game\backercontent 1 117 0 You see a battlefield covered with bodies. There is death everywhere, the sound of metal on metal ringing over the gore-stained ground. The cries of the wounded fill the air, occasionally masked by the death knell of another casualty. This man is running, but from what you cannot see. His breath comes in labored gasps, his eyes are wide and terror-filled. As he runs, he wrestles with a blood-splattered tunic. He tears at the fabric as though it burns his skin, his desperation eliciting small mewling sounds from the back of this throat. His foot catches on an arm, sticking out from a pile of bodies he is trying to maneuver around, and he spills forward, landing on a fallen soldier, looking into his dead eyes. The mewling increases in intensity as he scrabbles backward, trying to push himself off the body. His hand slips on blood-slicked armor and he topples to the side, landing on his back. He starts shaking his head, cheeks wet with terrified tears. He pushes himself to his knees and he surveys the field, eyes wide, breathing so quickly he's almost hyperventilating. Stumbling back into motion, his hands return to the tunic, eyes swinging wildly about, surveying the carnage around him. His frantic fingers finally tear the tunic from his chest and he throws it to the ground, the sounds of battle still echoing in his ears as he flees. 1 You see this man, much younger, sitting on a stool with a blank look in his eyes, his lips pursed tightly. An older man leans over him, berating him, yelling at him face to face - the boy's father. A woman sits in a corner of the room, head bowed, facing away from the confrontation. The young man looks up, locking his gaze with his father. The act of boldness seems to throw his father because he stops yelling. Then his face steels against it and he begins shouting again, bringing his hand up and hitting the young man on the back of the head. The young man drops his head, tightly gripping his knees. The father turns away, grabbing an iron poker from the flames in the fireplace. He looks back, gesturing with the poker to emphasize some words, then moves to press the hot end of the poker against the young man's forearm. At that moment, something changes in the young man. His hand grabs the poker and rips it from the older man's hand. He stands and spins, bringing the poker down on the stool he was seated on, shattering it. He swings it over his head and around toward his father's head. The man ducks and the poker hits the far wall, destroying several small objects sitting on the mantle. The young man steps away from what had been his stool and brings the poker down on a small table sitting against the wall, cracking it and destroying a vase sitting on it. He stops, taking a deep breath, and a hand comes down on his shoulder. He spins, thrusting with the poker, its tip still glowing with the heat of the fire. His eyes widen, mirroring the eyes of the woman standing before him, the end of the poker protruding from her back. His hands snap back into the air, his fingers spread. The woman slowly slips to her knees and over to her side, eyes glazing as she falls. The father rushes over to the woman, his wife, yelling and swinging his hands around. He stands before his son and stares at him, bringing up his hand and backhanding him so hard that the boy's neck whips back. He points to the door, then immediately turns his back on the young man, falling to his knees beside the prone woman. The youth looks at the two of them, immobile. The father growls something, and the younger snaps out of it and makes a hasty exit. 2 You see a small band of people walking down a rutted road surrounded by a thick forest. This man walks alongside them, chatting and joking like they were lifelong friends. Though his appearance is one of frivolity, his jovial façade is betrayed by the occasional sideways glance into the dense treeline. There is a noise from the trees around them, the sound of someone breaking a twig. The man holds up his hand, silencing the travelers and destroying the lighthearted tone of the evening. They look around, worried expressions on their faces, gathering closer together. The man motions to the group to stay where they are and heads into the trees. There is silence for several seconds as they all strain to hear anything, clutching one another nervously. There is another rustling, this time coming from the direction the man entered the woods. A single figure emerges from the tree line and the group visibly relaxes, seeing him approach. The figure comes close enough for the group to see his face and one of them lets out a cry of dismay when they realize this is not their friend. No sooner has the sound left his mouth then another group emerges from the woods, weapons drawn, surrounding the travelers. As none of them are armed or in any state to fight, they are quickly subdued, bound, and relieved of their valuables. With a laugh, the bandits disappear back into the woods, leaving their quarry on the road. Safely back inside the forest, they meet up with the man. He smiles, mocking the gullibility of people who will trust a complete stranger as long as he buys them a drink. He takes his share of the spoils and leaves. 3 You see a rocky clearing, overgrown with weeds. A crumbling wall cuts through on one side and the trees reach toward each other overhead, blocking much of the light that would otherwise illuminate the body lying near the wall. The body belongs to an elf, face-down in the dirt. His clothes are torn and ragged. Large bruises seem to cover him and there are cuts, abrasions, and lacerations everywhere skin is exposed to the air. The elf twitches, a muffled cry escaping his lips, blowing dust around his head. He begins to moan, his hands scrabbling against the ground, fending off something you are unable to see. His breath comes faster and faster until he is almost hyperventilating. With one final sound - a swallowed scream - his eyes fly open. In an instant he is on his feet, crouching, eyes wildly looking around. His breathing doesn't slow, and every exhalation is a groan. With one last look over his shoulder, the elf runs into the embrace of the crumbling wall's shadow, all but disappearing into the gloom. Looking down at his present condition, he murmurs, "I don't see how someone who SO CLEARLY screws his own livestock can be so sensitive about it." 4 You see a fallen log, lying on the moss-covered ground. The surrounding woods are quiet, everything calm and undisturbed. A small bird lands on one end of the log, warming itself in the sun. This man emerges from the trees, moving quickly, but not quite running. He places each foot with a deliberate precision, making almost no noise. He jumps, landing on the log, and runs along its length. Only when he reaches the end does the bird take flight, startled, as if it didn't realize he was there. He jumps down from the log, landing next to a tree with a small branch jutting out from it just above waist level. He grabs the branch and pulls himself forward, giving him a short-lived burst of speed. He is coming to the edge of the forest, and buildings can now be seen through the trees. Sounds of life make their way through the air and to his ears. He leans forward, running to push his way through the tree line and onto the road beyond. He pulls himself up short and looks around, breathing heavily from the exertion. He doesn't seem to find what he's looking for and takes a place leaning on a nearby building. Several minutes pass and he smiles, pushing himself off the wall and walking out to meet a figure running up the road, breathing heavily and shaking its head. He informs the figure that he's going to have to try harder if there's any chance of beating him. He puts an arm around the other man's shoulder, reminds him that there was an ale at stake, and says it's about time to pay up. 5 You see a lavishly-decorated room, walls hung with tapestries, ornate oil lamps creating a warm, relaxing atmosphere. There are several over-stuffed couches covered with silk pillows and an elegant table in the middle of the floor. This woman is seated at the table, sitting across from another woman. They are both well-dressed, their style befitting the room they're in. The other woman's hair is blonde, in stark contrast to this woman's black, and is swept up on her head in a dramatic style. The women speak in an easy, free tone, obviously familiar with one another. Though they each seem to be comfortable in the other's company, a strange nervousness surrounds the blonde woman's actions. She occasionally betrays herself with a little giggle or stammer, hitching over an easy word as she speaks. Her demeanor swings from friendly to shy and back again with no warning. This woman leans back a little in her chair, stretching lightly. As she finishes her stretch, she gently lays her hand next to the other woman's hand, letting their fingers subtly intertwine. The second woman stops speaking mid-sentence, inhales sharply, and turns red. She does not, however, move her hand. This woman smiles and moves her hand further over the other, holding it. She then stands, moving around the table toward the blonde woman, whose face shows conflicting emotions of terror and lust. She giggles and pulls her hand out from under the other and brings it to her mouth, the red of her face deepening. This woman stops, looking down at her, eyes sparkling. She reaches out and pulls something from the blonde's hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Then she leans over, brushing her lips lightly over the blonde woman's cheek, resting her mouth against her ear. As she whispers, her hand moves lithely down the other woman's body to her waist. The blonde shudders and leans into the hand, eyes closing, cheek pressing against the lips still whispering at her ear. This woman hand's deftly removes a small bag from the other woman's belt and secrets it under her own cloak at the small of her back. Then she gently kisses the other woman's cheek and stands again, the smile never leaving her mouth. 6 You see four flickering torches, the only sources of light reflecting across four tense faces. Harsh words crackle the air between them as they argue about their course, some wanting to return, some wanting to continue. They move step by careful step through the dank cave, noses pinched and eyes alert. One, a ghostly elven woman is thrown into the air and onto the ground with a sudden snap, the victim of an unseen trap. The group is surrounded now, skeletal hands reaching from beyond the grave at the intrusion of life in their midst. The group scrambles for their weapons, but too late - the skeletons are already upon them. The fallen elf cracks her eyes open. One of her companions falls, about to be impaled by an ancient spear. Adrenaline floods her system and she screams into action, moving faster than anyone just unconscious has a right to. Eyes white with fear she conjures a wall of fire, incinerating the skeleton and providing a momentary reprieve for the party. Breathing hard, they share a glance as the passage is flooded with flickering orange, and ready their weapons. This time, they are ready, and the skeletons last mere minutes before falling to the ground once more. 7 You see a group of adventurers in a dank cave, engaged in battle with several xaurips. A fighter and barbarian hold the front ranks, a druid stands back preparing a spell, and a rogue is slowly working his way behind the creatures. This dwarf stands behind them all, practically dancing with excitement. He seems to be thoroughly enjoying the battle, watching it with a keen eye. A large xaurip wielding spears in each hand appears in the fray - a chieftain - and the man cackles with glee. "For you!" He holds up one hand, palm down, and brings up a book with the other, keeping it under the outstretched hand. He says a few words of power and then makes a throwing motion. Three crackling balls of energy fly from his arcing hand, unerringly flying through the air toward the xaurip. It squeals in pain and looks to the source as the crackling energy hits it. The dwarf waves at him, dancing back behind the hulking mass of the barbarian. The dwarf resumes the position - hand out, book held under it - and starts chanting again, making intricate motions with his free hand. He keeps an eye on the rogue who is creeping up behind the chieftain, ready to strike. His hand glimmers and his chanting slows, waiting for the perfect moment. The rogue's dagger flies out, striking the chieftain in the back. It makes a gurgling half-shout and starts to fall. "Now!" the dwarf shouts, holding his hand out in front of himself, palm forward. The barbarian and fighter both fall onto their backs and somersault away from the front line, leaving confused xaurips swinging at air. The rogue leaps up and away, running to the far end of the cave, putting as much distance as he can between himself and the large ball of fire flying toward the falling chieftain. Over the explosion and through the flames, the dwarf laughs, his head thrown back, overjoyed. 8 You see a young man spying on a horse-thief from between wooden slats, eyes gleaming impressed. The thief walks out as though he owns the place, horses in hand, and winks at him. The young man returns the wink with a nod and a gesture of silent applause. Slipping around the other side of the barn he fits through a gap and unties three other horses, ideas forming on his tongue as he utters assurances to his new charges. Following his new companion out, they share a triumphant grin. 9 You see a firm hand scribing notes from an ancient, surprisingly sturdy-looking tome, script precise, pictures small but clear. The monk runs his fingers across the paper lightly, page after page, searching for something. The script is ancient, almost illegible, but he perseveres, scrawling stacks and sheaves of notes, transcribing the book into something more comprehensible. Suddenly, he starts scribbling hastily, eyes wild, pen a blur across the newly ink-splattered page. With a start he pushes out from the desk and closes the tome, sending waves of dust to coast about the room, and grins widely. He hurries to the exit, notes piled under his arm and a new adventure on his mind. 10 You see a mud-soaked clearing, rain falling to the ground in large drops. This man is lying on his back in the muck, his hands holding open the maw of an enormous stelgaer that stands over him, its front paws on his chest. The heavy rain falls over them, playing counterpoint to the grunts made by the opponents. Dead stelgaer litter the ground around them, and the man's body shows signs of a difficult battle. His clothing is torn, hanging in scraps in some places. Bites and scratches cover his arms and legs. A huge gash cuts across his forehead, blood and water mixing as they run down his face and drip into the mud. It takes all the man's effort to keep the beast's jaws from clamping down. The man looks around wildly until his gaze finally lands on a large axe lying barely within arm's reach behind his head, the rain slowly covering it with grime and muddy water. He looks at the stelgaer and then back at his axe, grim determination on his face. His arms are shaking and it seems he will not be able to hold the beast back for much longer. He takes a deep breath, and wraps his right hand around the stelgaer's bottom jaw, then lets go with his left hand, freeing the top of its head. The stelgaer's mouth snaps shut on his right hand as his left shoots out above his head and grabs the handle of his axe. The stelgaer grinds its teeth and pulls back, trying to free itself from his grip, blood dripping from its mouth onto his face. With a grunt that quickly becomes a bellow of pain, the man pulls his right hand down, bringing the beast's head closer to him, swinging the axe around as he does. The blade of the weapon pierces the stelgaer's neck and it yelps, its mouth popping open as it tries to step backward off of the man. Before his mangled hand can lose its grip, the man pulls and twists as hard as he can, trying to get the beast on the ground, using the stelgaer's resistance to pull himself into a sitting position. He brings the axe down on its neck again. And again. And one final time as its head and his hand simultaneously come free. The head flies from his grip as he thrusts his hand behind his back to brace himself as he falls. As his hand hits the ground and his full weight lands on it, a second bellow of pain erupts from his mouth. Breathing heavily, he brings his now-mangled hand up to assess the damage. The little finger is gone, lost somewhere in the mud. The two fingers next to it are twisted, broken, and torn, barely attached to his hand by small bits of flesh. He sighs, grabbing both dangling fingers with his left hand. He grits his teeth and pulls. 11 You see a young woman standing against the backdrop of a wide, grassy plain. Her face is all silver and shadow in the moonlight, and she looks down at the wooden raft at her feet. An older woman lies on the raft, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes closed in death. Her face is the same dark gray as the younger woman's, and her head bears the same curving protuberances, but that is where the resemblance ends. The younger woman takes a pendant from the older woman's neck and ties it around her own. The platinum medallion shows a crescent moon engulfed by a curling wave, the symbol of the goddess Ondra. The young woman pushes the raft from the grassy beach and into the tide. She stands in the surf and watches it disappear, a silvered tear rolling down her cheek. 12 You see a young man contort, screaming, strapped to a wooden table. Above him a machine crackles, tiny strikes of lightning caressing his emaciated frame. A trio of mages chant around him, eyes white, hands lifted in benediction of their agonized victim. It goes on for more time than you could say before the screams stop, replaced by hoarse, stabbing sobs and silence. A silver-haired woman enters, kissing him on his forehead, motherly hands soothing, cajoling. He quiets, unable to speak for screaming, and waits for a death he'll never see. 13 You see a dark figure moving quickly around a room, grabbing items and placing them in a sack. The room is in complete disarray. This elf is lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Her breath comes in shallow, hitching gasps and her face is wet with tears. Her head slowly tilts to the side, her attention drawn to the noise on the far side of the room. She watches the figure move about, removing all the valuables from a chest. She slowly lifts her hands from her stomach, bringing them in front of her face. Her head shakes weakly as she turns it back to look at her fingers, covered in her own blood. Her breath hitches again and she lets out a quiet mewling sound. The dark figure stops its search and turns to look at her, hisses something at her. The figure walks back to the elf and stands over her, tilting its head as if it had completely forgotten she was there until she made the sound. He kneels next to her, stares at her unfocused eyes and reaches out a hand to her stomach. Without a word and without breaking his gaze, he pushes two of his fingers into the gaping wound in her abdomen. Her mouth widens in a silent scream, a rictus of pain etched on her face. In a moment her entire body goes limp as she succumbs to the pain and faints. The figure stands, staring at her one final time, then spits on her before turning to leave. 14 You see a slight figure slinking through the hay of an old barn, knife gleaming in slivers as moonlight makes its way through broken slats. The horses shuffle uneasily, snorting as the figure approaches. He hushes them and in a swift motion cuts three leather bonds, taking the panicked horses in hand, leading them out through the front door with purposeful step. With a wink to the shadows, he turns a corner and is gone. He'll have half a day's ride between him and this place by the time the theft is discovered. 15 You see a man browsing through some goods at a stall near the edge of a busy marketplace. This elf is standing against the side of a building nearby, seeming to look off into the distance. Although she gives the appearance of calmness, even nonchalance, her eyes are locked on the man across the street from her. Her gaze never wavers, never leaves him. He finishes browsing and wanders down the street, looking from side to side. She waits for him to almost get lost in the crowd then pushes away from the wall and follows him, always keeping him in sight, but never getting close enough to be seen. Eventually, he turns down a side street, walking to an opulent residence with a private entrance. She approaches cautiously, watching him as he undoes a series of mystical locks on the door. When he finishes and the door swings open, she steps forward. At the sound, he turns to face her. She looks him in the eyes and there is an almost imperceptible flash in her gaze, and suddenly he is standing rigid, his eyes glazed. She smiles, extends her hand in greeting, and looks into his house. He takes her hand like someone in a trance, blank face never registering recognition. "I can't wait to see all the goods you're going to give me," she says conversationally and guides him into the house, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one is watching them. 16 You see the prow of a ship slice through the deck of another - a Vailian spice vessel - and are immediately accosted by splintering wood and panic. The pirates are upon the ship in the space of a shout, all elbows, gold earrings and violence. Crewman are hurled, shoved and punched off the deck as the dog-eared captain boards. The hunt begins immediately as water begins to claim the wounded merchant vessel. The larger cargo boxes are ignored entirely in favor of the smaller, more delicate boxes and jars. The captain stands, water snarling around his ankles as he waits for each of his crew to return to the ship with their plunder. Counting them off, he takes a running jump and grabs the railing, hauling himself aboard as the remains of the merchant vessel are devoured by the ocean below. The crew applauds, raucous cheers and laughter as they begin to sort through the valuable Vailian spices. The Fancington would eat well tonight. 17 You see this orlan cautiously making his way down a dark stone corridor. His eyes are wide and he is constantly looking over his shoulder, every noise making him jump. He appears dressed for adventuring, but his armor is ill-fitting and his pack refuses to stay on his back. Another sound reaches his ears from behind him and he spins around, peering into the darkness, trying to discern the source of the noise. He stands there for several seconds, holding his breath, staring. When nothing happens, he lets out a relieved sigh and turns to continue walking. His pack slips from his shoulder and cooking implements tumble out sending a clattering din down the quiet hall. He freezes, listening in the tomb-silent aftermath of the accident. Booming footsteps reach his ears from behind him. He lets out a little squeal and runs away from the approaching creature, clattering through his spilled gear. The footsteps speed up and the orlan squeals again, hurrying down the hall. There is a guttural growl close behind him and he turns to see an ogre emerge from the darkness behind him. The squeal becomes a yell and he puts his head down and breaks into a run. The ogre steps on the spilled gear and lets out a bellow of pain, breaking stride and looking down at its foot as it continues to hop forward. Panicked, the orlan hits a tripwire pulled across the corridor without even noticing it there. It knocks his feet out from under him and he tumbles to the floor, rolling a bit before ending up on his back. He lifts his head slightly and looks down the hall. The ogre has regained its stride and is running at him, hand out, intent on grabbing him. Both orlan and ogre are unaware of the battle axe swinging a deadly arc through the air, accidentally tripped by the orlan. The axe buries itself in the ogre's face, stopping it in its tracks, hand extended, blood making a trail down its face and dripping to the floor. The orlan stares wide-eyed as the ogre goes limp, its weight slowly pulling it off the axe with a wet sucking sound. It comes loose and falls, eliciting a final squeal from the orlan, who scoots backward to avoid getting squashed by the falling ogre's head. After a few moments processing what just happened, the orlan quickly scrambles over the ogre's body and runs down the hall toward the exit. 18 You see two men walking slowly down a stone corridor. They move cautiously, frequently looking behind themselves. One of them is this man, who stops, bringing a piece of parchment closer to his light-enchanted helmet so he can read it, while the other keeps walking, glancing over his shoulder. The first man looks up from his parchment, in the middle of a sentence and stops, his expression changing from caution to fear. He starts to call out a warning but it is too late. The xaurip who appeared from the darkness before them rushes forward and pushes its small sword into the stomach of the other man. It then squeals, seemingly repulsed by what is happening and quickly backs away, leaving the sword protruding from the man's abdomen. Parchment falling from his hands, he leaps forward, catching his friend as he falls. The wound isn't serious. In fact, it doesn't even look like the blade has gone far into his flesh. The man turns his attention back down the hall, looking for signs of movement. Nothing reemerges from the darkness so he stands a strides down the hall, determination etched on his face, sword and shield at the ready. The corridor starts to widen and as he enters, a whining yowl erupts from the darkness at the far side of the room. He slows, inching forward toward the sound. The light reveals a xaurip against the wall, holding a smaller one behind it with one arm. The larger xaurip has placed itself between him and the smaller one, attempting to shield the child with its body. The determination fades from the man's countenance as he lowers his shield and sheathes his sword. Putting up his hands, he slowly backs away, leaving the xaurip to care for its young. When the room narrows back into the corridor, he stops. Reaching into his pouch, he removes some rations and places them on the ground before returning to his friend. 19 You see three human boys walking through a city street, pushing each other and joking with one another. They stop, one of them pointing down the road, and look at each other. This orlan, though younger and smaller, is the target of their attention. She has a handful of coins that she passes from hand to hand, and is moving toward the marketplace. The boys move quickly, working their way around her through the crowd until they form a line in front of her, herding her into a shadowy corner away from the main thoroughfare. The boys taunt her, accusing her of stealing the coins, talking over her protests of innocence. They threaten her, telling her they will turn her over to the city watch for thievery if she doesn't give them the coins because they can help at least three unfortunates with the money. One of the boys reaches for the coins, but she pulls her hand back. He cuffs the side of her head and grabs her hand, forcing it open, letting the coins drop into his palm. The boys laugh, thanking her for her service, then disappear into the crowd. The orlan looks around, tears welling in her eyes. She spies a member of the watch and runs over, telling him that she was just robbed. The guard is unmoved, informing her that if he helps, she's just going to let it happen again next time. She protests, telling him that its his job to help, but the guard is unmoved and unmoving. She stares at him for quite some time, fury burning behind her small eyes. Without saying another word, she turns and storms off, her face set with resolution. 20 You see a ship being tossed about in a storm-ravaged sea. The swells rise and fall, carrying the ship with them as if it were a toy. This man stands on deck at the helm of the ship, while water whips around him. The crew moves about frantically, trying to keep the chaos under control. He barks orders at them, pointing where to go and giving each one a task. The men, while still visibly distressed, seem to calm down when they are given their orders. He instructs the helmsman to resume his duties at the wheel and rushes to the aid of a crewman who is struggling with a rope attached to one of the sails. The ship crests a wave, going almost vertical in one direction and then immediately again in the other direction. Several of the crew are thrown from their feet, sliding across the deck as the ship is rocks. After the swell passes and the ship returns to a relatively normal orientation, the man quickly scans the deck, counting silently. No one has been lost this time, thankfully. He looks in the direction they're headed, seeing no reprieve from the storm in sight. His jaw squared and his upper lip stiffened, he returns to the helm and takes the wheel again. 21 You see this man in the middle of the forest, back against a tree. His head is turned and he strains to hear something. He turns his head the other direction and slowly slides down the tree, ending in a crouch. He cautiously moves forward, keeping to the shadows. His steps are silent as he gingerly places his feet between twigs and leaves. A grunting noise echoes through the quiet morning and shuffling footsteps rustle as they approach him. He cranes his head around the trunk of the tree and spies his target. He edges his way around the tree, keeping it between him and his quarry. The shuffling comes closer, the grunting now accompanied by a wet snuffle. Bracing himself against the tree, he holds his position, waiting. Then with almost supernatural grace, he pushes himself from the tree and swings around it to the right, practically running along its trunk, floating as he moves. He lands in front of the boar rooting its way around the clearing, his knife flicking lightning-quick across its neck. Before the startled animal can even react, he leaps onto its back, squeezing his knees into its sides and gripping the hair at the back of its neck. The beast starts to buck and tries to run from its attacker, but the man merely holds on, and waits for the inevitable, enjoying the thrill of a hard-earned feast, thinking about what herbs would bring out the boar's natural flavors best. In seconds, the struggle is over, and the thrill is gone, replaced by the same dull craving that brought him here in the first place. It has left him faster even than the last time, and already he thinks about how he might top it. 22 You see a man open the door of a house, slow with fatigue. He steps inside, unlacing his boots, rubbing his temples, wrinkle of a smile lighting his face as he moves into a generous kitchen. He calls for someone, slicing himself some bread. The house creaks gently in response. His lips purse, and he pads out of the kitchen into a large room with a staircase. Chewing slowly, he takes the stairs one at a time, calling once more. No response. His body freezes for a moment as he walks into a room upstairs, nothing on the lone bed but an abundance of faded felt toys. Moving faster, he checks each room, his calls growing more urgent. No response. Any sign of exhaustion is gone, replaced with limber panic. He checks cupboards, baths, anywhere a child might hide. Nothing. Then - a letter, next to the door he came in from, with a queer symbol on its wax seal. One he's seen before. He crumples, shoulders shaking against the hard wall. Nobody sees him weep. 23 You see a grin slide across the face of a man, and on to the face of a woman, younger still than he. She moves closer in the tallow light, sure and slow, tasting the anticipation on his tongue, the desire on hers. The candle gutters, sending yellow-brown light sneaking across his multi-faceted eyes. She sits back, now all-too-aware of his luminescent horns and dust-stamped blue skin. His otherness leaves her breathless, but from fascination or horror you cannot tell. He reaches across a hand, trailing the line of her jaw, sibilant whispers snaking through the air, tempting, cajoling. Something in her breaks, and his grin slides back as he extends his tongue to lick the curve of her throat, pausing a hair's breadth from her flesh. "The thing we spoke of... your husband-" "I shouldn't. He'd be ruined." A faint protest. The man wags his forefinger at her, tsking playfully, tracing a line with the finger down the length of her torso, causing her to writhe. He stops it just short. She gasps. "No fair! That's- that's cheating!" She pouts, childlike. "Not if we make the rules." The man winks, and he resumes his stroke. 24 You see a man soar through the air, hitting a nearby wall with a nauseating crunch. He doesn't get up. His attacker, a burly, clean-cut warrior with a carnivorous grin, turns and shoves his fist into the stomach of another assailant, removing another from the impromptu brawl. The bar is a whirlwind of elbows, knees, fists and feet, with no end in sight, and he is in his element. In the corner, three smaller men speak quietly, throwing malicious glances at the larger man in the center. He breaks a chair over a tattooed head, cackling. The trio position themselves in three parts of the room, and with a terse nod they charge. Unfortunately for them, the man sees them coming - something in his eyes burns brightly, and all three slump to the ground in an agony that's all in their minds. The burly man bows to a room of the unconscious and incapacitated before sauntering out, off-key whistle trailing behind him. 25 You see a large crowd gathered in the middle of a courtyard. This man stands in the midst of them, a cloak pulled over his head, holding it closed around his neck. The crowd has congregated around a platform and they all watch, transfixed, as a man is led to the platform, flanked by two city guardsmen. The man is shackled hand and foot but carries himself as a nobleman, not deigning to even glance at the crowd. The cloaked man pulls his cover closer around his face and turns to leave, hunching over to avoid being seen. A crier on the platform unrolls a parchment and begins to read, but the man pays no attention, intent on getting away from the courtyard. The crier's voice grows louder and more intense as he reads and voice from the crowd start to punctuate his sentences. The jeers and shouts grow more frequent and with each one, the cloaked man flinches and his shoulders droop. He breaks from the crowd, coming to the edge of the courtyard as the crier reaches the end of his proclamation. The crowd grows silent again save for the occasional shout. The man turns back to look at the platform, seeing his father kneeling before the block, neck exposed. The executioner moves into position, lifting his axe to strike. The man turns suddenly, unable to watch. There is a wet thunk and the crowd breaks into cheers and applause. He leans against the wall, regaining his composure, then straightens up. With obvious resolve, he strides off, away from the crowd and his legacy. 26 You see a group of adventurers surrounded by a crowd of attacking xaurips. This man is with them, seemingly unconcerned by the battle, even detached from it as he stands in the middle of his comrades, chanting, his expression bordering on elation. His voice is powerful and deep, booming out across the combatants as a rich counterpoint to the chaos of their fighting. With every phrase, the battlefield changes. His allies glow with a pulsing blue light, freezing the xaurips that surround them. A blazing pyre erupts from the ground, cutting and burning the creatures and sending them scattering. One of the fallen xaurips suddenly explodes as three giant grubs crawl from its corpse and attack the remaining enemies. The man continues to chant, thoroughly enthralled in the joy of the moment. Finally, the creatures have been reduced to one. His allies stand back as the man approaches it, still chanting. He removes his hammer and swings it at the xaurip. His phrase ends as the hammer connects with its head, punctuating the spell and bringing his song to an end. 27 You see a key turned gently, steady, and hear a ghostly click as the door swings inward. Two figures slip in, locking the door behind them, and begin their prowl. Their hunt is efficient, and it takes them little time to acquire a sizable collection of documents and oddly shaped velvet pouches. Quick hands fill pockets, rucksacks, bags. The door opens downstairs and everything freezes. Footsteps. A tired giggle. The thieves are all eye-whites and short breath as they empty their pockets of all but the necessities - anything noisy hurriedly replaced. Silence from downstairs, then tentative steps up the staircase. A voice calls out. One thief creeps forward, the other gesticulating wildly for him to return. He continues forward, crouching by the banister. He sees a gaudy shoe and shoves. The woman falls with a cut-off scream, rolling lifelessly to the floor below. Swearing, the second thief grabs her brother and they make their escape, collecting whatever of value they can on the way out. 28 You see a band of elves tread warily through the undergrowth, hands tight on weapons, eyes locked on the forest floor. They move silently, fluidly, a team practiced in the art of the hunt. A distant thud sends birds panicking into the sky, and the group changes course, towards the source of the sound. In the lead, a tightly-strung bowman scouts, so alert he trembles. Vaulting over an exposed root, he holds a hand in the air and the group pauses, taking cover behind time-gnarled trunks. There's a moment of stillness before the forest itself rises up to greet them. The creature is enormous - twice the size of any elf - and its endless-seeming arms of vine snap towards its assailants, snatching at ankles, arms, legs. One elf goes down and is thrown into one of the trees with a rending crack. Another slips, jumping to avoid the snake-like vines, and before he can react a vine is around his waist. The air is blurred with arrows as the lead bowman lets loose, giving his companions time to recover. An unearthly howl sounds as a rapier slices through one of the creature's arms, incapacitating it momentarily. Taking his chance, the bowman switches arrows, lighting the wet shafts with slick blue fire. The monstrous mass of vines screeches as the flames take their toll, lashing out at any and all who come near. Two elves lie unconscious on the ground, another dead, an enormous dent in his skull. The creature falls, finally, but there are no cheers, no celebration. The group is somber as they collect their dead and wounded. 29 You hear it before you see it. A scream rends its way through the air as what was once a woman falls to the ground, a mess of blood and bone. Another falls to the right, paralyzed by a force far beyond her control as she is halved by a magical blade. Above, two corpses are caught in a web, cocooned and fed upon by a bevy of giant spiders, glutting themselves on the kill. Beneath them a man stands frozen in panic and grief, unaware of the spider descending silently down on a thick rope of webbing. He is broadsided by another man just in time, who knocks him out of the way but is unable to avoid the spider himself. The spider snatches him up and sinks two fangs the size of bull horns into him, eliciting a terrible shriek. Another man laughs, weaving his spells into a night of death and betrayal. The last man, the one who was saved, scrambles to his feet and runs, throat coarse from screaming, eyes shot with panic and tears. He looks over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on a woman's torso, unrecognizable in death, a ring on its finger matching one on his. Then he turns back toward the exit and does not look back again. 30 You see a crowd, walking down a narrow road through a town. They are jeering and booing a woman who walks before them, straight-backed and stern. Some people in the crowd throw fruit and small rocks at her, others shout epithets. Her arms hang by her sides, unmoving. By all accounts, her appearance is disconnected as her face shows no sign of emotion. Her hands, clenched so hard her knuckles have turned white, betray her. Her tormentors follow her across a small marketplace, toward the edge of town. Her face never loses its blank expression, even as the jeers become more boisterous and hateful. They reach the town limits and a man steps forward from the crowd, a large parchment in his hand. He silences the crowd and calls for the woman to face him. She does, slowly turning, making a point to stare down anyone who dares meet her gaze. The man unrolls the parchment and reads loud enough for all to hear. He details her transgressions, speaks to her of the problems she has caused the village, and chastises her for the people she injured. He then asks her if she has any final words before she is banished forever. She stares at him, face set, unblinking. Then, without saying a word, she turns and walks away, leaving the village behind. 31 You see a young redheaded boy - almost but not quite a man - stalking the steps of a panther, an ugly curved dagger in his hand. The panther treads lightly, jumping from rock to rock, unconcerned by the danger behind him. He bounds up a tree and turns his green-slit eyes on the child, and you could swear he would be laughing if he could. A flash of black fur and the panther is gone and the boy's thoughts littered with curses and self-doubt. The boy moves on, walking for days, hunting for something he never seems to find. He sleeps only in fits, a few hours at a time before he continues, exhausted and starving. Another day passes and he kills a rabbit, it's huge brown eyes almost entranced as the boy slits its throat from ear to ear and begins to eat it raw. He winces as the tough meat goes down, coagulated blood running down his chin. Covered in drying blood and fatigue, he falls asleep beneath a nearby outcropping of rock, determined to continue the hunt when he awakes. He does not have to wait long - a snuffling in the undergrowth nearby and his eyes are instantly open, a small hand on his blade. The great black bear sizes him up, almost triple his size, and goes back to foraging. The boy grasps his dagger, knuckles white and breath in short, nervous gasps. It takes almost a full day before it is done and he collapses, arm dangling limply from his side. He calls hoarsely, voice feeble. Three men come out from behind the outcropping, swollen with pride. No longer a boy, the young man begins to skin the bear with their help. 32 You see this woman, looking down at the body of a man lying on the floor before her. Her expression is blank, her body listless. Her head sinks forward and her eyes close as her knees collapse beneath her. As she falls to the ground, her right hand opens and an iron pan drops from it, landing on the dead man's leg, rolling off into the gathering pool of blood coming from his now unrecognizable face. The woman starts to shake and bounce, giving the appearance of wild laughter. Her shoulders shudder and she brings her hands to her face, no noise coming from her except small hiccuping breaths. Then all at once she throws her head back and wails. Her breath quickens, faster and faster until she stops breathing completely, her head popping up. She looks around, desperation heavy in her eyes, still holding her breath. She pushes herself off the ground and spins, running into the next room, another scream pulling the air from her lungs. The scream shrinks to a whimper, punctuated with a repeated word, "No!" She moves to the three bodies lying in the corner, a man and two little boys, neither of whom look to be over six years old. She falls over them, holding them, crying. She makes no sound except to repeat "no" until she falls unconscious, the man's hand still held in hers. 33 You see a woman clad in expensive finery. Her eyes flash as she interrogates a trembling wreck on the ground. Reaching into his pocket, her hand curls around an address, and she smiles grimly. Moments later, she is in a bedraggled alleyway, her pace quickening. Her braids trail around a corner, and she is upon them - or perhaps they are upon her. The action does not last as she easily dispenses of man after man, searching their faces, clothes, shouts for something she fails to find. Frustrated, she moves on, but not quickly enough as an orlan attacks her from behind, the seal upon his finger glittering with malice. The woman's eyes alight upon it as she twists to evade his blow, and her eyes burn bright... perhaps this was not a wasted trip after all. 34 You see a chamber cloaked in a thick, suffocating darkness. In the center of the room is a dais with some sort of symbol written on the stone. There are six small platforms forming a circle around the dais, all about five feet away from it, each one bearing a similar rune. A man is standing outside the ring, bent over near the base of one of the platforms. He uses a small knife to flake off a little of the stain that was used to paint the symbol. He stands and walks to the dais, repeating the vandalism on the symbol painted there. He looks around, eyes coming to rest on some powder in an elaborately decorated bowl. He reaches into his robes, pulls out a handful of something that looks like dirt, and drops it into the bowl. He takes an ornamental scepter and stirs the dirt into the powder with it, then wipes the end of the scepter off with the hem of a robe hanging on the wall. The sound of voices drifts into the room from a closed door on the opposite side of the chamber. Giving one last look around, the man moves quickly toward another exit, stepping out as the other door opens and robed men file in, prepared for their ritual. He hides in the shadows, looking through the curtains drawn across the doorway. 35 You see a man crouching, surreptitious and alone, a series of untamed shrubs all that hides him from the vision ahead. His eyes are locked on a delemgan, beautiful and terrible, eyes half-lidded as she hums. A bird with fantastic blue and orange plumage sits on her shoulder, trilling gently, and the man is entranced. Trembling, tentative, he stands - and the tranquility is broken by the bird's startled squawk. The delemgan half-smiles, beckoning with twig-like fingers. She does not speak as he approaches; his mouth is dripping sounds of awe and admiration. She waits, coy and tempting, and with agonizing slowness he is before her. Then - something changes. She sees something hanging limply from his side, and begins to hiss, fingers suddenly claws and eyes black with hate. He has no time to reach for his axe or grimoire as she strikes... and just as soon as she strikes, she is gone, the only evidence of her existence the shuddering wreck on the ground. He grabs at his grimoire nevertheless and begins to chant - but the words, words of a magical language of his own imagining scribbled in a maniacal shorthand, ring hollow, and the silence continues unabated. He turns and shrugs at someone or something, but if there is something there you do not see it. 36 You see a man standing on a dock. Sailors, soldiers, and prostitutes swarm around him, but he's watching the ship disappearing over the horizon. He should be glad his men didn't take his life along with his ship, but failure is almost as bad a death for a Vailian. And the gods only know he hadn't fared any better in his family's mercantile business. It's almost a relief to see that last herald of his failure sail into the distance, sparing him the need to go back to his father and admit defeat once again. Besides, with sharp wits and an eye for opportunity, there's always a chance for a comeback. He pulls a flask from his hip and takes a long drink. There will be time for that later. He adjusts the flap of his eyepatch and finds the tower of the brothel. He plots a new course for the evening, a grin on his face. 37 You see an elven woman, her colorless complexion almost invisible amidst the falling snow. She's wrapped in white fur, tense eyes squinting in the glare. She moves rapidly, boots barely marking the snow underfoot, snapping glances behind her. A howl rises, quickly joined by another and another, and she loses a prayer to the wind as she begins to run. The wolves gain ground quickly, loping effortlessly towards her. She fumbles with her spellbook, but it's trapped in loops of leather on her back. Cursing, she changes course towards a jutting outcrop of ice. She can hear them now, hot breath crackling in the frozen air. Breathing hard she tries to run faster, nose crinkling against the sweat down her face, clammy. With a cry of relief she reaches the ice - and disappears. She falls into the small opening with a muffled thump, holding her breath as the wolves try to track her, confused, in the snow above. She shivers uncontrollably, from cold or fear, and tries to wait. 38 You see a dimly-lit room with extravagant decoration. Pillows of silk brocade cover the floor surrounding a large, velvet-covered divan. A man sits on the divan, his shirt untucked and only halfway buttoned. Behind him stands this elf, dressed in the same lavish finery as decorates the room. Her hips gyrate gently, dancing slowly around the man as she begins to sing. He looks up at her blearily, intoxication clouding his vision. He smiles, tunelessly humming along with her. Her words are too low to hear clearly, but as her singing grows more intense, the lights in the room seem to dim even farther and everything loses focus. She takes his face in her hands, singing directly to him, running her hands down his shoulders and arms until she is holding his hands. The man's eyes grow heavy and he quickly succumbs to sleep, slumping backward. She holds his arms, catching him as he falls, and gently lays him down across the divan. She stops singing when his head hits the pillow and suddenly the lights brighten back up and everything snaps back into focus. She slips her hand into his jacket, retrieving an item that she places in a small box sitting on a nearby table. She looks back at the man, shakes her head, and escapes into the night. 39 You see a man stumble, unfamiliar vestments tripping him. He pushes himself to his feet, unsteady, and continues along the empty road. His lips are chapped and dry, skin glazed with dust, but something about the set of his jaw tells you he has far yet to walk. As night stains the sky he stops, whispering a fire into existence with the help of some wood. He attempts to sleep, staring into the stars. He continues in this fashion for several days, only occasionally drinking water from a goatskin as he moves. It takes him days to reach the temple, and when he does, his knees falter and give way, crashing him to the ground. The monks take him in and he shares his tidings, meaningless to anyone but them, and when he is recovered he begins anew - his stride strengthened with food and rest, mind clear with meditation and purpose, and a long way yet to walk. 40 You see a small crowd gathering near the entrance to a temple. This man stands against the wall, the crowd forming a semi-circle around him. He speaks with a calm, measured tone, his soothing voice carrying over the sounds of the surrounding city. He speaks of the world, history, the gods, and religion. He speaks of cooking, brewing, child-raising, and old wives tales. There does not seem to be a subject he lacks at least a passing knowledge in. People ask him questions and he answers them in turn, sometimes being detailed and in-depth, other times only giving a general answer. Regardless of what is said, all of his answers seem to hit to the heart of what was asked, each person satisfied with what they've learned. People come and go from the crowd, its size growing and shrinking, but never completely dissipating. Hours pass and he never seems to tire, sharing his knowledge with anyone who would benefit from it. As the light of day wanes, the group finally growing small enough that he draws everything to a close. As he gathers his belongings and prepares to leave a man approaches him, asking why he does this. He asks for no money, no food. What benefit is gained from his actions? He looks at the man, gathering his thoughts, then simply tells him, "Knowledge brings wisdom. That is my faith." 41 You see a room, bright, warm, and covered in greenery. There isn't a spot in the entire space that doesn't have some kind of plant growing in it. Small germinating seeds in a corner here, large sprawling vines climbing the walls there. Although most of the plants are actually in some kind of container, there are a few that have grown from the dirt floor itself. These are just as lovingly cared for as anything else in the room. This man wanders through the plants, smiling at each and every one, an old pipe clenched between his teeth. Stopping next to one, he touches a leaf, lifting it up to look at the underside, then gently rubs it between his fingers. He takes a small handful of the soil it grows in and crushes it with his fingers. Satisfied, he drops the soil back into the pot and continues to the next plant. He hums a low cheery tune as he moves among the plants, occasionally stopping to sing a few words of something to one of them. Finally, he reaches the door, having visited every plant in the room. He turns back to look at them, a look of serene pleasure on his face. Then he turns back and is gone. 42 You see a dark room with garish furnishings - a large bed covered with pillows, several couches, and expensive rugs. This man is sitting in a chair pushed against the wall of the room opposite the door. He is dressed in dark clothes with a black cloak wrapped around his shoulders, its hood pulled close around his face. Shadows fall across him, the darkness rendering him virtually invisible. Two other men wait in the darkness with him, watching the door. All three are motionless. Noise from the crowded common room below echoes up through the floorboards. The handle rattles. A man staggers in, dragging a young woman with him. The two standing men exchange a quick glance, one of them tilting his head and shrugging only slightly before jumping to the task at hand. One steps forward, grabbing the girl's wrist, wrenching it from her escort's hold with one hand while pushing the door closed with the other. Then that hand is over the girl's mouth before she is even aware she's in someone else's arms. He takes a dagger from its place on his belt and draws it across her neck. He holds her still, waits for the struggles to stop. The other standing man has already subdued their target, now tied to a chair, arms and legs bound with a rag stuffed in his mouth. The girl, no longer moving, is placed under the bed, the man who dealt with her taking his place beside the other. They stare down at the man screaming against the cloth, but the muffled sound is unheard over the raucous noise of the crowd below. One of the men begins murmuring softly, putting his hand under the chin of the man in the chair. There is a brief flash of light and the man stops struggling, a suddenly placid look in his eyes. The two captors ask various questions that the bound man answers happily. After they finish, the two look to the man sitting against the wall. He has not moved as the events transpired before him, but only sat, silently observing everything as it happened. He stands, holding the cloak closed around himself, and nods to the two men. He then walks to the door, opens it only far enough to allow himself to exit, and leaves them to finish their task. 43 You see a woman sway, her voice floating gloriously above the court, lilting and sweet. It twists around them, and they smile, enraptured, as she palms their hearts one by one. She begins to dance, but something in her step is off-beat. She pauses, confused, a snatch of some foreign sound in the air. Competing, resisting. It takes her a moment to spot him, a small man with a single brow chanting under his breath, disrupting her song with his staccato incantation. She intensifies the dance, the swing of her hips wider, her feet a flicker above the square-tile ground, the underlying chant in her own song more persuasive. His lips twist intently, vibrating with the effort of countering her charm. And then - a note, crystal clear, bright and tinkling. He begins to smile dazedly as her song continues, and he forgets all about resisting. She has won the day, and the court. 44 You see a black-clad figure, bent low and moving slowly through a field. The figure holds a gleaming blade in his hand, keeping it hidden behind his back. He approaches another man who is crouched over, actions hidden by a large bush he has crawled halfway under. The figure stops moving as the man comes out from under the bush. You see that it is this man, holding a handful of berries he has retrieved from a smaller bush that lies hidden in the overgrowth that surrounds it. He crawls back under the large bush, his arms moving again as he picks the berries. The figure begins moving again, slinking toward the man. He does not stop picking, but you see his head tilt very slightly to the side. He continues to work at the bush until the figure is almost on him. He backs out, hands full, and places the berries in the basket. Then he crouches before the basket, sorting the berries, removing leaves and any berry that doesn't look perfect. The figure comes up behind the man and raises the blade to strike. The man suddenly rocks back on his feet, spinning around to face the figure behind him. He grabs the figure's wrist and falls onto his back, planting a leg in the center of the figure's chest. The figure flies over the man and lands on his back in the dirt. The man is straddling the figure in an instant, his hand snapping out hitting several points around the head and neck. The figure immediately falls unconscious. The man stands and retrieves the basket, collecting the berries and placing them back where they belong. Then he returns to picking. 45 You see a fire burning slowly on the side of a winding road, unmanned. There seems to be no fuel, no wood or oil for it to consume, no hay or twigs. Despite this it roars, crackles, wails in the wind. It takes you a moment, but you begin to notice a figure in the flames. Its shaking hands cradle a young face, molten red tears marring skin the color of coal. The boy cowers, flame coating him as he holds his knees to his chest. In the distance, a man approaches, faceless. He extends a hand to the frightened child, who considers it warily before taking it. The flames die down, leaving his limbs and settling on his head like obedient pets. All tears dried, they walk together, fire and death, hand-in-hand. 46 You see a lush forest, quiet and dark in the early morning light. This woman walks through the trees, a captivated look on her face. She doesn't appear to have a particular destination in mind as she wanders slowly between the enormous trunks, looking up through the branches and occasionally making a low chirping sound. When a responding chirp echoes through the quiet morning, she turns to head in that direction, obviously not concerned with losing her way. A loud metallic snap followed by a quick yelp cuts through the air and she looks to it, focusing in the direction from which the sound came. She moves toward it on the verge of running. She seems to realize suddenly that caution is important and freezes, looking down, her foot hovering over the pressure plate on a well-hidden bear trap. She leans back and gingerly places her foot back on the ground next to the trap. She looks around, anger darkening her features. Grabbing a nearby branch, she presses down on the plate and disables the trap. When it snaps shut, she hears another yelp, this time much closer. Scanning the ground for more traps, she carefully makes her way toward the trapped animal. Rounding one of the trees, she spies him - a large wolf, bony with malnourishment, right hind leg held tight in the rusty metal teeth. He looks at her and a low growl starts in the back of his throat. His hackles rise and she pauses briefly to let him catch her scent. She lowers herself closer to the ground and holds her hands out, palms down, in front of her. "Aren't you a beautiful boy?" She inches toward the wolf. 47 You see a group of people standing on a clear patch of earth, surrounded by several motionless bodies. On the ground in the middle of the group is a small figure, curled up to protect itself from the kicking feet of the people standing around it. This woman is there, apart from the group, holding an enormous sword. She leans on it, using it almost like a crutch, hunched over and breathing heavily. She stares at the people and grunts, pulling herself upright and lifting the sword from the ground. She draws in a large breath, leans into a run and quickly closes the distance between herself and the group. A blood-chilling howl suddenly explodes from her. The mob freezes, mid-kick, and stares at the terrifying bull of a woman now charging it. She jumps at the last second, bending slightly, turning herself into a projectile flying into the middle of the people assaulting the figure on the ground. Everyone topples as she flies into them. She hits the ground beyond them, rolling, leaping back up, and turns to face them. She plants both of her feet and lifts her sword, surveying the field. Suddenly she spins on her heel, swinging her sword with savage grace, cutting down the nearest of the assailants. Letting herself get pulled into the momentum of the spin, she brings her sword around, blade sideways, into the head of a would-be opponent. The bottom of the hilt shatters his temple and he crumples to the ground at her feet. She looks up, rage-filled eyes daring the remaining two men to approach. After a quick sideways glance at each other, they turn heel and run. One briefly looks back over his shoulder, ensuring she isn't following him. She slowly lets out the breath she had been holding, and walks over to help the figure still huddled on the ground. 48 You see a man, his eyes hidden behind horn-like growths, his face broken in despair. His frenetic pacing distracts another man, who curses, and begins his chant again. The body of a woman lies on the table below, all slack white skin and punctured chest and rounded belly. Life left her body days ago, but the man chants over her husk, spell after oddly rolling spell, until sweat burns through his lashes, onto his chin. For a moment her eggshell eyes open, cold and void. The pacing ceases. Her body falls back to the table with a crack, unmoving, and the broken man weeps tears of black from his misshapen face. The men leave. Time passes. The body screams until morning. 49 You see a group of robed figures sitting next to a fire. This woman, much younger and smaller, sits with them. They are discussing travel and making plans, deciding which road will get them to their destination fastest. A rustling noise catches the attention of several members of the group and they stand, watching over the fire, straining against the darkness to see. An enormous shadowy figure makes its way into camp and the darkness slowly parts against the firelight to reveal who it is. Many members of the group stand, readying weapons. Others quietly invoke their god, preparing spells for battle. The girl looks around, confused, when the man sitting next to her stands, holding out his arms. He chastises the others in the group for not showing the proper hospitality to a stranger. The man walks toward the ogre, hand extended, speaking words of welcome in its own tongue. The ogre stares at the man for a brief moment. Then, with a swiftness seemingly unnatural for a being of its size, it swings the club it had been dragging behind itself. It connects with the man's head, causing a wet, crushing sound. The woman to the girl's right screams and rushes to the man's side, covering half the distance before the man has even fallen to the ground. From the darkness all around the group, terrifying and blood-curdling shouts answer the screams of those in the camp as more figures approach through the darkness. 50 You see a dark room. Noise filters in through a nearby doorway. The sounds of battle - scuffling, metal on metal, cries of pain - rise and fall as a fight rages on outside. There is a bellow of rage and a xaurip runs into the room, holding a book tightly against its chest. It looks around frantically, searching for something. It hurries to the far side of the room and opens a box sitting on a makeshift table. It places the book in the box, closes it, and then bends over to push the box under the table. A small stone hits the back of the xaurip's head, knocking it forward a little. The stone bouncing to the ground, rattling a little as it comes to rest on the floor next to the xaurip's foot. It freezes in place, hands still on the box, eyes wide. As the clattering of the stone quiets, silence takes control of the room again. The battle outside has stopped. It spins around to find this woman standing in the doorway, leaning on a savage-looking two-handed sword. "That book contains the answers I need," she snarls at it, moving forward. It hisses, rushing to meet her. Seconds later, she is retrieving the stone from the floor, having separated its head from its neck with a practiced flick of the sword. She smiles, kisses the stone, and then places it in a pouch on her belt, patting it fondly. Leaning over, she pulls the box from under the table and opens it, elated with her find. 51 You see nothing at first, inky darkness filling your vision, the dust of eons flooding your nose. You hear a strike, and a torch gutters into flame - revealing a man without a face and a library of books flickering in the dull orange glow. He moves to the closest shelf, sliding the torch into a socket, and gingerly pulls a black-bound book into his trembling hands. He flicks through it lovingly, caressing each page before turning to the next, and the next. Finally he finishes, placing the book in a satchel to his side, and takes down the torch. He spends hours wandering, reading, collecting, until his satchel is as thick as he himself and half as heavy, and begins to make his way back to the entrance. With a barely audible sigh, he draws two decaying doors closed, and the torch is extinguished. 52 You see only the barest glimpse of a jagged, disfiguring scar before it is hidden with a hood as the man prepares to leap. One window to another, scaling a trellis with soft, gloved hands, he moves promptly through the upper stories of a careless city. The afternoon is lethargic, empty, and he quickly hits three targets - a scroll hidden in some noblewoman's cabinet, a bottle of dark red wine from a blackened and dilapidated cellar, a pouch of coins from a svef-wasted, overly-rouged young elf. He buys himself dinner at an overly-orange, raw-scrubbed inn, and swills the wine as he eats - but his eyes are on the door. He has barely finished when it closes behind a sour white elf, red eyes demanding answers. Unperturbed he kisses her on the cheek, discreetly placing the scroll in her pocket, before returning to his meal a significant deal richer for the gold in his hand. 53 You see a man preaching, his voice washing over a small crowd of eager acolytes. He speaks of tolerance, and of self-reliance; of pain and of beauty. The crowd nods, agreement clear on their transparent faces, and the preacher frowns. He continues, speaking of the importance of anger, the strength of hatred and frustration. His frown deepens as they nod, enraptured. He calls forth one of their number, an older man. It is safe, the preacher says, no harm will come to him. Smiling, the man walks forward into the preacher's embrace. A shudder rocks his frame as he pushes away, a thin stiletto through his chest. He falls to the ground, and does not breathe long. The crowd groans, confused. The preacher's face is dark with rage. Do not trust blindly, he says. Do not take the world at its face: Terrible things lie beneath, and you must be prepared before you see the truth. The crowd thins, the body removed, the preacher silent. A few remain to listen, and to them he smiles. 54 You see a crowded marketplace, vendor stalls lining the road, their proprietors' voices calling out to passersby to come sample their wares. This woman wanders through the throngs, strolling hand in hand with another woman. They peruse the vendors' goods, tarrying at a book merchant with a number of old and beautiful tomes, chatting with one another about what they see. One will pick up a book and show it to the other who will take it, comment on it, and place it back on its shelf. Then the first will snatch up the book again and quickly pay the merchant before the other can snatch it back. They walk away from the market weighed down by packs filled with books, still hand in hand, standing close, comfortable and familiar with each other. As they pass down a somewhat deserted street, an object suddenly hits this woman in the chest and bounces off, rolling away toward one of the buildings. The women stop and look at the object, an apple, and then back up at the person who threw it. There is nothing special about him aside from the angry look on his face and the two other apples he holds. Before either woman can move, the man draws back and throws another one at them, this time hitting the second woman in the forehead. He yells at them, something derisive and hateful, something about a Legacy and about "responsibilities." The woman raises her hand to her head and wipes the juice and bits of fruit from her face and stares the man down defiantly. The first woman squeezes her hand and puts the other on her companion's shoulder, attempting to calm her down. The other woman pulls a book from her pack and holds it before her, muttering under her breath. She pulls her hand free and waves it above the book, an aura forming around her. The first woman is still trying to calm her down, but all she says goes unheard. The man, uncaring of the events happening in front of him, draws back and throws the last apple. As it arcs through the air toward them, the second woman brings up her hand and points at the apple. A glowing orb of energy flies from her hand and strikes the apple, causing it to explode, raining bits of apple down on the road and buildings around them. The man's face changes, anger joined by fear, looking like he's trying to decide if running or attacking is the better course of action. The second woman has started chanting again, her hand glowing, her eyes narrowing. This woman steps in front of her, placing herself between her love and their attacker. She touches her face, gently stroking it while whispering calming words. A kiss. The woman's countenance changes. She calms, her eyes softening, her lips regaining the lost smile. The first woman smiles again as well and kisses the other. "Wizard scum," the man behind them says and the two women turn to face him, staring him down defiantly. They join hands and begin walking again, moving past him without so much as a sideways glance. 55 You see a pair of chain gloves sitting on a table between two men. The gloves are inlaid with gold runes and glow with a faint blue aura. This man stands on one side of the table and across from him is another man dressed in arcane robes. The man retrieves a small pouch and hands it to the wizard, telling him to count it to ensure his entire payment is there. The wizard smiles, giving the man a half bow and then empties the pouch into his hand. "You wanted these gloves protected from thieves and other unsavory characters," he says, dropping the coins, piece by piece, back into the bag. "Put them on and they will never leave you!" The man slowly slips his hands into the gloves, a look of satisfaction on his face. His smile falters a little once they're on his hands. The gloves flash briefly and then start making a light metallic tinkling noise. The look of satisfaction quickly becomes one of concern and he grabs at the gloves, trying to pull them from his hands. His fingers tug at the openings, but they have shrunk, trapping his hands inside. The metal begins to work its way into his skin, small drops of blood appearing on the surface of the gloves. The man drops to his knees, fighting with them and crying in pain. The gloves constrict until they have completely shrunk around the man's hands, becoming one with the flesh. The man looks in horror at his hands then up at the wizard, who has finished counting his money and is standing at the door. "You certainly won't be losing them now!" he says, stepping through the door, slamming it behind him, leaving the man on the floor staring at his hands. 56 You see a small group of people gathered around the ruins of a house. The destruction continues out from the single dwelling, through the entire village. Not a single building still stands, rubble is scattered everywhere. One of the men in the group leans over something in the debris. It is this man, younger, barely more than a boy. The man reaches out and shakes the boy by the shoulder. The boy makes no sound and doesn't respond to the man's disturbance. The man looks up at the other members of the group and shrugs, standing to rejoin his friends. The boy suddenly sits up, eyes wide. He scrabbles backward, away from the group, looking around in horror. The group moves toward him in unison, eliciting a yelp from the boy who tries to move farther away. A woman in the group puts out her hands, stopping the rest. She turns to them reproachfully, motions for them to stay, then looks at the boy on the ground, who is trying to push himself through what remains of a wall. He seems unaware he has even stopped. The woman slowly moves toward the boy, hands out, speaking in a low, calming tone. For a time, the boy doesn't even hear, he just closes his eyes and braces himself against the wall, expecting violence. Eventually the woman's words work through the fear and he hears her. He opens his tear-filled eyes and stares at her. She holds out a hand to him. He looks at it, seeming confused by the offer, then hesitantly reaches out. She takes his hand in hers, and leans down to help him stand. 57 You see an orlan man crouching over a half-drawn map, intently shading line by careful line. The notes he works from smell of salt and sea, water-smudged scribbles bracing a mess of illustrations and measurements. He finishes each stroke with precision before moving to the next, slow, deliberate. Nothing out of place. A bell tolls lightly in the distance and he pauses, replacing the quill with a dagger he slides into his belt. Opening the door into his shop he assumes a smile and engages his customer, an older dwarf with a gray-stained beard. The dwarf inquires about a few items, trying on a few pieces of armor, a pair of bracers, but nothing seems to garner his interest. With a harrumph the dwarf leaves - a little too hurried, a little too nervous. The shopkeep grunts, taking a crossbow down from the wall and locking the door behind him. Beneath the tolling bell, the impact of the crossbow bolt barely makes a sound as it stops the thief in his tracks. The shopkeep strolls over to the wailing man, unconcerned as he rifles through his pockets. A potion there, a pouch of silver coins, several scrolls - he had done well. Just not well enough. 58 You see a small murder of crows gathered on a dirt path that cuts through some dry farmland. They follow this orlan, who is slowly making his way down the path. They sometimes hop, sometimes fly, gliding after him, but always staying behind. Occasionally one will alight briefly on his shoulder only to quickly take to wing again and rejoin its kin. As he nears a small village, a crow lands on his shoulder and begins cawing excitedly. The orlan smiles and nods as if agreeing. He takes a small crumb of bread from a pocket in his cloak and gives it to the crow who grabs it in its beak and flies a small distance away to eat its prize in peace. Small children, drawn by the noise made by the crow, rush out to see who the approaching stranger could be. When he has a sufficient audience, the orlan lifts both arms out at his sides and, as if they have been trained, the crows flock to him, landing on his hands and arms. They rock, cawing almost in unison, as he stands there quietly humming a lively tune. He looks at the children and begins to tell them strange facts. He tells them of the different caws a crow can make, and what they mean. He tells them of the pecking order, of crow kings and queens long past and the times of their reigns. He does this for some time, all the while with his arms bearing the weight of a half dozen crows. At length his arms seem to tire, and he drops them again and the crows take flight, spiraling up over his head and then glide off in all directions, a black feathery tornado dissipating in the fading daylight. The children's delighted screams echo down the road as they run back toward town. The orlan stands alone on the road, watching his crows disappear in the distance. 59 You see a body on a bench, a team of mages and healers buzzing around the room shouting instructions and incantations. A pulsating crystalline device lies in the body's chest cavity, steaming slightly in the magically cooled room. The healers stitch the skin as a priest murmurs healing charms. Finally, it is done: The body is again whole. The mages gather for a final enchantment as the others watch, a complicated ritual that has them sweating rivulets. A hush falls over the room as the body shudders, electricity arcing from side to side, eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he's there - but something is wrong, he goes to scream, and - he's gone. The room is silent as they trail out, overcome, but... something stays, not quite tangible, and shouts wordlessly as it sees its own body for the first time. 60 You see two figures, a human and an aumaua, standing in front of this man. The human just stands there, fuming, while the aumaua is yelling, red-faced with fury. He is leaning forward, a stream of profane imagery flying from his mouth, his face rapidly turning purple. The man stands straight in the face of the onslaught, unmoving, a bemused smile on his face. He holds a rapier nonchalantly by his portly flank, point down, but his hand is tightly gripping the handle, his knuckles white. The aumaua stops yelling, pausing only long enough to take a breath, intent on immediately starting again. The man holds up his left hand and begins to speak during the brief silence, trying to defuse the situation and cut off continued abuse. The aumaua makes a grunting noise and pokes the man on the breast bone to stop him from speaking, leaving the finger against his chest for emphasis. The man with the rapier tilts his head down, looking at the finger resting against his chest, then looks back at the aumaua without moving his head. The aumaua realizes, too late, that he just crossed the line. The man grabs his hand, squeezing and twisting it. There is a loud cracking noise and the aumaua cries out. The man raises his rapier and punches the aumaua, using the handle as added heft. There is a second crack and the aumaua collapses to the ground, unconscious, blood pouring from his nose. The second stranger looks up from his friend's limp body to see the tip of the rapier already pointed at him, a flat, unfriendly, and serious look on the face at the other end of it. He raises his hands in defeat and backs away, turning to run when he is far enough away to ensure he won't be caught. The man turns to leave, the smile slowly returning to his face. 61 You see a man stumble, knees bleeding, clothes torn, eyes dead. His skin is damp with sweat, but he pushes onward. His back is arched, defeated. At his side hangs a bow, strings limp from disuse. He trips through the undergrowth sightless, ignoring all but the sound of his own anguish. He comes across a deer, guts spilled across the forest floor, still steaming in the cold night air. A stelgaer watches him from above, perched on the trunk of an enormous, fallen tree. It takes the man a moment to notice his danger, and he seems almost glad for it. The stelgaer unravels itself from the tree, eyeing him carefully. Its distended stomach almost brushes the ground as it jumps down, and the man dives to meet it. For a moment time seems to slow as man and beast collide. The stelgaer roars, swiping at him with its claws, and soon has him pinned, great yellow teeth and acrid breath ready to end his intrusion - but with a wet ripping sound, instead the agonized stelgaer is himself gutted from neck to rump. The man exhales deeply, covered in blood, ponderous. "Not today. Not today." 62 You see a woman, dark skin taut with worry. Moving aft, she scales the rigging, and shouts frantically at the crew. The ship isn't turning fast enough. She looks at the captain, gaping soundlessly at the approaching vessel. Her hands blister from the descent as she jumps from rope to rope, screaming at him to take action, take charge, DO something. What is she paying him for if not to defend her ship from pirates? With a squeal as ladders are thrown across, the ship is boarded. She sprints belowdecks, taking the steps three at a time until she reaches the cargo hold. Scrabbling amongst the containers, she searches until she finds it: a blunderbuss, fully loaded. Someone grabs her from behind. She throws up a knee, whirls around and shoots. The force sends her spine-first into the wall, but her assailant falls to the ground with half a head and without an arm. Dragging herself up the stairs, she reloads, and engages the enemy force with her crew. She cocks an eyebrow as pirates drop left and right. Clearly, this was more than they bargained for when they chose her ship. 63 You see a man praying soundlessly on the ground, lips moving to some ancient and unknowable hymn. Lying in his hands, his sword sputters into blinding white light, banishing the darkness around him instantly to lurk in corners and shelves. He opens his eyes slowly, continuing his silent prayer as he adjusts to the new light, his face tight with concentration. He stands and begins to move deliberately towards an enormous iron door, strange symbols inscribed upon its rusted surface. His prayer gets louder, gains substance as he gets closer. Blue eyes burn with fervor as the glowing tip of the sword touches the center of the door - and slides through. White light spreads across its surface, symbols flaring into life as the paladin chants. A gentle tone sounds, ringing through the ancient structure, and the door begins to open - the symbols have disappeared, along with the rust, and the paladin steps through into places unknown bearing a light he is only now beginning to understand. 64 You see a gruff-looking aumaua standing in front of this woman, her wrist held tightly in his hand. He lifts his arm, pulling her feet almost all the way off the ground. He bends down at the same time, bringing his face in line with hers. She smiles sheepishly and brings her other hand out from behind her back, offering him the necklace she just stole. He looks at it briefly and then back at her. With his free hand, he tears the necklace from her grip and stuffs it inside his tunic. He lifts her higher, her feet now dangling above the road, and then throws her against the building behind her. She hits the wall, her breath exploding out of her with a pained cry. She hits the ground, her legs crumpling under her, and looks up to see the aumaua looming over her. He brings a fist back, then stops, a confused look replacing the murderous one. He turns, bringing a hand to the back of his head, feeling the bleeding knot growing there. Behind him stands an older man, mace in hand, smiling wickedly. The aumaua grunts and lunges for the man. The man takes a step forward to meet the aumaua, swinging the mace in an upward arc as he does so. The mace connects with the aumaua's chin, echoing out a solid thwack, knocking his head back and stopping his forward momentum. His arms drop to their sides as he stands there, regaining his bearings. Taking advantage of the opening, the older man brings the mace around with both hands, putting the full force of his weight into the swing. The mace hits the aumaua's head with a west crunch and he falls, unconscious, to the ground in a heap. The man turns to the woman who is still sitting on the ground, trying to process what just happened. He holds out a hand to her, making a slight bow as he does. She hesitatingly takes it, giving him a sideways look. "Let's talk," he says, smiling. 65 You see a dimly lit street lined with buildings. Most of them are dark and quiet, but one at the edge of a canal is bright and noisy, defying the night. This aumaua stands in the dark, huddled against the cold of the shadows, keeping away from everything. He stares at the door of the lit building, intently studying it. There is a sign hanging on the side of the building. It is barely legible in the dark, but it appears to read "Goose and Fox." Movement from inside the building perks the aumaua up. He pulls his cloak closer around his face and his breath speeds up, catching slightly. His excitement is palpable. The main door to the establishment opens, releasing a cacophony of laughter and shouting. Light spills out onto the street, illuminating a solitary figure in the doorway. The aumaua stands, bringing his right hand up in front of his face, palm down, fingers extended. The figure exits Goose and Fox and stumbles off into the darkness, swaying slightly as it walks unsteadily down the street. The aumaua follows the figure, muttering a few words under his breath and gently wiggling his hand. The tips of his fingers start glowing lightly, steam rising from them against the cold air. He increases his pace, intent on catching the figure disappearing into the night. He shakes his hand once more and the tips of his fingers burst into flame, the flickering light revealing a manic glee in his eyes. He closes on the figure, nearly hyperventilating with happiness, and whispers a name, "Keronne." The figure jumps slightly and begins to turn as the aumaua extends his hand, leveling his fingers directly at the figure. 66 You see a ragged child, oil lamp in hand, making her way down an alleyway. Mud-encrusted socks on small numb feet push forward, despite the cold. She has eyes only for the barn ahead, and the soft hay inside. She fumbles with the lock, hairpin in hand. Despite the cold, she unlocks the door with expert fingers, and slips her gaunt frame inside. Somewhere between closing the door and falling to the floor, the lamp slips from her grasp. The flames try the hay tentatively, and find it to their liking, reaching faster, further. The girl screams. Outside, a woman whips through the streets, chasing shouts and smoke. Her hands are moving before she sees the flames, and from her fingertips erupt three near-invisible missiles of force. They shatter the barn-door, but fire delights in company, and roars larger in response. The screaming has stopped. Skinning herself in iron, the woman mutters a prayer and pushes forward into the inferno. The fire screeches, starving, and she responds with fury and frost and hail. She will not be swayed, and the fire is defeated. The child is weak, chest dry and searing with smoke, but alive. The woman carries her out to cheers and applause, as molten sweat dribbles down her silver face. 67 You see an impressive gathering of wild orlans in ceremonial dress, shaded by a copse of ancient oaks. Underneath the largest oak stand two young orlans, hands clasped, eyes clear as they promise to care for and love one another in the joining of their clans. An older orlan steps towards them to speak, beard seeming to sprout from directly underneath his eyes, and declares their union complete. The jubilant orlan clans carry the newly wedded couple away to their tent with snorts of laughter and crude jokes, leaving the older orlan to sit alone beneath the age-old oak. He sighs, observing the scene in the distance. He whispers a quiet benediction, glad for their gladness, and melts into the trees without another word. He has seen enough happiness for one day. 68 You see a small mobile stall covered with various goods and sundries. This woman is standing next to it engaged in a lively discussion with a man who is holding one of the items she is selling. She has a light, friendly countenance, and is trying to explain to the man how to control the item. He moves his hands around the top of it and mutters what sounds to be gibberish. After several attempts, he growls and thrusts the item back at her and starts to turn away. She stops him with a hand on his shoulder and holds the item up in front of his face. She traces a finger over the top of it, slowly and distinctly repeating the same phrase over and over. The object suddenly lights up, shining as brightly as a torch. The man's face brightens as well and he looks at her expectantly. She runs two fingers down the side of the object and the light extinguishes. She hands it back to him and takes her place behind, guiding his hands as she whispers the words to say in his ear. Many failed attempts later, the man is able to light the object on every try. Elated, he hands it back to her as she makes her way behind the cart. While he searches for appropriate coin, she places the item on a shelf under the backside of the cart and replaces it with another from a small box next to it. Money and goods are exchanged and she watches the man leave, satisfied with his purchase. Then she scans the crowd, looking for her next mark. 69 You see an immaculate inn, dark-wood counters gleaming, patrons rowdy and smiling. Two men stand behind the bar joking as they pour drinks, features so similar they must be siblings. The younger snatches up an armful of drinks and walks them around the room, chatting happily as he hands out orders. Just as he sets down the final ale and turns around a red-faced aumaua charges through the door, trailed by three sour-looking elves, slamming directly into him. The aumaua growls, knocking the young man out of the way, and demands an ale from the brother behind the bar. The man refuses and the rest of the bar falls silent, sensing trouble. The older brother again asks the aumaua to leave, the younger brother placing a firm hand on his back and pushing him towards the door - and the scene freezes. With a sickening crack, the man is knocked backwards into the wall, neck snapping backward before he falls to the floor. He does not get up. The action is immediate as the other patrons come to the barman's aid, dragging the aumaua and his compatriots out the back, but the damage is done. The carpet oozes with blood, slowly seeping into its fibers as one brother dies and the other falls to his knees, horror piercing his eyes. By the time he gets up, the aumaua is long gone. 70 You see this man, much younger, lying on a large stone slab situated on a dais in the center of a circular room. At seven points around the dais, older men in black robes prostrate themselves over ornate runes worked into the stone of the floor, chanting in a low drone. An eighth man enters, carrying an ebony box, inlaid with gold runes that match the runes on the floor. He stands at the head of the slab, lowers his head, and slowly opens the box. He turns to each prostrate man in turn, tipping the open box in their direction as he does. He then sets the box at the head of the slab, facing away from the young man lying there. He reaches into the box, removing a small cylinder of onyx, and then moves to the end of the slab, stopping near the young man's feet. He holds the onyx up, says a word, and then presses it against the young man's right foot. When it touches his flesh, the onyx softens and becomes a black leech, attaching itself to the young man's sole. The man repeats these steps until there are leeches on both hands and feet, the middle of his chest, his neck, and his forehead. The older man then takes his place at the head of the slab, raising his hands and joining the chanting, watching the young man as his blood drains. 71 You see a wizard playing illusions in a town square, fingers plucking color and sound from the air and weaving scenes of beauty and fright. A crowd of onlookers gasps and cheers, enthralled with the display - all but one boy, standing off to the side, mouth agape. Green eyes are pale with wonder, vision after vision playing out before him, and something inside the boy clicks. Without warning he bolts, disappearing into the crowd, pushing and shoving desperately. The mage finishes his show soon after, a giant silver dragon descending through the crowd and a thousand stars exploding into nothingness. Collecting coins, he walks around the clapping crowd, bowing and nodding at each as he passes, until a small sack is dropped into his hands. The boy stands for a moment before him, small and still, and begs the wizard to apprentice him. He glances at the hefty bag, weighing it - and the boy - carefully. Finally, he nods and flicks gently at the bag - which disappears. The boy grins. How'd you do that, he asks, but the illusionist merely winks. 72 You see a man, lying on a mat, restless in sleep. He tosses about, unable to claim total peace. Behind his lids, his eyes dart about and small moans of distress escape his lips. He rolls around, moving from lying on his back to his side to his back again, sweat standing out on his forehead. The door to his chambers slowly opens, the weak light from the hall outside falling across the sleeping man's face. This man, much younger than he is now, steps lithely into the room. His feet rise and fall as he crosses the floor with calculated precision, never once making a sound. He approaches the man on the mat, slowly raising two daggers as he does. He stands over the man, staring down at him, intense hatred burning behind his rocky features. He doesn't move, a statue poised to strike at the man's bedside. The man's eyes fly open, blinking in confusion, trying to drive the sleep from his mind. He sees the boy standing over him, daggers at the ready, and the blinking stops. Terror replaces the confusion and he only has time to say one word, "You!" before the boy is on him. He drops, planting a knee on the man's neck, and plunges one of the daggers into his stomach. The boy leans over, tilting his head back to reveal a large black scar that cuts across his neck from the right side of his jawline to his left collarbone. The man gurgles and makes a muffled coughing sound, trying to speak through his crushed wind pipe. The boy looks at him again, locking eyes and holding his gaze as the man slowly slips away. He then lifts both daggers and brings them down into the man's eyes. 73 You see a group of children shouting, twisted laughter erupting from too-small mouths. An eyeless boy, face grown over with strange black tusks, cowers against a log. His small shoulders shake as he whispers to himself, trying to block out the relentless trail of insults. Freak. Monster. Death-head. The boy stays long after the other children leave. You see the same eyeless boy, now a man, many years later. Another group crowds him, but this time it is an audience. He tells a long joke about a ghost and a privy, and by the time he reaches the punchline, the crowd is yelling, starting to sound very much like the first. 74 You see a pair of muscled legs whirling through the air, knocking down two opponents and twisting backwards into another. The monk takes a deep breath and smoothly reverses, a brutal uppercut disabling a fourth combatant and a legsweep marking his victory as the fifth falls to the ground. He's a blur of action as he vaults over a wall and dives smoothly into an open window. The room is empty. He centers himself and continues, knocking one guard unconscious after another. The only sounds of his passing are the grunts and moans of the injured and incapacitated - there are no deaths tonight. He makes his way through the building, single-minded, towards a central room. Taking out another two guards with a motionless invasion of their minds, a skill half-remembered from another lifetime, he enters the room. The wisp of a man inside bows, his smile mocking, and disappears - a projection, nothing more. The monk bows back and leaves back the way he came. 75 You see this woman running through the streets of a small city. She pushes her way through the crowd, glancing over her shoulder as she does. Her clothing is torn and her hair disheveled. Even though she appears to be attempting to escape from someone, her eyes sparkle with joy. Her mouth is pulled back in an enormous grin and occasionally a small giggle works its way out of her throat. While looking over her shoulder, she runs headlong into a well-dressed man standing at one of the market stalls. The moment she sees the man she's run into, her face changes. Gone is the glee, replaced by fear. Her grin twists into a frown, her bottom lip quivering. The man, seeing her appearance, expresses concern for her well-being, and she leans against him, weaving a tale of a brutish man with wandering hands. As she speaks, her own hands travel over his body, seeking and exploring. There is a shout from across the crowd and they both look over to see a large, angry man approaching, roughly pushing his way through the crowd that separates them. She stiffens against him, feigning fear. The man tells her not to be afraid and steps in front of her to block the path of the figure who is coming nearer. The woman smiles, slowly backing away from them both, then lets out a gleeful cackle. Her protector turns, confused, and sees her departing, laughing and shaking a coinpurse. She spins and races off through the crowded marketplace. Confused, the man feels at his belt. His face hardens and he yells, joining the chase after the laughing woman losing herself in the crowd. 76 You see a small clearing through the trees of a thick forest. This man is standing at the edge of the tree line, clad in nothing but a loincloth. Loud chopping and sawing noises cut through the air from the clearing and with each hack or whine, the man's face grows grimmer. He looks up, tracking the crows who have gathered in the trees. He turns, watching the men working on the trees. He snarls, talking to the crows. How dare they? Do they not know the sacred when they see it? He says a word and places his hand against one of the trees. The bark appears to grow out from the tree and up his arm, slowly working its way out to cover his entire body. He holds his staff up and speaks again, lowering the staff to the ground with the final word of his incantation. The plants and roots around the edge of the clearing move, growing longer and undulating like a serpent, ready to strike. He looks to see every crow staring at him, awaiting his word. He moves into the clearing, staff held above his head. As he clears the tree line, one of the workers notices him and shouts to the others. They back away, toward the far side of the clearing, as a tougher group of men come forward, ready for action. He stares at them for a few moments before saying, "You were warned." He brings his staff down, pointing it at the men savaging his forest. 77 You see a woman of fire, twisting and dancing through a horde of skeletal enemies. Arrows stream through the air, but with a twist of her wrist she sends a sheet of fire careening toward the offending archers, incinerating all in its path. She screams, concentration lost as a pike pierces her leg and forces her to the ground. As the skeletons advance she begins to burn brighter, hotter, chanting something between gritted teeth. She flickers out for a moment, the fire contracting, and then - waves of white fire explode from her, destroying everything in their path. The only thing left is the sound of her panting and a pained grunt as she twists the pike from her leg and plants it in the ground to support herself as she gets up. She turns to leave, limping slowly towards the door, but something stops her. A guttural, inhuman whisper weaves its way through the air as a final figure rises into the air before her, claiming her, beckoning. Against her will she is drawn forward, nose filled with the reek of death and dust. Her face is glazed, unresponsive. She falls at the creature's feet, and something in her comes awake. Eyes burning, she stands once more and stretches out a hand, stroking the skeleton's ivory cheek, turning bone to cinder and ash. She stands there long after it is gone, ashes blowing in some spectral breeze. Something had laid claim to her... and this was not the end of it. 78 You see a dark room, its contents in disarray. The blinds are pulled against the light and the sounds of shouting and running can be heard outside. This man moves through a house, throwing items into a bag. He wraps up some food, collects some clothes, and searches through a chest for various odds and ends that resemble magical components. He stops at a bookshelf and quickly scans the spines, running his fingers along them to help keep his place. He sighs, sliding his finger across the spines again, mumbling to himself. Finally, he chooses a couple of titles and takes them from the shelf, adding them to the assortment of items he has already gathered. A small group of squirrels and birds watch him as he passes through the rooms, moving almost as a single entity. They are trying to stay near him, but also seem to know to stay out of his way. He is obviously in a hurry, but he maintains a deliberate demeanor about everything he does. The outer door bursts open with an explosive sound, causing the animals to scatter, terrified. The man turns, bringing a hand up, holding a book in his other, whispering something that barely can be heard. Ice crystals begin to form at the tips of his fingers, crackling against the heat of the room. He sees the man standing in the doorway and immediately drops his hands, the ice vanishing as quickly as it appeared. The man in the doorway gestures, telling him to hurry, and points toward the horizon somewhere outside. The man in the house dismisses him with a wave, saying he is almost done here and will be coming soon. He scans the dwelling one more time, searching for something he might have missed. Satisfied, he leaves, not even bothering to close the door. Outside, he can see people, all prepared as he is, traveling away from town, away from the rising plumes of smoke on the horizon. 79 You see a man probing at a lock, hunting for the click-click-click of success. It takes him more than a moment, but there it is. Click. He turns the needle further. Click. A smidge more. Click. His smile is all smug self-assurance as he pushes into the well-fortified building. He shivers as he steps over the threshold, pupils contracting briefly as the door swings shut of its own accord behind him. Click-click-click. Locked. He moves through the silent building, no subtlety to his search. He pockets nothing, despite the slack-jawed ache in his face as he passes over jewelery and potions alike. Nobody stops him as he slinks from room to room - he is alone, uninterrupted in his search. Finally, in a dingy, dust-encrusted room he finds a trapdoor, carelessly hidden beneath a fraying carpet. The lock is rusted, old and crude, and breaks with ease as he takes his sword hilt to it. He whistles through his teeth at the collection before him - hammers of adra, obsidian blades, dragon-scale armor. He replaces his sword with an enormous symboled blade of black, and takes as much else as he can carry. Dropping the trap door back down, he hears a wailing, piercing screech. Panicking, he tries to run, but his collection is too heavy. He curses, dropping all but the sword, and scales a bookcase to a barred window. He smashes the glass with his sword, and begins to bash at the old iron bars. Shouting in the distance renews his desperation, and with a great clang the bars fall from the window. He squeezes through the opening, every inch of exposed skin cut with glass, and runs, the obsidian blade on his back glowing gently in the dark night. 80 You see the burned out shell of a room. This man stands in the middle of it, scorch marks surrounding his feet, smoke rising from his fire-singed robe. Debris is littered about - broken shelves, torn and burned books, smashed chairs, a sundered table. There are cracks in the walls and light shines weakly through a small hole in the roof. Every window in the room has shattered and a lamp lies on its side in the corner, burning oil forming a pool under it on the stone floor. The man looks around, surveying the wreckage, his eyes stopping briefly on the five bodies lying amidst the debris. They are twisted, burned, torn, and nearly unrecognizable. He turns back to the only living man remaining, sitting against the wall, legs and pelvis crushed under a heavy stone beam. The dying man stares blankly over the beam, blood running from the corner of his mouth. The uninjured man leans over, looking into the eyes of the other. "No other may have this knowledge," he says. The other man opens his mouth to speak, but this man has already walked away. He drops his hand to his side and speaks a short phrase. An inky drop falls from his hand and hits the ground, growing into a ring of black energy that extends outward. As it passes over the other man, he transforms. His skin becomes ashen and gray, his flesh desiccating and wrinkling in on itself. The ring extends past the man and blinks out of existence as his body, now nothing but ash, collapses in on itself. 81 You see a man, eyes tight on a couple down a cobblestone road. He moves a little too obviously, a little too naturally, and his eyes never leave her mussed curls as he shadows them from building to building. The woman laughs drunkenly, hand entwined within another belonging to a sharp-nosed noble, flawless doublet slightly too small for his generous frame. She brushes against him as they move, clearly far too intimate for her shadow's liking. His eyes narrow to angry slits as the couple slip into an opulent doorway and the nobleman's hand slips down her dress. Her breath shortens into gasps and she leans into him further, moaning. The spectator pauses, mouth pressed shut, veins bulging. He slides along the wall, dagger in hand, and just as the woman bites into the nobleman's doublet he steps out. It's over in moments. He closes his eyes, dagger slipping from his blood-slicked hand, and bolts. 82 You see a man on horseback, riding in front of a caravan traveling through a lightly wooded area. This man rides next to him and they are chatting, jovially joking with each other. Both men bear a striking resemblance to each other and they are both dressed in armor with sword and bow. An orlan approaches on horseback, pulling up as they get near and then making pace with them. He indicates the road is clear and no signs of trouble can be seen for miles. No sooner have the words left his mouth then an arrow comes flying from the cover of the trees. The arrow hits the orlan in the neck, throwing him from his horse, who rears back. Spooked, the two remaining horses shy back as well, tossing their riders. This man falls clear and stands quickly, rushing to the caravan wagon and the cover it provides. The other man is not so lucky. His foot hooks in his stirrup and his ankle is wrenched backwards as he falls and then pulled down as his horse bolts forward. This frees his foot, but a small cracking sound can be heard from his ankle. He yelps in pain, rolling onto his front, and pulls himself toward the wagon. The wagon has stopped and the rear guards, two aumaua, ride forward around the far side of it. One jumps down from his horse and moves quickly to the injured man's side, holding out a hand to help him. The other aumaua rides forward, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he does. The first man see what is about to happen and calls out a warning, but he is too late. The aumaua on horseback swings, dispatching the one attempting to help the injured man before he even reaches him. He then drops from the back of his horse and raises his sword again. The man behind the wagon yells a second time, already nocking an arrow in his bow. He lets the arrow fly, watching it approach its target, who has already brought his sword down into the injured man's back. 83 You see an enormous mane of wild orange hair belonging to a burly man, his expression slightly worried in the small, candle-lit room. Across from him sits a portly woman with a third eye painted on her forehead. She gazes at him and clucks her tongue, standing him upright. He's a clear head and a half taller than her, but it is she who commands the room. She closes her eyes, her hand on his chest, and speaks. She sees a small, gray creature - darting from place to place, running, escaping. She's chasing it, four legs bounding, jumping across the room frantically, when... She laughs, opening her eyes and withdrawing her hand. Immediately guilty, she apologizes, avoiding his eyes. He demands to know what's wrong with him, what's causing his strange behavior. "Before you were born, your soul split, child," she explains, fighting a smile. "While half went to you, the other half seems to have become rather feline in nature." He rocks back, expression after expression pounding his face. His mouth opens and closes for several moments, before he bows his head, the edges of a smile playing around his mouth as well. Suddenly, he begins to laugh, doubling over, tears streaming down his face. Composing himself, he thanks her, and leaves - the mystery solved. 84 You see solemn faces, hundreds of them. They stand in silent remembrance, a town officially lamenting the sacrifice of some brave hero. His companions stand to the side, empty. The official tells their story, the saving of the village, the story of the one lost to the trolls in the battle as best he can, but the faces of his friends say far more about the veracity of the speech. Finally, it's over, and the villagers move back to their lives. The adventurers mill about for a time, talking, remembering, before heading back to the inn for the night. They mourn in their own ways; tears, anger, svef, broken bottles. The leader of the group stays quiet, gaze inward. Weeks pass, and he speaks little, leaving the inn early in the morning and returning late at night, exhausted. Finally, he takes the others to see it: a statue, life-sized, beautiful in its crude design. The villagers mount it in the square as the group leaves, still empty, but a little less broken. The statue smiles at them as they leave. 85 You see a trio of orlans, bright and gaudy, their instruments weapons as they compete with one another in brutal disharmony. Behind them, a troupe of performers roll, jump and gesture, teeth flashing with exquisite sharpness as they enact some bizarre pantomime. The smallest, one moment seemingly a child and the next an old man, thrusts obscenely at the crowd, eyes glazed behind his rictus grin. The crowd jostles uncomfortably at his display, dissatisfaction in their midst. No money is thrown, no praise given as the performers continue their display. The crowd disperses, uneasy, and the man-child's grin grows obscene as he watches them go. 86 You see this woman lounging on a large divan. She takes dates from an ornate glass bowl and stuffs them absent-mindedly into her mouth while she stares out the window. She is unkempt, half-dressed, and occasionally yawns, seeming bored with her surroundings. Her room shares the same unkempt look as if it hasn't been cleaned in weeks. A layer of dust covers everything, clothes and partially-eaten food litter the floor, and the furniture is in need of upkeep and repair. A knock comes from the door to her chamber and she lets out a quiet grunt, ignoring it. She grabs another handful of dates and starts throwing them into the air, one at a time, attempting to catch them in her mouth. She frequently misses, the dates bouncing to the floor, forming a makeshift ring around the divan. The knock comes again and she jumps, missing yet another date, which hits her on the forehead before rolling away. She grunts and looks at the door, exhaling sharply through her nose. A muffled and distant yell comes from somewhere outside the room. She rolls over on her side, facing away from the door and pulls a pillow over her head, trying to drown out the noise. She lies there for several minutes, eyes slowly closing as she slips into sleep. The door opens and someone enters the room, hesitantly making his way over the floor to stand by the divan. He reluctantly reaches out and touches her shoulder, shaking it gently. The pillow falls from her head and she turns to the man, a confrontational look on her face. "Mistress," he says, kneeling before her, "we need your help." The woman sighs heavily, rolling her eyes, and starts to stand. She grabs one last handful of dates and walks from the room, chewing noisily. 87 You see a forest clearing, fog curling through the weeds on the ground in the cold morning air. The serenity of the scene is occasionally broken by a faint noise that echoes through the silence. This woman emerges from the trees and stops, dropping to the ground. She creeps to the edge of the clearing and crouches near a tree. She glances around furtively, listening intently in the growing light. She presses her back to the tree, tensing against it, ready to spring forward. From the distance comes another sound, a rustling in the undergrowth. At that, she shoots forward, keeping as low to the ground as she can. She puts a hand to her throat and makes a sound, a shrill bird call, but what emerges from her mouth seems to emanate from yards away. From behind her, near the source of the rustling, there is a brief grunting noise that is quickly silenced. She dives into a large bush at the edge of the tree line, keeping her head down and wriggling silently through the leaves and twigs. She takes a position in the bushes, turning to face the direction she came. She raises her hand again, this time mimicking a stelgaer, placing the roar directly behind the men failing to sneak up on her. More than one voice answers this call, all of them sounding panicked and hurried, all of them quickly moving this way, all thoughts of stealth forgotten. She backs out from under the bush to crouch behind it. As she pulls her bow from her back, she takes a shooting stance and waits for her hunters to appear. 88 You see a burly man inspecting a dilapidated inn, the aumaua salesman almost dwarfing him as they walk through the once-proud establishment. The walls are rife with stains and only Wael knows what else smeared on every available surface. Not one thing stands unbroken, and moth-eaten blankets, rotting food and trash give evidence to a succession of squatters. The man frowns, scrutinizing the space. The aumaua gives him a final offer, flashing too-white teeth with each syllable, oversized and threatening. With a sigh and a jingle as he hands over the coin pouch, the man acquires the dump of an inn, and begins to plan. 89 You see a half-consumed ale slosh its way across the distance to his mouth, spilling across the stains of food long past. Glazed eyes glance at the brawl across the room, gaining fervor as the fight extends through the room. Another ale, he murmurs to the bartender, downing his drink and turning towards the wall. He pulls a picture from his pocket, a painting of a young child, all brown hair and green eyes, and holds it above a candle. It does not burn. Ales later he begins to sing, the bar a mess of broken chairs and wounded pride, and they all listen for a moment before continuing their drinks, svef, conversations. His ache is felt through the room - his sad story reminds them of their sad stories. When he finishes singing, a silence hangs in the air. palpable among the smoke and the sweat and the yeasty smell of beer-infused exhalation. He is the first to break the silence, ordering a round of ale for the room. The general din of conversation sparks and resumes, but the mirth now is tempered with far-off memories and thoughts. 90 You see a group of people standing around a wagon, transfixed on a sword as it swings in a large, graceful arc. This man holds the sword, passing it from hand to hand with a relaxed ease, making the blade dance in front of his audience. He tosses it into the air, spins, then puts his arm behind his back to catch it. The crowd claps excitedly and a couple of them gasp, certain they were about to see a tragedy. 91 You see a young boy sneak up the ramp of a giant, black-sailed ship, smile so wide it almost cracks his wind-whipped cheeks. The ship is almost empty, crew out drinking and celebrating their latest haul. The boy easily evades the drunken guards playing cards on the upper decks, trading stories of conquests the boy doesn't yet understand, and runs down the stairs to the decks below. The ship is silent below as he explores, just the gentle lap of the ocean against the hull and the muffled sound of excited feet running between boxes, stopping at each to peek inside. Another pair of footsteps and the boy jumps, hiding behind a collection of sacks. The footsteps disappear, eventually, but the boy is asleep... and the ship roars into life as her drunken crew make a breakneck escape with an accidental stowaway. 92 You see a pair of immaculately polished leather boots and an impeccably maintained goatee, their owner a slightly hook-nosed man with a wicked grin and narrow eyes. He bobs his feathered hat at a nearby merchant as he ambles by, a small piece of parchment held tight in his fist, ink staining his fair fingers. He seems to know most of the merchants in the market, stopping to engage some, nodding at others and even bartering for minor goods with a select few, always smiling, laughing and exchanging jibes. He approaches a heavy-set aumaua, smile plastered stiff across his face, and jokes about the weather. She jokes back, subtly palming him several gold coins. When he walks away the paper in his hand is gone, and the smile on his face far more genuine. He tips his cap at her, winking, and trundles off with a new spring in his step. 93 You see a woman emptying her satchel onto her bed, taking stock of her inventory. Potions, bandages, tinctures and herbs are scattered throughout her room haphazardly. She bites her lip, head tilted to the side, considering. She begins to repack, one item after the other, careful deliberation undercut by shaking hands. Each item has a clearly marked place, but no matter how she repacks it, she isn't satisfied. The shaking worsens as she empties it out once more, one hand held to her mouth. Tears eke from her eyes as she gives up all semblance of order and shoves everything she can in the satchel, grabbing it and running out of the bare house. Straightening her back she walks to the docks, chin high, eyes hard and red. A gangly young elf offers his condolences, but she can't see him for the ocean ahead of her. She wanders the docks, offering her services as a doctor to any who will listen, anyone heading out on high tide. Less than an hour later, she watches her childhood disappear in the distance, a tiny speck of an island, and tries not to jump. 94 You see an emaciated boy in chains, black holes for eyes, staring sightlessly at a wall. A man in a dark coat walks in, a scroll and an oddly shaped quill in his hand. The boy glances at him expressionless, a corpse waiting for animation. The man clucks at him, disapproval clear in his tone. The boy stands, limbs hanging. The man takes the quill and begins to write on the boy's chest, copying sharp, angular symbols from the scroll. The child doesn't flinch as the quill digs into his skin, drawing blood as it goes. The wizard finishes with a flourish and barks some arcane command, setting the symbols to glow dully. The boy cries out, knees hitting the stone hard, his chest burning black and red. Finally the glow disappears, leaving only hard black scars etched into his skin. He slumps sideways, twitching, eyes facing the back of his skull. The wizard grunts, kicking him on the leg on his way out. The boy lies on the floor until dawn, eyes still black like holes, the twitches growing into convulsive shakes. 95 You see the interior of a small, dark shop. The shelves are covered with a variety of goods, some commonplace and others of a little more exotic variety. This man wanders the shelves of the shop, smiling and fondly touching the items. He maneuvers through the aisles, the only person in the shop. He stops in front of a large display showing the model of a large wurm, a plaque in front of it detailing information about its natural habitat, food preferences, and mating rituals. He moves on, wandering from display to display, stopping at each one to take it in. He looks out the window at the front of the shop and sees the sun has broken the building line. People are wandering the market, stopping into shops and loitering at the stalls, looking for a bargain. Standing before the front door, the man turns back to the shop and smiles again. He then unlocks the door and pushes it open, letting in the sounds of the market. 96 You see a long, empty road cutting through two large crop fields. The air is silent and the land seems too still for early afternoon. This woman walks slowly on the road, leading a horse, curiously looking around. She seems to sense something wrong, but is unable to discern what it is. She stops, sniffing at the air, her nose high. Her brow crinkles and she casts about, looking for something. The air is clear. No clouds. She sniffs again, still looking around, confusion clouding her face, mouthing a single word, "Fire?" She looks out across the fields, her confusion turning to fear. She holds her hand up to block the sun from her eyes and scans the fields again. Not finding what she was looking for, she jumps onto her horse's back, the fear quickly becoming panic. She kicks, sending the horse shooting down the path, which bends around some trees to where the farm house should be. She pulls up short, horror now in residence on her face as she stares at the burned and charred mess that used to be her family's home. Tears well in her eyes as she kicks again, racing to the rubble. 97 You see a older dwarf counting coins behind a grimy shop window, hair limp with grease and sweat, a sneer playing around the edges of his pinched mouth. The bargains of the day lie scattered across the table, from tarnished, tawdry jewelery to an acid-encrusted dagger lying precariously near the edge. His half-nose twitches in anticipation as a customer enters, a disheveled young noble, once-white doublet stained with a life gone wrong. Eyes dart behind him, searching for pursuit, before he dumps the contents of his hessian bag on the table. The dwarf leans forward, fingers flicking through the silverware and assorted goblets. He shakes his head emphatically, sneer fully settled, shoving the items back at the man. The man pleads, begs, eyes rolling panicked in their sockets, asking for something, anything, a few silvers. The dwarf leers and tosses three copper pands on the table. Desperate, the young noble tears a signet ring from his finger, to the dwarf's ill-concealed delight. A few more coins go into the pile, and the defeated man, swearing stitches under his breath, exits the shop. The venerable dwarf grins at his good fortune, picking food out of his too-sharp teeth as he examines his haul. 98 You see a group of young men standing around a makeshift practice target. This man stands in the middle of them, explaining the construction and use of a bow. He holds it up, pointing out each part as he speaks about it and what it does. He then walks away from the target, telling them to remain where they are, and takes his place about 200 feet away. He carefully lines up his shot, explaining what he is doing as he does, and lets the arrow fly. It hits the target dead center, much to the surprise and delight of the boys near it. He smiles, walking toward the boys, talking about proper stance and how to most effectively hold a bow. A noise comes from the tree line near their practice venue and he stops, scanning the woods, blue eyes squinting against the sun. A shadow moves, making its way through the forest behind them. He draws an arrow and lines up the shot, carefully tracking the motion of the hidden creature. Loosing the arrow, he wastes no time and quickly grabs another. The boys spin, watching the arrow fly into the forest, immediately lost among the trees. There is sudden, explosive movement in the undergrowth as a deer erupts from the tree line, running across the edge of the clearing. The boys laugh, turning to joke with the man about his lousy shot. They stop talking, seeing him holding the bow and leading the deer with a nocked arrow. They drop to the ground as he looses this last arrow, which flies true and strikes the deer right behind its shoulder, piercing heart and lungs and dropping it dead almost immediately. The boys stare at the deer for a few seconds and then slowly turn to look at the man, newfound respect in their eyes. He smiles again and breathes a quiet sigh of relief. 99 You see a tall woman crouched over her drink, sitting alone in an unkept inn. What few other patrons are there leave her well alone, walking a wide berth as she drinks. Even the innkeeper avoids her eye as he serves her a procession of drinks, but she seems to take no notice. A man swaggers in, and he does take notice. With an imperious nod to the innkeeper, he seats himself next to the woman, her buxom form his clear interest. She turns away from him but he persists, reaching a hand across and touching her knee. In seconds he is prone on the floor, shocked and still, scrambling to get back up - and is prevented by her shoe on his throat. She raises an eyebrow, expression empty as he splutters for mercy. He's red by the time she relents, and she turns back to her drink as he scrambles backwards and out the door, casting affronted glances behind him as he retreats. The other patrons shake their heads knowingly. 100 You see a pennant waving tall and sluggish in the wind, a rising sun embroidered on the banner, the vanguard of a small troop of paladins. The atmosphere is buoyant, if restrained, and their armor has not yet been tarnished by the elements - this expedition is fresh, young, filled with zest and zeal. At their head stands a commander, awkward in full armor but determined in step. Despite the excitement of his fellows he does not smile; there's a twist to his mouth, his countenance grim. He throws up a hand, halting his troop. Silence falls among them, revealing a dark thunder, deep and low. He orders them to ready their weapons and spread out. Eyes dart from horizon to horizon, necks twisting to see the source of the sound. In the distance, dust and lightning rise from the ground as stygian clouds race towards them overhead. The soldiers stand, only the staccato movement of their breath betraying their nerves. The commander closes his eyes, calling a blessing down on his troop. Invigorated, invincible, they wait as the enemy draws closer, poised to attack. 101 You see this man kneeling naked before a dais in the center of a large round room. Across the room, opposite from where he kneels, stands a large throne. The throne's back and two of its legs are broken, rendering it unusable and causing it to tilt precariously on its stand. The room is ringed with figures clad in black robes, each chanting quietly, resulting in a low drone that pervades the room. On the dais, across the brazier, is another robed figure holding a leather-bound book with charred marks on it. He is speaking to the naked man about fealty, dedication and law. When he finishes, he bids the other to rise and holds the book out to him over the burning coals in the brazier. The naked man nods and the robed man drops the book into the fire. The naked man drops to one knee, briefly pressing his forehead to the side of the brazier, then stands and thrusts both of his hands into the coals at the bottom of the brazier. He retrieves the book, slowly presenting it to the robed figure before him. The man rubs his thumb on the ash that has collected on the cover of the book and uses it to draw a mark on the naked man's forehead over the burned flesh. The naked man bows his head and whispers, "Was that right, Da?" The robed man nods patiently. The naked man looks to the broken throne with childlike eyes, "Did you see that, Mum?" 102 You see this man, deep in conversation with an elf. The elf seems to be some sort of supervisor and is discussing with the man how much he has earned for his day's work. The man looks confused and tells the elf he is sure what he is owed is much more than what he is being given. The elf smiles condescendingly and starts to explain again why he isn't getting as much as he thought he should. He speaks quickly, saying seemingly random numbers, moving his hands around with wide, sweeping gestures. As the elf talks, the man appears more and more confused. Finally the elf finishes and goes to hand the man his pay. A voice interrupts the proceedings, telling the elf he needs to rethink he numbers. They turn to the source of the voice and see an older, angry-looking man watching them. The older man approaches, sword drawn. He informs the elf, in a steely voice, to recalculate the man's pay, and this time include everything he's owed. The elf tries to protest and the man flicks the sword upward, cutting his coin purse from his belt. It falls to the ground with a muffled clink. The older man tells the younger one to retrieve the purse, saying that is closer to what he should be getting. While he speaks, his eyes never break from the elf's, daring him to protest again. Once the younger man has the coins, the older man addresses the elf once more. "You will never try that on the folk again," he says, then flicks the sword again. The elf's shirt splits diagonally from shoulder to hip, a small line of red forming along the length of the slash. The elf yelps, jumping back, then reaches for the dagger at his side. The older man hits his wrist with the flat side of his sword, then brings it up under his chin, shaking his head. The elf, rethinking his actions, hurries off. The older man turns to the younger and says, "It would appear we need to talk." 103 You see this man standing on bloodstained dirt. Sweat runs down his forehead and drips onto his cheeks, mixing with the dust, grime, and blood caked around his mouth. His breath explodes from him in a deep, deliberate rhythm, timed to the sounds of the cheering crowd in the stands surrounding him. He faces his final opponent, letting the massive broadsword in his hand fall to the ground with a dull thunk. His eyes narrow as he takes in his surroundings, sizing up the competition. The combatant is addressed, assessed, and dismissed within seconds. His lips peel back to reveal wickedly-sharpened teeth, blood and flesh from the last opponent still lodged between them. He spits, disdainfully acknowledging the warrior now slowly approaching him, then grins again, motioning for him to hurry. The crowd's cheers grow louder and faster, creating a mesmeric rhythm and increasing the speed of his frenzied breathing. His opponent lunges, swinging his mace in a lateral arc right toward him. He does nothing to avoid the blow, but simply turns himself away from it, steeling himself for the blow. The mace lands solidly and squarely in the middle of his left shoulder and he screams - not of pain, but of unadulterated elation. He turns, grabbing the warrior's wrist and jerks it outward, toward himself. With a wet, tearing sound, his opponent's shoulder comes free of its socket. Listening to the wail of horror escaping the warrior's lips, the man laughs - almost a bark. He takes the elbow of the dislocated arm and, still holding the wrist with his other hand, pulls the elbow toward himself, folding the entire arm backward against the joint. A resounding crack echoes through the arena and the wail is replaced by a scream of unfathomable pain. He drops the now-useless arm and grabs his opponent by the shoulders, near his neck, and squeezes firmly to work the top of the dislocated limb. The crowd's cheering has reached a frenzied roar, now chanting the same word again and again. "Rip!" The man smiles one last time, pulling his lips back again to give the crowd what it has come for. His head shoots forward and he buries his teeth in his opponent's neck, feeling the blood coursing over his lips and into his mouth. This is what he was made for. This is who he is. 104 You see a dwarf, matted beard slick with rain and dirt. His teeth are gritted in the wind, cloak drawn close. He walks in formation with twenty-one others, all bearing the same insignia - a mercenary company. They are all soaked with mud and filth, faces broken, shoulders fallen and soft. They do not speak as they move, gathered in an uneven circle. Their guide gestures, an officious looking orlan, directing them through the sodden streets towards a run-down building. The ceiling has partially caved in, and something about the too-perfect door causes the party to stop. The orlan barks at them, agitated. The mercenaries form a tight circle. Something is amiss. Then - hooves, gunfire. They have been betrayed. The fight is fast and efficient. Mercenary blood stains the cobblestone streets as the soldiers round up those remaining. A horse rears out of nowhere, kicking the dwarf in the side of the head. He falls instantly, blood seeping from his ear. The soldiers leave the mess, uncaring, their orders completed. Night falls and bodies stiffen. Rain has all but washed the street clean as the dwarf slits open an eye, groaning. He staggers to his feet, hand on his head. He leaves his cloak on the ground, insignia greeting the sky, and slowly walks away. 105 You see a crowd doubled over, sharing bouts of laughter as a mischievous-eyed woman relates a tale of her last adventure involving an unusually self-conscious troll. She has them exactly where she wants them as she throws out the punchline, sending anyone who wasn't already smiling into tears of laughter. She curtsies at the crowd with a flourish and a wicked grin and makes her way to the bar, quickly followed by a legion of eager suitors each trying to buy her affection with a drink. She turns each of them away, but none leave without a smile. She enjoys her drink, content, and starts to scribble down the beginnings of her next performance, laughing at her own jokes. 106 You see a xaurip gurgle gently as it falls to the ground, the victim of a small blade to the throat. A tall man in dark armor wipes the blade clean on his cloak before padding onwards towards the next guard. Another flash and the second xaurip is down, and the next, and the next. Finally, a scout spots him and raises a shout. Between one step and another the man smoothly deposits the knife in his boot and draws two longswords, decapitating the closest xaurip in the process. He makes no sound but the sleek whistle of his blades as they pass through monster after monster, before one lodges in the skull of one particularly hard-headed specimen. Unable to break it free he discards his other sword and reaches for his spellbook. A cone of flames erupts from his hand, boiling the skin from three agonized xaurips nearby and causing the remaining to scatter. The earth shakes and spikes of rock begin to pierce the surface as a nearby xaurip High Priest attacks - a moment too late, as the bespelled man moves unnaturally quickly from ground to ground, attacking the remaining xaurips with sword and spell. Sweat burns his eyes as he conjures an enormous ball of fire, sending it screaming through the air towards the High Priest and her remaining followers. Nothing but charred corpses remain after it passes. He falls to his knees, panting, almost four-score xaurips fallen around him. Just as he moves to get up the ground begins to shake once more. Twice. Three times. Huge footsteps, and then - he dives behind a rock spike, a returning volley of fire singeing his cloak. The drake has noticed him. 107 You sense a strange divide in this woman's soul, an unnatural boundary between two opposed wills. You see the woman pausing by a roadside to hand something to the driver of a stopped wagon. These herbs should help with his party's sickness, she tells him. He can find more along the road, easy to spot with their serrated leaves, but avoid the ones with the green berries. It's a different species. Toxic. He thanks her and offers her coin but she waves him off, explaining that she is merely doing what her Order asks of her. He nods and she heads off down the road as he begins to hungrily consume the herb. You see the woman searching alongside the road now, the wagon just up the path, and you realize you have skipped backward in her memory. She sets eyes on a plant with serrated leaves and green berries. She picks several handfuls, tearing the berries off one by one and tossing them to the ground. She nudges them off the path into the brush quickly with her boot without looking down, as if to hide them from her own sight, before striding back toward the wagon, hands outstretched. 108 You see a large group of people gathered in the common area of a large inn. This man is standing in the midst of the people, engaged in conversation with someone. He is smiling and talking gregariously, moving from person to person with ease. He is able to extract himself from one conversation and insert himself into another without a break in his stride. He kisses the hand of a well-dressed woman, dipping her, then twirling her back into the arms of her escort. He moves on to another group, slapping someone on the back while laughing at a joke, and then he's off again. Sliding between people, hugging someone, shaking hands - he never stops. Finally, he seems to have hit his limit and he excuses himself from the gathering, much to the dismay of everyone there. He smiles and waves as he leaves, making a little bow with a flourish of the hand as he closes the door. Once he is away from the inn and around a corner, he pulls several objects from a concealed pocket in his jacket. He looks at each one in turn - a necklace, a brooch, a couple of coin pouches, and a small jewel. Smiling, he pours the money into his palm and quickly counts it, still aimlessly wandering the streets. He passes a beggar who holds out a bowl to him, pleading for a pittance. The man stops, smiles at the beggar, and drops all the coins into his bowl. Then he walks off, whistling happily. 109 You see a child, a heavy chain running from her wrist to the wall, scrubbing at a kitchen tile with deliberate slowness. The stain is dark and heavy, but she scrubs for hours, failing to notice the passage of time, failing to greet the moon as it rises. Her small face is hard and dry as she scrubs. When she is done, the kitchen is raw and fresh, ready for a new day - but she is not done yet. Trembling, she approaches the body in the corner. The whites of her eyes grow ever larger as she reaches into a pocket, grasping for freedom, and finding it in the form of a key. She does not notice the blood smeared on her blouse, or the stares of the townspeople as she runs towards the shoreline and the docks in the distance. 110 You see a dark, foreboding room, heavy with incense smoke. Two figures stand in the center of the room, performing some sort of ritual with slow, exact, deliberate motions. This man follows along with the actions of an older man and it becomes obvious the older man is teaching the younger one how to perform the ritual. He calls out steps, corrects imperfections, and berates the young man when he missteps. Watching the younger man's motions, you note he seems to be intentionally making mistakes, but what he hopes to accomplish with this, you can't discern. As the ritual continues, the master becomes more irritated with the young man. He walks over, leans in, and begins chastising him eye to eye. This appears to be what the young man was waiting for. The young man takes advantage of his master's distraction. Dropping the censer he is holding, he locks eyes with the older man, completely focused on his target. A wisp of energy leaps from the younger eyes to the older and the master stands up, eyes now milky white, rocking unsteadily on his feet. The young man never breaks his gaze on the older, slowly circling him, almost seeming disappointed. He stops, toe to toe, and looks disdainfully into the blank eyes. "Is that it?" he whispers, staring his master down like a snake. "How did I ever think you had anything to offer me?" He blinks and twists his head to the side, turning heel and striding from the room. Bright blue mist flows from the master's eyes and mouth, wrapping sinuous tendrils around his body. It slides across his arms, working its way to his abdomen, down over his legs. The mist speeds up, moving faster as it circles the master's body, glowing brighter as it does. The speed increases until it no longer looks like mist, but a shimmering cocoon surrounding the old man's body. A faint humming buzz emanates from the mist, growing louder and more forceful by the second. The young man stops in the doorway, looking back at the older man, only a mild interest in his eyes. With a whoosh, the air around the master ignites, starting him on fire. The smell of his own burning flesh breaks him from his reverie and a scream erupts from his lungs. The young man turns around again, unmoved, and walks away, leaving no one to hear his master's dying cry. 111 You see a hand, curled and bruised, staked to the floor with a bent metal spike. Blood covers the floor and drips from the furnishings and walls. This man looks up from the body he is crouched over to survey the carnage he caused to the family in whose house he now skulks. Four bodies total - a woman, two young men, and a girl - lie blindfolded on the ground. Their legs are bound and both hands are attached to the floor with spikes. He has lifted the woman's blindfold and is currently doing something to her eyes. He pulls back a small blade and covers the eyes again, gently patting the blindfold. He stands and looks around, seemingly satisfied with his handiwork. Suddenly his breath quickens, hearing someone approach the door to the room. He bounces in place, excitement almost overwhelming him, then rushes to the back of the room, concealing himself in the shadows. From his vantage, he sees the bodies are perfectly arranged, each one facing the door, welcoming the man of the house back, arms outstretched as if in embrace. The door opens as he slowly pulls another spike from his belt, the tip of his tongue playing across his teeth in anticipation. 112 You see a modestly-furnished house, warm from the cooking fire lit at its far end. This man is sitting in a high-back chair looking at a large book with a small boy in his lap. He smiles and asks the child about the pictures on the pages as he points to different parts of them. He looks up as a woman approaches to stir something in the pot hanging over the fire. She adds some carrots to the pot, mixes them in, then stands and turns to the man. She says something to him and leans in to give him a kiss when a knock comes at the door. The man makes to stand and the woman motions for him to stay. She walks to the door and glances out the window. It is already too dark outside for anything to be seen. She lifts the bolt on the door and pulls it open, revealing a tall, lanky man with a strange smile on his face. There is a wet, tearing sound and the woman makes a weak groan, collapsing to the floor, blood quickly pooling around her. The man in the chair leaps to his feet, grabbing his son, interposing himself between the boy and the man at the door, who steps over the body and enters the house. "Galark vowed you would feel his pain," the man says conversationally as four other men enter the house behind him. "It appears your rent has come due." 113 You see a lone man, standing in a field. He looks around, surveying the crops. Occasionally he bends to examine a leaf up close. He is intent on what he is doing, completely absorbed in his work. This man approaches him from behind. He moves slowly, but does nothing to mask his approach. In his hand he holds a large sword. There appears to be no malice or hatred in the man's demeanor. He almost seems pleased. The first man hears his approach and stands, turning away from the plant he was inspecting. His face breaks into a smile and he opens his arms to welcome the approaching man. The smile freezes into a grimace as the second man thrusts the sword through his stomach, its blade now protruding from his back. His arms slowly fall to his side and blood starts to drip from the sword onto the plants below the men. As the first man crumples to his knees, the second pulls the sword out, a tear slowly falling down the cheek of his still-smiling face. 114 You see a flurry of matted white hair and an incandescent freeze-fire staff before you see the man, cold and wild. He chews a wizened apple slowly, discharging spell after spell into the jumble of villagers screeching their way towards him. Cold flame vents from his nose and apple seeds shoot out the side of his mouth as he saunters forward, ignoring arrows and curses alike. A deliberate twist of his staff and a bullet of force glides through the torso of one assailant, and another. A roar blisters his throat as he launches himself into their midst, tearing into their essence with his staff. A pleading hand reaches towards him, and quickly falls, ignored. Silence takes hold as the tattered man gathers his prize: a basket of fresh pears. He hums as he eats. 115 You see a tall figure pacing the edges of a carpet corner to corner, fingers twitching in irritation. The sound of battle grow ever closer, snaking its way through caves and corridors, past doors and soldiers, and the mage paces. Throwing his door open he strides through the refurbished cave, taking scrolls from shelves and demanding potions from terrified grunts. Kicking a fallen chair from his path he returns to his room, pacing, readying himself. As the enemy grows closer and closer he begins casting, spell after spell, defenses, additional vigor, traps. Just as his skin hardens into metal they stride in, swords flying and arrows buzzing. "Last chance to rethink this," he says. An arrow whistles by his head in answer. He sighs, and his lips thin with effort as he begins his onslaught. There are six of them, but soon there are four, and three, and one. For the last he takes a dagger to be sure, throwing it directly into the orlan's temple. The man topples. None get back up. The mage barks into the hallway, receiving naught but silence in response. Frustrated, he begins to dispose of the bodies, the last person standing. 116 You see a man crosses his arms and sticks his chin out. Moonlight and torchlight color his face. "Bullshit." The elf standing in front of him wears a panicked expression. "Are you mad? I've seen it!" "Ah-ha!" the first man cries, raising a triumphant finger. "You just said you'd only heard it." The elf blinks. "What in the name of Galawain's beasts does that have to do with anything?" "You said you'd only heard it. Now you're telling me it's a monster the size of two aumaua with blood-dyed fur." The man takes a step closer to the elf. "And now I'm saying you're a liar, Doran." Doran sputters. "Gods, Visceris, who cares what it looks like? It's a rabid wolf. You saw what it did to the sheep-" The elf throws up both of his hands, shaking his head. "You want to stay out here all night to see the thing yourself, have it your way. I'm getting out of here." "Fine." "All right." "Good." The elf storms off, casting one last glance over his shoulder as he disappears down a hill. The man sets off in the other direction, a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. Within minutes, he comes to a broken paddock where a dozen sheep lie dead, their throats torn and their innards scattered across the ground. It is not the work of a normal predator. Something crunches through the dry grass. Visceris spins but sees nothing. He raises his torch higher. This time, a rustling sounds from behind him, near the paddock. He turns again to see a wolf. It's not nearly as large as Doran had sworn, and while its fur is matted with red around its throat and paws, the rest of the elf's description has proven to be a rather lurid exaggeration. Typical. Visceris takes some small satisfaction in this even while the wolf lunges for him, its jaws foaming and eyes rolling.