The Cosmic Detour

[Caden Law]

Closed to myself and Fingolfin; we worked this out earlier tonight and it'll serve both as a jiffy quest and as a claiming of my Shoppe Reward for Part One of the Featured Quest in Raiaera.

Welcome to Tomorrow.

Welcome to the world N'Thayn'sal, perhaps better known to you by its current name: Althanas.

Welcome to the world that awaits you, twenty years hence. It's a place where Raiaera fell, and a bloody-eyed banner was hoisted from Eluriand's blackened towers. Where the people of Alerar saw the dangers for what they were and struck -- hard and fast, as best as they could. Where Salvar fell to internal strife of so many colors and kinds. Where Scara Brae is little more than a bowl full of dirty seawater and dead bodies, and Corone is nothing but a fond memory. Mile high towers dot the lands of Dheath -- the lands of Wyrm -- and the ocean boils with the ravenous howls of monsters better left unnamed.

N'Thayn'sal, where gods have died and the stars are going out and the only moon left is riddled with mile deep crevices and burning craters where you can still see the bodies of Things, some good and some evil and a lot that were neither one or the other or anything we can pin names to. It's a world that is, for all intents and purposes, dying.

The High Elves have fallen here, they're just a wandering band of refugees, beggars and hardened survivors now. Man has been broken to his knees screaming and enduring, but no better than others. The Dwarves would've gone to ground as well, had the Hordes of Haidia not sundered them from the veins of the world. Only the Drow remain strong, or at least recognizable, and even the lands of Alerar have shrunken with the fall of the Dwarves and the foothold empire of their murderers.

The goblins and their ilk hold power now, if only barely. They came in screaming from lands known and unknown, lead along by the mighty ogres. The wyrmkin have risen to dominance in Dheath. What was once Raiaera is now Durkland, and what used to be Corone is little more than a hundred feifdoms, ten falling by the year as the Reaper Queen carves her empire out of the flesh of the living, broken masses within.

What once was Salvar no longer is. It's not that the whole country has fallen from a dozen civil wars and twice as many self-proclaimed governments -- and it has. It's not that the Wyrmian Warlocks have infiltrated society and burnt the grimoires and tomes, hats and robes of the old Wizarding orders -- and they have. It's not even that the realm that used to be Sulgoran's Axe has somehow, perhaps by the good graces of whatever Sway still live, remained somewhat intact.

Nominally speaking, Salvar retains a government of its own, though most of its northern reaches don't even know the name of it. It's on monarchy number three in as many years, the previous two quietly installed and removed by a band of Wyrm Warlocks and its armies commanded by the infamous Gale Knights of Icetongue. The people here live between all the rocks and all the hard places; Orcs, Goblins and Ogres to one border, Xem'zund and the Haidian demons to another, and ever the looming threat of another raid by desperate Alerar or the Reaper Queen, or genocide by the Wyrm when the Warlocks tire of their games, or even of the death of their last few patron gods and the slaughter that would doubtlessly follow.

This is a grim, darkened place. This is where the last bits of humanity still look to the increasingly starless skies and delude themselves into thinking they can at least die free...

...and maybe, just maybe if you look hard enough, you'll find something unexpected here. You might not believe it at first. You might think it's ridiculous, you might think it's senseless, you might even consider it absolutely insane, but it remains even after the rest of the world is over.

It's hope.

Hope lives in Salvar, and hope lives in the dying world of N'Thayn'sal...

[Caden Law]

You'll find that hope has a Name, if you go far enough north in the realm known today, in the future, as Sulgore's Axe. It isn't the place you know, at least not exactly. Look hard enough and you'll spot a few similarities though. The feif structure remains, but it's gotten bloodier and there's no loyalty to anything but the outside military anymore. Icetongue Brood, headed by the Pale Lady Sulgore herself, runs this place now. They've gotten bigger, and they use the bitter cold and the constant civil war as a means of natural selection.

Only the strong survive here, and nowhere else will you find anyone quite so strong enough to hope as the man you're about to meet in the wilds near the Warlocked City of Evernorth. It's an area where the clouds are few but the snow is impossibly heavy, dotted with grand hills and roadside fortress towers by the dozen. There's a very specific road. It leads directly from the city of Sulgore's Axe to Evernorth, winding through a dozen fiefdoms between. To one side is the Forest of Iciol, where trees grow with leaves of ice, and far enough behind them are the Mountains of Denebriel. To the other is the frozen lake of Berevar, its ice reddened near the shores and a few bodies visibly frozen into it.

The Wyrm call it one name, but everyone else knows it by another: Redstone's Path, where a Wizard once tread.

Redstone's Path, where another Wizard stands in wait before a caravan lead by a Gale Knight, Arcturus the Iron-Hand, so named for the oversized iron hand, fully functional, transmuted to the stump where his left hand used to be. The Wizard is one that Arcturus has fought before, and they've had this dance before. Several times, in fact; enough for him to know that the Wizard's rebels, thirty in all, have him partially surrounded from the forest, and the ice has been thinned enough beneath the surface to crack should he run. Which is just fine, because Arcturus does not intend to run. He intends to end this pest problem once and for all.

With that in mind, he dismounted from his borselisk steed. With his proper right hand, he drew an axe bearing his Brood's insignia. He strode forward, and he tried to speak, "We meet again, for the last time--"

Operative word: Tried.

The Wizard drew wands from his sleeves, and that was where everything got bloody. First came the Missile, all bright white and singing discord. Arcturus decked the spell and ruptured it with his metal hand, its spiked knuckles made from Dehlar. Then came the lightning, and he twisted hard to catch it with the blade of his axe and cast it into the lake; ice shattered and water steamed on impact.

"You will die this day!" Arcturus shouted, and the Wizard laughed in his face as spell after spell met purpose-crafted metals and fell short every time. It was only when they reached point blank that you could find out why the Wizard was laughing.

He ducked forward beneath Arcturus' lunge, clasping his hands together. The wands crackled with magic energies of a dozen sorts, and then transmuted into each other before the mass exploded into a full-blown warhammer; a four foot shaft of tarnished silver alloys with a grey stripe down each side leading into a well-crafted block of solid Damascus. The head was covered in magic. There was nothing else you could call it.

He turned, he swung, and Arcturus was just fast enough to catch the whole thing in his chestplate. He went flying back with a sound like thunder gone to war, then came crashing back down into the ice just as hard. Water sprayed everywhere, and anyone else would've believed the battle to be over. It wasn't. But while it's at a lull, let's stop and actually meet the Wizard, the hammerman, and the sole beacon of hope to so many of the people in this desolate region.

He's six foot six inches for the sake of overkill, pale as a ghost and leathered with age and scars by the dozen. One of his eyes is missing, and skin's warped into a cancerous looking callous where it used to be. He's completely bald, and perhaps oddly for a Wizard of any age and world, he doesn't bother wearing the archetypal hat anymore. Mostly because it was cut from his head and set on fire about ten years ago. Time has worn him to the bone, but pure willpower has kept a heavy layer muscle on his frame. He wears the robes still, but they're black now. Stark, raving, frosty black as an disillusioned athiest's heart, worn over what may as well be the medieval rendition of combat fatigues.

He can be identified by two things though, even more so than his square jawed look of absolute determination. There's a black-and-grey tome chained to his belt and clasped shut with a Dehlar lock, and all of his clothes -- be it his cape, his coat, his underrobes or his underclothes -- bear the exact same streak of grey down the back.

His birthname's Jolstice Aramson, but you'll know him better by the same Name everyone else does.

Greyspine.

And with that out of the way, take note of the surging glow tearing through the ice en route to the shore. The fight's about to hit its climax, and even Greyspine knew it. He'd pushed his luck plenty of times with the Arcturus Caravan, enough that its members didn't bother fighting back and his own men didn't bother attacking because everything would be determined by which of them won and how decisive the victory was. Arcturus and Greyspine knew this as well.

What they didn't know, and didn't plan for, turned out to be N'Thayn'sal's very first telefrag.

It happened out of nowhere and everywhere at once. Arcuturs erupted from the ice, trailing water and bleeding from his snout. His axe was held high, his hand stretched forward like a grappling shield, and his voice ringing through the air like an air raid siren. Then it went silent. At about the same time, give or take a nanosecond, Arcturus Icetongue simply exploded. There was a flash of sunny yellow light from inside of his body, and then he exploded. Bits and pieces of him were still raining down all over the ground (and all over Greyspine, for that matter) by the time that the figure arguably responsible for it came to a landing.

It was with a stagger that he did so, and he was covered in even more blood and gore than Greyspine or the ground around him. He fell over, immediately aware of what had happened, and promptly started vomiting.

Greyspine, utterly unphased by this, simply turned to the slackjawed members of the caravan and smiled as his men and women stepped forth from the forest with weapons at the ready.

"I believe this is the part where you scaly dogs run back to your mistress in the Axe and beg forgiveness," he said, very intentionally taking control of the situation like he'd expected that to happen. And with that lunatic gleam in his eye, it's hard to say he didn't. "Now get the hell out of my sight."

It's at about this Time that Caden came to a certain realization that all unwitting linchpins of destiny eventually arrive at, be it before or after they slay the dragon and the Princess goes for the better looking knight who happens to be utterly and incontrovertibly gay.

Someone up there hates me...

[Caden Law]

It took three hours. Most of that time, Caden spent getting the crap kicked out of him while blindfolded and tied up. Simply put, Greyspine vehemently disliked the idea of anyone just randomly popping up in the likeness of one of his past students, let alone one who'd died rather horribly. All Caden could piece together between boots to the stomach and fists to the face were, fighting! and like a hero!, along with a lot of you mealy mouthed little shit! and bastard!es. His own mentor went so far as to yank off his hat, stomp on it and then give it to one of his men to do use as an impromptu toilet.

They threw him into the caravan, of course. Greyspine climbed in after him, and eventually started drinking. He always started drinking. Salvic Wizards in general always started drinking. Beer was about the only thing worth drinking up here, and even then you needed something strong enough to class as vodka if you wanted to warm up.

What eventually changed Greyspine's mind, in the midst of a barely buzzed You little bastard fest in back of one of the wagons, was what Caden said to him as he started really drinking.

"Your liver's gonna kill you in your sleep, you miserable old fuck."

It bears mention that the only Wizard who ever said this to Greyspine, and only as a young boy, was the one he personally Named Blueraven.

"...Swaying Stars," the old man cursed under his breath, and that was pretty much that.

Hour number three came with Caden getting his blessedly unsoiled Hat back (he took time to sniff and be absolutely sure before wearing the thing again), and the rest of the journey to Greyspine's field base in the forest was spent in something of an all around stupor. Among other things, it included...

"How'd you get here?"

"Quantum, I think," Caden partly answered, just before taking a good stiff drink himself. "Time messed up. Or something. I think it was a teleport spell gone wrong," he mused this part with a certain Wizardly awareness that his words carried an underline and implied something. It felt like he was in two places at once, except not, and kind of sideways with his head at a perpetual 180* tilt from the rest of reality. When he explained this to Greyspine, the old Wizard explained.

"When teleport spells screw up, you usually get splinched all over the planet. I remember stories of that happening, back when there were enough of us for it to be commonplace. Nevermind the damn doppelgangers that could pop up. Whole branch of magic's just plain unreliable by any standard."

At which point, the subject changed. It always does in situations like this, because sooner or later, curiosity will make it change.

"I'm dead?"

"Eighteen years and change," said Greyspine, with a voice that was underscored, I wasn't there, but I saw the aftermath.

"...how?"

"If I tell you, it could screw up the continuity of Time. Same reason I haven't told you a lot of things now. Hell, I probably just caused a paradox telling you you're dead." Cue a sip of vodka. Greyspine's tolerance for the stuff was legendary, even in Salvar.

"Screw Time. I'm already causing a paradox just from being here. For that matter, did I ever tell you how I visited the future?"

"...no..."

"Then--"

"You died before I could see you again."

"...ah. Then in that case, you could just be reinforcing the past and ensuring the world happens as you know it today."

"And that's better how, exactly?"

"It isn't. That's the point," Caden explained, just as the wagon they were riding in back of hit a bump. Something glass broke in a crate behind them. All things considered, it would've been poignant in fiction. Except Wizards aren't fiction. They live similarly to fiction, yes, but they're not fiction. Stories usually have happy endings preset for them. Wizards typically die hard and bloody and often without being able to get the relief of screaming.

So it was oddly comfortable when Greyspine simply blurted out, "From what I heard, you died screaming."

...but not that comforting. "Ah," was all Caden could think to respond with.

"Happened on the Raiaeran front, as I recall. You and your damn brigade were fighting your way over to rebels in Corone, during the Year of the Black-Silk Son. From what your men said, the Reaper Queen got you. Crazy bitch. Crazy strikin' bitch. Said you died screaming with a scythe through your chest after your spells failed. It was her last military victory before defecting from Xem'zund and building her own empire in Corone. We recovered your body at least. I think your men fought too hard for the bitch to keep it. One of 'em said they pried your head from her hands before escaping.

"After that...hard to tell what went to hell first, 'cos pretty much everything did, and mostly at the same time."

Caden absorbed all of this. Slowly, calculatingly, and with a certain numb detachment. Then he pointed out the obvious, "The Reaper Queen...is her name spelled with a V. and D., by any chance?"

"Viola Darkstalker, yes."

"I killed her. Barely an hour ago...from where I was teleported, anyway," he added the last part with the weight of twenty missing years.

"You say that like it actually means something," Greyspine muttered. "Striking bitch won't stay dead. Plucked out my strikin' eye after I burned the skin from her bones, Caden. Next time I saw her, she was as good as new. Better even. It was like dealing with Xem'zund's bitchy ex-wife."

Caden processed this too. As he mulled it over though, Greyspine kept going.

"Mind you, you weren't the only one we lost. Hell, I'm the only one who hasn't been killed or subverted yet. All the damn Weather-Mages went Wyrm years ago--"

"Is Cadence...?"

"Went down fighting. I saw it happen," and nothing more needed to be said of Blueraven's youngest sibling. Greyspine surprised him though, "Veshua went not long after that. You remember her, don't you? Your death killed her inside. Lasted a good five years after you died, then the stars started going out and Kaerul landed in her lap and passed away. I think that was the straw that did it. She went out on a suicide mission after that and we never found more than her lower jaw and a pile of ash afterward."

Caden stopped processing. Stopped thinking, in fact. He spent the rest of the ride home hearing a tally of death, and every single one of them made him a little more numb than the last. Eventually, Greyspine's tirade ended with three words that were going to give Caden nightmares for the rest of his life.

"Welcome to N'Thayn'sal...

"Helluva place, isn't it?"

-----

Greyspine's field base consisted of a well fortified hole in the ground. You could probably dress it up behind ten thousand smaller details, like all of its rooms and escape tunnels, but that's really all it was. The Wizards inevitably retired to a central study room, much like the one at a certain academy in Knife's Edge. As Greyspine sourly pointed out, the place was burnt to the ground now. Wizards had fought Warlocks had fought Things From Outside, and all that remained were charred ashes and page fragments in a perfect circle where snow never fell and nobody thought to build anything new.

The room itself had three rocking chairs and a fireplace, ostensibly filtering its smoke into the soil. There were shelves of half-written tomes, all compiled by a man who was desperately trying to preserve an art that was essentially dead, and doing so through only his own spare notes and razor-sharp memories. It had taken Greyspine a lifetime to learn what he knew, and it'd probably take another lifetime to convey it all. He hadn't taken on another apprentice in years, not since the last three -- a trio of Elven refugees -- had died. He did, however, make an exception.

"I don't really consider her an apprentice, mind you," he explained, "But she's got the gift, and she's got a fire in her eyes. I'd feel guilty not to try and pass what I know to her."

"Who is she?"

Here, Greyspine would've taken a drink. A big one. He didn't, but only because he didn't have one handy and the emotional impact got through without the gesture. He merely stared at the fire and said, "Justina."

"...isn't that--"

"The name you would've given to your daughter? Yes. I don't know if she's yours or not. Certainly has your attitude and she's got your hair, but I don't know. Veshua got loopy after you went, and...well, she is what she is. We let her have her mother's name, but--"

"Give her mine. Blueraven, Law, I don't care which."

Greyspine looked at him. Nodded. Said nothing. "She's not here, mind you. She's back at our actual headquarters, probably showing off fireball tricks to the rest of her creche..."

"Jolstice."

"...don't say it, Caden. I know that look in your eyes and it makes me think of whether or not you looked like that when you died."

Caden ignored the mental imagery this caused. He tried to, at least. It was a valiant but failing effort.

"Is there anyone who could help me get home?"

The old Wizard looked at him with his good eye. Perhaps more accurately, Greyspine looked right through him with his remaining eye, and then he sighed. It was the heavy, tired sound of someone who still hopes, and who'll continue to hope no matter what, but who knows at some level that it's probably a moot point.

"There is...one person, perhaps...I'm sure you know him..."

Aaaand Findelfin will have room for an intro after my next post. Sorry for the delay, but I need sleep. Badly.

[Caden Law]

Day came, eventually, and Caden couldn't help but notice that the sun had a slight greenish tint to it. As Greyspine explained, "It's been like that ever since N'jal ate V'dralla." Caden tried not to put too much thought into that. The idea of godly cannibalism, even in a pantheon he hadn't grown up with, was inherently disturbing on some level.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Greyspine eventually asked him, after they'd spent almost twenty minutes standing in the woods surrounding the main entrance to his field base; the heavily camouflaged side of a steep hill, which was actually a reinforced door large enough to fit entire wagons through. "I was a little drunk when I thought he could actually help you get home..."

"And I was a pile of bruises and headaches," Caden replied.

"I guess I've gotten a little too used to telling people what they need to hear to keep going," Greyspine admitted, probably only because he and Caden were the only ones outside right now. "In all likelihood, the spell that brought you here with start taking you home at some point. The only question is when it'll do that. Are you sure you don't want to take a chance and meet your daughter?"

Caden stared. Not off into space, not into the clouds, not even at the ground; just stared at a tree and tried to think of words to say. Eventually, out came, "I'm trying not to even think about her, to be honest. If I'm still...here after I've visited Evernorth, I'd be happy to meet her. But right now, I need to...need to keep moving. If I get zapped back to the present, I'll need to be prepared and--"

"Incidentally," Greyspine interrupted him, in the way Wizards do. Caden looked over at him, just in time to see the senior Wizard unchaining the Grimoire from his belt. With no pomp or ceremony to it, he held the tome out for Caden to take. It was a heavy looking volume, all black with a grey spine and the writer's Name on one cover, enveloped by a curving set of intricately painted grey vertebrae. "Take this with you."

"I can't."

"You can and you will. There are a lot of things we haven't properly discussed, Blueraven. You're in the unique position to help change history. To help stop all of this. The spell that brought you here could kick in at any time to take you home. My Grimoire has everything. It's a history for things that, to you, haven't happened yet. Things you could yet undo.

"So shut up and take the damn book or I'll kick the crap out of you."

Needless to say, Caden did take the book. He didn't want to, but he still took it. It also goes without saying that a Wizard's Grimoire is very much like an imprint of his soul; it contains all the thoughts he's ever put to paper, maps of the places he's been, a running catalogue of the things he's seen, and all the spells he's learned and made and all the dirty little tricks he's come up with. For Caden, Greyspine's Grimoire would be a history book for things that hadn't happened yet -- assuming he ever got home at all.

Incidentally, "If the spell doesn't send me home, I'll give this back to you," Caden said, and meant it.

"If the spell doesn't send you home, Blueraven, I'll beat the shit out of you on principle," which was Greyspine's roundabout way of saying Thanks. Only a Wizard could put such a meaning to words like that and have it readily understood.

-----

Miles went scuffing by in what felt like slow motion as the Wizard Named Blueraven made his way through the Iciole Forest en route to the City of Evernorth. For every step he waded through knee-deep snow, he waved a hand behind him and decompressed it in his wake. After two miles of this, Blueraven finally took to the road, feeling as if something tiny and spiteful and cold were dancing in his lungs.

"We can't send anyone with you," Greyspine had told him, and that was fine. "We can't spare any weapons or equipment for you either," and that was fine too, since Caden was a poor swordsman by any standard. He could barely even hold the one he had properly, nevermind using it in battle.

It took him another hour by road, but eventually, Blueraven arrived in the Warlocked City of Evernorth. Of all ten thousand things he could've thought right then and there, the only one that came to mind was, This is not where I grew up.

It bears mention that the Warlocked Cities, with exception to Sulgore's Axe, appear as tiny villages until you actually step past a certain threshold to get inside. Once you do that, they have this funny way of simply being bigger than you thought they were. Miles bigger.

The City of Evernorth, for instance, was approximately five miles wide, with borders shaped somewhat like the outline of a cancerous tumor. As far as this particular region is concerned, Evernorth was also unnaturally warm and its skies completely clear. If you looked up, you'd be able to see why: The clouds literally parted around the city's borders. There was no snow in Evernorth, nor was there equality. Most of the city consisted of cheap masonry and shacks, interspersed around mile high Towers of Magic that were all thin like arrows and javelins, and all of them let off the neon green smoke of magical pollution like it was going out of style.

Children ran through the streets, laughing with denial rather than innocence. The adults looked hopeless and downtrodden, when you could get them to meet you in the eye at all. It was a much more cosmopolitan place than he remembered though; gone were the all-white crowds of humans, replaced with a diversity that spanned the ethnic rainbow, and while most of the people he saw were still human, there were plenty who didn't quite fit the mold.

The Evernorth of N'Thayn'sal was a rare example of a conquered city that took in more refugees than it let out. There were elves here, in small concentrations, and if you looked hard enough you might see an actual dwarf trying to forget about seeing his brothers rent limb from limb by Haidians. Orcs and their kin ran the streets to some extent, every roving mob headed by an ogre, and every ogre carrying a goblin on his shoulder like a parrot. All the goblins wore the same scarlet robes.

But even they were easy to miss compared to Evernorth's real rulers, the Wyrmfolk. Almost all the best shops were run by them, and their Warlocks walked the streets like they owned them. And they probably did.

As he stepped into this frenzied, spiritually desolate place, Caden was immediately aware of three things: Wizards stand out. He was, presumably, one of the only two Wizards left in the world. People were staring at him like he was made out of easily stolen gold.

Unsurprisingly, he was quick to take advantage of the urban maze. Alleyways and sidestreets became his friends, and his hand never once left the bowie he'd bought in Scara Brae a lifetime ago and a world removed. Despite the need for stealth, he never once changed clothes or removed his Hat. There was too much risk involved; too much of a chance that he'd get summoned back home and arrive missing something important. The only time he even tilted his Hat back was to stuff Greyspine's Grimoire into it.

All the way to the center of the city, in the shadow of Locklord Goran Icetongue, and Caden fought what he was looking for.

Perhaps it was a tavern, maybe it was a shop, maybe it was just a really vindictive insult to the Warlocks. Either way, it actually had RESISTANCE SUPPLY DEPOT written in bold facing all along the twenty foot wide sign its owner kept nailed up above the front door. You'd have to be absolutely blind to miss it.

But you'd need the schooling of a Wizard to actually read it, since it was written Sideways. To most people, if they noticed it at all, it would simply look like a primitive barcode where all the lines matched. To a Wizard, it was what it was. Caden saw it and had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from chortling.

And people say we've got no sense of humor, he thought with a glance to either side. No-one looking this way. Good then.

Caden crossed the street, keenly aware that he stood out like a mangled thumb. He shoved his way in and quickly shut the door behind him.

"He might not be able to help you get home any quicker, but if you play your cards right," Greyspine had told him, "He might just be able to help you prepare for whatever comes next. He's my chief supplier and spymaster in Evernorth. Seek him out, Blueraven. His name is..."

"Is there anyone named Fingolfin here?" Caden asked, plastering on his best I Am Oblivious face when he did it.

[Sighter Tnailog]

"My dearest Findelfin, you really must wake up."

The voice spoke, and he woke immediately. There was no disorientation, no feeling of uncertainty at waking. He was merely told to wake and so he did, promptly, with none of the trappings that normally accompanied the action. He looked around and was in someplace beyond his comprehension; surrounded by what seemed to be clouds, or water, or light, or fire, or maybe even currant jam, or some mixture of all five at once and more besides. Yet his mind didn't rebel; something told him this was where he was supposed to be.

And now a man stood before him, young, not handsome, but not ugly. A normal man of normal height and normal bearing, wearing only robes and carrying a large black tome. The man looked at Findelfin and spoke, "I told Varalad to use that spell in an emergency, and I can see why he'd picked it for now. Please, take a seat."

Findelfin was suddenly sitting in a rich armchair. Just like with waking, there was no intervening space; no pulling up a seat, no bending in the middle, now settling back and getting comfortable. He was told to take a seat, and he was seated. He did not want to ask why he was here; just as before, it seemed appropriate. In a normal world, he might have been left hanging, unsure of what to do, disoriented. But this was no normal world. All the same, it seemed appropriate to feign disorientation.

"Why am I here? Where am I?"

The man laughed. "Well, allow me to introduce myself. I am Khal'jaren, the Sage. Raiaera's mortal enemy. And you aren't really here; right now, if I were to keep you here, you'd be there..."

And all of a sudden, the vision changed.

* * * * *

He was wiping a countertop clean, although the rag he was using seemed dirtier than the bar was to begin with. A motley assortment of weaponry hung on the walls, mainly swords and daggers, though bows and various quivers still hung here and there. Axes too; the occasional dwarf came by, and it never hurt to keep up what strained relationships still existed among the free folk by having the weapons they loved most for extra-special prices. Most of the weaponry seemed plain, either damascus or delyn, but here and there it seemed to glint with the edge that spoke of a concealed enchantment; and every once in a while the eyes would linger on a piece of exceptional quality, perhaps of mythril. These latter varieties were invariably covered in a layer of grime, mucked up, made to look worse than anything else in the store room. Otherwise, they would be the first confiscated in the raids that occasionally hit the store. Yet the real value of the showroom lay in them; masterworks concealed like geodes in the rock.

The face of the man now walking in was almost familiar. It hinted at the edges of Findelfin's memory. But when he asked for Fingolfin, the elf froze. That name had not been spoken in ages; when Coiameth fell and N'jalian Spidermages swept the streets, when the defender of Kilya died in droves as the darkling fires consumed their souls, Findelfin had fled. He had stood at every siege, been at the front of nearly every battle as the lines fell, mustered every rout into an orderly retreat to a new stronghold. But there at Coiameth his courage failed. He fled into the north on Pelektar. On the freezing plains he was forced to kill his horse and eat her flesh just to survive. And when he emerged from the battle he had taken a new name, one that reflected his changed position. He was now Cildorian Yenuial; the cowardly one of the twilit years. And so hearing Fingolfin spoken on the wind, the name whispering to him from the bitter past, he clutched his prayer beads closer to his chest, and whispered to himself. Aurient save us from the past.

But even as his blood froze colder than the air outside, he recognized the face from the past, the mage who he once sent to defend Vanwanen Bridge, back when hope still fluttered in the hearts of men and elves. "No one has spoken that name to my face in ages...Blueraven...though they still speak of it in hushed words among the resistance fighters, of the commander without a command, the Dagorathar who fled the Canyon of Liquid Flame, who now lurks in the north selling weapons to those who still have the guts to fight. And I'd like it very much if it wasn't spoken again...the name is Cildorian. Tell me what you're after, I'll quote you a price, and you can buy it and be on your way. Off to the battles, I suppose." They had not taken all the worlds yet; there was still resistance in the Dwarven-mines, still conclaves of Elven fighters deep in the jungles of Dheathain.

I'm the enabler of this madness. We've fallen, and yet still I am here, selling weapons to children who think they'll deliver us from all this evil. Galatirion, Star-Father, why do you send me this one now? He clutched his rosary even closer, fingers gripping the seven-sectioned wooden beads as they clicked fervently against each other.

[Caden Law]

Caden stared at him for a moment -- a very long, very quiet moment. He remembered Findelfin ap Fingolfin, after all. Point in fact, he could accurately describe the elf to a shiny tee, because he'd only spoken with him a few blackouts, twenty years and some hours ago. Findelfin was the sort of guy who leaves an impression on you though, if only because he'd radiated confidence and righteousness to the point that Caden could've gagged on it.

Caden had never been a big fan of the elves. After his day or two spent volunteering in the service of Raiaera, he wouldn't have minded seeing them kicked off their perch and stomped on. Preferably hard and with a very large, metal-soled shoe of some sort. He saw nothing redeeming in them in any way; they were supposedly noble by birth and good because they said so and if egomaniacal to the point of deep-frying you if you didn't make sparkly-eyes and worship the ground they walked on. They were chosen by gods because you'd probably die screaming if you said otherwise. They were perfect.

The flaw with that being that Perfection is a state with no room for improvement. You're perfect when you're dead. Until then you're as flawed and dirty as anyone else.

Caden didn't like elves. But Findelfin had been different, if only because he radiated an aura of heroism for heroism's sake. Oh, yes. He'd been an elf. Casually better than everyone else, probably the type to call non-elves lesser races, prone to the unnaturally clear way of speaking that characterized elves and all of that. The difference was in the heroism though. If Findelfin was going to be humbled, Caden thought, it should've been a good old fashioned beating with a large blunt object -- the sort wielded by some big bastard who looks like he was victimized by logging in the Ugly Forest.

He shouldn't have been humbled like this.

"Your glamour broke," Blueraven noted, in much the same way someone might point out that a flag has a hole in it. "The last time I saw you was about...two days ago, give or take, in the fields outside Eluriend. You were on horseback. You practically radiated heroism and honor like a star radiates light and warmth. Am I to assume, Findelfin ap Fingolfin, that you let your pride shatter in lieu of your backbone?" he asked, every bit as longwinded as a Wizard can be, his pronounciation of the former general's name perfect down to the last syllable.

It bears mention that Caden, apparently, has something of a subconscious deathwish involving elves. This marks the second or third time in as many days that he's deliberately insulted one who could probably kill him forty-six times before his body hits the floor.

Fortunately or otherwise, it wouldn't come to that. As Caden put a hand on the countertop, prepared to argue the point and give "Cildorian" a classic Wizardly Pep-Talk (of the sort that generally involves violently purple fireballs and insults to one's mama), there came a sound of the doorbell ringing. Caden looked over his shoulder, made eye contact, and just as soon wished he hadn't.

The newcomer was a rough six foot two, not counting the bony crest. Slender in the way that magic makes you, if only because you're too busy reading and growing powerful to stop and eat healthy, but broadshouldered and somewhat wide in the chest. His skin was scaly and dark purple, colored a lighter blue around the throat, palms and probably the soles of his feet. Humanoid but not human, evidenced by everything from the four-fingered hands to the head shaped like a dragon's, right down to eyes that were white like a man's but different in all other respects; the irises were watery orange, the pupils were slits that reflected pale green in the right lighting.

To put it simply, he was a Warlock and he dressed the part. To give it more depth: He was a Warlock and he really dressed the part, complete with the flowing red robe with the black leather mantle, left open in front to reveal black riding pants and a matching shirt with golden details that individually looked like random sigils but collectively looked like a forked tongue. He had a ring on every finger, all bearing gems with red sigils etched into them. Perhaps the only crude things about him were his boots.

They were made from leather. Human skin, to be precise.

His Name is unknown, for now. Warlocks are even more paranoid than Wizards, attaching all sorts of special significance to their second names. It's a precaution against curses, mainly, whereas Wizards just use the Names for pomp more often than anything else. The name you'll know him by, for now and possibly forever more, is Anton Icetongue.

Caden nodded to him, and Anton stared right back. The tension between the two was automatic, and thick enough that you could've cut it with a knife.

"'Lo," Caden eventually greeted.

"Nice Hat," Anton replied, and it bears mention that he did pronounce that with a capital H. Warlocks and Wizards are not so divorced that they don't share a few commonalities, after all. Enough to spot one another five miles out and start plotting murder in less time than it takes to blink.

"Ah, this old thing?" Caden asked, and it's probably a show of abstract terror that he took the Hat off and made a show of poking at it with his fingertips. "Won it in an auction the other day. Just felt compelled to wear it, you know?"

Anton regarded him coolly. "Well, don't. People might get the wrong ideas, seeing anyone running around with a Hat like that. Especially in a shop like this one. They might even think you're one of those Wizards we outlawed. And killed. And ate," he said with a smile.

"Hadn't thought about it like that, sir, I'll make notes and everything," Caden answered, and promptly tucked the Hat under his arm. Incidentally, here's the part where he stepped out of the way. "By all means, I'm just stopping in to say hi to an old friend. And show off the hat." It bears mention that the lower case was intentional.

"I'm sure," Anton said, looking from Caden to the shopkeep. "Do you have the Athame I ordered yet, Cildorian? Or the powdered arcanite? Or the medallion? We're supposed to be giving an Acolyte his first experience with Familiarity tonight, provided it doesn't kill him somehow. Acolyte Worren, if I recall correctly. Hard to keep track of them all," he said, and by now had come to lean against the counter like he owned it. And technically speaking, he probably did. The whole time, he was eyeing Caden in much the same way your average dragon eyes a hapless sheep.

For his part, Caden turned to distraction like a fish takes to water. He scoured the shelves with intentional amateurism, and perhaps only his utter nervousness made it look real. He made it a point to try and ignore them, but it was a failing effort at best. You can't ignore the sound of the guillotine being drawn up, no more than you can drown out the racket of the crowd cheering for your head or the steady, maddened beating of your own heart between your ears.

Time to play Kingmaker, O ignoble shopkeeper.

[Sighter Tnailog]

He snapped back to life, and again there was no question. He knew what he had seen; it was not shocking, merely a line of what may be. And once again, had he been anywhere else, he would have thought this too bizarre for words. But something kept him from wondering; it made perfect sense as he floated in this realm of aether.

"Funny thing about that spell Varalad learned. It takes people where they need to be. So I guess you need to be here...and he needs to be there. But for how long, I wonder? The spell starts to reset itself quickly after it shows everything, though sometime it's off by a month...or more."

The strange man was talking again, but now his voice was childish. And he was childish, and instead of a book he played with an intricate wire contraption like an abacus and a mobile all at once. He spoke again in that high-pitched voice, sounding for all the world like a baby babbling in impeccable Raiaeran.

"Well, as I was saying. I'm Raiaera's mortal enemy. Pity, really; I like the elves so much more as a people than I ever did the Durklans. Proud of who they are, the elves are, and what they have learned, maybe a touch of arrogance, but if so it's only the arrogance that comes from living for five thousand years. But even an elf old by human years, 225 or so, often looks like a fool in the face of a younger man; the experience of men seems to wear on them faster than the elves, and in many ways they grow up fast. Funny how you think your lifespans are long...but I digress.

"You could have been my people, were it not for the Durklans. But my revenge is more or less complete with young Xem'zûnd. I raised him up to spite you, the other Thaynes helped in their fashion. We have a long-running argument with the star-gods, you know...oh? Strike a nerve?"

Findelfin's eyes had widened at the mention of the Star Gods, the Ainelenari. They were known only in texts of Tel Aina Parma, kept sacrosanct, almost secret, but not quite. But he had thought them only stories, and even in this realm where all seemed granted as true he was surprised at their existence, their reality.

"Oh yes, they are real...but you haven't learned yet. Watch..."

* * * * *

He regarded Caden with only the barest hint of a nod. The wizard understood nothing. In the face of what was now arrayed against them, Aesphestos returned in glory, the Citadel taken for his temple and his throneroom, Denebriel free to go or leave Salvar as she saw fit, summoning new monstrosities every time she returned, Xem'zûnd sitting like a bird of carrion on all he had despoiled...the list went on. They had won the battle, and all that was left for anyone to do was supply arms to ragged bands of the resistance. Never again would banners flock to the standards of the elves. The only race to resist the power of the Forgotten in force were the Mya, and they had vanished as irrevocably as the Tap had split and rained its shards upon the blasted lands of Salvar. He cocked an eyebrow, though, when the wizard said that he'd seen him not moments before. He was trying to puzzle out the mystery now before him when the bell rang.

He had rarely thanked the Stars when a Warlock arrived, but this time he was glad of the sight. It took his eyes off this man in front of him whose existence was both paradoxical and pestilential, and said, "Yes, we have all your goods. One moment."

He turned from the counter and withdrew a curtain that hung before the door. "Hilmandil! Hilmandil, fetch the Athame, and the powdered arcanite. It's in the containment pouches, by the door."

While the store's co-owner and Findelfin's great friend hurried to grab what Anton needed, Findelfin pulled open a drawer and removed a medallion from the drawer. He used a strange slip of fabric to hold it, as if he wanted to avoid touching it barehanded, then wrapped it in the same piece and passed it to the Warlock. "Here you go, I worked the charm to the letter. And, as always, wrapped in N'jalian Spidersilk to protect its more...ah...arcane properties." He did not mention that he had included the little twist that he put on some of the medallions Anton ordered. A slight bit of bad luck; undetectable, really, but those who were inducted under these amulets tended to die a bit nastily, and sooner than expected. But he wasn't the only vendor doing it, and like all of them he did it sparingly. Not only would it be nearly impossible to trace, but Warlocks tended to die nastily anyway.

Hilmandil came up with the rest of the goods, and Anton packed up and left without a word, putting it all on his charge account. As soon as he was gone, Findelfin spat on the floor. Anton's charge account had been growing steadily over the past few months. Turning back to Caden, he said, "My dearest Wizard." He spat out that last word.

"I could be killed for having the name Findelfin ap Fingolfin as easily as you could for being a Wizard. So unless you want me to address you as such the next time Anton is in here, I'd appreciate it if you used the name I do. What shoddy resistance is left would find itself destroyed very soon if I were given up to them."

He fingered his prayer beads rapidly, reciting in his head each of the seven Stars and saying each of the seven Prayers as he went through the rosary. He could do it by habit now, praying silently even as he kept up a conversation.

"I had no pride to break, Blueraven. As I marched onto that battlefield I was warned that it was over, and I knew it. My only goal in that great battle was to save as many lives as possible by forestalling the marches on Anebrilith; and it worked. The bridges were destroyed, and they were able to flee that city before the axe fell. But it was not so in the Great Forest."

He shuddered with the memory. "Yes, Daer Taurë was scorched and blackened. Even the holiest groves fell to sword and flame, as we retreated slowly, grudgingly, across miles of forest. And always I was there at the front, leading the assault, trying to find a way to stymie the undead, some secret that would kill them all at once or cut off their power at its source. But we failed every time, and though we took twenty for every one still it was not enough. The dead from twenty thousand years still rest under our feet; they are the soil, they are its life. Xem'zûnd's power can summon even the dust, the motes of skin that once lived, to take shape and move against us."

His prayer beads now clacked ever more furiously. "And then, in Kilya, the unthinkable happened. As we prepared for battle against the darkling fires, the swarms of N'jalian Mages and undead hordes now swelled by the ranks of mayhem in Salvar and slaughter in Alerar, Aurient herself appeared before our hosts. She said we were forsaken. Yes, Blueraven, forsaken by the gods that gave us birth. She said that in our long conflicts, we had not prayed. We had not remembered. We had ceased to sing the god-songs and were instead dirging the wails of death and war. And so she would let the fire sweep us away, leaving only a remnant who would have to remember the stars under the threat that the smoke would sweep even the stars from our memory."

He raised his beads, and laughed heartily, "So yes, Blueraven. You are correct. My glamour faded, for it was stolen by those who we never had any real faith in to begin with. And the Forgotten are now returned, and what power to resist lies in a broken commander who fled the fires of Kilya and sells good weapons to the right people for the right prices. And so I say: what will it be? Do you want to buy something, or do you just want to spin tall tales of how you saw me on a battlefield not two days ago? But you should know...the Last Battle of Eluriand was fought twenty years and two days ago; why, at this hour in those bygone days I would have just now begun the defense of Daer Taurë. But that time is past...if I had it to do over again, I might do some things differently. Now choose your purchase or leave."

[Caden Law]

Relief followed Anton's departure, however fleeting and paranoid it was. Caden took a few extra moments to study the things on Cildorian's shelves; from the Skull of Kraus to the Toothed Rib-Wand of Lorenor, and the myriad scrolls so deeply stuffed into one shelf that it was barely held together by what seemed to be pure willpower of whoever put the nails in. Liquid arcana glowed along one rack, and the watery Alchemist's Light took up a whole tank beneath it, prominently displayed right down to the small glowing Things that drifted about and refilled it when samples were taken.

Eventually, Findelfin started speaking. Caden listened. He did so with an utterly impassive look on his face, and the glasses he wore may as well have gone opaque in the shop's lighting. When Findelfin was done, Caden spent a few moments just staring at him. Quietly taking the measure of the Cildorian identity, and subtly looking right through the cracks in it.

The first thing he did was to say, "You're not a very good spymaster, or Greyspine didn't tell you much." On went the Hat, in a display that was roughly equivelent to a raised middle finger. "In case you don't know, I've been dead for about eighteen years. I died screaming in combat with someone called the Reaper Queen, who I actually just killed for the first time a few days ago just outside Eluriend. From what I was told, my men had to fight tooth and nail to recover my body.

"Frankly speaking, Findelfin, I could care less about what happens to this sorry, burnt out corpse of a world. I'm going to go home, and I'm going to abort it from ever happening by any means necessary. And do you know what?

"When I see you again, I'm going to repeat verbatim every last pathetic word you just told me before I punch your striking lights out for being a coward," Caden declared, and though he was a scrawny academic in every way, it's just common sense to take a Wizard's threats seriously. "If you pointy-chinned gits were ever worth any of the blood spilled for you, you'd keep fighting even without hope. You'd keep fighting because there isn't hope. What happens when gods abandon you? You find new ones. Don't like them? Screw them. That's what arcana and spite are for."

As if on cue, it happened.

There came a flash of solid gold light, and the coat vanished from Caden with a sound not unlike the distinct tones of Raiaeran harps. Caden had the wherewithall to look surprised for all of a split second. Then he just smiled. It wasn't the smile of a normal man, or of a soldier, or anything like that. It was the kind of cryptically knowing smile that Wizards give to beaten foes right before putting fireballs through their brains.

"I believe that would be my ride, about to spirit me back to where and when I should be," Caden concluded. "Greyspine sent me here because he thinks you have something I need. All he'd tell me is that it's kept in a dehlar box and it was meant as a spare for him. Give that to me and I'll be out of your hair, and hopefully well on my way home before I even get out the door."

As if for emphasis, the goggles vanished from their resting place around Caden's neck. The musical note changed this time; it was sharper. In a way, it sounded like someone was getting closer and closer to the mark each time something vanished.

[Sighter Tnailog]

"A little harsh, is the man. He's wrong, you know; just because your gods desert you doesn't mean you stop believing in them. The Durklans believed to the bitter end; at the least, believing got them their revenge."

The man was now old, so old. He leaned on a staff, his spine hideously curved, bent in two like a bow drawn for too long. His lips wrapped around teethless gums, his eyes were nearly lost in wrinkles; he had become ancient.

"Why do you show me this, enemy?"

Findelfin's question hung in the air. The old man laughed, sounding for all the world like a death rattle.

"Enemy? Maybe, but I have had my fun, I think. Young Acolyte Xem will never really be of my people, he went to the service of N'jal long years ago. And the world I'm showing you now is not how it needs to end, naturally. No, we may be enemies. But I do intend on letting you go, right after this. You have a life left to live; and, unless I miss my guess, knowing the future might encourage you to change it. Watch."

* * * * *

With a flash, a blade swung free in Findelfin's hand. Its glow was still white, faint through layers of grime and dust, but one could barely make out the golden glow of runes beneath the gritty surface. He ignored that Caden seemed to be slowly vanishing, one piece of him at a time. He had something to say.

"There is more than one type of fight, Caden Law. And I have not foregone the name Findelfin. But it is not wisdom to waste blood and lives on unwinnable wars. To spend what small strength we have on some pointless assault on darkest citadels is neither wise nor valorous. We are only worth the blood spent to keep us alive if we stay alive, and build on what we have.

"In two years we have gone from a rabble of unorganized mobs to a resistance. In five we will have carved out strongholds in Dheathain and secret spaces underneath the very feet of Aesphestos in The Citadel. In ten we will have solidified our hold on Kachuck and raised fastnesses there that can truly resist. We are regrouping, reforming. The danger is not in them knowing who I am. Every Warlock and Forgotten knows who Cildorian really is. The danger is in them knowing that I too claim that name, that I finally believe I am something more than a broken elf spitefully shipping small arms throughout the center of their continents. When the time comes this blade shall be clean and renewed, and Cildorian will become Findelfin ap Fingolfin again. When the time comes I may claim my name, but I will only do so when I know that we have more than just names with which to fight. I may die of old age before those assaults on our enemy come. But at least I can die knowing that I built the strongholds that will launch them."

He spat on the floor, and withdrew a box from under the cabinet.

"But I see Greyspine has sent me a tool that could help. And who knows? If your story isn't just blowing smoke, perhaps one day soon I will feel my body shift as currents of history unwind, and for that singular moment can be happy knowing that perhaps something written in stone has been unwritten in magic. But if I merely come to find that it's in the hands of some Warlock, wandering in Salvar looking for honest folk to murder, then I have ways of hunting you down. You should fear spies far more than Warlocks."

He pressed the box into Caden's hands. He hated much of what he saw in this sassy, arrogant young wizard. But even through that hate, he felt the smallest glimmer of something he hadn't known in a long time.

Hope.

[Caden Law]

There was a flourish of silver and gold, and a winding declaration of wars uncounted that was spoken in the perfectly unaccented tones that Elves are known for. The glamour fizzled a bit, threatening very much to come screaming back to the forefront in a rather bloody-minded sort of way. Through it all, from the first word to the last, Caden was dead silent.

And when it was over, he just sort of deflated and slapped himself in the face. Then he muttered something insulting about Findelfin's mother in one of the gutter tongues of a tribe long since wiped out during the birth of N'Thayn'sal. He dragged his hand down enough, spread his fingers a little bit, and squinted through them in a rather unenthusiastic sort of way.

"You sod-headed, round-eared little pointy-chinned, strike-eyed git. Now I feel like an idiot for trying to do the Wizard Bitchout of Encouragement," he said, his voice slightly muffled by the presence of his hand. All the same, he took the box with one hand and, rather nonchalantly, stuffed the thing wholesale into his coat. It was thin and flat enough to fit without issue. "Could've just said something like that right off the bat, you know. Instead of acting like a broken little shop monkey."

He continued muttering obscenities in this way for a few moments, no longer sassy so much as flat-out embarrassed.

"You Elves're gonna be the death of me, Cilfindordelfinian. Or whatever the hells you wanna call yourself."

It bears mention that the Wizard was indeed smiling when he said this.

It also bears mention that it wasn't a very pleasant smile. Point in fact, it's the sort of tight-lipped smile you might find on low-level management once the Corporate Machines have broken them in properly. Except that Caden wasn't management material and Gods tend to be a hell of a lot easier to understand than your average desk jockey.

For a few seconds, there was an uncomfortable silence. Caden rubbed at the back of his neck, and the sound of timeless harps returned. Each and every note carried with it the weight of ages and possibilities untapped, and of magic quite literally wrenching itself back into shape. It came from a direction that could only be described as Below, travelling up through the winding, senseless rivers of Time and Space and arriving into Cildorian's Depot like the fingers of gods about to press some ripples out of the fabric of existence.

Caden looked at Cildorian and started to speak. He never quite finished whatever he was going to say, but it likely boiled down to a half-assed apology for the insults, and maybe it would've included a request to look after Greyspine and the little girl named Justina; make sure the one didn't drink himself to death, and make sure the other actually grew up with some shred of hope in her eyes.

The reason he didn't finish is quite simple, mind you.

The front door ripped off of its hinges, knocked over three or four shells and lodged in the space where ceiling met wall. Just like that, the terse peace of the shop evaporated, even as the sound of the harps grew louder and louder still.

"Shit," Caden spat in his native Salvic, his arms going up as spells Worked their way through his fingertips and--

He wasn't fast enough. A bolt of purple-tinged lightning shot dead center into his chest and sent him flying all the way into a back wall. Alchemist's Light splashed everywhere, arcane powder littered the air and stray magicks shot volatile sparks in every direction. By the time the racket subsided, the harps had hit a near fever-pitch and the whole damn room was starting to glow under the pale gold light radiating from where Caden was sprawled out on the ruins of shelves.

Re-enter Anton Icetongue, accompanied this time by a pair of Wyrmian enforcers; well-trained dragon-headed gents who could breathe icy blasts, used some rather stylish axes and wore vambraces of solid dehlar. Naturally, he made his re-entry in classical stylings, and the harps seemed to darken their tunes to accompany it.

"I'm sorry, Cildorian," he said, nonchalant and only as apologetic as your average pit viper. "But I couldn't help but overhear this gentlemen harassing you. No need to worry any further, as I'm sure he's quite dead after that," he spoke now with the grandiose precision of someone trying very, very hard to sound sophisticated. Which isn't easy to pull off when you're wearing human skins for boots.

His enforcers took point immediately, placing themselves between Cildorian and the Warlock, and by default, Blueraven. As this happened, he continued to walk and talk like it actually meant something. "Of course, considering some of the other things I heard, there's always the very real chance that you'll never need to worry about anything again. Honestly, did y--"

He stopped in mid-syllable for several reasons. The loudest was that the harps now drowned out every other possible sound. The most visible was that Caden had just thrown himself back to his feet with bowie knife in one hand the other lunging out empty until the last possible moment -- when a solid steel scalpel all bit flew out of his sleeve and landed in his grasp as neatly as if it were an extension of his fingers. Anton went to scream something, and darkened powers erupted around him...

But Caden had surprise this time. The scalpel jammed into the Warlock's throat, just missing a vital artery, and then the skin froze around it. Whatever happened next, Cildorian would not know.

Both of them vanished.

Suddenly and jarringly, the harps silenced and the light blinked out and the Wizard and Warlock were somewhere and somewhen else...

...and two enforcers stood in place, utterly dazed and confused as to what had just happened.