Hacking up the corpse to get at it looked like it would have destroyed the note—He needed to find a delicate way to remove the stitches before removing the note.

He deftly sliced through the stitches sealing the corpse’s mouth with his scalpel, and the jaw sagged open. Hr carefully pulled the note from the corpse’s mouth… despite the condition of the paper, the writing on it still appeared legible,

“Sorry about slicing those stitches… I just had to see what was in your mouth.”

The corpse’s milky-white stared at him vacantly.

It was a foul-smelling note retrieved from the mouth of one of the Mortuary zombies; it looked like it was sewn into the corpse’s mouth by accident. Despite its condition, the writing was legible:

“Please, to whatever Dustman reads this; I beg of you. I know of my legal obligation under the terms of the Dead Contract, but I am prepared to offer more than my signing fee if you will cremate my body rather than Raising it. I have arranged for this note to be left with my body upon my death. If you are reading this, then please use this note as instructed and accept the result in exchange for my Contracted duty. Let my Contract number serve as the key.”

It looked like the corpse was too late to prevent the Raising… but He noticed that beneath the writing was a diagram. It looked like the directions for folding the parchment into a strange pattern. It looked as if it was instructing Him to fold the corners of the note so that their points touched the center. There was a series of strange marks on each corner—one mark on the upper right, two marks on the lower right, three marks on the lower left, and no marks on the upper left. He folded the upper-right, lower-right and upper-left corners inwards until the points touched the center. As He folded the upper-left corner, the upper-right unfolded by itself, resuming its normal position. As he folded the upper right corner back to the center, the lower left corner mirrored the action, until all the corners touch in the center. He watched for a moment, and the corners of the paper rose up, turning the note into a small four-sided paper pyramid.

He peeled back the sides of the pyramid, and the paper disintegrated to dust. Inside was a small triangle-shaped earring. It caught the light and gleamed brightly. It was a beautiful earring, but despite its beauty, all it seemed to do was remind Him how strange this world he’d woken up in was.

He suddenly heard coughing and for the first time noticed a large book. Silently motioning Morte over he catiously crept around the side of the book and found the source of the cough peering over the contents of the book—it must have had thousands of names.

The scribe looked very old… his skin was wrinkled and had a slight trace of yellow, like old parchment. Charcoal-gray eyes laid within an angular face, and a large white beard flowed down the front of his robes like a waterfall. His breathing was ragged and irregular, but even his occasional coughing did not slow the scratching of his quill pen.

“Greetings.”

“Who, chief! What are you doing?!”

“I was going to speak with this scribe. He might know something about how I got here.”

“Look, rattling your bone-box with Dusties should be the last thing—“

Before Morte could finish his rant, the scribe began coughing violently. After a moment or two, the coughing spell died down, and the scribe’s breathing resumed its ragged wheeze.

“And we especially shouldn’t be swapping the chant with sick Dusties. C’mon, let’s leave. The quicker we give this place the laugh, the bet—“

Before Morte could finish, the scribe’s gray eyes flickered to Him. “The weight of years hangs heavy upon me, Restless One.” He placed down his quill. “…but I do not yet count deafness among my ailments.”

“’Restless One?’ Do you know me?”

“Know you? I…” There was a trace of bitterness in the scribe’s voice as he speaks. “I have never known you, Restless One. No more than you have known yourself.” He was silent for a moment. “For you have forgotten, have you not?”

“Who are you?”

“As always, the question. And the wrong question, as always.” He bowed slightly, but the movement suddenly sent him into a bout of coughing. “I…” He paused for a moment, caught his breath. “I… am Dhall.”

“What is this place?”

“You are in the Mortuary, Restless One. Again you have… come…” Before he could finish, Dhall broke into a fit of coughing. After a moment, he calmed himself and his breathing resumes its ragged wheeze. “…this is the waiting room for those about to depart the shadow of this life.”

“Tell me about the Mortuary.”

“This is where the dead are brought to be interred or cremated. It is our responsibility as Dustment to care for the dead, those who have left this shadow of life and walk the path to True Death.” Dhall’s voice dropped in concern. “Your wounds must have exacted a heavy toll if you do not recognize this place. It is almost your home.”

“Wounds?”

“Yes, the wounds that decorate your body… they look as if they would have sent a lesser man along the path of the True Death, yet it seems as if many of them have healed already.” Dhall coughed violently for a moment, then steadied himself. “But those are only the surface wounds.”

“Only surface wounds? What do you mean?”

“I speak of the wounds of the mind. You have forgotten much, have you not? Mayhap your true wounds run much deeper than the scars that decorate your surface…” Dhall coughed again “…but that is something that only you would know for certain.”

“What do you mean ‘Shadow of life?’”

“Yes, a shadow. You see, Restless One, this life… it is not real. Your life, my life, they are shadows, flickerings of what life once was. This ‘life’ is where we end up after we die. And here we remain… trapped. Caged. Until we can achieve the True Death.”

“What makes you think this life isn’t real?”

“What makes you think this life is real? Look inside yourself. Do you not feel something lacking?” Dhall shook his head. “This is a purgatory. There is only sorrow here. Misery. Torment. These are not the elements that make up ‘life’. They are part of the cage that traps us in this shadow.”

“I think your fatalism has gotten the better of you. Those elements are part of life, but not the whole of it.”

Dhall shook his head. “Passions carry weight. They anchor many to this shadow of life. As long as one clings to emotion, they will be continually reborn into this ‘life,’ forever suffering, never knowing the purity of True Death.”

“True Death?”

“True Death is non-existence. A state devoid of reason, of sensation, of passion.” Dhall coughed, then gave a ragged breath. “A state of purity.”

“Sounds like oblivion. Why would anyone want that?”

“Is it worse than remaining in this shadow of what life once was? I think not.”

“I… see. How does one escape the cycle of rebirth and achieve this… True Death?”

“Kill your passions. Strip yourself of the need for sensation. When you are truly cleansed, then the cycle of rebirth will end, and you achieve peace.” Dhall sighed… it sounded like a death rattle in his throat. “Past these shells of outs, past the Eternal Boundary, lies the peace that all souls seek.”

“Tell me about the Dustmen.”

“We Dustmen are a faction, a gathering of those of us recognize the illusion of this life. We await the next life, and help other on their journey.”

“Perhaps you can explain why the Dustmen want me dead.”

Dhall sighed. “It is said there are souls who can never attain the True Death. Death has forsaken them, and their name shall never be penned in the Dead Book. To awake from death as you have done… suggests you are one of these souls. Your existence is unacceptable to out faction.”

“’Unacceptable?’ That doesn’t sound like it leaves me in a good position.”

“You must understand. Your existence is a blasphemy to them. Many of our faction would order you cremated… if they were aware of your affliction.”

“You’re a Dustman. But you don’t seem to be in favor of killing me. Why not?”

“Because forcing our beliefs upon you is not just. You must give up this shadow of life on your own, not because we force you to.” Dhall looked about to break into another coughing jag, but he managed to hold it in with some effort. “As long as I remain at my post, I will protect your right to search for your own truth.”

“What is your post?”

“I am a scribe, a cataloger of all the shells that come to the Mortuary.” Dhall coughed again, then took a deep breath. “As long as the stream of corpses flows through the Mortuary, I shall remain at my post.”

“You say that I have been here more than one. How is it that the Dustmen do not recognize me?”

“I am the one that catalogues the shells that come to our halls, Restless One.” Dhall broke into a fit of coughing, then steadied himself. “Only I see the faces of those that lie upon our slabs. The dark of your existence lies safe with me.”

“What about Sigil? You mentioned it earlier…”

“Sigil is our fair city, Restless One.”

“How did I get here?”

Dhall snorted in contempt, as if he found the memory repugnant. “Your moldy chariot ferried you to the Mortuary, Restless One. You would think you were royalty based on the number of loyal subject that lay stinking and festering upon the cart that carried you.”

“I arrived here on a cart?”

“Yes… your body was somewhere in the middle of the heap, sharing its fluids with the rest of the mountain of corpses.” Dhall broke into another violent fit of coughing, finally catching his breath minutes later. “Your ‘seneschal’ Pharod was, as always, pleased to accept a few moldy copper to dump the lot of you at the Mortuary gate.”

“He is a… collector of the dead.” Dhall drew a ragged breath, then continued. “We have such people in our city that scavenge the bodies of those that have walked the path of the True Death and bring them to use so that they may be interred properly.”

“Doesn’t sound like you much Pharod much.”

“There are some I respect, Restless One.” Dhall took a ragged breath and steadied himself. “Pharod is not one of them. He wears his ill repute like a badge of honor and takes liberties with the possessions of the dead. He is a knight of the post, cross-trading filth of the lowest sort.”

“Knight of the post?”

“A knight of the post…” Dhall coughed. “…a thief. All Pharod brings to our walls come stripped of a little less of their dignity than they possessed in life. Pharod takes whatever he may pry from their stiffening fingers.”

“Did this Pharod take anything from me?”

Dhall paused, considering. “Most likely. Are you missing anything… especially anything of value?” Voice dips as he frowns. “Not that Pharod would take exception to anything that wasn’t physically grafted to your body, and sometimes even that’s not enough to give his greedy mind pause.”

“I am missing a journal.”

“A journal? If it was of any value, then it is likely that it lies in Pharod’s hands.”

“Where can I find this Pharod?”

“If events persist as they have, Restless One, you have a much greater chance of Pharod finding you and bringing you to us again before you find whatever ooze puddle he wallows in this time.”

A slight warning crept into Dhall’s tone. “Do not seek out Pharod, Restless One. I am certain that it will simple come full circle again, with you none the wiser and Pharod a few coppers richer. Accept death, Restless One. Do not perpetuate your circle of misery.”

“I have to find him. Do you know where he is?”

Dhall was silent for a moment. When he spoke, he seemed to do so reluctantly. “I do not know under which gutterstone Pharod lairs at the moment, but I imagine he can be found somewhere beyond the Mortuary gates, in the Hive. Perhaps someone there will know where you can find him.”

“Can you tell me how to get out of here?”

“Hmmm… the front gate is the most obvious exist, but they will not let anyone other than Dustmen pas…” Dhall broke into a ragged cough, then continued. “…one of the guides by the front gate has a key to it, but it is unlikely he will open it for you unless you are extremely persuasive.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I know scant little of you, Restless One. I know little more of those that have journeyed with you and who now lie in our keeping.” Dhall sighed. “I ask that you no longer ask others to join with you, Restless One—where you walk, so walks misery. Let your burden be your own.”

“There are others who have journeyed with me? And they are here?”

“Do you not know the woman’s corpse interred in the memorial hall below? I had though that she had traveled with you in the past…” Dhall looked like he was about to start coughing again, then caught his breath. “Am I mistaken?”

“The northwest memorial hall on the floor below us. Check the biers there… her name should be one of the memorial plaques. Mayhap that will revive your memory.”

“I don’t know. I don’t recall ever traveling with a woman.”

Dhall made no response to this. He simply stared at the ‘Restless One’ in silence.

“Before, you said there were others interred here who journeyed with me. Where are they?”

“Doubtless there are, but I know not their names, nor where they lie. One such as you has left a path many have walked and few have survived.” Dhall gestured around the Restless One. “All dead come here. Some must have traveled with you once.”

“You sound ill. Are you not well?”

“I am close now to the True Death, Restless One. It will not be long before I pass beyond the Eternal Boundary and find the peace I have been seeking. I tire of this mortal sphere…” Dhall gives a ragged sigh. “The planes hold no more wonders for one such as I.”

“The Eternal Boundary?”

“The boundary between the shadow of this life and the True Death.”

“Are you certain? There might be some way I could you.”

“I do not wish to live forever nor live again, Restless One. I could not bear it.”

“So be it. Farewell, Dhall.”

As He turned to leave, Dhall spoke. “Know this: I do not envy you, Restless One. To be reborn as you would be a curse that I could not bear. You must come to terms with it. At some point, your path will return you here…” Dhall coughed, the sound rattling in his throat. “It is the way of all things flesh and bone.”

“Then perhaps we will meet again, Dhall.

The next room was bare, save for a huge corpse standing silently in the corner facing the wall. He looked to have been a heavy-set man in his early years, and judging by the condition of the body, he died only recently. The freshly-stitched number on his forehead read ‘1664’. The corpse looks like it was serving as a librarian, for it was carrying a huge stack of books in its arms.

The books appeared to be old Mortuary ledgers, none of them of any particular interest. As He searched through the texts, however, He noticed a loose page folded between two of the books. He was suddenly struck with the feeling that someone tucked it there to hide it.

The page didn’t look like it belonged with the ledgers… it looked like it belonged in a log book. The tear was clean, as if with a knife, so he suspected the pages was removed on purpose.

He took a moment to read through the page… it was a list of dead bodies brought to the Mortuary and logged in the Receiving Room. All the entries appeared to be recent arrivals.




The next room contained several more slabs. The stench coming from the slab nearest the door was truly nauseating. Someone had split the open a man’s chest and had yet to remove the internal organs. Another one, further against the wall held a chalk-white body that had been drained of blood and treated with embalming fluid. A neatly-stitched seam ran down the corpse’s chest. The bandages covering the body on another slab were soaked with blood. Even though the corpse looked several days dead, blood still trickled from its wounds. He looked around. Another corpse on a stone slab… there was no indication of what the body died of.

A heavily stitched corpse was shuffling lazily back and forth between two slabs. The number “506” had been stitched on its forehead… and the side of its neck… and its right arm… in fact, the skin of the peeling corpse had been sewn up with so many stitches its skim looked like a bizarre street map.

The stitches encircled the corpse, running from its arms, across its chest, up its neck, and into the damp moss of white hair. As He followed the crossroads of stitches, He noticed that someone had jammed a needle into the corpse’s forehead… the needle was attached to a thread stitching up the side of the skull. He could probably unravel it, if He had something to cut the thread, he thought.

He sliced the thread neatly with the scalpel, then plucked out the needle and pulled the stitches out. As He did, the skin covering the forehead peeled back to reveal the corpse’s chalk-white skull – where, to His surprise, the number “78” had been chiseled.

“Seems you got two different designations there, corpse.”

The corpse stared straight ahead, oblivious.

Another corpse – “985” – had stopped dead in its tracks; judging from the condition of its left leg, it looked as if some sort of tomb rot or corpse mold had eaten through its knee. The corpse was wobbling unsteadily back and forth, trying to keep its balance. He decided to help in its struggle.

“Uh… chief… you might not w-“

“There was a crack from the corpse’s left leg, and the body fell like a dead tree. Its torso struck the stone flagstones and shattered like a rotten melon, filth and ichor gurgling from the cavity. To His surprise, no one seemed to have noticed the corpse’s collapse… and even stranger, the left leg remained standing where the body was, as if at attention. After a moment, the leg fell over with a wet thump.

As He gazed upon the putrefied remains the of the corpse, He noticed that is left arm seemed intact – it had snapped from the torso during the fall, and it didn’t appear to have been touched by the tomb rot that had spread through the rest of the body.

“Hmmm. I wonder if I could make use of that arm…”

Picking it up, He realized that if He needed to, He could either use it to shake someone’s hand from a distance of use it to bash their skull in.

Looking around the room again, He saw a slight young woman with pale features. The sunken flesh around her cheeks and neck made her appear as if she was starving. She seemed intent on dissecting the corpse in front of her, prodding the chest with a finger.

“Greetings.”

The woman did not respond… she seemed too intent on the body in front of her. As He watched her work, He suddenly noticed her hands… her fingers like talons. They were darting in and out of the corpse’s chest cavity like knives, removing organs.

“I said, Greetings.”

The woman made no response.

“I think the dustie chit might be a bit short of hearing, chief. Let’s lay off, shall we?”

“What’s wrong with her hands?”

“Eh… she’s a tiefling, chief. They got fiend blood in their veins, usually ‘cause some ancestor of their shared knickers with one demon or another. Makes some of ‘em addled in the head… and addled-looking, too.”

He tapped the woman, trying to get her attention.

The woman jumped and whipped around to face Him… her eyes were a rotting yellow, with small orange dots for pupils. As she saw Him, her expression changed from surprise to irritation, and she frowned at Him.

“Uh… greetings.”

She didn’t seem to have heard Him. She leaned forward, squinting, as if she couldn’t quite make Him out… whatever was wrong with her eyes must have made her terribly near-sighted, he thought. “You -” she clacked her taloned fingers together, then made a strange motion with her hands. “Find thread and em-balming juice, bring here to Ei-Vene. Go – Go – Go.”

“I had some questions first…”

She turned away… she made no sign that she heard Him.

In the next room, He noticed a shambling corpse gazing at him with vacant eyes. The number “821” was carved into his forehead, and his lips had been stitched closed. The faint smell of formaldehyde emanated from the body.

“So… seen anything interesting going on?”

As He addressed the zombie, it blinked in surprise. “Eh? Wut?”

“You’re not a zombie! Who are you?”

The ‘zombie’ was trying to respond behind stitched lips; He had a peculiar half-frightened, half-angry expression. “Hoo YU? Wut yu wunt?”

“Who are you?”

The zombie didn’t seem to have heard Him. He looked at Him up and down for a few moments, then frowned. “Wut yu do heer?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Yu spy on Duhstees?”

“I’m not a spy. I got sealed in here by accident. Can you help me out?”

He was silent for a moment, then nodded slightly, as if in understanding. “Why shud I hulp yu?”

“Maybe we could help each other out. What do you want in return?”

“Uh need you t’git a key fur me. Wunt iron key tuh embulmuh’s rum.”

“All right. Where is this key?”

“A dusstie chit hazzit.” He pointed at his eyes. “She haz yuhllo eyez…” He then made a motion with his hands that reminded Him of a pair of cutting shears. “Bladezz on fingerzz.”

“A Dustman woman… with yellow eyes and blades on her fingers? I already met her in the embalming room. Hold on – I’ll be back with the key shortly.

The zombie squinted at Him. “If yu’re cught, dun’t say nothin’ bout me, or met gut yu in yur sleep.”

“I’ll get your damned key… but you had best watch your threats, you hear me?”

He returned to Ei-Vene. She was still dissecting the corpse’s chest with her talons. The rhythm of the talons reminded Him of something, but He couldn’t quite recall what.

As he studied the motion of Ei-Vene’s hands, He felt a prickling along his scal, and then suddenly, he found his vision swimming, blurring, until…

…He was standing in front of a freshly-slain corpse, rigor mortis making a mockery of its smile; the number ‘42’ had been stitched onto its scalp. The zombie was lying on a slab, and He had just finished stitching up its chest. He had placed something inside, something that he thought may prove useful if he came that way again…

“Keep these things safe and wait for my return.”

The memory of his voice was an echo, strange and hollow to his ears. He crossed His arms in front of his chest, and to His surprise, the corpse did, too. After a moment, its hands fell back to its sides, and as it did, the vision faded… until He was watching Ei-Vene’s hands make their stitching motions once more.

She turned, saw Him, then frowned. “Dum zomfies.” She clacked her taloned fingers together impatiently, then made a stitching motion with her fingers. “Find thread and embalming fluid, bring here, to Ei-Vene. Go – Go – Go.”

“Wait a minute.” He made the motion of a key turning with His hand. “I need an embalming key. Do you have one?”

She leaned forward, looked at His hand motions, then sniffed. Her hand darted into her robe, then emerged, a key hanging from her wickedly sharp index finger. She flicked it into her hand. “Bring back when done. Go – go.”

He returned to the false zombie. He was amazed at the man’s disguise… his breathing was so subdued, He could barely see it.

“Greetings.”

The zombie quickly glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then turned to face Him. “Wut?”

“Here’s that embalming room key you wanted.”

The zombie’s eyes widened, and he snatched the key from His hand. He turned it over, nodding all the while. “Gud… gud.”

“Now… how do I get out of here?”

The zombie grunts. “Yu kin escape through portalz.” He waved his hands. “Phoof.”

“Portals? What portals?”

“Portalz…” The zombie waved around the area. “Portalz evereewheer.”

“Can you show me one of these portals?”

The zombie nodded. “Yu wunt out, go tuh arch on firzzt fluur, nurtwezzt ruum… Yuh need fungur-bone, shape of crook…” He held up his index finger and bent it into a crook. “When yuh have key, guh to arch, jump ta sucret cryp and ken escape frum here. Secret escape route.” He nodded eagerly. “Yuh can REST there.”

“Crooked finger bone? Where am I going to find one of those?”

He shrugged. “Mhust be on ‘rounf sumwhere… look in storage roomz on upper floor. Maybe there.”

“All right, I had some other questions…”

“Do you know someone named Pharod?”

“Fuh-arod?” The zombie frowned briefly in thought. “Me… heer he live in Hive somewhere.” He shook his head. “Not know where.” He frowned again. “Dushties vare-ee mad, thay not like Fuh-arod.

“Hive?”

“Slumz ousside this place.”

“Why don’t the Dustmen like Pharod?”

He’z a collector. Brinz deaderz to Mortuaree, sellz ‘em to Dustmen. Bringz lot uf deaderz. Dushties not know where he getz deaderz. Think he’z putting’ berks in deadbook’

“Uh… what?”

“He’s saying this Pharod berk has been selling a lot of deaders… corpses… to the Dustmen. That’s what Collectors do: they gather dead bodies and sell them to the Dustmen. Sounds like this Pharod’s been selling so many deaders that the Dusties think he’s been putting Hivers in the dead-book before their hour’s up… y’know, killing people.”

“I’m missing a journal. Have you seen it?”

“Do’ kno Sum berk peel you?”

“Uh… what?”

“He wants to know if somebody robbed you. Probably what happened.”

“I see. Can you tell me anything about Dhall?”

“Scribe.” Shrug. “Old. Yellow.”

“There’s nothing more to be said, I suppose. How did you get to look like that?”

“Me gud at duh-guise. Me ulso gut scars. Me wuhr lots of embalming fluid. Me make gud zumbie.” The zombie giggled through stitched lips, then tapped his head. “Duhstees stuh-pud.”

“Yeah, they’re the stupid ones all right.” Morte piped in.

The sarcasm was evidently lost on the zombie, who nodded eagerly. Stuh-pud Dushstees. Me make gud zumbie.”

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

He looked at His scars. “I ask yu same question. Me, it not hurt much.” He clapped his chest. “Me tuff.”

In the next room, he found some jars filled with a green liquid. It was a sealed jar of embalming fluid. It was used as a preservative for dead bodies. As an added benefit, the smell of the fluid was more than sufficient to mask the smell of any rotting bodies it was used on. He also found a copper earring. It looked ancient. Oddly enough, He noted, there didn’t seem to be a hook or any means actually attaching it to His ear. A series of strange grooves had been carved on this inside of the earring, however, which He felt might merit a closer examination.

The grooves were evenly spaced along the inside of the earring – upon closer examination, they reminded Him of small fangs. They are definitely man-made, but He couldn’t figure out what they were intended for.

He returned once more to Ei-Vene and gave her the thread and fluid.

Without missing a beat, Ei-Vene snapped the thread from His hands and hooked it around one of her talon, then began sewing up the corpse’s chest. She then took the embalming fluid, and began to apply a layer to the corpse.

Within minutes, she was finished. She clicked her talons, and then turned to face Him. To His surprise, she extended her hand and drug her talons along his arm and chest.

“Looks like you have a new friend, chief. You two need some time together, or…?”

“Stow it, Morte.”

As she traced His arms and chest, He suddenly noticed she seemed to be examining His scars. She withdrew her talons, clicked them twice, then bent forward and examined some of the tattoos on His chest. “Hmmph. Who write on you? Hivers do that? No respect for zomfies. Zomfies, not paintings.” She sniffed, then poked at one of His scars. “This one in bad shape, many scars, no preserfs.”

Her talons suddenly hooked into the thread He brought her, and lightning-like, she jabbed another talon into the skin near one of His scars. It felt barely more than a pin-prick, but it looked like she was about to start stitching Him up.

The sensation was curiously painless as Ei-Vene began to stitch up His scars.


When she was done, she sniffed him, Hrowned, then stabbed her fingers into the embalming fluid. Within minutes, she had dabbed His body with the fluid… and strangely enough, it made him feel better.

“This may be the second time in my life I’m thankful I don’t have a nose.” Morte remarked.

Ei-Vene put the last touches on His body, gave him another sniff, nodded, then made a shooing motion with her talons. “Done. Go – go.”

Near the tables that had held the embalming fluid was a set of stairs that led up to the next floor. He motioned for Morte to follow him as they climbed to the next flight. The staircase became a gigantic spiral, with three large cabinets at the top. The first two were empty, but the third contained a small charred bone fragment of some creature, He hazarded a guess that it might have been a finger bone or a talon. Various symbols had been scratched onto its surface… the scratchings were so faints He almost missed them. He pocketed it, hoping it would come in handy later.

There was an open door way which He passed through. There were several tracks scattered throughout the room, as well as bodies on carts.

He approached a skeleton – number “748,” according to the number chiseled above its brow – was odd only in that some of its teeth appeared to be false ones made of reddish-brown stone. They were clearly not valuable, however, as its caretakers would have otherwise removed them.

Someone had taken care to bind the bones of the skeleton with leather straps, woven around the body in such a patter they the resembled muscles and tendons. The straps were secured to metal bolts punched into the skeleton’s joints. The skeleton looked like it had seen a great deal of service: many of its bones were chipped and its numerous fractures were bound with sealant and foul-smelling glues.

“Hmmmm. Wonder if this graybeard would mind if I borrowed his body…”

“Graybeard?”

“Graybeard… you know, geezer, old feller, yellow dog… old.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s in any position to object. Why not take his body?”

Morte studied the skeleton for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah… I’d need a fresher one than this. And something with a little more dignity… this one’s all creaky and fractured.”

“And you’re not?”

“Oh, you’re a sackfull of laughs.” Morte glared at Him. “Besides, you're one to talk, berk. Mirrors beg for mercy when you’re around.”

He ran his hands over the joint bolts, testing their strength to see whether he’d be able to pry them out.

“Whoa, chief. That’s vandalism. Those bolts are probably the only thing holding that bag of bones together. Necromancy only goes so far with these old fellas, y’know?”

“So?”

“Oh, it’s not a problem.” Morte did a strange bobbing motion that He thought might be a shrug. “Just wasn’t sure if you knew that or not. By all means, go ahead.

He pulled at the iron bolts with all his strength, and after a few moments of tugging, He ripped the bolts from the joints. The skeleton collapses, some of its bones still twitching.

“Sorry about that, Bones…”

He ran across the middle of the room, towards a small door to the north, but was stopped in His tracks by an authoritative voice

“Hey! You there, stop!”

The Dustman regarded Him with a stony gaze. “Are you lost?”

“Yes.”

“I will summon a guard to direct you out. Hold a moment.”

Before the Dustman could utter a word, His hand clamped onto his temples, and He twisted his head sharply to the left.

“Can’t have you alerting your friends…”

There was a crack, and the Dustman fell limp in His arms.

“Better you than me, Dustie.”

To His surprise, the act seemed instinctual, as if He had done it many times before… with this thought comes the stirring of a memory, but it was not strong enough to surface.

The room to the north was small and round. The cabinets were empty save for a few bandages, but there was a desk that was locked. He forced the lock open and found what appeared to be the corpse of a small fly, a finger bone, 33 small copper coins and some folded Dustman robes.

The corpse of the fly looked like it was frozen; it appeared to be dead, but He wasn’t sure. The finger bone had been hollowed out and tiny symbols had been scratched on its surface. He knew he would need to snap it in half to activate it. The robe swere frayed and they had an old, musty smell about them. They didn’t fit very well and He knew the disguise would not hold up under scrutiny. It was very important, He felt, that no attention was drawn to him.

There was a note in the creases in the robe that he picked up. Someone had penned a series of tasks in red ink.



As he continued to walk the perimeter of the larger room, he saw a skeleton that had either seen a great deal of combat or had fallen down one too many staircases; both its arms and legs had been broken and rebuilt with the aid of leather straps and thin iron rods. The front of the skull bore the numbers “863”… but the back of the skull had caved in, forming an empty cavity. He noticed that someone had taken advantage of this and tucked a rolled up piece of parchment inside the skull.

He slipped the parchment out of the worker’s skull – oddly enough, it looked as if the skull cavity was intended to store messages; a tiny string was attached to the parchment from a hook bolted inside the skull, as if to keep the parchment from accidentally falling out.

He unhooked the string and glanced over the parchment – it looked like a reminder from one of the Mortuary custodians. Judging from the note, the skeleton seemed to be a walking messenger of sorts. As He took a second glance at the skeleton, He realized it had stopped in front of the slab because it couldn’t figure out how to move past it.

“Sorry about taking that parchment, but I doubt you would have delivered it any time soon.”

The rolled up piece of parchment appeared to be some sort of message the skeleton in the Mortuary was supposed to deliver:



An unreadable signature had been scrawled beneath the message.


To the south He found yet another skeleton which turned to face Him. “42” had been chiseled into its forehead, and a number of its bones, mostly the jaws and the joints, had been bound with leather straps. A black smock was draped over its body.

“I think this is the corpse I had that memory about…”

At the sound of His voice, the skeleton suddenly straightened up. It crossed its arms over its chest, and its fingers hooked into its ribcage.

He crossed His arms over His chest and in response, the skeleton dropped its arms to its sides. The leather cords securing the torso snapped, and the ribcage folded outward like a pair of double doors.

To His surprise, His hand vanished as he reached inside the ribcage… He had a strange feeling it was somewhere else. As He reached inside the ribcage, His hand bumped against an invisible object. It was about the size of a fist and seemed to be attached to the skeleton’s spine.

As He pulled the item out, the skeleton suddenly disintegrated, and the iron bolts securing its joints clattered to the floor. Whatever the item was, it seem dot have been the only thing holding it together.

It looked like an unremarkable lump of iron. He couldn’t imagine why someone would have hid it inside the ribcage of a skeleton.

As he placed both his hands on the lump of iron to examine it, there was a hssssss, and the metal evaporates, leaving behind a strange dagger, a handful of coins wrapped in a dirty cloth, and two bloody teardrops – these look like they were inside the lump of iron.

A nearby bookshelf contained a collection of junk… small springs, broken bolts and a cracked gear or two. It looked like someone felt that they would be useful one day, but He thought them useless. Nevertheless, he pocketed them and wrapped them in the rag he had extracted from #42.

To the south there was another circular room. The desk inside contained the missing Prybar as well as a note written on a scrap of dry parchment:




A nearby corpse caught His attention. Its meaty head was clearly severed at some point, and hastily sewn back on. Several different sets of stitching – all in various states of unraveling – seem to indicate that the head was constantly being knocked back off and reattached during the course of its work. A number – “79” – had been cit into its temple, circumscribed by a fanged circle that appeared to have been branded on its forehead.

The fanged circle looked like it was branded on the corpse’s forehead long ago, presumably before it died. It might have been a religious icon of some sort, or a rite of passage. He noticed that one of the recesses between the inner ‘fangs’ had a small triangle within it, as if it had some special significance.

“Hmmm… I wonder if the space between the fangs match the grooves on this copper earring I have…”

The corpse made no reply. It looked like it was too far gone to answer any of the questions.

He pulled the Ancient Copper earring from his pocket. He hooked His fingernail into the third groove from the top and pressed it inwards. As He did, there was a click and the top of the earring snapped open. Not only could he war the earring now, it also looked like there was a secret compartment inside the earring. He shook the earring, but nothing came out. Whatever was hidden in the earring was gone now, though the compartment may add value, as far as merchants were concerned, He thought.

The door to the southwest was sealed shut but the key was kept on a shelf next to it. Security flaws aside, He was pleased that he didn’t have to jump through any hoops to find it. The room inside was much like the one he had entered earlier; a large round room with a staircase spiraling down around the edges.

He found himself in the room where he had awoken. To his right was another staircase, apparently leading to the first floor.

“You there, Hold!”

He was getting tired of this…

He saw a stern-looking man in black robes. He was glaring at Him suspiciously. “You – state your business.”

“I seem to have gotten turned around in these halls. Are there any guides around who can direct visitors?”

The Dustman frowned. He seemed skeptical. “There are guides that can direct you in the antechamber. Do not wander the Mortuary unescorted.”

“Thank you for your assistance. I will go speak to the guide.”

He made his way to the northwest, in an attempt to find the portal. As he came around the bend of a long hallway, he saw a set of steps leading to the top of a podium and a bier. He saw a strikingly beautiful ghostly form before Him on the steps; her arms were crossed and her eyes were closed. She had long, flowing hair, and her gown seems stirred by some ethereal breeze. As He watched, she stirred slightly, and her eyes flickered.

“Greetings…?”

Her eyes slowly opened, she blinked in confusion for a moment, as if uncertain where she was. She looked around slowly, then saw Him. Her tranquil face suddenly twisted into a snarl. “You! What is it that brings you here?! Have you come to see first-hand the misery you have wrought? Perhaps in death I still hold some shred of use for you…?” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “…’my Love.’”

“’My Love?’ Do I know you?”

The spirit made a begging motion with her hands. “How can it be that the thieves of the mind continue to steal my name from you memory? Do you not remember me, my Love?” The ghost stretched out her arms. “Think…” Her voice became desperate again. “…the name Deionarra must evoke some memory within you.”

“No, I’m sorry. My memories are lost to me.”

“Then it is as I feared. I am truly lost to you… and what was once an inconvenience for you, you now have the excuse to discard me as you have my memory!”

“I think I feel the stirrings of memory… tell me more. Perhaps your words shall chase the shadows from my mind, Deionarra.”

“Oh, at last the fates show mercy! Even death cannot chase me from your mind, my Love! Do you not see? Your memories shall return! Tell me how I can help you, and I shall!”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You are one both blessed and cursed, my Love. And you are one who is never far from my thoughts and heart.”

“’Blessed and cursed?’ What do you mean?”

“The nature of your curse should be apparent, my Love. Look at you.” She pointed to Him. “Death rejects you. Your memories have abandoned you. Do you not pause and wonder why?”

“I’m still trying to get my bearings, actually. What else can you tell me about myself?”

“I know that you once claimed you loved me and that you would love me until death claimed us both. I believed that, ever knowing the truth of who you were, what you were.”

“And what am I?”

“You… I… cannot…” She suddenly froze, and she spoke slowly, carefully, as if her voice frightened her. “The truth is this: you are one who dies many deaths. These deaths have given the knowing of all things mortal, and in your hand lies the spark of life… and death. Those that die near you carry a trace of themselves that you can bring forth…”

As Deionarra spoke the words, a crawling sensation welled up in the back of His skull… and He suddenly felt compelled to look at His hand. As He lifted it up and looked at it, he could SEE the blood coursing slugglishly through His arm, pouring into His muscles, and in turn, giving strength to His bones.

“Wh…”

And He knew Deionarra was right. He suddenly remembered how to coax the dimmest spark of life from a body and bring it forth… the thought both horrified and intrigued Him.

“I… I… I had other questions…”

“What is it you wish to know?”
“I need to escape this place. Can you help me?”

As He was about to ask Deionarra the question, it caught in His throat. It occurred to Him that if He told her He was looking for an escape route, she may feel He was abandoning her. If He was going to ask her how to leave, He would need to be delicate about it.

“Deionarra, I am in danger. Can you guide me to a place of safety? I shall return as soon as I can to speak to you again.”

“In danger?” Deionarra looked concerned. “Of course, my Love. I will aid you in any way I can…” She closed her eyes for a moment, and He watched an ethereal zephyr pass through her body, stirring her hair. After a moment, the zephyr died, and her eyes slowly opened. “Perhaps there is a way.”

“Yes?”

“I sense that this place holds many doors shrouded from mortal eyes. Perhaps you could use one of these portals as a means of escape.”

“Portals?”

“Portals are holes in existence, leading to destinations in the inner and outer planes… if you could find the proper key, you could escape through one of them.”

“Key?”

Deionarra paused for a moment, as if attempting to remember. “Portals will reveal themselves when you have the proper ‘key’. Unfortunately, these keys can be almost anything… an emotion, a piece of wood, a dagger of silvered glass, a scrap of cloth, a tune you hum to yourself… I fear that the Dustmen are the only ones who would know the keys you could use to leave their halls, my Love.”

“Then I shall ask one of them. Farewell, Deionarra.”

“Hold a moment… I learned much when I traveled with you, my Love, and what you have lost, I have retained. I have not divulged all that I know to you. My sight is clear… whilst you fumble in the darkness for a spark of thought.”

“And what is it your sight sees that I do not?”

“Time itself relaxes its hold as the chill of oblivion slowly claims us, my Love. Glimpses of things yet to come swarm across my vision. I see you, my Love. I see you as you are now, and…” Deionarra grew quiet.

“What is it? What do you see?”

“I see what lies ahead for you. It ripples through the planes, stemming outward from this point. Shall I speak of what I see?”

“Tell me.”

“First, I require a promise. Promise me you will return. That you will find some means to save me or join me.”

“I… will do what I can.”

Deionarra stiffened. She looked as if she was about to say something, then sighed in defeat. “Very well, my Love… as before, I shall have to place my trust in you.” She closed her eyes.

“This is what my eyes see, my Love, unfettered by the shackles of time…”

“You shall meet enemies three, but none more dangerous than yourself in your full glory. They are shades of evil, of good, and of neutrality given life and twisted by the laws of the planes.”

“You shall come to a prison built of regrets and sorrow, where the shadows themselves have gone mad. There you will be asked to make a terrible sacrifice, my Love. For the matter to be laid to rest, you must destroy that which keeps you alive and be immortal no longer.”

“Destroy what keeps me alive?”

“I know that you must die… while you still can. The circle must come to a close, my Love. You were not meant for this life. You must find that which was taken from you and travel beyond, into the lands of the dead.”

“Die while I still can?”

“I do not doubt your ability to rise from the dead. I do believe that every incarnation weakens your thoughts and memories. You claim you have lost your memory. Perhaps it is a side effect of countless deaths? If so, what more will you lose in successive deaths? If you lose your mind, you will not even know enough to realize that you cannot die. You shall truly be doomed.”

“’Countless deaths?’ How long has this been going on?”

“I do not truly know. Except that it has gone on long enough.”

“Farewell, Deionarra.”

“I shall wait for you in death’s halls, my Love.” She smiled, but there was only sadness in it. She closed her eyes, and with an ethereal whisper, she faded.

“You back with me, chief? You kind of drifted out on me there.”

“No, I’m fine. Do you know who that spirit was?”

“Eh? Spirit?”

“That spectre I was talking to. The woman.”

“You were rattling your bone-box with some woman? Where?” Morte looked around, excited. “What did she look like?”

“She was right on top of the bier. Didn’t you see her?”

“Eh… no, you just kind of drifted out for a bit there, just stood there, statue-like. I was a little worried you’d gone addled on me again.”

“No, I’m fine… I think. Let’s move on.”

To the Southeast was a large round room, with 4 gigantic skeletons standing at the edges. He approached one. It wore ornate bronze armor. The armor had been bolted onto the skeleton’s frame, and a series of elaborate symbols had been carved across the breastplate. He wondered where the skeleton came from; He wasn’t aware they made humans that size. The huge blade in its hands looked like it weighed as much as a wagon cart.

The skeleton’s intricate bronze armor was riveted o

((End of Chapter 1))

The skeleton’s intricate bronze armor was riveted onto its ribcage and shoulder blades with a series of iron bolts. As He studied the frame behind the armor, He noticed the same iron bolts were set into the skeleton’s shoulder, elbow, pelvic and knee joints. A mass of thick leather cords and heavy knotted ropes ran along the length of the skeleton’s arms and legs, woven in such a pattern that they resembled muscles and tendons.

“Hey, how about THIS skeleton, Morte? Will it do as a body?”

Morte grinned.

“Uh, is that a yes, or…?”

“Oh… sorry.” Morte floated up to the head of the skeleton, stared at it, then floated back down, studying the armor and the blade as he descended. “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, I think this’ll do.”

“I don’t know. This thing looks like more than you can handle.”

“Then what in Baator did you ask me if I wanted it for, then? Practicing your cruelty skills?” Morte bobbed indignantly. “And after all I’ve done for you…”

“I was thinking of your safety, Morte. I’m worried attaching your head to this thing would hurt you somehow.”

Morte stared at Him for a moment. “What, did we get MARRIED at some point? What’s all this ‘I don’t want you to get hurt’ wash?” Morte glared at him. “If you REALLY cared, you’d find a way to get my head on that giant skeleton’s body.”

“All right then… give me a second to pry the head off this thing.”


As He was about to do so, He suddenly stopped… and His eyes were drawn to the skeleton’s armor. Something about the symbols engraved on its breastplate made him pause. If these skeletons were guardians, then disturbing them may… awaken them.

Despite the armor’s obvious age, it looked well cared for. It shone brightly, and the symbols engraved on the breastplate seemed to flow in the firelight, shifting slightly whenever He tried to focus on them.

Almost unconsciously, He let His gaze relax as He looked at the symbols. After a moment, the symbols ceased shifting and resolved into a trail of runes that ran up and down the breastplate. Strangely enough, the interlocking pattern of runes reminded Him of chains… and with that thought, He suddenly recalled that these runes were some sort of warding enchantment.

He studied the pattern of the runes as they wove their way across the breastplate. On its most basic level, the runes were a lesser armoring enchantment, but several skull-shaped runes and spherical tracings along the edges of the armor made Him suspect several greater necromantic and warding enchantments were woven in as well. Touching the skeleton would most likely cause it to awaken… and defend itself.

He suspected that marring the rune pattern along the breastplate could unravel the enchantments, but it looked difficult… the pattern was complicated, and scratching out the wrong portion could cause the skeleton to animate.

He marred the runes maintaining the warding enchantment first, then worked backward through the rune pattern, canceling the necromantic, then the armoring enchantment.

The work was difficult and nerve-wracking at first, but slowly, His mind began to focus, and the runes began to unravel beneath His attack. Within minutes, the giant skeleton had been stripped of the enchantments binding it. It collapsed, falling to the floor with a crash of bones and a heavy clanging noise.

“Damned pile of bones…!”

He waited for a moment, but no one responded to the sound. Moving quickly, He sifted through the skeleton’s parts on the floor. Most of it was too heavy or too old to be useful, but He discovered a piece of the skeleton’s breastplate with a majority of one of the broken enchantments engraved on it. He had a feeling that it could prove useful.

Rather than tamper with the other three skeletons, He instead made His way out of the central chamber and into the Memorial Hall once again. To the Northeast was the portal He had been told about by two separate people. He walked in that direction for several minutes, feeling every inch of the outside wall. Eventually, he was caught of his card by a swirling blue gate that tore into reality mere inches from his face. He hesitated for a moment, but He soon realized that his options were few. Bracing himself, He stepped into the swirling vortex.

The Mortuary room lay quiet and still. The slab, having once borne a man who was a fugitive from death, was still warm. The shadows gathered, flickering in the dim light, stretching and shrinking to form several humanoid figures. They gazed upon the slab and hissed; their bounty had fled.

He found Himself in a small room with almost no light. Looking around, he realized it was a crypt, with a sarcophagus in the center. The sarcophagus appeared to have been there for centuries. There was no lid… the exterior seemed to be made of solid stone. He was exhausted from the ordeal and, after deciding that the threat was far behind, felt comfortable making camp. Neither He nor Morte had anything that could pass for food, but as He was not particularly hungry this did not worry Him. He did, however, wonder whether this lack of hunger was due to His immortality, or because He may have been exceptionally full when He was interred. As He made a part of the floor slightly less uncomfortable, He stumbled across a small pile of coins and a note. Taking the coins, He noticed that the note had been written with remarkable penmanship upon the finest parchment:

The Hive: Part I

Of course you got questions about me -- you probably have questions about ALL sorts of things. Let me boil it down for you: when you've been as dead as long as I have... without arms, legs, or anything else, you spend a lot of time thinking, y'know? I figure it's been a few hundred years since I got penned in the dead book, but time doesn't really tally up the way it used to... without that mortality thing pressing down on you, all the days and nights kind of blend together. So you think about this, and you think about that... and the most important piece of wisdom I've learned over the past hundred or so years is this: There's a LOT more obscene gestures you can make with your eyes and your jaw than most people think. Without even resorting to insults or taunting, you can really light a bonfire under someone just with the right combination of eye movements and jaw clicking. Drives them barmy! If you ever get beheaded and your skin flayed from your skull, I'll show you how it's done. I got some real gems, chief -- they'd drive a deva to murder, they would.

I know what you're thinking: I'm dead. I've lost so much. It should have sobered me up to all that joy I missed, all those loves I've lost. Some people get all depressed about death -- they haven't TRIED it, of course -- but one thing they never seem to realize is how it changes your perspective on things; it really makes you take a second look at life, broaden your horizons. For me, it's pretty much made me realize how many dead chits are in this berg and how few sharp-tongued men like myself there are to go around -- you spin the wheel right, and your years of spending nights alone are over!

Shallow? I'm not shallow. I just don't get caught up in all that philosophy and faith and belief wash that every berk from Arborea to the Gray Waste rattle their jaws about. Who cares? The Planes are what they are, you're what you are, and if it changes, fine, but things aren't bad the way they are -- and I should know. Go on, ask me some questions about the Planes, or the chant, or the people, or the cultures -- when you end up like me -- without eyelids, that is -- you end up seeing a lot of things, and I can tell you almost everything you need to know.

It's like this: We're in this together, chief. Until this is over, I stick to your leg.
--Biography of Morte

He didn’t know what time he’d woken up, as no light entered the tomb. The only reason they’d been able to see at all, was because He’d been able to light an old brazier. He figured roughly eight hours had passed, though He hadn’t been groggy at all when He’d opened them. He had simply opened them and been awake and alert. He searched the room and found the door; it was thick and made of stone, though He found it fairly easy to move. Daylight streamed into the tomb and, shielding his eyes, he stepped out into the city.

The City was modeled in a sort of Gothic Victorian style, and was colored in what appeared to be a fine layer of rust and age. The sky itself was a pale orange, and the city seemingly stretched upwards, to the base of a large tower.

“What’s eating you, chief?” Morte asked.

“Can you tell me a little about Sigil?”

“Sigil’s a ring-shaped city that’s squatting on top of an infinitely tall spire in what some claim to be in the center of the Planes… of course, how it could be at the top of an infinitely tall spire, and how the city could even be at the center of the Planes raises some questions.”

“Anything else?”

“Sigil’s called the ‘City of Doors,’ mostly because there’s a lot of invisible doors that lead in and out of it – just about any arch, door frame, barrel hoop, book shelf, or open window might be a portal under the right conditions. It all depends on if you have the key to open it.”

“Keys?”

“See, I guess the best way to explain it is – most portals are ‘sleeping,’ right? You could walk through them, by them, on top of them, and nothing would happen. Now, every portal has something that ‘wakes it up.’ That could be a tune you hum to yourself, a loaf of week-old Bytopian bread, remembering what your first kiss was like, and then – bam – the portal gets its juices flowing, and you can jump through it, to whatever’s on the other side.”

“Like where?”

“Anywhere, chief. Literally. Any place you can think of, there’s a portal there. That’s why Sigil’s so popular across the Planes.”

“Morte… I don’t mind you tagging along, but is there anything else you can do except chatter?”

“Hey! Chattering’s my best trait.” He rattled his teeth for a moment, then ‘grinned.’ “Eh? Eh?”

“Oh, that’s good to hear.”

“No, but seriously, chief – I got a knack for chattering in just the right way. I can really bend an ear, if you know what I’m saying. I got insults, backtalk – stuff that’ll curl someone’s ears into their own skull, y’know?”

“Uh… how’s that useful?”

“It’s one of my many talents… I call it my ‘Litany of Curses.’ You see, sometimes I can really bend someone’s ear with just the right comment. Of course, then I usually have to do a lot of running afterwards… but you get the idea.”

“How does it work?”

“Well, I can spit insults at someone until they get mad enough to chase me around.”

“I see. Hmm, that could be useful. Anyway, how did you die, Morte?”

“No idea, chief. I kinda forgot when I died. Can’t say I blame myself much – at least here was something waiting for me after I died, even if it is life as a floating skull. I mean, it could have been worse.”

“What happened to your body?”

“Eh… I don’t know, all right? It’s just gone.” Morte glared at Him “But don’t think I miss it, because I’m happy just the way I am, and I don’t need your half-wit judgments or snide remarks, all right?”

“I could use some advice.”

“Well, here’s how I see things…” He began. “I think you should try and root out this ‘Pharod’ wherever he’s set up kip. You wouldn’t have had those directions tattooed on your back if he didn’t have some inkling of what was up with you. One of the locals around here has to know where he is.”

They had not traveled far from the Mortuary, he soon found out. The tomb had been, in fact, only about a city block south from the Mortuary gate. There was a cowled figure hunched by the Mortuary gate. His face was obscured by the shadows of his hood… what little He could see was his chin, which was covered with stubble and what appeared to be a foul green and purple rash. The rash seemed heavies around His neck, fading as it crawled up to His chin.

“Greetings.”

The figure didn’t budge… there was a moment of silence, then He responded in a high-pitched voice that sounded more suited to a girl of ten years than a man. “Hai?”

“Who are you?”

“Pox am I, hai.”

“Uh… Pox?”

“Mother and father named me, wished a pox-on-first-born, a curse given, came true, it did, hai.” Again His eyes were drawn to the purplish-green rash covering Pox’s chin and neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Wait for deaders, do I, hai.”

“’Deaders?’ Corpses? Why?”

“Find a deader, take him through the gate, get some jink, then again I wait, hai.”

“Through the gate? Why?”

“A deader’s to a Dust-man what copper’s to a Collector, bring them the dead, they give you copper at the gate, they do, hai.”

“Why do the Dustmen pay for the dead?”

“Streets clean, deaders put in their place, streets don’t stink, dead aren’t lost, kept inside gate, all happy, hai.”

“What do the Dustmen do with these deaders they buy?”

“Haul deaders inside gate, put them on slabs, cut them up, bury them, or make them walk, hai.”

“Make them walk?”

“Hai, they make some get back up, if the deader gives the Dustmen leave to, and the deader become a skels or a zooms.”

“Is the front gate the only way inside the Mortuary?”

“Hai, only deader or Dustmen go in gate, they do. You want Pox make you deader again?”

“Uh… again?”

“Hai. Many time you ask, Pox always do.”

“Uh… how many times, exactly?”

“Many time, hai.”

“So… we’ve met before?”

“Hai.”

“What do you know about me?”

“You’re a deader who don’t stay deader for long, hai. Deal square with Pox, you do.”

“Uh, all right then. How about I just pretend to be dead and you sneak me in?”

“Let Pox see you play deader. You play deader good, Pox get you in, hai.”

He gave his best impression, forged and refined by countless life experience. Pox watched His performance without a sound. When He got back up, he spoke. “Hai, Pox sell you. You want to be sold now?”

“No, not yet. I had some other questions first.”

“Hai?”

“Do you know someone named Pharod?”

“Hai, Pharod. Collector, big, name has weight, casts long shadow, it does, hai.”

“Collector?”

“Hai, Collector. Gather deaders, bring them to Dustmen for jink.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“Hai, in the Hive here, he is. Someswheres, hai.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Hai, somehweres in the Hive, he is. Pharod hide, he does. Very hard finding, he is. Not worth your finding, he is.”

“’Not worth finding?’ What do you mean?”

“Hai, many hates him, other Collectors, even. Sharegrave hate him, not like Pharod at all, hai.”

“Sharegrave?”

“Hai, Sharegrave big name, carry weight, casts long shadow, he does. Tell Pox what to do, he does.”

“Would your boss… this Sharegrave… know where Pharod is?”

“Hai, Sharegrave knows darks he does. Know Pharod-a-hiding, he does. Sharegrave in Ragpicker Square, many blocks west-o-here, hai. Say Sharegrave that Pox send you, tell him, Sharegrave become Shrecopper-with-Pox he will, hai.”

“I’ve lost a journal… you wouldn’t happen to have seen one, would you?”

“Hai, no jurn-el have I seen. Things get lost in the Hive, never found again, maybe jurn-el one of them, hai.”

“That was all I wanted to know, thanks. Farewell.”

He saw a huge monument… there was no name or plaque identifying what it was honoring. He started to turn away but felt Morte tug at his loincloth. He turned back and saw nothing. He attempted to leave again and Morte repeated his action. This time He saw the Harlot at the base of the monument.

She was a tired-looking woman, dressed in a tight leather bodice and leggings. The odor of cheap perfume surrounded her like a cloud, and her face was covered with a mask of crude make-up. She smiled as she saw Him. “Why doncha stay and chat wit’ me a bit, love?”

“Greetings.”

The woman looked coyly at Him. “Now, ye look ta be a blood who’s lost something. Mayhap I can help ye find it, cutter?” She smiled slightly.

“Maybe you can help me find what I’m missing.”

Her tone became business-like. “Aye, love, now there’s the matter of a finder’s fee.”

“I see. How much?”

"Some coppers fer a glance at what ye’re missing, and ten coppers to actually find what ye’re mssing.”

“I…uh…actually had some questions instead.”

The woman frowned. “I’m not a tout…” She frowned, then rubbed two fingers together. “Unless ye’ve got some jink ta pay fer my time.”

“I can pay you. How much?”

“Fer a handsome basher like yerself…” She gave a wide smile, revealing a row of dirty teeth. “Three coppers’ll be enough t’loosen me tongue.” She licked her lips, then frowned. “Other questions of a deeper chant’ll cost ye more, though.”

“Sounds fair. Here’s three commons.”

“Aye, then.” She slipped the jink into her palm where it promptly vanished. “Now…”

“Can you tell me about this city?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “The city? What about it?”

“What is it?”

“What’s Sigil, y’mean?” She shrugged, looked around. “It’s the city beneath yer feet n’ risin t’either side of ye.” She smiled. “Makes visitors’ stomachs gallop, it does.”

“Where exactly is Sigil?”

“Center o’ the Planes, t’hear it told.” She snorted. “If ye believe that wash.”

“Why is it ‘wash’?”

She smirked. “Well now, love, according ta the graybeards n’ scholars n’ guvners and alla the rest o’ them rattlin’ their brain-boxes, they says the Planes go on forever.” She tapped her head. “Who’s ta say where the ‘center’ is?”

“I’m looking for someone named Pharod.”

“Pharod? Now that’s one o’ the greater darks, love. If ye be wantin’ t’know about the blood, that’ll be thrice the coppers of a normal asking.”

“Fair enough. Here’s nine commons.”

She gave His coins a once over, then shrugged and pocketed them. “What ye be wantin’ t’know about ol’ Pharod?”

“At that price, anything you can tell me about him.”

She shrugged. “Chant is he’s a Collector boss. Has a whole bunch o’ bloods in his shadow.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Now, no one knows fer dead sure, but if I were ta suggest a place, love, I’d say Ragpicker’s square.”

“Ragpicker’s Square?”

“Aye, a big ol’ heap o’ rags and trash three blocks due west o’ the Mortuary… all the Collectors stake their kip there. Chances are, Pharod’s got his kip there, too.”

“What’s a Collector?”

“Y’know… them sods that pick up deaders fer jink. A sorry lot.”

“They gather bodies? Why?”

“Cause they don’t got the looks ta do what I do.”

“I’m looking for a journal.”

“No idea where ye’d find such a thing, love. Ye might look… elsewhere.” She smiled suggestively. “I know some places ye might start.”

“I’ll… uh, keep that in mind. Farewell.”

“Chief, can you sport me some jink… it’s… eh… been a long time, it has.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you intend to accomplish this.”

The woman broke in. “It’s twice the cost fer the mimir… or any other degenerate.”

“Uh… ‘mimir?’”

“Mimir’s a talking encyclopedia. That’s me, chief.”

“I see. Well, don’t sweat it, Morte. From the looks of her, I’m probably saving you from dying twice.”

“May a pox shrivel yer innards! Ye have the stink and fashion sense of a goatherd, and ye’re twice as ugly!”

“Uh…”

Morte stared, hypnotized, as the harlot let loose a stream of obscenities. At the end of the verbal avalanche, Morte was silent for a moment, then turned to Him. “Wow, chief. Got a few more taunts for the ol’ arsenal.” He turned back to the harlot, who was catching her breath. “I’m also in love.”

On the other side of the monument, He saw a striking read-haired girl dressed in leather armor. Her right arm was covered with a series of interlocking plates that looked as if they were taken from the skin of some creature, and a horned shoulder piece protected her left arm. Oddly enough, she had a tail… that was flicking back and forth as He watched. “Pike off.”

“Greetings.”

The girl ignored him.

“Who are you?”

The girl sneered, then made an obscene gesture with her tail. “Pike off, yeh clueless sod.”

“Hey, easy, I just had some questions…”

“Aye? And what is it yeh, want?”

“I can’t help but notice that you have a tail.”

“Do I now?” The girl looked at her tail. “So I do! An here I was thinking that it was a trick of me eye. My, aren’t yeh a sharp cutter?” She bared her teeth. “Why don’t yeh piss off ta whatever hole yeh crawled out of and leave me be?! Me nor me tail is for trade, jig?”

“All right… I was just cur-“

“It’s just as well neither you nor your tail are for sale. You couldn’t squeak out a living with ‘em, anyway.” Morte interjected.

“Uh…”

“What are yeh about, yeh blighter?! Say it again!”

“Forget him… I had some other questions…”

“Bar that! I have nothing more ta say t’yeh, berk! Get!”

Just to the west of her was a zombie. The filthy-looking corpse was in sad shape; its shoulders were slumped, and one of its legs was broken, causing it to lean to one side. Stains covered it from head to toe… judging from the smell and the texture, the stains ran from rotten fruit to mud and bird droppings. To add to the indignity, graffiti had been carved into its body, and several notices had been nailed into its chest, back, and head.

“I thought I was in bad shape. Don’t all those nails hurt?”

The corpse made no response.

Despite the many stitches, the corpse’s rotting skin was peeling in several places, revealing long stretches of muscle and bone. He’d guessed that the zombie was frequently used as target practice… the fruit and mud stains aside, some of the tears in the skin still had rocks and bits of glass lodged in them. One wicked-looking cobblestone was still embedded in the side of its head.

He grabbed a hold of the cobblestone and pulled it out of the corpse’s head. Traces of brain matter and rotting flesh slowly dripped from it… it looked like whatever was in its head turned to ooze long ago.

A number of leaflets had been ruined by rain, but some of them were still legible. One tacked to his back was from something called the ‘Office of Vermin and Disease Control,’ the one from his forehead looked like a bill of fare for a restaurant, one on his chest looked like an official notice, and another appeared to be some sort of want ad.

To Those Hive Citizins Wishing Gainful Employ with the Most HONRIBLE and JENROUS Sigil Government: Inqwire Forthwith at Office of Vermin and Disease Control to help stem playge of bain ratz. BOUNTIEZ PAID! Copper Given for each rat tail brought (Tails must be genuine and from rat only. No cat, dog or fiend tail acceptd.) Office several streets SOUTH AND WEST of Mortuary Gate, in lower Hive. Ask for Official Inspecter-in-Charge, the RESPECTED PHINEAS T. LORT, XXXIX.”

Someone had posted a bill of fare for the “Gathering Dust Bar,” but the bill of fare could not be read, as the words ‘SMOLDERING CORPSE BAR’ had been scrawled in charcoal over the bill.

“Smoldering Corpse bar?”

The zombie immediately jerked its left arm upwards and pointed far to the southeast. A moment later, the arm fell back to its side with a thump.

“Reminds me of a job I once had.” Morte seemed embarrassed. “Well, I mean… without the arms.”

“Hmmmm. I wonder if this would work with the other notices…”

PUBLIC NOTICE: By the Order of the Judiciary Council and in Accordance with the Citizenry of Sigil, Let it be Known those Defacing a Registered Servant of the Dustmen, either by Graffiti, Malicious Attack, or by Posting Notices, will constitute FELONIUS ASSAULT and the Perpetrator will be Answerable for the Vandalism of Said Servant.” – By Order of The Hall of Speaker –

“WANTED: Able-bodied person willing to investigate a matter of the utmost importance to the Dustmen cause. Will offer suitable compensation upon successful completion of said task. Interested parties inquire with Initiate Norochj, Gathering Dust Bar.”

“Gathering Dust Bar?”

The zombie immediately jerked its left arm upwards and pointed west to the building before Him. A moment later, the arm fell back to its side with a thump.

The graffiti ran from obscenities about the Dustmen to slogans glorifying what appeared to be local gangs. One piece of graffiti caught His eye… someone had carved the name “Pharod” on the corpse’s left arm, then slashed an “X” across it.

“Pharod?”

The zombie immediately jerked its left arm upwards and pointed far to the west… and downwards. A moment later, the arm fell back onto its side with a thump. He was surprised, did this mean that Pharod was buried underground somewhere?

“Uh… thanks.”

To the north, was a small building that housed an obsidian monument upon which names were chiseled. The surrounding obsidian walls had thousands of names carved upon them as well.

A man before Him looked to be middle of height and years. He was stout with a thick, bullish neck, and his shoulders were hunched, as if a great weight was pressing upon them. He wore an impatient look as he stared at the black monolith in front of them.

“Greetings.”

The man threw him a glance. “There’s room cutter. No need to ask my leave to stand here.”

“Actually, I wanted to know what this monolith was.”

“It’s a tombstone for the Planes.” He scoffed. “Graveyards of names are scratched on that rock. Can only hope my name’s the one that’ll split this stone in ‘twain.” He pointed at the base of the monolith. “Quentin,’ right there, hammered in just hard enough to send the damned thing crashing down.”

“Tombstone for the Planes.”

“Aye,” Quentin smiled ruefully. “The Dusties scratch the names of the dead on this monument here…” He gestured around hum. “And on the walls of this place. Not enough space by my reckoning, but no matter… they do their best. Can barely read half the names.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Reading the new arrivals. Try and find a new one every day, try and remember if I knew ‘em, nothing more.”

“The Dustmen record the names of all that have died on this monument?”

“Aye, they scratch ‘em on this rock… and scratch ‘em on the walls in this place, too.” Quentin scoffed. I don’t know why they have the take the trouble to take a counting of the dead… the Dusties have more care for the living.”

“The living?”

“Aye… y’know about the Dustmen mourners that come to this place? They aren’t mourning the dead, see, they’re mourning the living. You can barely get a word in them edgewise without ‘em asking to mourn some poor living berk for ye.”

“Why do they mourn the living?”

“You got me there, cutter.” He shrugged. “Might want to put the question t’them. Seems to me the dead are thrice-worth the pity of any poor sod living in this pit.” He nodded at the monument. “Every name on there is blest in my book, it is.”

“Ever know anybody who came back after their name was put on there?”

“You mean come back from death?” Quentin shook his head. “Not a one, cutter. Everything that lives dies, and that’s the way of things.” He shrugged. “Still, considering the Planes go on forever n’ all, I suppose anythin’s possible.”

“I see. Thanks.”

He saw a woman with her back to Him. Her face looked broken, and she was covered in scars – they looked like bite marks and fingernail cuts. She was cradling the shreds of several rags in her hands and was staring emptily at the wall of the monument, at the names there.

“Greetings.”

“Hsst! Get you back!” The woman’s teeth peeled back, displaying a row of black canines. “What you want of Sev’Tai?!”

“What’s the matter?”

“What wrong?! Thos Cos… Ca-ows… Chaos-men wrecked my cart, attacked me, and killed three of my sisters who tried to stop them! Not sisters anymore – now they’s nothing but names on this memorial wall!”

“Chaosmen?”

“Chaosmen, a faction they says. What they are is an addled bunch that runs wild through the Hive and does whatever they please! We never did no harm to them! Then they lope in like dogs and tear apart anything within their reach.”

“Who are these Chaosmen who attacked you?”

“They’re a Hiver gang, a bunch of addled sods that call themselves the… the… ‘Starved Dogs Barking’ or some such barmy nonsense!”

“Their actions were unjust. If you wish, I can see that the matter is rectified. If three deaths they caused, then three deaths shall these ‘Starved Dogs’ suffer.”

“A copper earring in your purse if you pen three o’ those murdering sods in the dead book, jug?”

“I’ll see to it that they’re put in the dead-book. Can you tell me where they might be found?”

“Go out the south gate, spireward from here… then walk around the block until you comes to a place where men run in circles, howling at the Sig sky. There’s the Starved Dogs, they are.”

“I’ll go look for them, then.”

He saw a Dustman with a crooked smile frozen on his face. Despite the smile, his eyes were as dull as stones. His right arm was shorter than the left, and he kept it tucked to the side, as if cradling a small child.

“Greetings.”

The Dustman’s eyes slid over Him. “Name.” The way he spoke the word, it sounded like the tolling of a bell.

“I… I don’t know.”

“No name, no name, can’t help you.” The Dustman spoke in a curious sing-son voice. “Need to give a name if you want to see where it’s died.”

“What?”

“Given a name when you’re born, give it back when you need it no more. Death-of-Names, Death-of-Named.” His eyes swam across the monolith, then the walls of the area. “Buried many names here, Death-of-Names has. Tell me a name, I’ll show its grave.”

“Deionarra.”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head, then popped back. With a wild gleam, his eyes ran across the walls of the monument, scanning the names at inhuman speed. He then pointed at a section of the wall. “Buried.”

Chiseled into the black stone, in tiny cramped writing, was the name He requested. It was almost lost beneath the sea of names around it.

“Dhall.”

He shook his head. “Not dead yet, that name is. Not buried here. Not time, not time.”

The thought suddenly occurred to Him that walking around with no name would attract undue attention. Attention that, quite frankly He didn’t need. First, of course, he needed to check if the name was already marked.

“Uh…’Adahn’?”

He shook his head. “Not dead yet, that name is. Not buried here. Not time, not time.”

“Very… well. Sorry to disturb you.”

He approached one the mourners outside. The Dustman was dressed in long dark robes, and his hands were folded into his sleeves. His head was bowed, and he was chanting at a measured pace with the other Dustmen around him.

“Greetings.”

The Dustman appeared to have heard Him, but He did not look up.

All the Dustmen carried the exact same tone and rhythm. The chant rose to a near shout every few minutes, then slowly faded in a way that reminded Him of an echo. Once it faded completely, the Dustmen spoke several lines praising the ‘True Death,’ then began their chant again.

“I would speak with you a moment.”

The Dustmen lifted his head. He did not stop chanting, keeping the same pace and tone as the other Dustmen about him.

“I mourn for the dead.”

The mourner suddenly stopped, and he studied Him. “Do you feel anguish over the one that has died?”

“No, uh, I’m speaking for a friend, uh… Adahn – he’s the one who feels anguish over the person who has died.” He lied.

“We will mourn his pain, if he will not take offense.”

“If you could, it would ease his pain greatly.”

The Dustman nodded and resumed chanting.

As he continued to explore the area surrounding the Mortuary, he saw a haggard woman wrapped in rags. Her hair was disheveled and dirty, and her complexion was extremely dark. Burns covered her arms, and her right hand was a fused lump of flesh… it looked melted, like wax exposed to a great heat.

“Greetings.”

“What issit y’wanta me?” The woman’s accent was thick, and He was having difficulty making out what she was saying. “Y’wanta me t’leave? Not leaving this city, so I’m not. I can’t, tried, it’s not a city, it’s a prison t’everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“There’s Worlds, there’s…” Her eyes gleamed madly. “…planes that be sinking sands, fields thirsty nettles be, sightless worlds where y’limbs are given life and hate, cities of dust whose people are dust and whisper ash, the house without doors, the Twilit Lands, the singing winds, the singing winds…” She started to sob quietly, but she seemed all out of tears. “And shadows… the terrible shadows there be.”

“Where are these places?”

“Where’z? Where’z them places?” She flings the lump of her right hand in an arc, gesturing at the cityscape. “They’z all here be. Doors, doors, here to be everywhere.”

“Doors?”

“You! You’re not knowing this?!” She squinted at him, and her teeth started chattering. “Tell you, I will: Beware every space you walk through or touch in this thrice-cursed city… Doors, gates, arches, windows, picture frames, the open mouth of a statues, the spaces ‘tween shelves… Beware any space bound on all sides. All thes’re doors t’other places.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every door has a key it does, and with this key, they show their true nature… an arch becomes a portal, a picture frame becomes a portal, a window frame becomes a portal… all eager t’take y’someplace else. They steal you away…” She raised the lump of her right hand. “And sometimes what’s on th’other side takes a part of you as a tithe.”

“What are these keys?”

“The keys, the keys number as many as the doors of the city. Every door, a key, every key, a door.” Her teeth started chattering again, as if she was cold. “And a key is…? A key is anything. It may be an emotion, an iron nail held ‘tween y’second and fifth fingers, a thought thought three times, then thought once in reverse, or it may be a glass rose.”

“And these are all keys that open these doors?”

“Yes.” Her teeth started chattering, and she clenched her mouth close and squinted her eyes. “Y-y-yes. Can’t leave… can’t leave…”

“How did you get here?”

“From…” she seemed to calm slightly, and her eyes took on a thousand-league stare. “Came from a place else from here, almost a life-ago, hummed a tune by a glade with two dead trees that had fallen together. A brilliant door opened in th’space ‘tween the crossed trees, showed me this city on th’other side… I’z stepped through, ended here.”

“Why can’t you go back?”

“Tried!” She tried to sob again, but no tears came. “Tried! All doors here lead to other places.” She shuddered and gripped her melted right hand. “Went through thrice-ten portals, some a-purpose, some a-accident, none a-them right. Can’t find a way back…”

“There must be a portal that can take you back.”

“Can’t even leave here! This square! And there, th’place of death behind th’ gate waits for me!” She pointed at the Mortuary behind the gate, then turned back to Him, her face desperate. “Can’t go anywhere in this city!”

“Can’t go anywhere? What do you mean?”

“Anythin’ could be a door. Any arch there, any door here, could be a portal, don’t know the key, could get a-sent t’another horrible place…” Her teeth started chattering again. “…got t’stay way from the closed spaces, all could be doors, could have a key on me, an’ I not be knowing it…”

“You… you’re afraid to go through any door or arch because it might be a portal?”

She nodded, her teeth chattering.

“How long have you been afraid of this?”

She squinted. “Since the last time I walked through th’ last portal, th’ place where m’hand…” She stopped. “Since m’tenth Turning… I’m in me fourth tenth Turning that now.” Her teeth began chattering again.

“Thirty years? You haven’t walked through any door for thirty years?”

Her vision seemed to clear slightly. She looked up at Him, her teeth still chattering.

“If you got here, there must be a portal that can take you back. It’s only a matter of finding it—”

She smiled. Her teeth weren’t chattering because she was cold… they were moving around inside her mouth, her gums twisting as the teeth shifted about. They rose and receded as He watched, chattering as they rattled against each other.

“What…?”

She hissed at Him. “Only takes one portal you steps through a-accident, t’drive th’ fear into you. I went through thrice-ten, lost m’hand, burned m’flesh, and lost m’sense.” She looked at her feet. “N’more, n’more.”

“I’m sorry… if I can find some means to help you, I will. Farewell.”

He heard a hammering sound behind him. He saw a tall creature with a shock of white hair. Its skin had a greenish cast, and a pair of goat horns protruded from its forehead. It was dressed in long flowing robes and appeared to be floating slightly above the ground.

“Greetings.”

The creature turned to face Him and a series of symbols appeared around its head. The symbols had a slight glow about them, any they just… hovered there.

“Oh, for the Powers’ sake! Piking dabus.” Morte exclaimed.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s a dabus. They ‘speak’ in rebuses, these annoying word puzzles. If you don’t know what he’s saying, then we better find a native or some other way to communicate with him… if we want to. An annoying bunch. My bet? They can speak, they just would rather piss everyone off by trying to puzzle out what they’re saying.”

“What’s a ‘dabus’?”

“Chant is they’re janitors for the Lady of Pain. They float around breaking, fixing and patching up Sigil according to her whims. They’re worse than corpse flies.” Morte sighed. “You can’t swat ‘em though, or the Lady’ll get… upset.”

“She runs this city. You’ll know if you see her: She’s got these blades around her face, she’s about the size of a giant, and she floats off the ground like these guys.” Morte nodded at the dabus, who was looking at them both. “Nobody knows much about her… she doesn’t speak much. All you need to know is that you don’t want to make her angry. If you see her, my advice: run.”

“I see.”

The dabus waited patiently, its hands tucked up into its sleeves. A series of symbols materialized above its head, then they vanished and a question mark appeared.

“Morte, can you translate what he’s saying for me?”

Morte scoffed. “I’d sooner be strained through a tanar’ri’s bowels than unravel what these floating goat-heads are trying to say. You want a translator? Find a Sigil native.”

He asked the dabus several questions, trying to get a feel for the rebuses that appeared above its head. It was extremely patient thought His ‘discussion,’ giving Him easy sentences to translate. After a few minutes, He started to get the hang of it… it felt like He had done this before.

“Maybe you can help me…”

The dabus waited.

“Who are you?”

The dabus inclined his head slightly and a stream of symbols appeared above his head. (I am a dabus.)

“What are you doing?”

A batch of symbols appeared above the dabus’ head. (I attend to my duties.)

“Can you tell me about the Lady of Pain?”

A lone symbol appeared above the dabus’ head. This one showed a metallic female mask, with blades coming out of the sides. Just looking at the ghostly image made Him feel uncomfortable.

“Uh… that’s all I wanted to know. Farewell.”

The dabus bowed slightly. Symbols swirled around its head, then it turned away.

To the south He saw a heavy-set man with sharp with sharp features and a pained expression. Despite his huge frame, however, he had an effeminate look about him, and unlike the other residents He’d seen, he looked to have bathed recently. As He approached, he looked up hopefully and called out in a high voice: “Craddock… good sir?”

“What?”

“Eh…” His hopeful expression died as he studied His face. “A thousand apologies, good sir, if I have given offense.” He have a slight bow. “I am called Baen the Sender, third child of Dai’Baen the Sender. I am one of many runners in the employ of the House of Senders.”

“No apologies necessary, Baen. What do you want?”

“A thousand apologies for troubling you with such a trivial matter, but I seek Craddock, an overseer in the Hive…” Baen looked like he was in pain. “But alas, he eludes me.” He looked at Him hopefully again. “Could it be that you have heard of such a man?”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t.”

Baen gave a deep sigh. “I am bound to deliver a message to him, and as yet, fortune has chosen not to favor me…”

“I could help you… if I come across the man, I could pass along your message.”

Baen’s face lit up like a lantern. “Oh, fortunate day for Baen and the House of Senders! Any assistance you could provide would be most welcome! If you can find this Craddock and pass along the message, I shall see to it you are paid for your troubles.”

“All right… what’s the message?”

Baen recited the message almost like a mantra: “The shipment must be in Curst by the third-day or there will be a penalty.” Baen frowned. “I am told that Craddock will know of the ‘shipment’ to which the message pertains.

“If I see Craddock, I will pass along the message. Is there anything you can tell me about him before I go that might help me find him?”

“He is said to be a giant of a man, stern of features. That he is an overseer in one of the Hive marketplaces. Alas, I know little else than that good sir.”

“I see. That’s enough to go on for now.”

Baen bowed. “Thank you, sir. Should fortune favor you and you are able to bear the message to Craddock, be so kind as to return and tell me of it. I will see to it your efforts are rewarded.

“Very well. Farewell, Baen.”

He left and headed back to the tomb to gather His thoughts for a moment. There were, after all, a lot of new things on His mind. As His thoughts swam in His mind, He wandered too far south and entered a different building instead.

Edited by Mega X.exe on June 22, 2007 at 6:11:40.

Chapter III: Angyar

It was a small house, containing a table with two small bowls and a bottle, a chair, a fireplace, and a bed. He approached one of the inhabitants… The man looked haunted. His eyes were half-lidded, as if he had had trouble sleeping, and his hear was long and unkempt. His beard is flecked with bits of dead skin and old bits of food. He didn’t seem to notice Him, as he approached.

“Greetings…”

The man glanced up at the sound of His voice, and his slack expression vanished… it looked like someone had lit two fires in his eyes. “What be yer business bargin’ inta me house?” His eyes narrowed, and his teeth clenched. “Get! Or I’ll sent ye back ta whatever grave ye crawled from!”

“Calm yourself. I had some questions…”

The man’s face turned blood-red and he began shouting. “Are ye daft?!” With a snarl he spat at His feet. “Ye filthy, scar-ridden dog! Off with ye, or even the Powers won’t be able ta save yer hide!”

“Farewell, then.”

The man threw a parting shot at His back. “Ye’d best never cross me door again, ye retch-stinkin’ bastard.”

Despite His inclinations, He did not respond, instead He walked over to the only other creature in the house, a woman who has shot Him glances of concern during the conversation.

The woman looked to be in her middle years, and her hair had streaks of grey running through it. Lines of worry criss-crossed her face… as she saw Him, she seemed torn between asking Him to leave and calling for the man at the table.

“Greetings.”

“Ye’d… ye’d best leave, ‘fore I call me husband, Angyar. He won’t take kindly to ye havein’ barged yer way into our home.”

“If you were going to call him, you would have done so already. I have some questions for you...”

She glanced toward her husband, worry in her eyes. “I… I… have not the time, stranger. Do not be troublin’ me with such things.”

“Excuse me… are you all right?”

“Me?” She seemed surprised. “Oh… aye, aye.” She lowered her voice. “Ye’d best leave. Me husband has not been himself of late… ye’d best not provoke him with her presence.”

“I spoke with him… he seems troubled. What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been out of sorts of late, a touch of the cough, maybe…” She gave an unconvincing half-shrug.

“What’s really wrong with him?”

“I think… I think he’s done somethin’ he regrets” Her worried expression melted into despair. “I think he signed one of the Dead Contracts. I cannot imagine what possessed him ta do such a foolish thing!”

“Dead Contracts?”

“The Dead… The Dustmen… have contracts that give them the right ta someone’s body after they die.”

“What do the Dustmen do with the body after death?”

“Animate it with their black magicks, turn it into one of the walkin’ dead, make it a worker ‘til…” She looked at her husband helplessly. “…’til it rots away.”

“Why did your husband sign such a thing?”

“He may have been goat-eager ta bring home some more jink than custom. He’s prideful… but I think he’s hurt himself more by doin’ so.”

“Can this contract be undone?”

She looked at Him, surprised, then sighed. “I’ve tried! I’ve spoken ta the Dustman he did the signin’ with, but he’s cold and chill, like all the Dusties! He even lectured me on me husband, as if I had no right ta try and help him!” Her lips became a tight, thin line, as if picturing the Dustman’s face. “He was cold cruel, he was.”

“Let me see what I can do. Who was this Dustman your husband signed the Contract with?”

“The Dustie calls himself Gravesend… I know not his first name. He has a table at the Dustman bar in the Hive… ‘Gatherin’ dust,’ I believe the place is named. Ye can most like find him there, tryin’ ta get more people a sign his contracts.”

“I’ll seek him out, then. Where is this Gathering Dust bar?”

“Head out ta the street outside, go ta the memorial stone, then head south and west from there…” She tapped her finger against her chin. “Ye should run right into it. There’s one of them…” Her face wrinkled in disgust. “…walkin’ corpses out front.”

“Very well. I’ll go see what I can do.”

“Thank ye, stranger… I appreciate yer help.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll go see about undoing your husband’s contract now.”

Following the directions led Him to The Post, the sign-bearing zombie. Just next to Him was a building bearing a sign that read “Gathering Dust Bar”. Pushing open the door, He went inside.

Chapter IV: The Gathering Dust Bar

Inside, the bar was very much like the Mortuary, but with more light. There were grey-robed Dustmen at the tables, with zombies and skeletons waiting on them. He saw a person who he assumed to be Gravesend, but He decided to talk to another Dustman, one who was surrounded by zombie bodyguards.

He was a heavy-set man with dark skin and grim features. He was dressed in Dustman robes and was regarding Him with a stony gaze.

“Greetings.”

“You have the look of one lost.” The man’s voice was like stone settling. “Did the wind send you, or are you here with purpose?”

“Who are you?”

“I am Emoric, Factotum and Initiate of the Fourth Circle.”

“Is this your bar?”

“If you measure ownership in copper, this is not my establishment. If you measure ownership in spirit, it is mine.” He paused, as if trying to emphasize a point. “The Dustmen here are my students. They are under my protection.”

“Can I ask you some questions…?”

Emoric waited.

“Can you tell me about the Dustman faction?”

“Dustmen seek the True Death. Some call it ‘oblivion,’ but this is incorrect. To Dustmen, the True Death is freedom from the chains of this false life.”

“False life?”

“This ‘life’ that many cling to with their emotions is a false existence. As long as one clings to it, they will continually be reborn into it. One must divest themselves of emotion to escape this cycle.”

“I see. Can you tell me about how your faction is organized?”

“Dustmen are organized into five circles. The Fifth Circle is made of the lowest rank of Dustmen, Initiates. The First Circle is comprised of the highest ranking Dustmen, the ruling body of our faction.”

“I am searching for a man named Pharod. Have you seen him?”

“I would know why you seek the Collector Pharod.”

“Why? Is there something wrong?”

“The Collector Pharod has brought many corpses to the Mortuary of late. One must ask where these bodies are from.”

“Perhaps I could find out where these bodies are from.”

“How would you do such a thing?”

“I would track down Pharod and ask him.”

“If you spoke with the Collector Pharod and returned with his answers, you will have done a great service for the Dustmen. Find where the dead he brings to us are from, and you will be rewarded.”

“Very well. I will find Pharod, speak to him, and find out where these dead bodies he brings you are from.”

Emoric nods. “Your path is our path. Return here when you have the Collector Pharod’s answers.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“It is not known to me where the Collector Pharod is. He hides from the eyes of the Dustmen. I would seek other Collectors and ask them your question.”

“I would like to join the Dustmen faction.”

“If you desire to join the Dustmen faction, I will hear your request.”

“You misjudged me. I have no desire to join the Dustman faction. I merely believe what the Dustmen believe.”

“Very well. Do you know our philosophy?”

“Yes.”

“Recite it.”

“The goal of all Dustmen is to reach the True Death, oblivion. This ‘life’ that many cling to with their emotions and passions is a false one. As long as one clings to it, one will continually be reborn into it. One must divest themselves of emotion to escape this cycle.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Not entirely.”

“Belief may come with times passing. Is your conviction so strong that our philosophy shall never have a home in your mind?”

“I would like to put my uncertainty to time’s test. I will spend time among the Dustmen, then examine my beliefs.”

“Then it shall be tested. Speak with Initiate Norochj. He is here in the bar. Return when you have done what he has asked of you.”

“Very well. I will go speak with him now.”

He turned and approached a tiny, wizened man at a table nearby. He was dwarfed by his huge Dustman robes; they looked as if they were chosen to cloak his small stature. Although he looked to be in his late nineties, this man was extremely energetic… he fidgeted continuously, and his eyes darted around the bar like a bird’s.

“Greetings.”

The man’s eyes gleamed as he took His measure, and he gave a slight nod in greeting. “Hail and well met, traveler. You look like one who is just getting their Sigil legs about them…” He trailed off. “Pardon me, have we met before? Your face seems familiar somehow.”

“Possibly. Are you certain it was me?”

“Hmmmm… maybe I was mistaken.” Mortai shook his head. “Well, no matter, no matter. How is it that Mortai Gravesend may help you? Do you seek…” He clucked his tongue as he spoke. “…the contract perhaps?”

“Mortain Gravesend? Are you the Dustman who signed the contract with Angyar?”

Mortai frowned. He looked puzzled. “Mayhap…” He thought for a moment. “I do not recall the name, however.”

“I would like to settle that contract.”

Mortai looked wary. “I’m afraid that is impossible. The contract is signed, settled, and binding.”

“The contract is tearing the man’s life apart. It is causing him distress… it is possible that he may not even be able to approach the True Death with such emotions churning in his mind.”

Mortai chewed it over for a moment; it seemed He had negotiated him into a corner. “I cannot. It is a matter of law, my friend… besides, the burden lies upon the signer to overcome his own feelings in order to reach the True Death. I cannot h—“

“So what you’re saying is that you’ll deny him the True Death for the sake of a piece of parchment?”

Mortai sighed and help up his hands as if to placate Him. “Look, it is not how you are making it out to be…”

“You obviously hold the philosophy of the Dustmen in contempt to damn a man’s soul over a piece of paper. Do other members of your faction know of your conduct in this regard? If not, they soon will.”

Mortai glared at Him for a moment, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it. “By the nine hells… wait here.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “And keep your bone-box latched.” He gave an angry scowl and stomped off.

A few seconds later, he returned. He was holding a dusty piece of parchment, which he gave to Him. “Here!” He sniffed disdainfully. “All for a man’s peace of mind… now begone and nettle me with your preachings no longer!”

“Actually I had some questions.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Tell me about that contract again.”

“The contract? Why, it is but a simple transaction.” From the depths of his hue robe, Mortai pulled for a dusty parchment and a quill pen. “I give you fifty commons. In return – after death – the Dustmen faction may claim your remains.” He smiled, then clucked his tongue. “What use will you have for them at that point anyway?”

“Well, I have some more questions first. Do you know where I can find Pharod?”

Mortain frowned. “He’s one of those Collector’s isn’t he? I know little of him… I think Initiate Emoric mentioned him in passing.” Mortai glanced aroud. “Emoric should be around here in the bar somewhere… he can usually be found in the far corner at the head table, I believe.”

“Initiate Emoric?”

“A respected Initiate of the Fourth Circle. A very wise man.” Mortai studied Him, slightly worried. “What is your business with him, may I ask? Perhaps I can help you instead.”

“Well, I was thinking about signing a contract with Emoric.”

Mortai looked visibly distressed. “No, no, good sir! He will not offer half the price I will for such a contract, it would be a… a… mere pittance compared to what I could give you! Consider this before you make a hasty decision!”

“How much more will you offer?”

“I…” Mortai clucked his tongue. “I will offer seventy-five… a hundred coppers, sir! Much, much more than any other Dustman will offer.”

“Very well, I will sign with you.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” Mortai looked overjoyed… with a thin smile, he placed a dusty sheet of parchment and the quill pen in front of Him. “You shall not regret it.” Ha jabbed his finger at three points on the age. “Sign here, here and here, and our transaction is concluded!”

“You know… you show more emotion than other Dustmen I’ve met.”

Mortai’s smile turned cold. “I trust you meant no offense, sir.”

“I did not. Let me sign the contract.”

He took the quill in His hand, and He began to scratch His signature into the parchment… the quill pen made a strange skritching noise as it touched the parchment, like a dagger writing on steel.

As He tried to sign the parchment, however, He noticed that it seemed to be shifting beneath His pen… no matter how hard he tried, He couldn’t seem to sign His name. The contract seemed to twist from being a dusty piece of parchment to something… alive?

“Uh… Mortai? What’s with this contract?”

When He glanced up to speak to Mortai, He saw that his face had been replaced by that of a grinning skull. The rest of the bar seemed to stop, the patrons falling silent, freezing like statues. Mortai opened his mouth, and a wisp of dust trailed from inside the skull.

“Mortai…?”

With a rasp, the death’s head spoke, dust steaming from it’s teeth…

Sign

But remember… everything has its price

And what can change the nature of a man?

The words were a ragged, dead chorus, as if being spoken by five, ten, twenty, a hundred voices – old, young, female, male, desperate, calm, hysterical…

“Nature of a man…?”

As He spoke the words, suddenly he felt faint, and the next thing He heard was Mortai’s voice, normal, and his hand upon His shoulder. “Sir, are you all right?” He laughed uneasily. “I thought I’d lost you for a moment…”

It was if time had exhaled and resumed its natural breathing… the rest of the bar had returned to normal, and Mortai’s face was no longer a death’s head. He felt a strange pressure inside His skull, as if something desperately wished to surface, but could not. The experience with the death’s head that spoke dust… it was as if He remembered a dozen splinters of memory at once, all stabbing into each other to create an image… and He knew, somehow, that every voice the death’s head spoke, belonged to someone… now long dead.

“Just give me a moment… I’ll be fine.”

Mortai removed his hand from His shoulder… he looked uneasy, more at the prospect of losing a customer than any concern for His welfare. As He stared at the dusty parchment upon the table, He know for a fact that this was not the first time He had penned His name to a contract… and perhaps not the first time He had signed oen such as this.

He scratched an ‘X’ across the contract in the three places Mortai indicated. As He finished making the last mark, Mortai’s hands lashed out like two whips: The left hand sprinkled dust across the parchment to help the ink dry, and his right hand flicked a stream of copper into His hands… one hundred in all.

“Our business is concluded… farewell.”

“Mortai nodded as He turned to leave. “Hmmmm…” He had a strange expression on his face.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Mortai frowned. “Forgive me, I must ask again… are you sure we haven’t met before?”

“Possibly. I do not recall you.”

“Hmmm.” Mortai shook his head. “Well, no matter.”

“Farewell, Mortai.”

“Yes, farewell, farewell…” Mortai studied Him as He left, and He heard him mutter under his breath. “Something about that one…”

He set out to find Norochj and saw a spindle-thin Dustman in dirty black robes. His stiff black hair sprung forth from his skull like a crown of spikes, and his leper-white ski was drawn sharply across his skull. He was frowning into his drink and mumbling to himself.

“Norochj?”

The Dustman looked up, blinked once, then looked Him up and down, studying Him. As he studied Him, he took one of his spiked locks and pointed at himself with it. “Norochj. Initiate. Dustman. Guard.”

“I’m here about the posting outside.”

The Dustman looked Him up and down. “Many troubles have I. Help can you. A mausoleum awakes, the dead walk, the dead disturbed, the Dustmen disturbed. Find out what disturbs the undead, and copper coins will I pay.”

“Very well. Where is this mausoleum?”

Norochj nodded. “Mausoleum by Dustman memorial. Go north and west from black monument, go to arch and a semi-circle over your right heart with this finger this make.” He wiggled the index finger on his right hand. “To the mausoleum, go you will.”

“I’ll look into it, then. Emoric wanted me to speak to you about something as well.”

“Emoric sent you to me…” He studied Him fro a moment, then sighed and pointed to himself. “Norochj is Dustman. Guard. Serve Dustman interest, protect Dustman interest, protect Dustman reputation.” The man sighed again. “In the Hive, many thieves. One thief wears robes of Dustman, but a Dustman not.”

“There’s a thief disguised as a Dustman?”

Norochj nodded. “Find him I cannot. Important to the Dustman it is.”

“I could track him down for you.”

Norochj nodded again. “For making my troubles your troubles, copper coins will I pay. Find the not-Dustman, deal with him, then return. Norochj will wait.”

“Very well. I will return when I have found this… ‘Not-Dustman.’ Farewell.”

He left and returned to Angyar’s house. Angyar’s wife looked up hopefully as He approached. “Were ye able…?”

“Yes, I was able to get the contract from Mortai. Here it is.”

She looked relieved, and her eyes became misty. “Oh, by the Powers… ye must be a deva in disguise ta do such a thing for someone ye barely know…”

He gave her the contract.

“Nay… nay, if ye could show me husband the contract, say that ye got it for him, but don’t say how… I’d appreciate it.”

“Very well. I’ll show it to him, then.”

He saw Angyar – he didn’t look any better than before. As He approached him again, he turned slowly to face Him. His face tightened. “Ye again! Didn’t ye hear me the first time, ye pox-ridden dog?! Get out of me house, or so help the Powers, I’ll carve ye where ye stand!”

As He pulled out the contract, the blood drained out of Angyar’s face. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words, then his temper quickly resurfaced. “Where did ye get that?! By the Powers, ye’d best tell me…”

He tore up the parchment, and Angyar’s eyes followed the bits of paper as they floated to the ground with a desperate look. He shuddered slightly, then straightened, as if a great weight was lifted from him. “Ye…” He looked like he was about to thank Him, then stopped and stared at Him suspiciously. “Nothin’s free. Not in the Hive, cutter.”

“Consider this free. And expect a lot of rules in the Hive to change while I’m around.”

Angyar’s expression crumbled; he looked tired of fighting his good fortune. “I… I… must have prayed ta the right Powers this past half-month.” He sighed. “Ye have me thanks, cutter… for whatever that’s worth.”

“It’s worth a great deal to me. Take care, Angyar.”

Chapter V: Blood of the Immortal

He left the house and followed Norochj’s instructions. He walked to the arch at the mausoleum entrance and used his index finger to make the semicircle sign over his heart. A swirling portal opened and he walked in through it.

He was in a long dark hallway, covered with rust and cobwebs. He crept forward, beckoning Morte to follow. A spectral figure materialized from the gloom of the passageway ahead and quickly moved to block His path. It floated before Him, its once human features twisted in a mask of rage. “Defilers! Leave this place at once!”

“Greetings.”

“Leave now!” Its booming voice echoed down the halls. “This place is forbidden to the living. Leave while you still can.”

“I have some questions first…”

“Seek your answers elsewhere. This place is a sanctuary for the dead. I shall not permit their slumber to be disturbed by the intrusion of yet another insolent mortal!”

“Another? Has someone else been here?”

“If you must know… yes, there is another intruder who, even now, continues to violate the sanctity of these hallowed halls.” The anger in the spirit’s voice faded. He seemed somewhat saddened by the admission. “The souls of my brothers and sisters cry out for peace.”

“Who is this other intruder?”

“He is an evil coward who wields great power over the dead. He seeks something within these halls… what it might be or what his purpose is in seeking it, I cannot say.”

“Why don’t you drive this intruder away?”

“I cannot. The coward has sealed himself within the inner chamber of the Mausoleum. He has erected powerful wards that bar my entrance into the chamber. It is from there that he calls upon his dark arts to awaken by brethren and bends them to his evil will.”

“Perhaps I may be of assistance to you…”

The spirit remained silent for several long moments. He could almost feel the weight of his lifeless gaze upon Him. “Yes… you might prevail where I have failed. If you will pledge to ride me of this blackguard, I shall grant you passage. What say you?”

“I’ll do it.”

“So be it.” The spirit began to fade, until only the echoing of its disembodied voice remained. “But take heed… tread lightly in these halls, lest you join the others in eternal rest.”

Undead creatures, He remembered, were vulnerable to weapons that crushed. He pulled out the corpse limb. It had snapped clean off of corpse #985 when he had “accidentally” toppled. As much as the corpse’s knee had rotted through, it looked like the combination of thick applications of embalming fluid and rigor mortis had made the arm almost as hard as wood. He figured He could either use it to shake someone’s hand from a distance, or to bash in the skulls of the undead he would encounter.

Undead creatures, He remembered, were vulnerable to weapons that crushed. He pulled out the corpse limb. It had snapped clean off of corpse #985 when he had “accidentally” toppled. As much as the corpse’s knee had rotted through, it looked like the combination of thick applications of embalming fluid and rigor mortis had made the arm almost as hard as wood. He figured He could either use it to shake someone’s hand from a distance, or to bash in the skulls of the undead he would encounter.

Morte continued to dodge and nip at the skeletons. One eventually caught him with its club, but Morte recovered from the blow and bit at its fingers. He continuted to fight with his limb, dodging a blow from yet another opponent, garbed in red instead of grey. He turned and hit the newcomer full-force in the torso, causing the entire skeleton to fall to pieces.

Morte headbutted the first skeleton again, knocking the skull right off and killing it. The club of the last one standing caught the side of Morte’s head. He spun for a bit, then he clicked his jaw and dove at the skeleton, missing by less than a finger’s width. Morte fell back, the skeleton still in pursuit. Taking advantage of the distraction, He used the limb to club the skeleton in the back of the head.

He saw that some of the floor panels had been pulled up. He approached one of them and looked at the space underneath. Inside was an ancient skeleton laid to rest. He realized that the entire floor was but a series of tombs, and that the panels were actually lids. He continued south along the path of graves, searching the open ones. In the next one he found a decomposing skeleton, not even capable of moving had it become undead. A handful of copper coins were placed in his fingers, which He took.

Further on down the path, two more skeletons laid in wait: one in grey, the other in red. Morte snapped at the red one, chipping off a piece of bone. The grey one made a hit on Morte, and the red one made a glancing blow on the shoulder. Morte again dove at one, but missed completely, hitting the floor and bouncing into the air again. The grey skeleton swung again, missing Him and hitting the floor. Morte chipped off another piece of bone from the grey one. He made another blow against the red one, knocking it over where the skull shattered. He spun around just in time to see a blow miss from another grey one. He struck clean and scattered it to pieces. He turned and knocked the skull off of Morte’s enemy. He looked at the bruise the red one had given Him; already the injury had vanished, regenerated by an inhuman ability.

The path continued, making another curve and leading to four grey skeletons. His limb made short work of each of them in turn; the battle lasted for only a few seconds. Another lid and been pried up and partially pulled away, exposing the legs of a skeleton. The path continued, but forked at the end. He was able to avoid making a decision, by virtue of the giant, sword-wielding skeleton, similar to the one in the Mortuary.

Morte dove and snapped at one of the leather straps. He struck hard with the limb, and Morte took the moment to dive again. Its sword glanced off of Morte’s side, dealing only a little damage. Morte attacked again, bouncing off of the sword onto the wall and then onto the floor. He threw the limb, it thumped onto the skull, knocking the skeleton down. He picked up the limb and walked down the main path. He entered into a room, filled with tables and skeletal guards.

He saw a mid-sized man in long robes of deep black. His hair was neatly coifed and an impeccably trimmed goatee complimented his handsome features. Noticing His arrival, he put down the book he was writing and strode confidently over to Him, smiling. “Impressive… I must admit, I never thought you would make it this far.”

“I’m glad to have disappointed you… are you the one responsible for all the walking dead?”

“Who I am is of no consequence to you. What I want is the question that should concern you most.” As he spoke, he looked Him up and down, as if somehow fascinated by Him.

“Very well… what do you want?”

He took a step back and cocked an eyebrow. “I want… your blood.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

The man started to answer, but stopped himself abruptly. An evil smile spread across his face and he began to laugh. “Yes… I suppose it is.” He continued to laugh even harder at his own, private joke. He noticed that his hands had begun to move at his sides. Slowly, the flitted back and forth, tracing intricate patterns in the air.

He and Morte both realized that it was magic, and that they had to keep him from casting. Morte used one of his many curses, and the man stopped and charged him. He pulled out the small piece of metal that he had pulled from Skeleton #42 and stabbed him, bringing him down for the eternal nap. No longer supported by magic, every undead creature in the Mausoleum fell toppling to the ground, dead and still once more.

He looked at the piece of steel. He instinctively knew that the razor sharp knife had been forged out of the famed Baatorian Green Steel. Found only in the wastelands of Avernus, the peculiar green ore could be tempered into metal much lighter than normal steel. In addition, Green Steel weapons tended to retain their remarkable find edges and were capable of dealing out more damage than their standard counterparts.

The man carried a scroll, a bracelet and a rusty dagger. The bracelet appeared to be quite common in Sigil. Various glyphs of warding had been meticulously carved along the surface, producing an almost hypnotic effect when looked at. He searched the room and found two more magic scrolls, a dagger and a diary.

The leather-bound tome was cracked and worn with age. Some sort of crest had been burned into the cover. He could make out a series of interlocking triangles centered about the initials SR. The writing upon its pages had faded considerably, but the last few entries seemed to have been penned recently.

Day 2 of the 127th Year of Factol Hashkar’s reign:

At last, I have found it! The missing page of the Ap’Tarj Grimoire is now in my possession. As I had guessed, the page detailed the necessary components for the casting of the final transformation spell. I have all but one of the components. A drop of an immortal’s blood is all that stands between me and the eternal power of lichdom. But where can I find such a rarity? Perhaps I should seek the answer through a divination.

Day 14 of the 127th Year of Factol Hashkar’s reign:

After days of taxing divination spells, I finally have my answers. The divinations revealed the location of an immortal to be somewhere within an ancient Mausoleum located in the Hive section of Sigil. I must make haste. I must find this creature and draw its blood before it moves on.

Day 15 of the 127th Year of Factol Hashkar’s reign:

I have arrived at the Mausoleum. Immediately, I was set upon by a shade that guards the remains of those interred within this place. I managed to elude the spirit and found my way into what appears to have been some sort of inner sanctum. Protected by some minor wards to prevent any further interruptions by that supernatural twit, I have set about raising some of the locals to conduct a search for the immortal. If the divination was accurate and the immortal is here, then likely it is interred within one of the many crypts that line these halls. It is only a matter of time now.

Day 17 of the 127th Year of Factol Hashkar’s reign:

I am not alone. Someone has entered the Mausoleum and is interfering with my servants. Could this be the one I seek? The divination revealed only that I would find the immortal here. Could it be that my presence in this place has prompted that which I seek to seek me out? What a delightful twist, I shall have to

The ink of the last entry was still wet.

As He stepped back into the corridor, the guardian spirit materialized before Him. Its ghostly countenance regarded Him benevolently. “I thank you. You have done me a great service. The spirits of my charges sleep quietly once again. Go in peace… friend.” The apparition faded away, leaving Him along in the deserted halls of the Mausoleum.

He returned to Norochj in the Gathering Dust Bar. He was pulling at one of the spikes of his hair, and using it to scratch a spot on his face. He couldn’t help but think he’d look a lot better with dreadlocks.

“I found out what was going on in the mausoleum. The dead sleep again.”

Norochj’s lines of worry smoothed our as He spoke. “Thanks give I.” He reached into his robes and drew forth a large bag, which he handed to Him. “Copper coin. Thrice a hundred. And…” He reached into his robe again, then threw a roll of bandages to Him. “Need these bandages more than I, you seem.”

“Thanks… glad I could help. Farewell.”

To the southeast was a large arch leading to another area of the Hive. The Smoldering Corpse area. He walked through the arch, eager to see what was on the other side.

Chapter VI: The Hive Part 2

Almost immediately He saw a pretty, young woman. Her hair was in disarray and the bodice of her dress was torn. She looked about in desperation and then noticed Him.

“Greetings.” He said.

She ran up to Him and grabbed His arm. He noticed the front of her dress was stained with blood. “Help me, cutter! Please! They’re killing my sister!” She began to tug on His arm.

“Who?”

She looked around wildly. “This drunken man who followed us from one of the taverns… we thought he meant no harm… please, cutter, there is no more time! Help us!”

Something didn’t seem entirely right with her story. “Wait, first you said they were killing your sister, and now you say he is killing her. Which is it?”

She stared at Him, unsure of what to say. “I… I’m distraught… I made a mistake.” She glanced at the blood that stained her dress. “Please help me, cutter!”

He glanced down at her dress and looked at the blood. Although it did appear to be real, it had completely dried. It must have been hours old, He reasoned.

“That blood is hours old… What are you up to?”

He saw her eyes flick to the bloodstains and then back to Him. He thought he could hear a hint of nervousness in her voice. “You are mistaken, cutter, please help me! My sister lies dying while we tarry!”

“I don’t have time for this, farewell.” He said, realizing that it must have been some sort of trap.

As He walked away the woman continued weeping and crying out.

Just north of Him was a tired-looking old man who was gazing at the ash-dead tree in front of him. He was mumbling to himself and tapping his chin, as if trying to figure something out. Occasionally, he shook his head sadly.

“Greetings…”

He seemed momentarily startled as He interrupted his train of thought. He spoke in a clam, unhurried tone, but one full of sadness. “Oh… greetings to you too, friend. How’s this day find you?”

He thought about it for a moment. One the one hand, He had no memories, a pocket full of coppers, no clothing and one friend to his name—a friend who just happened to be dead. But at the same time, it could have been worse. He couldn’t imagine how though. “Does it matter?”

The man was caught off-guard, but then nodded assent confidently. “Yes, friend, it does. To me, at least… though that doesn’t count for much, it seems.” He seemed about to turn back to the tree.

“Doesn’t count much? What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story… not something the casual passer-by would want to stand around for, I’m sure. Let’s just say that any efforts I’ve made to rouse the people here to actions have been… ignored.”

“What is it you had wanted the people to do?”

“I wanted them to… to…” He seemed exasperated, frustrated at his loss for words. “…to care. Is that so much, friend?” He looked at Him in earnest.

“Care about what?”

He patted the tree beside him. “It’s the trees, here, in the Hive. They’re dying, friend – and no one cares. “Seeing the look on His face, he held his hands up, as if to silence Him for a moment. “It may not matter to some, but it’s important to me. I feel it’s a shame to see the last tatters of life and beauty in this ward left, uncared for, to die. Can you understand that, friend?”

“Yes… you’re right, it’s a sad thing.”

He seemed surprised, and blurted out: “Really? Oh! I mean, wonderful! Perhaps you would…” He paused, and seemed suddenly suspicious. He recomposed himself, speaking in his usual, slow manner. “In any case, that’s good. I suppose you ‘have some questions for me, now.”

“No, not just yet. What is it you were going to ask?”

For the first time, the man seemed genuinely happy. Beaming, he explained: “It’s difficult for anything to survive here… just look around and you’ll see what I mean, friend. I’m not sure if it’s possible for the trees to thrive here, even if they somehow were to get enough light and clean water…”

“Go on…”

He nodded enthusiastically. “But if enough people care… really want them to live… I just know they’ll survive! They’ll turn green again, and flourish!”

“What? That makes no sense.”

He smiled knowingly, shaking his head. “You’re new here, I can see that now. You don’t understand how things work in Sigil, friend. Belief is everything here… everything!”

“You could be right.”

“I am right, I’m certain of it.” A sense of conviction surrounded him like an aura; he seemed so unlike the man He first spoke to. “That’s all I’d ask of you, friend… just care for them, hope for their recovery. In time, should enough people want it, it will come to pass. Can you do that for me, friend?”

“Yes, I’ll help.”

“Excellent, my friend, excellent! I thank you… you’ve given me back my confidence, my purpose. Perhaps I can find others like you, who’ll listen… perhaps we’ll make a difference. What about your companions, friend? Would you speak to them on my behalf?”

He turned to Morte. “Morte? What do you think?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, chief, sure – whatever you say.”

He didn’t buy it. “I’m serious, Morte. Can you make the effort?”

Morte looked at Him for a while, silently, then nodded. “Yeah, I can. If it’s that important to you, I’ll do it.

“Thanks.” He turned to the man again, “Could you answer a few questions?”

He nodded.

“Who are you?”

“I am called ‘Mourns-For-Trees’ by the people here, friend.”

“Why are all the trees dying?”

“Just look at your surroundings, friend. Can you imagine anything having an easy life here? And besides the wretched conditions, the dabus rarely come to this part of Sigil.”

“Why is that?”

“The Hive’s a dangerous place, but that’s not it… the dabus have the Lady watching over them, and no one’s foolish enough to tangle with her, friend. I suppose it’s really all on account of Fell.”

“Who is Fell?”

“Fell? He’s… ah… well, friend, I’ll just say he’s the only dabus that doesn’t serve the Lady. I don’t know the whole ‘dark’ of it, as they say, but he’s shunned by his fellows and lives here, alone, in the Hive. He runs a tattoo parlor, but most of Sigil is wary of the place.”

“Tell me about this tattoo parlor.”

“Fell’s parlor is only a few buildings east of here; it is marked with his personal symbol, a white oval pierced by a lightning bolt. I’ve never been there myself, friend, but as I understand it, he’s able to turn images from his speech – you know dabus speak in images, yes? Rebuses?”

“Yes, go on.”

He nodded. “So he’s somehow able to turn images from his speech into tattoos. Ad not just ordinary inkings, either – I’m told there’s magic about them, and more than just in their making. I don’t know much else about it, though.”

“So, what about the place is there to be wary of?”

“Well, friend, since he turned from the Lady, many people think it’s just a matter of time before her shadow falls on him. No one wants to be about when and if that happens, I’m sure.”

“You don’t have any idea how he came to be shunned?”

“Like I said, friend, I’m not too sure. I’ve only heard vague rumors about him being on the wrong side of the issue when some Power decided to butt heads with the Lady. You could always try and ask him, friend. I’m told he’s friendly enough, if not a little odd.”

“Some Power?”

“A deity, friend? A god? Normally the lady has no problems with the likes of them, as she keeps their lot out of Sigil entirely. His name was Aoskar, but I don’t know much else about the affair.”

“His name ‘was?’”

The man nodded gravely. “As I understand it, the Lady destroyed him. I wouldn’t forget that, if you were to ever consider messing about with her or her servants.”

“Oh. Farewell.”

He wandered eastward and came upon a wild-eyed man who was hunched over, barking and howling at the top of his lungs. Beneath his thick, matted hair, He could make out a series of strange tattoos… they ran the range from screaming faces, to bizarre geometric shapes, to what appeared to be lines of verse. He was almost naked, but the dirt and filth covering him gave him the semblance of modesty.

“Greetings.”

The man whirled on Him, and gave a low growl. He drew out the growl for a few seconds, then started barking violently at Him. In the distance, He could hear answering barks.

“I said, ‘Greetings.’”

The man’s barking ended with a snarl, and he leapt at Him!

“If this is how you want to die, wolf man…”

The man tore at Him with his claws, making a gash across His torso. He struck with his Green Steel knif; drawing blood from the shoulder, but in that moment the man was able to make another gash upon Him. He jabbed again with His knife, but the man caught His arm and bit into it. Morte quickly bobbed towards them, and He hoped that would even things out. Morte bobbed into the man’s temple and struck him, killing him in one instant. As He caught His breath, he noticed the gashes and bite-marks already starting to seal up.

There was more than one of them, and the second thug strolled up to Him. The man jabbed his dagger, but it tumbled out of his loose grip and fell onto the ground. He managed to jab him with His knife as the man bent down to pick it up. The man made another move with his dagger, but He was prepared and stabbed him when he saw that brief opening.

Yet another one rushed at them. He stabbed with His knife, but missed completely. “Damn…” he muttered under his breath. The man turned and ran for a few seconds, before turning and lunging at Morte, who tumbled out of the way. Morte bit into his arm, drawing blood, and the man bashed on Morte with his knife, forcing him to let go. The man punched Morte, who took the moment to spin and smash into the man’s face, killing him. He suddenly realized that these were the “Starved Dogs Barking” that Sev’Tai had asked Him to kill. He smiled; He had completed the job.

He wandered to the south, taking in the sights, the sounds and regrettably, the smells. He saw a wild-eyed man, hunched over, snarling and giving low growls. It looked like he hadn’t trimmed his hair in years… it was so long it formed a veil over his eyes. He had a long, stringy moustache caked with grease and sweat, and the tips of the moustache drooped so much that they had become tangled in his ragged beard.

“Greetings.”

The man stopped in mid-snarl, and he reached up to part the curtain of hair that covered his eyes. As his withered hand pulled away his dirty locks, several strange, puce-colored bugs fell from his hair and scattered across the cobbles. Behind the cloak of hair, the man’s flesh was moon-pale and creased with wrinkles. His thick, bushy eyebrows formed a ‘V’ as he stared at Him. “Hand, my take th’ moon fly, toooo?”

He tilted His head to one side, as if studying him.

The man frowned, but his eyebrows tilted upwards in a reverse ‘V’, creating a bizarre expression. He had no idea how he accomplished the facial expression, but it made Him uncomfortable watching the muscles beneath his face shift into the new pattern. He couldn’t tell whether he was angry, curious, both or neither. “Singed kisssspeak a man, answersss pre-fur a wood woman heart.”

“Uh, not today. I had some questions…”

The man threw his head back and howled. It was such a terrible sound that He was forced to cover His ears, the howl seemed to grow into a shrieking, drilling into His head, slipping inside His ears, burrowing beneath the skin, then crawling along the inside of His skull and eating the shreds of His sanity. The sound was so unbearable, He couldn’t even muster the strength to speak.

“Well, that’s one tree with a snapped branch too many.” Morte rolled his eyes. “No sense in chatting with Xaositects, chief. They’re a barmy bunch.”

“Xaositects?”

“They’re a ‘faction’ who don’t have any rules… except don’t keep one thought in their head for too long. They’re sometimes called ‘Chaosmen.’ No need to explain why.”

“How do they get members?”

“They just seem to attract members like flies… well, members that are crazy or chaotic enough, I suppose. I don’t think they have any recruiters… though you really can’t say anything about them for sure.”

“I see.”

He turned back to respond to the man, thinking about what he had said before the howl. “’A single kiss speaks a woman’s heart, but a man’s answer is what you would prefer?’ Very well, then, but know this: my answer is a question, and an answer from you is what I would prefer.”

The man seemed mesmerized by His voice. With every word He spoke, a light flickered in his eyes. “Barking Wilder Am-I, I-Am! A-Wanting, Asking-A, May-You, You-May?”

“I’m looking for a lost journal. Do you know where I might find one?”

He frowned, squinted his eyes shut, the opened them back up. When he spoke again, his voice was level and straightforward… it was like a different, saner, person was speaking. The effect was eerie. “More than one lost, more than one must you find. Each part of you had one, so more than one must you find.” He blinked and shook his head for a moment, as if surprised at himself, then chuckled uneasily.

“Can you tell me where at least one of them is?”

He looked like he was about to object, then suddenly his left fist came up and smacked him in the temple. He howled in response, then suddenly stopped, blinking. “One is in a cupboard in your guest room in the hall of the Sensates, and another is on the walls of a tomb sealed deep beneath the city where the stones weep. They others are…” Before he could finish, his right fist cane up and smashed him in the face, causing him to yowl again. He blinked and shook his head for a moment, as if surprised at himself, then smiled uneasily.

“Hall of the Sensates? Where’s that?”

Barking-Wilder held up his hands… he didn’t seem to recall what he just said.

“You said one was in a sarcophagus beneath the city? Where?”

Barking-Wilder looked frightened for a moment, then pointed upwards with a hopeful expression. “Uh… there?” He gulped. He didn’t seem to know, and for some reason, He believed him.

“Where are those other journals you mentioned?”

Barking-Wilder shrugged, watching Him warily. “Other places maybe?” He gulped.

“Forget it, then. I’ll try and find them on my own.”

He wandered a bit farther to the south, and found the entrance into what seemed to be the central building for the area. The sign advertised it as the Smoldering Corpse Bar. The inside was large, larger than the Gathering Dust. It had two levels and the floor was grilled. At intervals along the floor were vents that blew incredibly hot air up from the furnaces below. In the center was a large vent. Suspended over it was a man wreathed in flame.

((Whoo. Tomorrow we introduce two new main character. As of tomorrow there will have been four characters that will eventually be a part of the Nameless One's party, though two of them will be delayed a bit.))

Chapter VII: The Smoldering Corpse

He wandered a bit farther to the south, and found the entrance into what seemed to be the central building for the area. The sign advertised it as the Smoldering Corpse Bar. The inside was large, larger than the Gathering Dust. It had two levels and the floor was grilled. At intervals along the floor were vents that blew incredibly hot air up from the furnaces below. In the center was a large vent. Suspended over it was a man wreathed in flame.

The crackling, billowing creature twisted slowly above the iron grill upon the floor of the bar. It may have once been human, but now its skin was charred beyond recognition. Streams of fire formed a wreath around the creature’s body, and the flames licked at the few remaining pockets of flesh, causing them to bubble and run like wax down the creature’s skeletal frame.

“Greetings…?”

The thing made no response. It writhed slowly within the flames – it lived, but it did not seem aware of anything other than the fire that surrounded it. Its skin was flame, and He knew, within some shadowed corner of His memory, that this thing was dangerous.

The head surrounding the… creature… was incredible. To His surprise, the iron grill the creature floated above had sagged and bent from the heat. At first He thought the heat came from the grill… but now He realized it emanated from the creature. As He watched, flecks of ash drifted from the writhing corpse and floated slowly to the ceiling.

There was a woman next to the burning man, with fading bruises on her face and arms and a look of despairing longing in her sunken eyes. She might have been pretty once, but those days were long ago. She turned slowly to face Him. Life poured into her features, and the spark of sardonic light that danced in her eyes made Him wonder if His eyes were deceiving Him. “Welcoming to the Smoldering Corpse, scarred man.”

“Who are you?”

“I? I am Drusilla. And you must be clueless. Don’t ask me how I know that. It just shines off you.”

“Clueless? I think not.”

She smirked at Him, and her bruises seemed almost to fade. “Whatever you say, dearie.”

“Whatever. Have you seen a journal? I’ve lost mine and…”

“A journal? Oh, sure. I’ve kept an eye out for all stray journals. Just in case some scarred man walks into my favorite bar and starts asking about it. Do you ask that of everyone you meet? What a fascinating life.”

“You have a smart mouth on you, don’t you?”

“Aye, a smart mouth for a smart head. I ain’t the addle-cove you might think, sod. I got a brain on me.”

“What can you tell me about this place?”

“Here? This is the Smoldering Corpse, though the person smoldering ain’t dead yet. He’s just keepin’ himself alive ‘til someone comes along to help him out. Sods who like to see people in pain come here. Fiends like it. Folks who don’t care much for bein’ bothered come here too… the name alone keeps out most of the berks.”

“Who is he anyway?”

That despair that He saw on her face before flitted across it again like a black-winged shadow before she mastered herself. “That’s Ignus, one of the greatest wizards ever to come out of this slummy excuse for a cesspool. They caught him and they opened a channel to the plane of fire through him, and now he’s just a doorway for it, keepin’ himself alive by force o’ will alone. If someone could douse him for a few moments, it’d give him his life back again – but they don’t make enough water to do that."

“What’s your connection to him?”

Her voice practically throbbed with a deep ache: “I was Ignus’ lover and he, my beloved. He love the flame more than me and now he has become the flame – and because I love him, I love the flame… but that’s all done with now. Now I wait for him to douse himself. I sell what little I have just so I can be near him.”

“Very well. I’m looking for a Collector by the name of Pharod. Have you seen or heard of him?”

“Pharod?” she snickered. “The Collector King? You can probably find him and his stinking ilk in the trash warrens on the far side of the Hive. Good luck in getting any answers from him – he’s a sly devil, he is.”

“I understand. Farewell.”

He walked to the second level and saw a man sitting by himself at a table. The man was old. His dry, yellow skin had the scars of one who had traveled everywhere and never rested long in any one place. His pinched face was inhumanly angular, and his ears wept out from his skull, tapering to points. He wore a loose-fitting orange tunic, and a strange, shimmering blade was strapped across his back. The blade looked to be a two-pronged glaive, made of some metal whose surface swirled like a film of oil on a pond.

“Greetings.”

The man turned to Him, his eyes like polished coal. He stared through Him, and for a moment, He wondered if he might be blind. The weapon suddenly turned a dead, flat black, mirroring the man’s eyes.

“Are you all right?”

He said nothing for a moment, merely searched His face with his eyes. “Hail… traveler.” His voice was quiet and somber, like a wind whispering through the branches of a great tree.

“Hail.”

The man met His gaze, his eyes burrowing into His. His weapon drained of its black color, resuming its shimmering that He noticed before He spoke to him. “Your eyes have the weight of one who has traveled far to be in this place.”

“You could say that.”

The man’s gaze did not waver from His. “I am known as Dak’kon.” The emphasis he placed on the word known struck Him as odd… yet familiar at the same time. “You… are not known to me.”

“I do not know myself.”

“That is for the best. In knowing yourself, there would be little in the Planes left worth knowing.” He fell silent for a moment, still studying Him with his coal-black eyes. “I would know why you have come to this city.”

“I’m looking for answers… I have many questions.”

“Speak your questions. I will hear you.”

“Your features are… unfamiliar to me. What are you?”

“A githzerai.”

“A githzerai?”

“A githzerai is one of the People.”

“One of the people?”

“A githzerai.”

“Yes, but what are the githzerai, exactly?”

Dak’kon was silent for a moment, then spoke. “Our history does not need to be made known to you. We would bleed to death on time’s blade before I recited a fraction of the histories of our People.”

“I don’t need to know your histories… but I would know of your people as they are now.”

Dak’kon was silent for a moment. “Know this and accept it as an answer: We are the People who make our home upon the shifting plane of Limbo.” With a deft motion, Dak’kon slipped the blade from his back and held it before him.

“There, we mold the matter of Limbo with our minds. We forge cities with our thoughts.” As He watched, a series of rippling waves of metal began to roll forth from the center of the blade. The pitch and crest of the waves matched the inflections in Dak’kon’s voice. “In its chaos we dwell, with only our knowing to preserve us. We are the githzerai.”

“What is that blade you have… it moved, shifted in response to your voice.”

“It is a karach blade. It is an object that lets others know the rank of the wielder.”

“Karach? What does that mean?”

Dak’kon fell silent for a moment, as if searching for the correct words. “In your tongue, the closest translation is ‘chaos matter.’ The People may shape it with their thoughts.”

“Move it with their thoughts?”

“Karach is not shaped by heat, but by knowing oneself. It is a mirror that reflects the will of the wielder on its surface and in its edge. When one knows themselves, the blade is strong – harder and stronger than steel. When one does not know themselves, the blade is as water – formless and weak.”

“What rank does the blade signify?”

“The blade is a symbol carried by the zerth. A zerth is one who knows the words of Zerthimon. In knowing the words of Zerthimon, they know themselves.”

“Zerthimon?”

“Zerthimon founded our race. He knew the githzerai before they knew themselves. He defined the People. He gave them one mind.”

“You seem to place a special emphasis on ‘knowing.’ What do you mean?”

“All things, whether structure or flesh – their existence is defined by their knowing of themselves.”

“And if a man does not know himself?”

“When a mind does not know itself, it is flawed. When a mind is flawed, the man is flawed. When a man is flawed, that which he touches is flawed. “Dak’kon paused. “It is said that what a flawed man sees, his hands make broken.”

“Do you know yourself?”

Dak’kon fell silent. His coal black eyes took on the same distance that He noticed when he first spoke.

He decided to change the subject. “Can you tell me about this city?”

“It is known by the name ‘Sigil.’ Among the People, it is known as the city that does not know itself.”

“It doesn’t know itself? What do you mean?”

“The city exists, but it does not know itself. In not knowing itself, its existence is flawed.”

“How is it flawed?”

“The city exists in opposition to itself. It has set itself apart from the planes, yet it seeks to be everywhere at once. Its walls are doors, yet it keeps these doors locked. Such an existence tells of a thing that does not know itself. In not knowing itself, it is flawed.

“What if the city is not flawed, and you just do not know the reasons for the contradictions? There is order in everything. Perhaps there is an underlying pattern that you cannot perceive.”

“To your questions, a question: What if the city is flawed, and you see its contradictions all around you?”

“To your question, a question: You claim this city’s existence is flawed. You have accepted this rather than explore the possibility that something greater may exist. This suggests you are flawed… and that you do not search for knowledge, but only for a convenient answer.”

Dak’kon fell silent. “There is no knowing the answer to the questions we have asked. Yet the city exists. That is all.”

“Yet I would maintain that we know ourselves by the questions we ask and the ones we do not. If we cease asking questions and accept only what we can perceive…”

“Then we will cease to know ourselves.” Dak’kon’s voice had changed slightly, become heavier. “Such words have been spoken before. I have heard them and know them.”

“Where have you heard them?”

“The words are mine. Once, I knew them and knew their meaning. I had forgotten them until you spoke.” Dak’kon’s gaze traveled through Him, and his blade stopped shimmering, bleeding of all color until it was translucent. There was a moment of silence, then Dak’kon looked up at Him. “I would travel your path with you.”

“I accept. An extra blade would be welcome.”

“Your path is mine.” Strangely enough, his voice seemed distant, and it echoed, as if he was speaking from across a great distance.

“Very well. Dak’kon, I had some questions about githzerai language. Can you teach me the ways in which your people speak?”

“Know that the speech of the People has its foundations in history. All things are as a story to us; metaphor is a tool, and an inspiration to the strength. Know that when we speak of Toryg’s table, we remember that Toryg was noted for his hospitality and good will. When we speak of Selqant’s heart, we recall the lecherous and cruel nature of Selqant.”

“I understand. Will you teach me?”

Dak’kon taught Him some of the common forms of speech: A wise man is said to have “wrote the book of the Anarchs,” while to accuse another of treason is to remember “Vilquar’s Eye.” It is said of generous people that their “cupboards are bare.” Common greetings include “Hail, sword-ringer,” and “Zerchai’s kin bow to you” – to which one should respond, “And the traveler is pleased.” Dak’kon was a skilled teacher; after his instructions, He felt capable of exchanging proper greetings with other githzerai.

To the south he saw two men talking at a table. He approached them. The first was a soft-looking man with gentle far-staring eyes. He dressed in supple leather clothing, and carried various implements of use and destruction about his body, such as ropes, spike, tinderboxes, and empty vials of air. He looked half-gone – literally. There was an insubstantiality to his existence, as if his essence had partially been leeched away. He focused those eyes on Him, and suddenly He found them gripping and determined. “Greetings to you, o seeker.”

“Greetings.”

He carefully set down the mug he was holding, and gave Him all his attention. “I have seen the far reaches of the multiverse and returned to tell the tale. I have walked upon the bodies of dead gods and spun moonbeams in the Astral ahead of a thousand shrieking githyanki knights. I have passed the edges of existence and watched my essence shiver away before me. What is it I can do for you?”

“I had some questions for you.”

“Perhaps I have answers for you. Speak, and I shall tell you.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Candrian Illborne, traveler, dreamer, talespinner, and so forth.”

“You are a traveler? Tell me of the planes.”

“I am tired, seeker, so tired… I am fresh back from negation. I will answer what I can for you, but I cannot promise that you will find satisfaction in the answers I give. What would you know? Would you hear of the Outer Planes, the Prime Material, or the Inner Planes?”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is true essence, seeker. The Inner Planes are matter, substance, true physicality. They are the building blocks of the multiverse, for it is from them that all belief in the elements springs. The Inner Planes filter through the Ethereal Plane – the plane of potential, some say, which forms the elements into the worlds of mortals. Once past the Ethereal Plane, one reaches the Prime Material, where exist all manner of mortals and monsters and myths and machines. It is there that belief is born, and there that the sprits that create the Outer Planes are born. When mortals die, they pass through the Astral Plane, a no-place that is thought and mental energy itself. It is in all things, and in none. It is paradox, among other things, and it filters spirits into the Great Ring. Do you comprehend so far?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Now… the Outer Planes… Where should I start? Do you know the cardinal rules of the planes, on which all others are based? Do you know about the composition of the Outer Planes? Do you know of the Great Ring, and its divisions in our hearts? Do you know of the individual planes? Each of these leads to the next, and so it is best to start from the beginning.”

“Tell me of the composition of the planes.”

“The Outer Planes are created of and by belief and thought and faith. They take their imagined form from the Prime Material Plane, shaped into forms that stagger the imagination, built by the accumulation of belief. Belief creates the planes. Belief is power here. Change belief, and you can change the nature of reality. The creatures that are born here – the planeborn, like the fiends and the celestials – are truly borne of the thoughts and concepts of mortals. They each express some sort of ideal, and the more powerful the ideal, the more powerful the being – thus, the being that symbolizes love is one of the strongest of all.”

“Go on.”

“That’s why the powers – gods, some call them – live out here. This is where all the faith in them comes – this is where they are at their most pure and most strong. Their realms are extensions of their very beings, manifestations of their godly essence, all of it informed by belief.”

“So the composition of the planes is belief? Tell me of the Great Ring now.”

“Among the loose unity of planewalkers, we conceive of the infinite Outer Planes as a ring surrounding the plane of ultimate neutrality – the Outlands. The spire atop which Sigil sits is in the centre of the Outlands. The further one travels away from the Spire, the less neutral the plane grows, until it spills into the neighboring planes. Each of these planes impinges on the Outlands, spinning themselves into Law and chaos, good and evil. The Great Road marks the demarcation between the Outlands and the gate-towns that spring up around the gates to these planes. Beyond the gate towns lie the Hinterlands, uncharted territory that is lost to history, that loses thought. Danger lies in the Hinterlands.”

“Go on.”

“The Outer Planes differ by morality, not substance. For you, we’ll divide the planes into three sets: The Upper Planes of Good, the Lower Planes of Evil, and the Boundary Planes of Neutrality. These are then divided further by Law and Chaos, with the Outlands in the middle. Which of these interest you?”

“The Upper Planes.”

“Of the Upper Planes there are the neutral planes, the lawful planes and the chaotic planes. What would you know?”

“The neutral planes.”

“The neutral upper planes contain the Beastlands, a place of neutrality and goodness, with a slight tinge of chaos, where the animals rule in the eternal noon and night. They hold Bytopia, twin paradise of industry and labor, where all work toward the good of all, and Elysium, the sweetest plane of goodness and calm I have ever come across. Alas, right now I ma not well enough to enjoy any of their restorative effects. What would you hear of now?”

“The lawful ones.”

Candrian gave a small shudder. “I am not the best person to speak of the planes of law,” he said, “for the innate structure and ultimate patterns they impose frighten me. I steer clear of them, because I value my individuality more than I value the knowledge they’ll bring me. They include regimented Arcadia, nearest of the good planes to the unbending border of Mecanus, and Mount Celestia, home of the archons, an island in the Silver Sea.”

“Tell me about the chaotic ones.”

“These are where I feel at home, though I steer clear of Ysgard, for the most part – the endless battles and tests of mettle among the floating earthbergs of the plane don’t do much for my disposition. Arborea, though…” He sighed. “The mountains are taller, the air clearer, the rivers purer, and the game larger than anywhere else. It is a true paradise, a place where passions run high and the wine never ceases to flow. When I have recovered enough of my wits and myself – when we have done with the Outer Planes, you should ask me of the Inner and I will describe my journey to you – I will return to Arborea’s bowers and glades and lose myself for a time.”

“What about the Lower Planes?”

“Like the Upper Planes, the Lower Planes are divided into lawful, chaotic, and neutral. Each of them varies in terms of horrors and what those horrors do to a traveler’s spirit, and all of them are best avoided. Which of them would you like to hear of?”

“The neutral planes.”

“The neutral planes, eh? They’re vile and barely understandable, and they’re more insidious on their own than you could ever imagine. Take Gehenna, for example: Four volcanoes in stages of dormancy floating in an infinite void, each of them somehow alive, and each of them wanting your soul by whatever means they can get it. Populate it with yugoloths – the worst of the fiends, in my opinion, and you’ve got the place. The plane of ultimate evil – at least, that’s what they call it – is the Gray Waste, a no-place that drains color from your body and spirit, stealing away even your apathy – and it’s the site of the worst battlegrounds in the war down there. Don’t get me started… then you’ve got Carceri on the chaotic side…”

“Tell me about the war.”

“Aye, the Blood War.” At the name, His blood felt as if it froze in His veins. Illborne didn’t seem to notice, wrapped up as he was in his memories. “Two armies of fiends smashing together pointlessly across the Lower Planes, slaughtering mindlessly in the name of law and chaos. They’ll aggrandize it, of course, but in the end, it’s about hate and stupid endeavor that aids none and harms far too many.”

“Tell me about Carceri.”

“Ah, Carceri and its poisonous jungles, acid swamps, destructive waters, string like a string of rotten pearls nestles within on another...” He paused and looked at Him carefully, again fixing Him in place with his eyes. “Remember this, seeker: Carceri is a prison, home to the gehreleths, one of the most dangerous types of fiends there is. The strength of the prison is the strength of the captor, as strong as the prisoner lets it be. Destroy the prisonkeeper, and a body can escape the Red Prison. There is almost no other way out, not when the gates close themselves against you and watch you spin off into the vast space surrounding the orbs. Be wary of Carceri, traveler, for its bonds can be greater than flesh.”

“What about the lawful planes, then?”

“As much as I detest the order of the lawful Upper Planes, at least they present a modicum of goodness. Their lower planar counterparts, though… Acheron’s a place of ricocheting cubes that never see an end to battle, swarming with the souls of dead humanoids. “Baator…” he shivered involuntarily. “Baator is a place best avoided. Those baatezu – the fiends in the corner there – are but the merest expression of the deviant corruption embodied in that soulless machine of order. If you want more, talk to them, but remember: All that is bad about bureaucracy and order originates from Baator, and it spreads like a stain across the hearts of mortals. Thought there is some knowledge to be found there, it is rarely worth the spiritual rape the plane inflicts.”

“And the Chaotic ones?”

“The Abyss isn’t someplace you should consider going. Where Baator’s all orderly, the Abyss is full of chaos and change, and none of it’s pleasant. When it becomes something that approximates normality, that’s when you should be the most wary of it. It’s home to the tanar’ri, what most primes call ‘demons’, and they’ve got that name for a reason. They are unpredictable and murderous, and the few you can trust are few and far between. The few I have met who I’d trust, I still don’t trust entirely – they are creatures of chaos and evil incarnate, and if they’re putting on a friendly face, who’s to say it’s not part of a larger agenda?”

“Tell me about the Boundary Planes.”

“There are two Boundary Planes to my mind, and they are diametrically opposed. One of them, Mechanus, is the very essence of law, a place where beliefs fits together, interlocking, turning, in a massive machine that is the entire plane. Some folks’d have it that the gears of Mechanus are the engine that drives the planes. The other place is Limbo, a swirling morass of Chaos that follows no rules, none, and just when a body thinks he’s classified its behavior, it goes and changes on him – or it doesn’t. You just can’t tell. I was in limbo not too long ago…”

“Tell me of your journey…”

He closed his eyes, remembering: “I had a githzerai guide with me, an anarch who could shape the illogical matter of the plane into forms of his desire. We had fought off the harrying of the slaadi, the chaos-creatures who call that plane home. It seemed there were more than usual, but then one can never tell what’s ‘usual’ in Limbo… but I digress. In the midst of all this chaos, we came across a series of huge, metal, interlocking cubes, like some sort of puzzle box. It wasn’t something we had shaped, consciously or not, and we couldn’t find a way inside. It was like… like a bastion or order within the confines of disorder, a seed of law. That is the best I can explain it.”

“Tell me of the Inner Planes.”

He sighed, as if this reminded him of his bone-deep weariness. “Think of the Inner Planes as a globe. On the top pole you have the Positive Material Planes. On the bottom, you have the Negative Material.” He paused. “Remind me to tell you of the Negative.” His eyes turned inward, to some private horror. “From the interaction between the two springs all of the urge for existence and non-existence, death and life, actuality and nothing. From them spring the basic elemental planes – like Fire, Water, Air, and Earth – the para-elemental planes that lie between the four basic elements, and the quasi-elemental planes that come from the interactions of the four elements with the Positive and Negative.”

“Tell me of the negative Material Plane.”

His eyes clouded over. “I went to the Inner Planes to discover my true essence. I made the mistake of visiting the Negative Material Plane in order to understand my body’s urge to decay and the cycle of death in life. I thought myself protected against the ill effects of the plane with my magic, but I was wrong. The blackness of infinite nothing pressed on my soul, and I was beset by shadows that sought to snuff out my very soul. I lost my way for a time – for an eternity – and nearly lost my existence. I could feel my essence falling away from me, and m even now half-gone. Never will I return.”

“How did you survive?”

“How did I survive?” He smiled tightly. “With a piece of nothing that held back the nothing. Nothing can stop nothing, you know, and so I carried nothing in my hand to protect me. Do you plan to journey to the ultimate negation yourself? You have the smell of desperation about you, and so I make you this gift. Hold it in your hand when the shadows press in, and it should protect you and your friends somewhat, should they remain close to you. Heh.” He passed Him a small, black, token that looked as if it had no dimensionality to it all.

“Thanks. Tell me of the Prime Material.”

“You want to know of the Prime, visit it. The boundless worlds of that plane have an infinite variety, as do the planes, but I cannot encapsulate them as I have here. Suffice it to say that they are the birth of the Outer Planes, the children of the Inner, and they hold limitless potential within their boundaries.”

“What is this place?”

“Unless the cosmos has shifted or we have been spun into the Mazes, I would say that we’re in the Smoldering Corpse tavern.”

“Mazes? What do you mean?”

“Aye, the Mazes, where the Lady dumps those who’ve displeased her.” He made a small semi-circle over his heart as he spoke the Lady’s name. “If you’d know more of the Lady and the city, find a tout or some such guide.”

“I met a woman named Ingress with very bad teeth. She said she had come through a portal from some world hat was opened by a tune hummed near two crossed trees. Can you get her home?”

He paused briefly, thinking. “I know the portal of which you speak, though I have not traveled it these thirty years gone. I will take her home, seeker. Go tell her to await my arrival, then meet me back here, and I will tell you if I was successful or not.

“Thanks. Farewell.”

He returned to the area where He had found Ingress running around. She was huddled inside her cloak of dirty rags, her teeth chattering. She was glancing furtively about her, as if expecting to be attacked at any moment.

“Greetings, Ingress.”

“Eh? You!” She squinted at Him. “What issit y’wanta me now?! Y’wanta me t’leave? Not leaving this city, so I’m not. I can’t, tried, it’s not a city, it’s a prison t’everywhere.”

“Ingress, I found someone who can take you back to your home plane.”

Ingress fell silent. “I wanta go. Wanta leave this place.”

“His name is Candrian. He should be along shortly to help you… trust him, all right?”

Ingress said nothing, merely nodded quietly, her teeth chattering inside her mouth.

“I’ll go back and meet Candrian at the Smoldering Corpse Bar and make sure everything turned out all right. Be strong, Ingress.”

As long as He was there, he figured He would talk to Sev’Tai.

“You again…” The woman turned to face Him, her lips peeling back in a snarl. “You have news for Sev’Tai?”

“I found the starved Dogs Barking and penned three of them in the dead book.”

“The Powers be not blind in their justice this day!” The woman reached into her spider-like hair and drew forth a copper earring. “Here you are. A pretty bit it should fetch. Tis worth thirty-three coppers at least, I’m sure. It belonged to one of me sisters… but she won’t be needing it anymore.”

“Very well. Good-bye, Sev’Tai.”

Candrian stood as He approached him back at the bar, “The tooth woman wanted you to have these,” he said, holding out his hand. “She wanted to express her thanks, even out the balance book as it were, and be done with the damned things.” In the palm of his hand were Ingress’ dancing teeth and he smoothly deposited them into His hand. “Enjoy them, seeker.”

He helped Morte put the teeth in his mouth. They were slightly enchanted, and so made a better weapon. They chattered and jiggled and came to a stop.

Next to Candrian was the other man He had seen earlier. He saw a slightly stooped old man with a full grey beard and a lion’s mane of grey hair. He wore a couple of shoulder guards as armor, and he kept a helmet nearby. He smoked a pipe and carried a pouch of tobacco around his waist. He looked pretty strong, but he was a little plump and also appeared to have some sort of breathing trouble. “Well, now, aren’t you a sight, lad! Never have I seen so many scars blanketing a fella – like a scar cloak ye’re wearing! Where you been – hanging out in a grain thresher?!” He laughed. “Oh, I’m just jesting with ye, lad, no offense meant and I hope no offense taken. I’m Ebb.” He extended his hand.

“Greetings, Ebb.”

His handshake was firm. “Now, I hereby tender my apologies for the unfair jesting, lad. Hope no hard feelings; can I buy you a tankard or two of something to smooth any ruffled feathers?”

“Why not?”

“That’s the sprit, lad! Bide a moment.” He rose to his feet and headed to the bar. After a moment, he returned to his seat with a pair of tankards. “Here you go, lad. Drink up!” He took a massive swallow from his own tankard, puffed on his pipe, and said, “What can ol’ Ebb do for you on this fine Sigil day?”

“I had some questions about this place.”

“Oh, well I gathered that, jest to look at you. I mean, you don’t look like you’re from around these parts, lad… you look a little too out of sorts to be a seasoned native!” Ebb chuckled, then took another drink. “So what can I help you with, lad? You need to know the lay of the land?” Ebb winked.

“Yes. Tell me how this city and its environs work.”

Ebb laughed loudly. “You don’t think small, do ye? If you want to know what’s outside the city, go talk to Candrian Illborne over there – he’s the traveler of this place. As for the rest of it, well… I can tell you of the Lady, the dabus, keys and portals, the way we keep track of time, the way the city’s laid out… What was it y’wanted to know?”

“Tell me of the Lady.”

“Well, no, not many know much about her, lad, and I’m figuring even those that know more than a little don’t know too much more. She’s a mystery, she is, and even should you run across her… Powers forbid… she’s silent and deadly. She’s not evil, far’s I can tell, but she keeps the dark about herself and Sigil pretty tight. None’s been able to penetrate it, and I they have, they’ve been mazed.”

“Mazed? What do you mean?”

“Aye. Sometimes bloods will be packed off to a place where they can’t do no harm. The Lady, see, she’ll take a bit of Sigil, and make a little dimensional pocket out of it, a maze. She places those that have crossed her in there and lets ‘em rot.” Ebb puffed his pipe. “Now… you can’t escape getting mazed once the Lady sets her gaze on you, lad. She’ll get you eventually, no matter how had you try and dodge her. You’ll be walking down an alley, or about to step through a portal, or take a left turn down a street you’ve gone manifold times before, and suddenly you’re someplace you don’t recognize. Now, mazes aren’t escape-proof. There’s always a way out of each one… a portal the Lady places there. You just have ta figure out where it is and how to use it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, anyway chances are you won’t meet her unless ya do something really bad… Hurting a lot of people, killing a dabus, challenging her rule, worshipping her… She hates that, we figure, or interfering with a dabus’ work (which may as well be the Lady’s work)… If you’re lucky, just the Mercykillers will come for you, but if she comes, you’ll be dead as soon as her shadow falls on you.”

“Please continue.”

“Now, the Lady can do almost anything in Sigil, lad, near as we can figure. Make it bigger or smaller, make new portals, seal off old ones, make sure the Blood War don’t break out in the streets, keep folks from teleporting into the city, keeping the Powers out.”

“Who are the powers?”

“It’s another way of saying Gods, lad. And there’s a great horde of them across the Planes.” Ebb took a puff from his pipe. “They can’t some to Sigil, though… the Lady has a way of keeping them out that she hasn’t spilled the chant to yet. Be that as it may, it’s kept Sigil from being seized by outside interests.”

“Tell me of the dabus.”

“Aye, those funny floating bloods that speak in symbols?” Ebb laughed. “Quite a piece of work, eh? The dabus are kind of the Lady’s janotirs and workmen, doing exactly what she wants, make sure Sigil’s running up to snuff, patching walls, tearing down old building, building new ones, setting up portals, sealing off others, and on and on. They’re a pretty neutral-faring bunch, and you don’t want to interfere with one or kill one, or you’ll bring the Lady’s wrath down on you right quick.”

“How do you keep time in this place?”

“The way we measure time in Sigil’s by the brightness of the sky. See, we haven’t got a sun or a moon like most worlds – we just got this everlasting haze that brightens and darkens at regular cycles. What most folks call midnight, we call anti-peak. What they call noon, we call peak. See, it’s based on the peak and anti-peak of the brightness. So when someone says something about ‘five hours past peak’, that’s what they mean.”

“What’s the layout of the city?”

“Whew. Let me wet my tongue.” He took a pull from his tankard. “The city floats above an infinitely tall spire – the Spire. It lies on its side like a discarded wagon wheel, but there’s no spokes that connect it to the Spire. It’s divided into six wards, each of them with its own function. Right now, you’re in the Hive. I think the purpose of the Hive is to be squalor to the rest of the city’s grandeur!” He laughed. “Factions – philosophical clubs, or gangs if you prefer – divide up the running of the city between ‘em.”

“Go on.”

“The city’s call the crossroads of the planes and the City of Doors and the Cage. It’s got portals to all o’ creation, they say, and all manner of beasties come through here to trade, call kip, or hop from one place to another. Now, that’s just the quick version, lad; you’ll have to experience the place for yourself.”

“Were you in a faction?”

Ebb raised his hand as if to stop Him and laughed slightly. “Oh, now, hold on, lad – I’m no has-been faction member… they say, and they’re right, that once ye’re one of the Harmonium, ye’re a Harmonium for life. We’re the bloods that try and make sure Sigil stays outta trouble. No rocking the spire, no folks getting too over-enthusiastic about hurting each other, keeping the city down to a low roar. We try and keep the peace, lad, and mosttimes, we do a decent job.”

“Thanks and farewell.”

Near the bar was a trim, muscular man, dressed in clothing that was comparatively drab and mundane compared to most of the outfits He’d seen in the city. He carried himself with an air of supercilious arrogance. He also looked dramatically out of place there. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Who are you?”

“I am Alais, warrior of renown! Surely you have heard of me?”

He decided that lying would only make things worse. “No.”

“Can it truly be? Can it truly be that none in this town have heard of me or my exploits? Alas… I shall have to prove myself all over again. And here I had thought my fame had spread across the world.”

“What world are you from?”

“I come from the city of Aliburn on the river Taime. Surely you have heard of its glories and wonder? No matter, no matter… this place is benighted and ignorant when it comes to the splendors of true cities. I am told that my land is what is called a ‘prime’ by the denizens of this city – though a prime of what, I don’t know.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was chasing my old foe, the villainous life-shade Tir Tanelel…” He paused, waiting for acknowledgement, and then continued. “He conjured his demonic magic and opened himself a doorway, and hurled himself through it. Before he could flee me entirely, I threw myself after him… and found myself here.”

“So, do you know any of the patrons here?”

“I have met only the elderly Ebb Creakknees, who has been instructing me in the ways of the city and the ‘plains’. My foe’s spell must have catapulted us far across the world, for I know of no plains near our former location.”

“No, no… Planes. As in planes of existence. They are planes of the imagination, of thought and belief. They are not physical prairies or grasslands, but other dimensions.

A look of confusion passed across his face. “I… I understand. What the old man said is starting to make sense… excuse me. I must think this over. Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

He saw a man, standing stock still. He wasn’t moving a muscle. On closer examination, it appeared that he wasn’t even breathing – just standing. His eye sockets were empty holes in his face. Contained within their bounds was a flat gray light that seemed to dance with possibility. Looking into the socket, the eerie, empty feeling of a limitless void shivered through Him, as if He had gazed into a sliver of eternity. The head slowly swiveled toward Him (He noticed that no muscles appeared to move under his skin as he turned), and he spoke in a pure, bell-like tone: “Well met, wanderer. You have forgotten again, haven’t you?”

“Do you know me, stranger?”

As he opened his mouth, He got that feeling of eternity again – inside his mouth, He saw no tongue, no teeth. It was almost as if the man were a shell surrounding an illimitable expanse. “I have spoken with you before, and always you forget. Your endless quest to discover yourself ends always in your amnesia. You draw close to the truth and recoil. Let us hope that you have the strength to endure your existence.”

“What do you know of me? How do you know this?”

“I know that you, like a fly, rise up from the wreckage of your old shell, buzz about for a time, and curl up and die at the window of truth. You bumble about the pane, seeking the light without any plan to your actions, and fall exhausted when you fail. You alight on others to feed from them for a time, and move on with no regard to them. I have watched you come here and listened to your words, and watched you move away no wiser. Will you learn from your mistakes, seeker?”

“Who are you?”

“I am O.” for some reason, when he spoke his name, it sounded like he was speaking of much more than a single letter – as if the speaking of his name contained untold possibilities and nuances. No human tongues could ever create such a sound.

“What are you?”

“It is my name. It is the name of a portion of eternity. I am a letter in the divine alphabet. Understanding me leads to understanding existence. I am writ in the true names of half of everything. My being encompasses truth. I am mathematic, organic, metaphysic.”

“So what does that mean?”

“The divine alphabet is writ in the name of everything that exists, from the seed at the hearts of the elemental planes to the core of the Great Beyond. My brothers/sisters” (a single word translated into the two in His mind) “and I reach across all that is, was, or ever shall be. We are thought, and reality, and concept, and the unimaginable.”

“Then that means you know all the secrets of existence, doesn’t it?”

“I know parts of many of them. Without a connection to my brothers/sisters, I am but a letter. Alone, I am a symbol. Combined, we are language and power.”

“So you don’t know the secrets of existence?”

“I did not say that. A letter is still a powerful force, even on its own. Allow me to show you.” He opened his mouth wider, and wider still. The mask of his face tore around his eyes, mouth and nose, revealing that hint of eternity He glimpsed earlier. He was lost in it, adrift in it… a part of it. He returned to His mundane senses – and realized that O had vanished. Yet somehow, His horizons had expanded. Enlightenment had bushed had brushed Him, however briefly, across the brow.

“That was… indescribable.”

He walked toward the bar. It had seen a lot of use – the scoring of weapons and talons did not mask the grimy buildup of years’ worth of drinks that encrusted the surface of the bar.

Behind the bar was a leather-skinned man with just a hint of ashen color to his face. His teeth seemed sharper than normal, and his eyes were filled with the boredom that came from having seen to much. His voice was nasal and clipped. “You again, eh? Whaddya want this time?”

“’You again’? What do you mean?”

“Yeah, ‘you again’. You got a hearing problem or something now? You was in here ‘bout fifteen years ago, got all bubbed up, smashed up the place, and left a pile o’coin that wasn’t enough to pay for the damage. So you plucked out your own bleedin’ eyeball and tells me you’ll be back to reclaim it when you got two hundred coins together. With fifteen years of interest, you got about five hundred coins. You got the jink, pal, I got your eye.”

He checked his pockets and found Himself a mere four coins short of six hundred. Paying the money would have left Him almost broke. “Five hundred? That’s ridiculous!”

He paused for a moment, considering. “That it is. Tell you what. Give me three hundred, and the eye’s yours.”

“It’s a deal. Here’s your money.”

“It’s a deal.” He produced a darkened, wax-stoppered, wide-mouth bottle from his pocket. He heard the sound of liquid sloshing around inside it, along with a heavier, squishier noise. Opening it, the stench of some sort of preservative agent nearly made Him gag. Floating in the viscid muck was an eyeball. “You’d better figure out what you want to do with that… now you’ve exposed it to the air, you might as well put a pickled egg in the jar for all the good it’ll do you. Make up your mind, cutter… pickled egg or not?”

With a moment’s hesitation, He reached into His socket and popped His eye into the palm of His hand. The bartender helpfully severed the optic nerve, and directed His hand to the jar of goo that sat on the bar. He deposited His eye in the preservative, wrapped His fingers around the old one, and slid it into His empty socket. The pain of the entire operation was incredible. After a moment, though, He could feel the optic operation reattaching itself the new eye… and suddenly, He was hit by a flash of memory!

Memory flash: A vast expanse of chaotic, ever-changing wasteland stretching before you, a group of humanoid vultures plummeting toward Him, cruel weapons ready to strike, and His own shining blade clutched tight in His fist…

Memory flash: Three toughs surrounded Him, in the colors of an enemy He couldn’t quite place. Long daggers glistened in their hands, and the light glinted cruelly from their exposed teeth. He glanced at His scarred hands and knew that soon they’d be covered in blood.

Memory flash: An enormous frog-like creature came bounding over/through/under chaos-stuff, headed for Him with a mouth full of teeth. He hurled his javelin through the shifting matter and pinned the creature to a sudden stone plinth… he had recalled some of His best fighting skills.

“What can you tell me the patrons here?” He asked of Barkis.

“I don’t make it a point to interfere with the lives of the people who give me their hard-earned jink unless they ask me to. So. Over there is Candrian. Planewalker. He’s a good one to talk to about any planewalking questions. Down there is Ebb Creakknees, an old Harmonium basher – don’t hold that against him – and a tout. He’s got a good heart in him, and he knows Sigil up and down. Them fiends over there are Aethelgrin and Tegar’in. word of advice: Don’t deal with ‘em. They might be low-tankers I the fiend hierarchy, but they’re still fiends. Then you got Ilquix over there – not trustworthy – and some Mercykillers looking for some poor sod. Dak’kon the githzerai is a mystery to me. Don’t know much about him. He don’t talk much. Finally, you interested in earning some free bub?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a bubber over against the far wall, hanging about in the shadows, who’s been trying to work up her courage to slip out without covering her tab. I want you to make sure she don’t do that. You do it, you got free bub here for life.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

He wandered to the far wall and saw someone dressed as a female Dustman with a half-empty glass in her right hand. As He neared her, she called out to Him. “Um, you. Over here...” He noticed that there was something wrong about her… and His exposure to the Dustmen led Him to believe that she was just too lively to be a real member of the faction.

“Hey, cutter… buy a lady a drink?”

“You’re not really a Dustman, are you?”

She looked around nervously, and seemed to sober right up. “Why, um, why do you say that?”

“Because you don’t act like a Dustie, and you’re not offering contracts. In fact, you’re taking money in instead of giving it out for that corpse labor they do at the Mortuary.”

She stifled a squeak of terror, and hastened to explain, “No, no, no no no. I’m not a Dustman. I just found these robes in the street and I didn’t have enough money to get good clothes and I, uh, heard there was a Dustman thief around, but you could probably find him somewhere else in the southwest part of the Hive. I saw him, but I hid from him. Please don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not planning on it. You ought to know that you’re not pulling it off too well. By the way, Barkis says it’s time for you to settle your tab. Pay up.”

She jumped a little, and her nervous tension became full-fledged anxiety. “What are you going to do?”

“Ask you to go pay up. Now.”

“Ummm… I can’t afford it. Can you spot me just ten percent? I’ll, um, give it to him and he knows I’ll pay the rest.”

“How much do you need?”

“Um, I think I need about a hundred coins to get started on that debt.”

“I’ll lend you the money. Here. Take it and pay up. Now.”

She pocketed His jink, glanced briefly toward the door, almost as if she was weighing her chances of dashing out, sighed heavily and she realized there was no chance, and began to walk glumly toward the bar. “Um, my thanks, I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it. And don’t even think about heading for the door until you’ve paid up.”

He watched her hand Barkis the money, and then went to speak with him Himself. “You won’t be having trouble with her again.”

“Then, friend, you have full bar privileges… for free. Anything you want, anytime.”

“That must have been a pretty big tab she ran up.”

“You don’t know the half of it. You want a drink now?”

“Set me up.”

“You want a drink, you got a drink. This is what we got for you: Beer, bitters, mead, Elemental water, Arborean firewine and fireseeds, Curst heartwine, and Baatorian whiskey. What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey.”

He placed a shot of some steaming substance that looked like boiling urine in front of Him. The fumes that wafted their way, however, were exquisitely tempting. The taste, though nearly unbearable hot, was as smoky as the scent – the feel of the liquor burning its way to His gut was nearly painful, yet even that pain was sweet. The barkeep’s eye widened. “Still standing? Most folks can’t even make it halfway through the first shot.”

“Most folks can’t do what I can. Farewell.”

He decided to swing by Mourns-For-Trees and check on the vegetation. The trees were the same as they had been before. “Dak’kon, will you help?”

“One finds your request most intriguing. Trees, in the Hive? Like cities, in Limbo. They would stand as a testament to the will of the people not to bow to that which would surround and devour them; to take what has been thrust upon them or left behind and make good of it. I, too, will care for these trees.

“Thanks, Dak’kon.”

The trees began to perk up a little.

Chapter VIII: The Marketplace

My past is not known to you. It is not my will that you should know it.

Know that I bear the scars of one who has traveled the Planes. Know that I have never rested long in any one place. [i]Know that I bear the weight of one who traveled far to be in this place.

Know that I am a githzerai. Know that I am of the people of Zerthimon.

It was Zerthimon who knew the githzerai before we knew ourselves. He knew what had to be done to free us. From his knowing, came action. From his knowing, freedom was born. The githzerai ceased to be slaves and became a people.

Know that I follow the Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon. His words are known to me. His heart is known to me.

All that remains is that I know myself.

— Biography of Dak’kon

He wandered with Morte and Dak’kon to the southwest, where the market was located. As He approached the arch separating the areas, a woman stumbled into Him, then took a step back, looking up at Him with a half-smile. She smelled like a distillery.

He had no intention of lingering any longer in the area. “Farewell.”

Maybe it was His own pick-pocketing skill that caused Him to be on his guard, but as He turned to leave, He instinctively checked His purse… and noticed the harlot removing her hand from it. She didn’t seem to know He saw her, however.

He leaned in close, laughing along with her, and He watched as her hand darted back to His purse again… her technique seemed to be distracting the mark with her drunken chatter (and her bosom) while she lifted the coins from His purse. The sleeves of her dress looked to be long and baggy on purpose to hide any stolen items quickly. He made a mental note of her technique… even as her hands made another grab for His purse.

His hand snapped out and wrapped around her wrist in a crushing grip. She immediately sobered up, desperately tried to yank her hand free and started screaming at the top of her lungs.

Her eyes widened as His hand constricted around her neck, and she clawed desperately at His fingers… before she could break free, there was a snap and her struggle stopped.

He released her, and she slumped to the ground. She was far easier to kill than the Dustman. He felt a strange shiver as He looked at her body… he knew He’d killed others that way. He desperately tried to cling to the memory, but it slipped away, submerging into His unconscious.

He hesitantly recovered His copper from her corpse and walked through the arch to the market.

The market was slightly livelier, and slightly less hopeless. A group of dabus toiled at repairing a building nearby and He took in everything as He walked.

He saw a Dustman in long black robes and a pale face. Unlike the other Dustman He’d seen in the Mortuary, however, the man looked confused and glanced about, as if looking for something. When he spotted Him, he raised his hand to attract His attention.

“Greetings.”

The man seemed relieved that He was speaking to him. He bowed slightly. “Thank you for hearing me, traveler. I am known as Ash-Mantle, one of the Dustmen sect. I was wondering if you could direct me… I don’t know the area very well, and I’m looking for a certain establishment, a bar, that those of my sect frequent. Do you know of such a place?”

“’Sect’? You’re a Dustman: Don’t you mean ‘faction’?”

The Dustman nodded. “Well, yes, faction, I meant faction… sect, faction, they are much the same thing, really… do you happen to know of this bar that my faction frequents?”

“The bar you want is by the Mortuary. Orient yourself by the Mortuary front gate, then walk directly southwest. You can’t miss it.”

The Dustman smiled. “Thank you very much, traveler. I appreciate your kindness. The people of the Hive are… rarely helpful in such matters.”

“Not a problem. Farewell, Ash-Mantle.”

The Dustman nodded and gave a final bow. “Thank you for your time.”

“Certainly. Farewell.”

He would have missed it if He hadn’t been warned about a Dustman pickpocket, but during one of his low bows, He saw Ash-Mantle’s hand dart out to His purse.

Under the pretense of giving him additional directions to places in the Hive, He engaged Ash-Mantle in light conversation and secretly studied his movements. Ash-Mantle seemed to rely primarily on his Dustman façade to disarm his victim and used his frequent bowing motions to cover his pick-pocketing attempts. He made a mental note of his technique… just as he made another attempt to reach into His purse.

His hand snapped out and wrapped around his wrist in a crushing grip. He saw his Dustman façade crumple, and he snarled as he tried to tear away from His grip. “Unhand me, dog, or I’ll call the guards!”

He momentarily considered snapping Ash-Mantle’s neck. His memory briefly flashed to the harlot, and banished both the memory and the thought from His mind. “After you answer some questions, ‘Dustman.’”

“Pah.” He looked more irritated than anything else. “What gave me away?”

“I was warned someone like you was dressing up as a Dustman and picking pockets.”

“What’s your questions then?”

“What are you doing in that Dustman get-up?”

He shrugged. “Nobody suspects a Dustman.” He gave a hollow chuckle. “Can make a nice bit of junk before anyone catches on to the peel.”

“Yeah, pretty smart. Look, I don’t want to ever see you pulling this little con anywhere in Sigil again. Understand?”

He nodded. “Agreed. We’ll never cross paths again. I’ll find another peel… er, job, elsewhere.”

“Very well. Now go.”

He walked a beaten path to the opening of an alley, where a man was looking at Him with a strange, bug-eyes stare. His eyes were huge… so huge they looked ready to pop out of his sockets and roll across the cobblestones. He nodded eagerly as He approached, bobbing his head like a bird… and as He neared him, He suddenly noticed the smell of urine and feces surrounded him.

“Greetings.”

The man sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, then opened his mouth to reveal blackened, rotted gums. “Stories-for-coin, sirrah?” His breath reeked; it smelled like this man had been keeping rotten meat stored inside his mouth. “Stories-for-coin?”

“Who are you?”

The man snorted, thick with phlegm. “Names, names… who you are, who you are…” His head did a slight twitch every time he repeated himself. “Names… dangerous, dangerous.” He glanced at the ground and stirred the dirt with his foot.

“Dangerous?”

“Knowing a name or bein’ stuck with one, both’s a mess of trouble.” He looked back up at Him. “My name’s a given name, not one asked for. Reekwind.” Once again He became conscious of his reeking breath and the smell of urine and feces that surrounded him. “A given name, a given name.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Not my true name, true name.” Reekwind mumbled on, his head twitching every time he said name. “A true name’s a dangerous thing, gives others power.” He stared at Him with his huge eyes and wagged his fingers. “Keep your name secret, keep it close, never let it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Names are like smells… things can track you with them.” Reekwind coughed, his eyes almost popping out of his skull as he did so. His cough seemed to loosen his bowels, for he broke wind loudly, as if to accentuate his point. “If someone knows a true name, it gives them power.” He licked his lips. “The power to hurt.”

“I don’t know my true name.”

Reekwind’s eyes widened; seeing his eyeballs bulge even larger made Him uneasy. “Then you are blessed, blessed. Remain nameless, and you shall be as a spirit on the Planes, untraceable, untrackable, unseen, undiscovered.” He smacked his gums wetly. “A name chosen, a name given… it allows other to find you and hurt you.”

“Have you been hurt?”

Reekwind gave a twitching nod, then scratched himself. “Let my name slip once, once, only once, only once.” His eyes filmed over as if the memory was painful, then glanced at Him uneasily. “Tell you the story I can, I will, but three coppers must I see.” His face split into a smile as he said the word coppers, and his reeking breath hit Him like a hammer.

“Very well. Here’s three copper.”

Reekwind got into a stance, looked let, looked right, then faced Him. His face clenched, then with a grunt he broke wind again. The smell nearly leveled Him, but he took no notice. “Cursed, I! Walked the wards in splendor…” He stood up stiffly, nose high in the air. He sauntered back and forth, nodding to invisible passer-by.

Reekwind froze, his arms akimbo. “Crossed paths with a crossed one. Had the looking of a pumpkin, his seeds, curses!” Reekwind then thrusted his belly out so as to appear fat, slicked back his hair with his filthy palms so he looked almost bald, and began drumming his fingers on his ‘fat’ belly. He then walked about, circling the spot where his ‘stuffy, upper class persona’ used to be. “All-a-jumble with curses, this one was.” With a sneer and a careless gesture, Reekwind tossed an invisible curse at the ‘stuffy persona’.

“Knew my name, let it slip I had, I had, all it took, took it all!” He stiffened up again, inhaling deeply and resumed his ‘upper class’ persona. The persona suddenly crumpled, and Reekwind broke wind violently, then exhaled, filling the air with his foul, reeking breath. “Cursed with stenches, smells, excrement! Came here to tell tales, all good for, all good for now. Now Reekwind is the name, given name, given name…”

“I… see. I had some questions.”

“Questions, questions…” Reekwind hunched over, regarding Him warily with his huge eyes. “Answers, answers…?”

“I’d like to hear a story.”

“Tell you a story I can, I will, but three coppers must I see.”

“Very well.”

He took the copper, gummed it, then to His surprise, he swallowed it. “Best purse, best purse there is, belly, belly.” He gave a reeking wheeze. “A story, a story…” He smacked his lips, scratching his dirty rags.”

“Spireward, spireward…” He pointed to his left, at the charred alley in the distance. “An Alley of Dangerous Angles.” He bent his limbs in a twisted parody of one of the skeletal buildings. “Not always angled, not always burned and charred, once alive, no longer.”

“Flames, fire!” He flung his hands up in the air, and then waved them to simulate flames. “The alley burned, great smoke, ash everywhere… in the end, only skeletons of buildings left, bones of dead buildings, bones of dead buildings. Angles… everywhere, angles.”

He hunched forward, his voice a whisper. Again, the stench from his body hit Him like a wave. “Dangerous, now, bad men have set up their kip there, kip there.” He bowed, and then broke wind in quick spurts, like a bugle blowing. “That is the tale of how a street becomes an Alley of Dangerous Angles.”

“How did the fire start?”

He made a semi-circle over his heart. “A man made it so. A beast made it so. A man whom even fiends admire.”

“Who?”

“A sorcerer’s tale, filled with madness, sadness, burning, yearning… a tale I can tell, a tale I can tell, I will, but three coppers must I see.” He hissed, and then cackled in a way that reminded Him of a fire burning. “A dangerous tale, a dangerous tale.”

“Very well. Here’s three copper.” He handed Reekwind three more coins.

“A sorcerer there was, no simple hedge wizard this, but a mage of power.” Reekwind brought his hands together reverently, and then smiled evilly. “He burned with the Art, and the Art burned him.”

“The name given him was Ignus, a name respected, then feared, then hated, then punished.” Reekwind gave a rattling wheeze, and then drew the air and hissed, apparently imitating ‘Ignus.’

“Taught by one of the last great magi Ignus was, and as an apprentice, Ignus learned much, much… and nothing at the same time.” Reekwind shook his head sadly. “In his heart, his coal-black heart, a fire blazed. It burned, it burned, and it hungered.” Reekwind clawed his chest, as if in pain. “As it hungered, Ignus hungered. It was his wish to see the Planes burn.”

“In the night…” Reekwind hunched down and began to slowly stalk in the direction of the alley, a mad grin on his face. “Ignus came to the Alley that was to be the Alley of Angles, and the fire in his eyes, the fire in his heart, both he let out.” Reekwind pointed at the Alley, and then flung his arms in the air, silently screaming and laughing at the same time.

“Flesh ran like wax, people like candles, and Ignus laughed, laughed…” Reekwind crumpled to the ground, his body wracked with imagined pain. “An evil, an evil was done, and forgotten not, forgotten not.” He stood up, then hunched over, looked left, looked right, and then started mumbling, as if secretly in a conference with someone. “Something was to be done, be done…”

He stood up, stiffly, his face resolute. “A punishment was decided, all the hedge wizards, midwives, rune-tellers, copper-pinching witches, all manner of magelings… they came, all, even those with the smallest trace of the Art, to punish Ignus. Separately, they were flies…” He made a buzzing noise between his rotten gums. “Together, dangerous, dangerous.”

He hummed, and then raised his hands… “Caught Ignus, granted his wish…” He swirled his hands, as if casting a spell. “He wished to burn, they granted it, using his own desire to fuel the casting. They made his body a door to the Plane of Fire – they intended to kill him, kill him…”

“Failed, failed…” Reekwind broke wind again, as if to accentuate the failure of the wizards. “Ignus lived, Ignus lived, only slept, blanket of flames, flames, turned in his sleep as he burned, never happier, never happier…” He shut his eyes, wrapped his arms around himself and turned slowly. “Burning… ever-burning…” His eyes suddenly snapped open. “One day he will wake, and then, then the Planes shall burn!”

“An unfortunate tale. I had some other questions for you…”

“Questions, questions…” Reekwind hunched over, regarding Him warily with his huge eyes. “Answers, answers…?”

If anyone knew about Pharod, He reasoned, Reekwind would probably be that person. “Can you tell me where I could find someone named Pharod?”

Reekwind suddenly hunched over and leered at Him. He walked around Him for a moment, dragging his leg as if lame. “A king! A noble tale, a noble tale! A tale I can tell, but three coppers must I see…”

“Very well. Here’s three copper.”

Reekwind remained hunched over, staring at Him. “Once a man of respect, Pharod was, a man, a man of goals, and position. All became nothing, nothing, nothing turned to air.” Reekwind squinted, and then broke wind, filling the air with a gut-churning smell. “Turned to air… and stink.”

“A liar, a cheater, a man who twisted law, Pharod was.” He hunched over, as if writing at a desk. He ‘wrote’ for a moment, then suddenly stopped, afraid. “Then one day, he found that he had twisted himself!”

“Such a liar he had become, that when he died, he was to go to a horrible place…” Reekwind shook his head sadly, then hunched over again and looked wildly in all directions. “Pharod would not accept it, would not, would not! He had cheated others, he would cheat his fate, too!”

“He read, dug in his books, and consulted seers…” Reekwind stalked back and forth, his hand over his eyes as if staring off into the distance. “…and they told him that only in trash could he find that which would let him cheat his fate.” Reekwind broke wind again, then gave a reeking cough. “Perhaps they lied…”

Reekwind stood up stiffly, then began to fling off imaginary clothes. With every piece of ‘clothing’ he threw away, he became more hunched. “Pharod threw away his position, his goals, and took up a new title…” Reekwind stopped, then leered at Him. He clawed at his rags, shaking them. “And became a King of Rags! He would rule the trash, have his subjects search it all, and find that which he needed.” He shook his head. “He looks even now, even now…”

“Uh… do you know where I could find him?”

Reekwind shook his head, “He lives amongst rags and trash. There, you will find him, find him…”

“I would like to hear another story. Here’s three copper.”

“A story… a story…”

“I want to hear the story of the man who came to this city without name or memory and spoke with the cursed story-teller who warned him of the danger of names.”

Reekwind stopped twitching and scratching for a moment, and stared at Him. “That tale… that tale costs nothing, for it is worth nothing, and it is worth noting that it would be a sad tale indeed.”

“Nevertheless, I would hear it.”

“Where would such a tale begin…?” Reeking grunted, then gave a reeking wheeze that made His eyes tear up. He seemed to be thinking.

“It would begin with a man waking up in the Mortuary, believed dead, but in truth, only his memories are dead.”

Reekwind nodded, then studied Him and started scratching himself violently, as if to give himself scars. “Dead, but not dead… no memories, no memories, no name…”

“He escaped the Mortuary, entered the Hive and spoke to a man who let his true name slip once and has regretted it.”

Reekwind seemed hypnotized by His words. “Yes, yes, much danger in naming… perhaps…” He paused. “Perhaps the man to whom the nameless one speaks is a warning to the danger of names.” He seemed to chew this over. “Perhaps he who has forgotten his name is better off…?”

“Is he? Is it better to suffer the truth with all its consequences or it is better to remain ignorant? Which of the two men is better off?” Though He had to admit, He rather liked the title of Nameless One.

Reekwind gave a hacking cough, then spit, the spittle green and wet, then he turned back to the ‘Nameless One’. “It is your question, your tale…” He spoke slowly. “It is you who must answer it.”

“The man who knows his true name is better off, for he knows himself and is a stronger person for it.”

Reekwind mulled this over, licking his lips. He began to nod slowly, then mumbled under his breath, as if debating with himself. Eventually he turned back to the Nameless One. “That is a tale, a tale with a moral that tells the teller’s morals…” He coughed and spat another phlegmy glob onto the cobblestones. “A tale that will answer itself, in time, in time…?”

“It must have an answer, and every tale has an ending. I will refuse to accept it any other way.”

Reekwind scratched himself for a moment, nodding, then reached into the folds of his robe and flicked the Nameless One a coin. “For such a tale: a clipped copper.” He sneered. “No more, for the tale’s not finished.”

“A fair price. Farewell.”

The copper piece had been “clipped”… most of the copper had been shaved off, no doubt to still keep the appearance that it was a coin and allowing the ‘clipper’ to use the shaved copper to make another coin. Although many Hive dwellers practiced this method of “making money,” when the Fated faction practiced it, they did so with a frightening sense of purpose, creating charms that reflected their own miserly natures.

The Nameless One flipped the coin into the air, and to his surprise, it burst into a shower of copper coins that he caught and put in his purse. A fair price indeed.

A little to the west was a small loading area. Men and women were loading crates and preparing shipments. A huge man supervised them all, watching the area with a tight-lipped frown and narrow eyes. He was hunched slightly, as if bearing a heavy load on his shoulders. The unpleasant smell of sweat and dirt wafted from his clothes.

“Greetings.”

The man glanced down at the Nameless One, and his frown deepened. “Aye? What’re ye sniffin’ round ‘ere for?”

“You Craddock?”

“Mayhap…” He studied the Nameless One’s face, as if trying to recall him. “If I am, what be it to ye?”

“I come with a message from Baen the Sender. The message states: ‘The shipment must be in Curst by the third-day or there will be a penalty.’”

“By the hells! Can they be such fools that they think we can miracle it there?! All right then – yer message has found its way to the right ears, for all the good it will do!”

“What’s the problem?”

“Look around ye!” Craddock nodded at the laborers in the market place, then scowled. “These laggards and halfwits can barely keep up with the load as it stands, and now it needs doing in half the time!”

“Do you need any help?”

“I’ll tell ye what I need – all my men to show up for work! Jhelai’s gone missing since this morn, and I need him back now.”

“Jhelai? Where did he go?”

“That Hive-bred goat is probably passed out on the street somewhere by the Smolderin’ Corpse when he should be here helpin’ us. Worthless sod…”

“I could go find him for you.”

“Oh, ye could, could ye?” Craddock squinted at him. “An’ now why would ye do that?”

“You need the help, don’t you? It doesn’t sound like you can spare the time to go looking for him, and there’s work to be done.”

Craddock was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Aye… ye find Jhelai, y tell him to drag his worthless, bub-ridden hide here. I’ll pay ye fer yer trouble…” He frowned. “…when ye’ve found him. Now get!”

“All right, I’ll go look for him. Farewell.”

As the Nameless One wandered near the Smoldering Corpse, he saw a thin man with stained clothes, a hooked nose and two stubby horns jutting from his forehead. He was stumbling about, and muttering to himself… he stunk of brine, vomit and cheap wine.

“Are you Jhelai? If so, Craddock needs you back at the marketplace.”

“Crad-ok?” The man’s eyes widened. “Ah, Craddock, me gen-rez bosss… well ye ken tell ‘im this: ‘Ee can PIKE off… and that ee’s a filthy dog, a cur of the lowest sort, and Jhelai’s not a-working for ‘im any-MORE!” He jabbed him with his finger. “Tell ‘im that!”

“I’ll tell him… from a distance. Farewell.”

Craddock’s scowl had deepened since when they fist had talked… it looked likt it was about to crack his face in two.

“I found Jhelai.”

“Is that right?” Craddock glanced around. “Where is he, then?”

“He said to ‘pike off,’ that you were a ‘cur of the lowest sort,’ and that ‘he wasn’t going to work for you any longer.’”

Craddock’s face turned a bright red, and his face cracked into a snarl. “Damned be his name! May all the evils of the Planes hound his footsteps…” a blistering stream of insults, threats, and speculation about Jhelai’s family roots issued from Craddock’s mouth…

“Oooooh!” Morte clicked his teeth together as Craddock built up steam… the Nameless One could almost hear him taking notes inside his skull.

Craddock finished his tirade with a grunt. “Damn… that Jhelai…”

“You know, I could fill in for him, if you need help.”

Craddock studied him for a moment. “Ye? Ha! Ye couldn’t…” He suddenly fell silent. “Well… mayhap ye can. It’s hard work, and there’s no drinkin’ on my watch…”

“Understood, let’s get started.

The work was long, but at the end of the shift, the Nameless One was not the least bit tired… the other laborers were amazed at how quickly he worked and the amount of weight he could carry. Craddock grunted as he returned. “Ye’ve a thokola’s shoulders, ye do; ye’re worth three times what Jhelai was… here’s yer pay.” He tossed him a handful of coins; thirty coppers in all. “Now get. We’ve no more you for ye.”

“Farewell then.”

Nearby there was a thin, yellow-skinned humanoid covered with a variety of dazzling tattooed. His eyebrows had been accented with black charcoal lines, and his teeth were filed to points. He saw the Nameless One and waved him over, rattling his dice in his hand.

“Greetings…”

He was about to speak when his eyes – shiny and black, like orbs of jet – fell upon Dak’kon. The two of them stared silently at one another for a moment before the tattooed githzerai’s gaze returned to the Nameless One. His voice was low and raspy: “Gaoha greets you. You have… come to play a game? Yes?”

“Yes, I’ll play.”

Gaoha reached into his tunic and pulled out a coin. “This coin? Your coin.” He placed it at the Nameless One’s feet, and pulled out another. “This coin? Gaoha’s.” He placed it at his own feet, then help up two dice between his thumb and index finger. “The dice… we both roll one, yes?”

“Go on…”

“You roll higher, both coins…” He snatched the coins up from the ground and proffered them to him. “…yours. Gaoha roll higher?” He quickly tucked the coppers back into his tunic. “Mine. Neither rolls higher? The coin stays for another roll. So: How much coin will lie at your feet?”

“Twenty-five copper commons.”

They both rolled the dice until Gaoha higher; he snatched up his coins, tucking them into his tunic. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then spoke. “Again, yes?”

“Wait – is something wrong?”

Gaoha regarded the Nameless One closely for a moment, then nodded. “Never do I indulge in Hashma’s folly – never do I cheat, human. But I see fortune, read it, know it in the face of a man. However, you… in you I see nothing. I know nothing. You… have no luck? No fortune, neither good nor ill? Or you make your own, perhaps. I do not know.” He placed the dice back into his tunic. We might play later, perhaps, but no more this moment.

“All right… farewell.”

Farther to the west, the path split, taking the south path, the Nameless one saw a man. Streams of tears had carved channels down the man’s dust-covered face. He looked to be a monk or a holy man of some sort, but the dirt covering his body made it nearly impossible to see the man beneath. He was chanting and rolling his head back and forth – it looked like some sort of ritual.

“Greetings.”

The man stopped his frenzied chanting and glared at him with his tear-rimmed eyes. He opened his parched mouth to speak, but all his could manage was a withered croak.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“I…” His voice was so hoards that it sounded like he had been without water for days. As he watched, a tear trickled down his face. “I… am a Crier of Es-Annon.”

“Es-Annon? Who is that?”

“Wh… Who is Es-Annon?!” The man threw back his head and gave a rasping laugh; it sounded brutal and defeated. “Es-Annon… it is not a man, but a city!”

“Why do you cry for a city?”

“We cry its name because Es-Annon must not be forgotten. All the Criers of Es-Annon carry this burden.”

“You mourn a city? Why do you do such a thing?”

“Because its name is all that remains. Its avenues of light, its spiraling parks… when it was laid waste and reduced to memory, only three-score of its people survived. It was our duty to see that its name was remembered across the Planes. Many Criers of Es-Annon have died for the sake of remembering… many…”

“If it places you and the others at risk, why don’t you stop?”

“The tears I shed, the dust that cloaks me… these things are as nothing compared to what awaits should I give up my sacred burden. We must see to it that its name is remembered. We are living memorials to its passage.”

“If that’s so, then what happens if you all die?”

A fresh tear sprung to the Crier’s eyes. Even his dust-cake face cannot disguise his look of despair. “I do not KNOW. We Criers of Es-Annon cannot mourn it forever… even now, the dust clings to our robes, the spit dries in our mouths, our bodies wither and die.”

“Is there any way I could help you?”

“You are kind to ask…” The Crier shook his head. “Unless you can immortalize Es-Annon, there is no help to be had.”

“Must it be immortalized by a man? Would a tombstone serve?”

The Crier blinked. “Tomb…stone?”

“It’s a stone that records a man’s name, his life, and a eulogy. If it serves a man, could it not also serve a city that has died?”

“Stones may do such things?”

“Yes. And their lifetime is much longer than a man’s. if its name was carved on stone, would Es-Annon’s memory be served?”

The man paused. “Would others see this name?”

“Yes. It would be there for all to see, long after you have died.”

The man nodded. “If such a thing were possible…” He turned to the Nameless One. “Where would one find such a stone?”

“I could go look for one. If I find one, I could see to it that Es-Annon’s name is carved upon it.”

“You… you… would do this? I…” The man’s eyes watered up again. “You would be setting all the Criers of Es-Annon free. But a score of us remain… the burden of remembering would be over after so MANY years…”

“I would do so. I will return with the name is carved.”