Day Three, Dawn
Near The Shattered Temple, Sigil
**[by B.Mooney]**

Morning's first light found the foursome of Sabrilla, Kerjal, G'Kar, and Stefan picking their way through the rubble near the Athar headquarters. The rains had given way to a thick fog that made the cityscape of abandoned buildings and jagged ruins seem a graveyard in most respects. The area held onto memories of destruction at the hands of the Lady hundreds of years ago: structures remained toppled, constructions smashed and brought low. Dabus crews had never moved in to clean up, perhaps at the order of their Mistress. Only the most entrepreneuring (or addle-coved) Cagers set up shop here. Those and the Athar, of course.

Sabrilla walked alongside her companions, her mind reflecting on the recent turn of events. It was difficult to grasp how much had changed so quickly. Sigil under an invasion? The Lady of Pain missing? And here Sabrilla was, adopting the role of heroine and trying to save the city. She preferred to think of it as protecting her investment, her way of life. She had taken great steps to move to Sigil, and endured much to get where she was now. How could anyone in her position let it slip away that easily?

And then there was the matter of Cray and Cantha, the only two people she knew that could make her let down her guard. Fate and circumstance had conspired to bring two old acquaintences back into her life. There were leagues of difference between those two, yet she cared deeply for them both. Cantha was so full of life, always playful and flirtatious. And yet she was very fickle at times, disappearing for days on end. Cray on the other hand could be very caring, always knowing the right thing to say to her. It was just that he could be so moody at times, and understandably so. He was haunted by the fact that one day he would slip into madness, perhaps returning to his violent past or worse. Their generosity was the common trait which seemed to attract her the most. When this ordeal was over, perhaps she could find time to spend with both and help repay her debts.

The group continued on, the silence occasionally broken by the banter of G'kar and Kerjal. She imagined that their history ran deep, given the ease with which they carried on. Stefan was a direct contrast to the pair, silent and constantly watching about. Throughout their travels, his sword was either free of its scabbard or his hand rested firmly on its hilt. She regarded him closely. Before today, no one suspected that these brain collector creatures were involved. It seemed that no one even knew what they were. But Stefan, a Prime of all things, had encountered and actually fought one before. Was his wariness due to dangers of these Neh-thalggu, or was it something else?

A large structure appeared through the mists as they pressed forwards. In its early days, before the fall of Aoskar, the building was called the Great Temple of Doors. Now it served as a testament to his downfall, a base of operations fitting to the faction sometimes called the Godless. The Athar had not taken great pains to repair the building, instead allowing its presence to dissuade unwanted visitors. The ploy seemed effective, for at this time of morning, no one was approaching the Shattered Temple save for them. Drawing closer, they could see armored guards standing watch outside of the main gates.

"Have we decided on the best way to reach the Factol?" G'kar asked, directing his question to Sabrilla. She shrugged her shoulders and cast a glance at the rest of the group.

"Not really. I'm guessing that using force to bash our way in is out of the question." She studied the guards ahead of them. There were two sturdy men stationed outside, each wearing a breastplate colored grey and green. A lengthy polearm stood upright in one hand and a sheathed sword hung from the belt. "So that leaves talking to them."

"How receptive are the Athar at letting visitors in?" G'Kar asked.

Kerjal was the first to reply. " I believe they used to hold tours or something, but I think that stopped a few years ago. It probably depends on what your purpose is."

Sabrilla smirked. "Well, you see, we're here to save your Factol's life from these brain collector things that come from another dimension. The halfling was right - it does sound like a bunch of screed."

"Perhaps," Kerjal pondered as they neared the front, "but maybe the direct approach is best." Sabrilla turned to regard the tiefling. She wanted to ask what his plan was, but by then they were within earshot of the guards.

"Hold," one of the guardsmen said, tilting his poleaxe forwards. "What is your purpose at the Temple?" The group looked at each other, and Kerjal stepped forwards.

"Sirs, we have need to enter your abode and speak with someone-" The other guard cut him off with a gruff voice.

"None of the portals work, not even the one to the Astral . So there's no need to waste your time." Unabashed, Kerjal smiled and continued.

"Actually, we're not looking to find an escape route. We have important business that we need to discuss with Factol Terrance." The guards looked at each other, smiling from some private joke. The mage's smile dropped, guessing their answer.

"Sorry," the surly guard continued, "but he's not taking any visitors right now. Come back later." He gave a venomous grin and resumed his post, ignoring the visitors' presence.

"Please. It's very important. The Factol's in danger-"

"Get out of here before I carve you another bone-box!" The guard stepped forward menacingly, his weapon tilted towards Kerjal. Everyone tensed up except G'Kar. He reached and placed his hand on Kerjal's shoulder.

"It's okay. Let's get out of here." His three companions hesitated, waiting for the first move. Then, one by one they turned and headed away from the Shattered Temple. None of them appeared happy. They could hear the guards conversing as they began to leave.

"Maybe we could garnish them a bit." G'Kar said.

Stefan's face had reddened, his hand clutched tight around the hilt of his weapon. "Are you sure force is out of the question?"

"That Temple could use some statues." added the medusa.

"One down, how many to go?" asked Kerjal.

A loud voice called out to them from the Temple. "Wait a minute, cutters."

They each turned around, prepared for additional abuse by the two guardsmen. To their surprise, the voice came from a third indivdual who was standing out in front of the guards. He looked to be a man in his forties with short black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Instead of polished armor with faction colors, he wore simple leather breeches and a grey jacket. Faction insignias adorned the shoulders.

"You say the Factol is in danger. What sort of danger?" He arched his eyebrows and awaited a response. Sabrilla could tell by his easy demeanor and the silence of the guards that he carried some weight within the faction. She answered his question.

"There's going to be an attempt on his life, as well as the other factols."

"By whom?"

"The same forces that closed down the portals." He pondered this for a moment, stroking his goatee. She could tell she had his attention now.

"And I suppose you know who these 'forces' are..."

"We do, but that's for the Factol. Not some errand-boy."

The two guards tensed up at this apparent insult. The man in grey gave a wicked laugh. It seemed that he liked to play these power games. "The name is Wilhelm, actually. Well, if you've got the chant, I'll make sure you talk to the man." He turned and motioned to the main doors. The four looked to each other and started into the building. "Oh, and you're a little late. There was an attack on all the factols last night at the Twelve Factols Inn. They made it out without any problems, though."

"Yeah, that's the problem with some killers. They keep trying until they get it right."

Day Three, Just past dawn
The Para-elemental Plane of Ooze, Inner Planes
**[by Branno]**

"By the swift breath o' Hermes!" Harpsichord's exclamation was mirrored in strength, if not in form of every member of the small, strange band from Sigil. All about them slurped and slugged a dark thick morass of slime and ooze. The stuff barely contained any physical consistency, moving with sickening sliding motions from one point in space to the next. It made a body feel seasick (or perhaps sludge-sick) merely looking at it. It was all a uniform, dark, hard-to-categorize color, for as it moved, it seemed to have the slightest rippling of color within it. The ooze tricked the eye as surely as it would trick the hand if one held it.

Bliss walked tentatively to the edge of the transparent bubble of magical force that held the sickening stuff at bay. Extending a mauve colored hand, he tapped the bubble once, causing it to ring with a resonating sound much like that of a bell. Curling a tentacle in seeming satisfaction, the mind-friar looked to Delva with its milky-white eyes. * How long will it last? *, he projected to her, a slight bit of nervousness slipped through his formidable mental shield; it was apparent that he did not want to feel the embrace of what lay without.

The strange woman that he had only met two nights hence looked up at him with the same vacant look in her eyes. She was much paler now, despite the well-rested night at the Feast & Famine, with dark circles under her eyes and a green cast to her skin. "The sphere should last for a time sufficient enough to get us out of this slop-hole, but no more than a day. It will provide us with the light that exists now, and enough air to breathe. I can control the temperature somewhat, so if ye get cold or hot, let a lady know." Delva paused for a moment, a look of intense concentration passing over her jarring features. Something apparently won out, for her usual half-blank look returned, and she continued, as if she had never ceased. "Also, we will be protected from the hostilities of the ooze about us, but if we are attacked by creatures native to the plane, it may or may not protect ya."

Bliss nodded once, but kept his thoughts to himself for the moment. The mental vibrations coming from Delva were unlike any that he had ever seen before. He was no longer certain if they could be attributed to the simple answer of insanity, as he had first suspected. He made a mental note to speak with Cray in private about this. 'As soon as we have dry ground beneath our feet again, that is...', he thought. The mind-friar looked to the center of the sphere where the tiefling sat, eyes closed and in lotus-style, a grin that only a Bleaker could wear without being committed plastered upon his features.

"Aahhh, I don't mean ta be breakin' up th' tea party an' all, but if Miss Delva 'ere says 'at less 'n a day's all we've got, then less bone-box rattlin' and more movin' I think is order!" The priestess of Hermes shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as if she expected the invisible floor to give way at any moment. "I'm not to randy with this 'ere sphere. I need stones beneath my bones, as sure as Sigil!"

Bliss again found himself wondering how this priestess managed to keep her mental state stable. In addition to her kleptomania, she also harbored an irrational fear of being in tight, cramped areas. While this claustrophobia was not as progressed as the other was, Bliss saw that, if this cerebral fault line was subjected to a great deal of stress, the poor woman would topple like the Shattered Temple.

"Yes, Cray, just how do we expect to find a portal to Limbo in all of this mess?" Delva screeched the tone in her voice indicating that she already knew that the venture was doomed to failure. She gestured wildly with a talon-like hand towards the slippery, ever sliding and burping world around them.

Cray, without opening his eyes, merely widened his grin a bit, and replied, "Why, ask, of course..."

Day Three, Just past dawn
Approaching the Mortuary, the Hive Ward, Sigil
**[by Branno]**

"I can't believe that sod! What kind of kip doesn't include breakfast in the price of a room! I've traveled half the known Planes and never once have I heard such! I bet that biter slid me that screed just because I'm a halfling!" Tandin ceased his grumbling for a moment to walk around a large, sooty-water filled puddle. Although the extraordinarily tough soles of his feet provided him with more protection than most cutter's boots, they did very little to keep out the cold and the wet. There were a few things that Tandin hated more than having wet, cold feet, but not many. One of those things, however, just happened to be not getting breakfast.

Just as the halfling was beginning a triad on how breakfast was the 'single most important meal of the day'; a slight ruffle of feathers from behind and the tensed stance of the dust mephit caused Tandin pause. Looking up, he saw something that he hated worse than wet feet and mixed breakfasts put together - tanar'ri bashers.

Two tiefers stood at the fore, mercenaries by the look - mismatched leather and chain armor, weapons that looked like they belonged in other basher's hands. One was green and scaly with slightly bulging eyes; the other was pale-skinned with long, slender fingers and darting, quick eyes. Behind them were their 'charges', half a dozen dretches - long armed, bloated, sad-faced little biters that were the brainless fodder of the massive tanar'ri warforces, and four rutterkin - the malformed bastard tanar'ri sons of the Blood War. The last wielded wicked-looking weapons, double-crescent-headed polearms and saw-toothed broad swords.

"Uriel - Stay!" barked Durthelaxus to the deva at his side. Tandin had not been around the dust mephit for long, but he knew that by the look in his eye that he was worried. No doubt that the deva was ready to pounce on these bubbers, but with all of the reported fiend activity in the city, especially the Hive Ward, any confrontation would bring half of the army down upon their heads. They could probably take out these biters with little blood loss, especially with Uriel at their side, but half a battalion?

The one with the pale skin, 'Shifty', Tandin called him in his mind, spoke first. His words came out like a buttered snake, slipping past his lips almost with a life of their own. "Ssso, what have we here?" The rutterkin shifted slightly at his words, as if they were expecting something else to come out, but they held their ground. Shifty didn't pay them any heed. "Quite an unusual group of bashersss we have here, yessss?"

The other one croaked a husky, one-syllable laugh from somewhere deep within his throat. 'Yep, that settles it', Tandin thought. 'Frog.'

Durthelaxus spoke up quickly; his usual bravado was peculiarly absent. "Just some sods, headin' out o' this dump. We heard that Sigil was the place to be, but this burg has tipped barmy."

Shifty looked from the tiny mephit to the deva and then back again. He made a sound much like that of a snake's scales over dry leaves that seemed to come from his nose, and then held out his long-fingered palm. "Well, if blowin' thisss burg isss in yer plansss, then yer gonna hafta get by usss firssst, yesss?"

Tandin shifted his feet in the mud, getting ready for the onset of their charge; one hand was already on the pommel of his favorite throwing dirk. The way he figured it, if Shifty went down, half of his 'appropriated' troops would scatter like Arborean wind blossoms.

"Pay the man, Tandin!" Durthelaxus barked, using the same tone that he had earlier with the deva.

Tandin, thunderstruck, nearly fell on his rear in the sooty street. The look from the mephit was one of a body staring down a canoloth. It said, 'if you don't do something right now, I will be signing my own name into the dead-book'. Tandin shook his head slightly and fished out a pouch containing the vast majority of his earthly riches. He tossed it over to Shifty.

"Thank you for your generousss patronage, berks!" Shifty stepped aside as he began laughing. His bashers, mirroring his movements, did the same.

The three companions passed through unmolested.

After a few blocks and no ambushes erupted from the alleys around them, Tandin grumbled. "See. I told you would should have had breakfast!"

Day Three, Just Past Dawn
The Lower Ward, Sigil
**[by Daniel Reddy]**

Braktuis walked down the crowded street, nudging aside anything that happened to be in his way. The last two days have, on the whole, been very bad for the orcish captain. Three mornings ago he was to have met with Arglander from Thuldanin at the Hammered Fist. The original message he received stated it was of paramount importance that he be there for Arglander's instructions, and so he and his lieutenant, Nargot, had found the nearest portal to Sigil from the Outlands, went to the tavern and waited. And waited. The Hammered Fist was not his first choice for a place to receive an important message, but it contained the most reliable portal to Acheron, so he had little choice but to enter the tavern and put up with the medusa that ran it.

Nargot snorted. "This is a fine mess. I hate being stuck with all of these sods in this dirty city."

Braktuis turned to his lieutenant. "Quit your complaining, rat filth. All you've done for the last two days is complain and I'm sick of it!"

Nargot leered back. "Yeah? And all you've done is kept your bone-box shut and strutted around stewing like some spoiled elvish brat! And where has that gotten us? No where!"

Braktuis turned and punched Nargot in the snout. "I am in command here, berk! Never forget that! Why are we in this mess? Why? Because I have fools like you constantly interrupting my thoughts on how to get us out of this mess!" Braktuis kicked Nargot. "Now shut up and obey! Unless you want to take a shot being the leader..."

Nargot looked at Braktuis and then backed down. "We both know that you are the better swordsman. I will not invoke the Right of Challenge. I die at your command."

Braktuis snorted. "That is better."

Nargot looked at his commander. "Ever since we got here, things have been bad. Starting with the Deva walking in on us."

He snarled at the memory. He should have known it was going to be a bad day when the Dust Mephit and its pet Deva entered the establishment. No, he should have known it was going to be a bad day when he saw the statue of the Dabus next to the portal. And it was a bad day indeed. Something was wrong with the portal. Arglander did make it through the defective door - with his head half bitten off. Braktuis shuddered. Of all the ways to die...

Suddenly a loud commotion was heard from an alleyway thirty yards in front of him. A large cloud of dust billowed forth from the alley and everyone in the street backed away, those closest to the alley began screaming and suddenly tanar'ri began to pour forth. The crowd turned into a mob as everyone collectively began to scatter, trying to get away from the fiends.

Braktuis' sword was drawn in an instant, and he used it on the closest sods that were beginning to press against him. Nargot grasped his shoulder and pointed. "The landing - we can escape over the building." Braktuis turned and looked at the balcony situated over a merchant's cart. A stairway rose upwards to the left from it to the roof of the building. "Right. Go!" He and Nargot began to wind through the crowd to the cart. Once there he hoisted Nargot on to it. Nargot then pulled him up and then hoisted him to the balcony. Braktuis reached down to pull Nargot up just as the cart exploded into splinters and dust.

"Nargot!"

As the dust cleared, he could see Nargot sitting on the ground, dazed and burned. And then the throng began to trample him.

"Nargot!" Braktuis howled again.

Suddenly his vision went black. He heard a buzzing noise coming from his left, and suddenly his warrior instinct took over. He dropped flat on his back while swinging his sword upward, striking something. The drone went past him and he was instantly on his feet and racing to where he remembered the stairway to have been. He tripped over something and was suddenly in light, as he fell on to the rising stairs. He was on his feet again and climbing the stairs when he saw a flying mosquito-like fiend circle back towards him. A Chasme. The fiend's eyes glowered red at him and he saw a cracked portion of its exoskeleton where his sword had drawn first blood. The Chasme began its charge from above, trying to force Braktuis back into the darkness. It dove upon him as he tried to duck, its pointed beak narrowly missing his head. Its lower abdomen suddenly swung down and knocked Braktuis backward into the darkness. Braktuis landed on his back, and instantly rolled to his right until he struck the wall. Immediately there was a loud crash as the Chasme landed on the balcony right where he was before. Braktuis swung his sword down upon the area he thought the Chasme to be, striking something solid. He felt his blow sever whatever he struck and continue to the floor of the balcony. The Chasme suddenly stopped moving and tipped over the outer edge.

Braktuis took a deep breath and then rushed up the stairway again. As he gained the roof, he turned and looked down upon the street. The tanar'ri were taking captives and dragging them back into the alleyway.

Braktuis growled. "I hate fiends. This is definitely going to be another bad day."

He turned and ran the opposite direction across the flat roof.

Day three, Morning
Paraelemental Plane of Ooze, Inner Planes
**[by Ian Watson]**

The look on Bliss' face made it evident he was wondering if Cray shouldn't be in the Gatehouse after all.

*Ask? How, pray tell, do we ask something anything in this mess? And who?*

"Now, now, Bliss. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise. In any case, it shouldn't take too long. If you'd kindly head in that direction, Delva?" The Bleaker resumed his apparent meditation in the centre of the bubble.

None of the others looked particularly pleased at having to stay here any longer than was necessary. Harpsichord looked about ready to throw up. No surprise, when one could plainly see the worms and maggots that infested the plane constantly hitting the leading edge of the bubble, apparently trying to find a way in. Some of them must have been as long as Harpsichord's staff. What a repulsive plane! Even Delva seemed affected, squinting her eyes shut against her surroundings. Her back even spasmed once or twice in disgust. Poor thing.

After an hour or two, even Bliss seemed affected. Cray shifted his weight, having finished his message some time ago. He was about to assure everyone that it wouldn't be very much longer when Harpsichord shrieked. Her eyes had gone wide, and she looked about ready to be committed to the Gatehouse herself. Cray turned to see what she was staring at, and his eyes came to rest next to him, where apparently some ooze had started to invade the bubble.

"It's okay, Harpsichord! This is the... ahem... person I was looking for. I hope so, at least." He turned to the puddle of ooze. "Purguliss, is that you? I've been told to seek you out, that you could show us a portal to the plane of Limbo."

To everyone's surprise, the puddle extended some sort of pseudopod and nodded as if saying yes. Cray gave a mental sigh; he had to make his friends think he knew what he was doing.

The pseudopod pointed in a direction perpendicular to direction they had been headed in, and formed a large majestic hand, fit to be owned by the greatest sculpture. But while everyone else looked at the hand, the side closest to Cray formed a small mouth and smirked. Of course, thought Cray. Ooze sprites could read minds.

The bubble headed off in the direction pointed at, and a short time later, a circular area could be seen beyond the ooze. It was bright and multi-coloured, from what they could see. It must be the portal to Limbo. Cray looked down to thank Purguliss, but he was already gone. Then he looked up to Delva.

"I don't suppose this bubble of yours will function in Limbo, will it?"

Day Three, Morning
Unnamed alley near Shattered Temple, Sigil
**[by Ian Watson]**

Strontian stood in the shadows, wrapping them around him. The guard at the Shattered Temple had just changed, and one of the guards at this time always came this way. A shortcut home, perhaps. It mattered little, of course. Nothing must get in the way of the goal.

The guard tromped through the alley, expecting any knights of the cross-trade to leave him be. And perhaps, with his bulk, an ordinary thief would have. But Strontian was hardly a thief, and hardly ordinary. As the guard approached his shadow, he struck. He leaped out, catching the guard off-guard. Strontian laughed at this bit of irony in such a serious situation. He wrapped a snake completely around the neck of the guard.

The man's eyes briefly bulged in intense pain before he collapsed in a heap on the ground. The One in the Shadows smiled and watched with almost childlike glee as the snake sank into the guard's neck, in the form of a snake biting it's own tail, much like the one currently working it's way into the Shattered Mage's soul. She would be ready soon. But not too soon. Mustn't rush things. This snake, however, because of it's placement and design, worked immediately. The guard stood up, with a look on his face embodying both submissiveness and malice, somehow. He brushed himself off, nodded to Strontian, and walked purposefully back to the Shattered Temple. The temple where that medusa and her companions were just now meeting the Factol, if Strontian's new intelligence was correct. His old intelligence had been disposed of after the incident at the Twelve Factols.

He watched the guard get waved through into the building. Strontian smiled a third time before running out of the alley to further his plan. He ran, but not too quickly. Mustn't rush things, after all.

Day 3, Morning
Somewhere Beneath Sigil
**[by Ken Lipka]**

Nick Tanner stepped out from his little shop and snatched a quick breath from the smoke-filled skies of Sigil. The smoke smelled odd, scenting more of flesh than rust or metal. He supposed the winds must be blowing in from over the Mortuary this day. But, the Dustmen didn't burn the dead normally. Shrugging off the unease he felt, he pulled the tarps off his shop to shake the cinders and soot off them, and proceeded to make his little leather tanning stall ready for the day's custom. Nick then picked up a push broom, and began to sweep the piles of bodies towards the Limbo portal.

Mort, the shopkeeper across the way, came out of his shop. He didn't look too good. It was probably the large sword gash across his chest that left his rib and organs exposed that made Mort look ill. The other man held up two handfuls of severed chicken heads and feathers and called out, "Thanks for taking care of my chickens while I was gone, Nick." Nick smiled and waved, he knew Mort would understand. The tanner finished sweeping the bodies into the portal and then returned to his shop.

Nick was starting to get the feeling that something was very wrong in Sigil today. Surely Mort should be in bed with a nasty wound like that. And it wasn't like the Dustmen to let bodies lie in the street like this. Suddenly, he became aware of a presence behind him. Turning around, Nick came face to face with a grinning horror and a flaming scimitar came swinging down upon his neck...

Nick Tanner sat bolt upright, awaking from his nightmare with a cold sweat and a heart-felt scream. He sat very still, feeling his heart pound in his chest and listen to the echoes of his cry slowly dying in the darkened chamber in which he was trapped. It would take many minutes before he was calm enough to try and go about getting a start to his day. He couldn't help but spend a few morbid moments trying to decide which was a worse place to be - the Sigil of his nightmare, or this deserted death chamber.

He had arrived here yesterday, although how many hours it had been he did not know. It was right after he had tried to pick up that glowing crystal in the alley near his home. Nick cursed himself yet again when he thought of that object. He had known it was magical when he saw it - mundane things don't glow. He had known it was magical when he held it in his tongs - mundane things don't make you get cold. But he was so desperate to try and find something to get in good with the block high-up so he could get some more food; he just refused to listen to his common sense and gone and touched the thing with his bare hands. "Serves you right, Nick Tanner. Maybe, if you live through this, you'll learn to mind your own business."

He sighed, and began cleaning up his makeshift bed. He had curled up in a corner of the dark and dusty chamber and placed his lucky ever-burning candles in a semi-circle in front of him. Harm had never come to him while he slept with them lit; thankfully, last night was no exception. Still, he hadn't trusted entirely to luck. Nick had also placed some of his dabus-cards in front of candles in case anyone - or anything - had happened by while he slept. He had spelled out "Don't hurt me. I'm lost." Trusting to the kindness of strangers was a very Clueless thing to do in Sigil, but Nick was sure that most beings don't waste energy killing harmless beings. And Nick was certain he looked as harmless as they come. Nick extinguished all but one of the candles, putting the rest into his backpack. He picked up his cards and blanket and stored those as well. Finally, he pulled out some of the chicken jerky and began to eat breakfast. Once he'd taken the edge off of his hunger, he picked up the last candle and began, once more, to explore the chamber.

It all seemed terribly futile, but he had to try. He followed his own footsteps, still visible in the thick dust which coated the floor of the chamber. Nick had traced this route nearly a dozen times yesterday, but he hoped he was rested enough after his sleep that he might find something he had missed in his earlier searches. The room was seemingly carved from a gray stone which looked much like the cobblestones of Sigil's streets. The walls were seamless and lacked anything that could possibly be, or mark the presence of a door. The ceiling was a dome, high overhead, which served to make the tanner's footsteps echo that much louder and longer. The chamber itself held row upon row of stone boxes which appear to be part of the floor - as if when the room was made, the floor was carved to a lower level, leaving the containers behind. Nick tried to think of the things as boxes, or crates, and the room as a warehouse, in the hope it would keep him calm. But he couldn't maintain the illusion for long. He knew for a fact that the boxes were coffins, and that the room was a tomb. He also knew that this tomb was for the dabus of Sigil. That fact he gleaned from the symbols which floated over each coffin. He couldn't read them as they were not the type of words he normally saw the Ladies-in-Waiting use. But, from the way they floated in space over the boxes, they had to be dabus-speak. In fact, Nick was fairly sure that the symbols were names.

The fact that he was in a room full of dead dabus, while unnerving to say the least - he hadn't thought that the dabus could die - was also morbidly reassuring. It showed that wherever he was, it was still in Sigil. And, given that he was in Sigil, he could only be in one of two places. Either he was somewhere within the Mortuary, as all of Sigil's dead go there, or else he was under the Cage's streets, in the rumored and legendary Dabus Warrens. Neither option seemed to be a good one, but Nick hoped it was the first. That way, he'd at least know where he was and how to get home, provided he ever got out of this chamber.

After some time, Nick sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall. He had poked and pounded on all the walls and stomped on every inch of the floor. All of it was solid and unyielding. There were no doors into this place. He knew that now. "Just like the dabus," he muttered to himself. "Building a room with no doors. No consideration for others. Just 'cause they know all the portals and can blip into any part of the city so's you don't see them coming..." He trailed off as he just realized the importance of what he'd said. He was still trying to think like a person when he was faced with a whole room of proof that he was where only the dabus set foot, so to speak. Nick had to start thinking like a dabus if he was to ever get home again. The dabus worked for the Lady, and the Lady controlled Sigil. And Sigil was the biggest collection of portals in the multiverse. He mentally hit himself. He had wasted a lot of time looking for a regular door, when he should have been looking for one of the Lady's.

Nick quickly scrambled to his feet, and quickly began to look for any kind of an arch or other bounded space. Now that he knew what to look for, he quickly found it. There were three of them in the room. A thin arch of stone connecting a pair of the tombs. He'd missed them before because all was the same gray and so the arches were nearly invisible to normal sight unless you were looking for them. Nick concentrated at each one, using the time-honored ability of planar creatures to look through things to see the telltale auras of portals. All three arches held the glow. He heaved a great sigh of relief, he'd found his way out. Sure, he didn't know the keys, know where they went, or even if they still worked.

But now, Nick Tanner had something he hadn't had for a while - hope.

Day 3, Morning
The Mortuary, Sigil
**[by Ken Lipka]**

Pathosis awoke with a small start, blinking rapidly trying to determine exactly where he was. Once his eyes focused, the Dustman found that he had been asleep at his work table. Many pages of notes lay scattered across its surface, fighting for space with the recently filled sample jars. The quill he had been using to make his rough notes before dictating them to 187 lay on the floor where it had fallen from his hands. Rubbing his eyes with a groan, Pathosis called out for his assistant.

"187? Are you here?"

A click and whir announced the presence of the rogue modron even before it answered his question. "Yes. What do you require?"

"How long have I been asleep? Where were we in the dissection process?"

"It has been approximately six and three-quarter hours since you unexpectedly entered the rest state. At that time, you were beginning to try and classify the functions of the three auxiliary brains of the test subject."

"Yes, I remember. Thank you, 187." Pathosis stood and stretched his sore muscles; the pain proved that he had not slipped closer to the True Death while he slept. A pity, he reasoned. Moving to the wash basin, he splashed some water on his face and began mentally reviewing all of the discoveries he'd made the previous night. The first had been the obvious shock of discovering the "little crab's" true appearance under the armor. Beyond that, once he'd started his dissection, the mysteries continued to appear.

He started with a routine internal examination, to find the general layout of the skeletal structure and organs. The first discovery was that the creature had no skeleton to speak of; merely a dense collection of muscle fibers and other tissues. It was a logical finding, upon reflection. After all, the creature had been able to compress its immense bulk into the suit of armor. Upon examining the creature's mouth, Pathosis had found more evidence to support his pet theory that this was some distant cousin of the Illithids. Inside, beyond the impressive rows of teeth, he had found a quartet of small tentacles. Initially, the Dustman was confused as to their purpose, but later findings provided a chillingly clear picture of their intended function. It seemed that the corpse had two digestive systems. One was fairly normal: a throat, a stomach, intestines and the like. It was the second one that truly gave Pathosis chills.

The second system, rather than going to another stomach as with a minotaur, ran instead directly into the head. There, Pathosis found a series of twelve interconnected cavities within the creature's own immense brain. And inside those cavities, the Dustman found the critical piece of the puzzle to the corpses that he and 187 had been receiving. In three of the cavities he found a humanoid brain; all of which now rested in the sample jars on the table before him. It seemed that, unlike the Illithids, these creatures did not exactly feed on brains. Instead, for unknown reasons, removed and stored brains within their own. Based on the fluids he found inside the storage cavities, it would seem that these "collected" brains were being kept alive - or at least, preserved. And that was the truly frightening thought. If these "brain collectors" were somehow able to add a being's brain to their own, and keep it alive, they could quite possibly have access to that brain's knowledge and memories. Who knows what that might mean for psionic or magical abilities? Those possibilities, along with the unknown number of the creatures in Sigil, made for a very bad situation.

"Well, 187. What information do we have on the subject at hand?"

The rogue modron thought for a moment, and then began to recite the pair's findings from the past day.

"The creature is unknown - there are no records of such beings in the Mortuary's archives. It is capable of removing the cranium of beings and taking the brain into it's own for storage and unknown uses. This can be done up to twelve times. Based on the number of corpses obviously attributable to the creature's dental imprint, there are at least four other creatures somewhere in the Lower Ward. An unknown number of the creatures also exist in the mazes which now take the place of the destinations of the city's portals. The appearance of these creatures is somehow linked to the failure of the portals. We also know that at least one other party knows at least as much about the creatures as we do. This is evidenced by the metallic shrapnel found to be the cause of death."

Pathosis nodded. "Yes. It seems that some one managed to booby trap a brain. However, there is also the possibility that it tried to take the brain of a bladeling. What is it that we don't know about these creatures?"

"We do not know their plane and realm of origin. We do not know how they are linked to the failure of portals. We do not know where in the Lower Ward the other creatures are located. We do not know how the appearance of small armies of fiends relates to the creatures' presence in the mazes. We do not know what the creatures want in Sigil, beyond the obvious desire for brains."

"Indeed. Being isolated in the Mortuary, it would seem that know all we can about the physical nature of the beasts, but are severely lacking insight into their mental motivations. We need to get this information to some one, but who?"

"Tell me again who we're looking for," Druthelaxus demanded from his perch atop Uriel's head. The dust mephit had long since grown tired of walking or flying, and so was quick to take advantage of the deva's complacency.

Tandin sighed. "Cantha told us to find some Dustie named Pathosis as he's apparently got one of those collector-things on a slab somewhere. I suppose he's supposed to tell us what they look like so your buddy there can look sideways or whatever and find them."

Druthelaxus puffed his chest out in indignation at the halfling's tone, but decided against saying anything more. His actions dropped another layer of dust upon the deva's head and shoulders. Uriel, of course, said nothing. The odd trio had finally made it through the tanar'ri infested warrens of the Hive's streets and were approaching the Mortuary. The streets here still held some activity; people with wagons and pushcarts were entering and leaving the gates to the Dustmen headquarters as fast as they were able. All arrivals bore full loads of corpses. A flicker of some emotion played across the passive deva's face while Tandin grimaced in disgust at the smell. The urgency of their task was the only thing which made them grit their teeth and willingly enter the Mortuary.

Inside, it was obvious that both the fiends and the failure of the portals were taking their toll on the Cage. The bodies being brought in were being carefully stacked like cordwood along the walls of the chambers and halls of the vast building. Many Dustmen were at work cataloging the bodies and their eventual plane of disposition. The smell here was steadily growing worse than that of the courtyard given the closer quarters. The trio waited for a few moments to see if anyone would notice them. When it didn't happen, Tandin stepped out and tugged on the robe of the nearest Dead. "Hey! Care to take a break and help us out here?"

The factioneer slowly turned to face the impatient halfling. The man's dark eyes gazed over the group impassively from hollow and sunken cheeks. Finally, he spoke in a low whisper. "I see that you have not brought any of your former friends with you. Have you come to seek the next stage along the Path to True Death?"

Before Tandin could sputter a reply, Druthelaxus jumped into the conversation. "While we all truly realize the utter tragedy that is Life, we're having too much fun to move along just yet. In the meantime, you can tell us where to find one of your fellows - Pathosis." The Dustman considered for a moment, then decided the mephit's attitude wasn't worth caring about and gave the trio precise directions on where to find Pathosis' work area.

As the three moved along the body-lined halls of the Mortuary, Tandin glared angrily at the dust mephit and snapped, "Well, you've taken care of another political situation. What in the whistles do you need me along for anyway?"

"I don't have belt pouches full of jink. Besides, I fully expect you to be able to get your bribe back once you've handed it over."

The halfling wasn't sure how to take that comment, and was prevented from making a suitable retort by their arrival at the door to Pathosis' work room. The mephit directed the deva to knock on the door.

The door was quickly jerked open by a tall human with a leathery complexion. He was muttering under his breath about "...sodding constant interruptions... ...how can I ever get any work done around here..." and the like. His muted tirade was cut off when he noticed a large deva standing in his doorway. The Dustman nervously cleared his throat and asked, "Uh... may I help you?"

Tandin jumped into the conversation before the pushy mephit. "Are you Pathosis?" Upon seeing the man nod, the halfling continued, pushing himself past the human and into the room. "Good. We've just come across the fiend-infested Hive in order to talk to you. You've supposedly got a corpse we'd like to see. Oh yes, you're also going to accompany us to find these things after we tell you what's up. So, what do you say, old man?"

Pathosis blinked several times before his mind could catch up with the speed of Tandin's words. "I say, are you friends of Bliss?" It was Tandin's turn to nod. "Ah, I see now. Excellent. Yes, I do have a corpse and I do believe that I have a bit of information to add to yours..."

The Civic Festhall
Morning, Day Three
**[by Lars H. Löher]**

Blades slicing through whirlpools of colour, dancing, whirling without aim, lost and alone. Wavering ghostly bodies unaffected by cold steel. Some scream in agony, other dance with joy, more stand motionless, faces lacking of expressions, if they had faces at all. Some lacked limbs, heads and other parts that should be vital to a mortal, but where a mere inconveniency for a spectral being.

Shadows fall over the assembled crowd, giving the whole an eerie quality. As though several dozen ghosts weren't an eerie group in the first place, but it seemed the axiom of nonexisting limits to any type of impression or emotion was just proven to be true again. Just what, by the nine stinking pits of depravity, was going on here, one of the many ghosts wondered. She seemed whole and there wasn't anything obviously amiss about her, except for an - even for a newly formed ghost - extremely distraught expression. Wondering where she was the shadow closed on her and seemed to condense into a form she was going to understand.

Coming ever close the seemingly inexperienced spectre stared as the shadow wrapped itself around her and cradled her in an envelope of darkness like a mother holds a child at her breast to prevent it from seeing something it shouldn't. "Don't watch this", a gentle voice said, "it is going to drive you barmy if you do." The ghost replied with a hint of anger in her voice: "I know what is good for me and what isn't, and don't tell me you warned me this would happen. I know you didn't" There was a sigh that seemed to reach out into the everlasting mental space of the silver void, rebounding dancing, echoed and amplified a hunderdfold until it ceased in a cacophonous crescendo.

"There is something... There is something", the voice echoed through her like the call of a siren, subtle but alluring and ultimately striking a deadly blow. "You are forgetting." Those voice sounded sinister like spoken directly from the deepest pit of the lower planes and had a frightening finality to it. "You don't know it either", she grumbled. "Return to your post and leave me alone." With a disappointed shriek the Shadow dissolved into nothingness, but the scenery had drastically changed...

Bubbles where floating everywhere. Opaque bubbles like shining spheres of multicoloured magical light, some translucent, revealing wondrous images of landscapes that where even exotic and impressive from a planewalker's point of view, but there where far more dark bubbles, writhing and coiling as though caught in the spasms of nightmares. Ever so slowly the scene seemed to loose substance and fade away in front of a large room.

A spectral figure blinked and a ghost, who had been a kender not even a full day ago stirred from her slumber. Funny, why did she know her rest was called that instead of sleep? She groaned as she felt aching muscles and stretched lazily to get the stiffness out of her. Slowly walking she wondered what she was going to do to rid herself of the weariness of her limbs. Usually a little gymnastics and easy practice should do as they always did, when she felt like that.

Wait. Spectral bodies weren't supposed to behave like living ones. The kender looked around and wondered aloud: "Where I am?" Dead, You are dead, someone whispered into her head repeatedly. "Shut up, I already know that." Silently she added that she should learn to mentally reply to the creature in the back of her mind, a creature she was all too familiar with. She sighed and looked over the hall again. It seemed abandoned and it seemed strangely quiet for the middle of the Civic Festhall, where there was constantly entertainment and parties going on.

You can reflow shift and change if you want to. Your Spetuum is an amorphous blob of matter, changing into whatever you want it to. Bimb looked at her translucent body and experimentally grew a few tentacles and eyestalks. It was quite confusing to look into several directions at once, but definitely a worthwhile experience. She condensed into a small rat and expanded into a form representing her mortal appearance as she remembered it.

Next she tried to walk through a wall and was repulsed by more force than she had expected. Only tiny cracks and rat holes, nothing solid. The kender wondered: "Weapons can hurt me then?" Only when they are magical, or claws of paramortals beyond the lowest ranks. "Can I become less substantial than I already am." Yesss, you can. Come on do it, make me more powerful. There was a frightening desire in that voice. While Bimb wondered how she could best deal with her duality, the door of the room opened and no-one lesser than factol Erin Montgomery entered.

She said: "I thought you where never going to awaken. You slept like dead." The kender told her: "May I remind you that I am dead." Erin said: "Sorry, but the way you looked last night I thought I was better going to remind you." The Kender nodded and said: "You aren't here to chat with a ghost about her feelings. If I survive this I might record some of it, but I advise you to be careful with the stuff." Erin agreed with a short nod and said: "I thought we might need your military expertise." Bimb said: "If I still have it."

There was more missing than just her body and she had to figure it out very soon if she wanted to keep going...

Morning, Day Three
Near The Mortuary
**[by Lars H. Löher]**

Jimora cursed mentally. The three had gone into the mortuary and still they didn't return. For a moment she pondered if she should follow them, but she decided against it. The Dustmen had more than enough corpses to do something about almost any type of trouble, and she should see it coming before. That didn't keep her from worrying of course. She ducked deeper into the shadows and shivered from the overwhelming sense of evil pervading the city.

It was a feeling of seeping hopelessness, of being caught up in a game far beyond her control. She could only hope Mertian did at least marginally know what he was doing. Jimora thought she felt a familiar dangerous presence nearby. Then the group finally left the Mortuary, accompanied by one of the Dead, who was as pale as a corpse and seemed as uncaring. He had understood the philosophy, but the assassin wondered if he was going to be of much help if it came to blows.

Not that an engagement was likely. The clash of arms was audible from other sections of the city, where faction forces engaged the invading fiends. Flames flared up and flashes of violent magic lighted the sky, but even from the distance it seemed more uncoordinated than anything else. Jimora melded out of the shadows to appear directly in front of the group. She even managed to frighten the dustman. "Where have you been so long." Tandin said: "We had information about this type of creature we had found. It seems to collect brains for further use. We don't know if they can use anything stored in the brains they... well, collect."

He had almost spoken with the speed of a tinker gnome, but Jimora could follow it anyway. She might not be a flashy mage, but her mind was keen enough to survive in one of the most dangerous professions. "If I recall that tome I read back on my homeworld, they can use the stuff stored there, but not all of it. I think humanoid thought-structure doesn't translate well into theirs. That's only my guess and as good as any other." She shook her head, thinking about the Dabus warrens. Mertian had to be desperate if he started to gamble like that.

"What-", Tandin started to ask, but Jimora was already gone, leaving the halfling to wonder, how she could hide like that and even escape his senses. He was highly attuned to the shadows, but this female gave him creeps. Jimora had sensed the presence again and her body started to move with fluid grace. This time she was sure it wasn't some trick of the desperate situation. Now she did what she was best for, what she had trained for all those years.

The hunter of hunters, the assassin of assassins, the stalker of stalkers and she was good at it. She had to be careful, working on the edge of her formidable endurance. Think about your friends down there. They will die if you cannot help them. Concentrate on these thoughts as you have learned all those years ago. Step carefully and deliberately. Move with maximum efficiency. Never waste any energy for unnecessary steps or even thoughts.

Finally she became one with the shadows and moved silent as death, just a deeper shadow in the corner of an eye, that was gone when you turned to look at it. Several arrows hit the wall and a moment later the snipers lay sprawled on their bows, barely bleeding. They had instantly died, not even leaving the heart time to pump blood out of the tiny wound. Don't let your guard down. These where only minions, the true enemy is still there stalking you as you stalk him.

There were more snipers with bows and crossbows. There were. No suffering no warning, just dead. Some of them where just hired mercenaries, but Jimora was to exhausted to be as selective as she usually was. The minions where gone, but one still followed her, daggers hitting walls dangerously near her form. When the supply of daggers was exhausted, crossbow bolts followed in dangerously rapid succession. Jimora didn't even have the time to curse her fate as a realisation crept into her mind.

After a wild hunt over Sigil's roofs surrounding the group, weariness finally got the better of Jimora and she misstepped. Only the blink of an eye, not even the length of an heartbeat her shadow was pronounced against a brighter surface. The next crossbow bolt didn't leave the metallic sound of hitting one of the many blades attached to the structurs, but resounded with the wet thud of steel hitting flesh at high speed. Jimora spun around and lost her opponent to the jumble of buildings and alleys surrounding her.

Knowing, pulling trying to pull the bolt out of her would leave the head in her body, she pressed the bolt lodged deep in her shoulder with a vicious effort until the tip broke free of her back. She dislodged it with a painful effort and pulled the shaft out of her. Jimora's face was a twisted grimace of agony. Slowly she concentrated on her task, forced her dazed mind to take control of her body once again. Ever so slowly she pushed the pain back into the recesses of her unconsciousness to catch the killer before he found his mark.

Dizziness crept up her spine and Jimora felt the numbness she had just laboriously forced away returning. Her head swam from the effort and from something else. She didn't even find the energy to curse mentally as she realised what it meant.

Poison.

Morning, Day Three
The Civic Festhall
**[by Lars H. Löher]**

"Yes you have heard me", Erin Montgomery said, "We are relying on your military knowledge, Captain Moondancer." Bimb favoured her with ignorance for several moments more and finally she said: "I had to do a self-analysis to see, what is still intact. I guess I have about less than half my mental power and half of my memories. Fortunately my military expertise is among those parts not missing." Not even the experienced factol could hide a sigh of relief when she heard that.

"See", the factol said, "I am not much of a military leader, and reliving three dozen recorded battles didn't bring me a step farther either. Even Darkwood is too much of a loner to be an efficient field commander, but that doesn't keep him trying. Rhys is too individualistic, Alishon Nilesia can do a lot of things, but leading armies isn't among them. I think only the Harmonium and the Godsmen are doing a reasonable job so far, but who is going to follow the Hardheads? They simply made themselves too many enemies for anyone to feel comfortable around them."

"I might have lost my leadership ability", Bimb warned. Erin shrugged and said: "Amber or me can take care of that." The kender nodded and said: "We meet at the standing horse, tell me the right name of that creature before I insult one. I have heard they are formidable and fickle. Make sure you don't stand beneath anything that can crush you." Erin said: "I do remember the incident at twelve factols quite well." The factol looked at her and said: "You seem more composed now."

Bimb shrugged and said: "There has to be a reason to keep me going, so I do what I always did, trying to make the best out of it." Da'nanin asked: "What about your company?" The kender shrugged and said: "I have three capable commanders, and I have ordered them to join with my mistress Ithra Stargazer's company, if I don't return to them. You see I don't even know if there is a body left to bury, or if they psychic backlash shattered it beyond repair." While she turned to go Erin mused: "Why did she break down like that last night?"

Bimb turned around and said: "Have you ever survived the shock if being ripped apart at the core of your being?" The factol said: "I have relived being shredded to pieces in from a recording of another sensate ghost." The kender shook her head and said: "I mean being torn apart in your being, not your body. I already have experienced the latter at least two times. I am talking about your mind and your inner being. Can you even begin to even imagine the emotional shock, especially when you have just turned into a creature of emotion?"

She finally left leaving behind an unusually thoughtful couple. You learn fast. I always did. You will try discorporating once. I guess I have to, to know what it is like and what use it might be in battle. Once will not strengthen me either I don't care. With that the Kender dissolved and her ghostly form seemed even more translucent and radiant than it had before. She passed through several solid barriers before becoming more solid again.

Do it again And again and Again? You know me better than that. I need my spectral integrity. You said paramortals can hurt me, and we are going to battle fiends. There was a sigh in the back of the head. Bimb allowed herself a short smile of relief. Nothing against knowing your dark side when you where still alive. She also thanked her mistress for having the foresight of teaching her these unusual things.

It was time to go on and fight again, most like for more than she ever had.

Morning, Day Three
An alley in Sigil
**[by Lars H. Löher]**

"Pray I still have one of those potions", Jimora thought as she reached for her bag of holding. Her hand moved slower than the blackness that threatened to engulf her, that seemed to welcome her. Knowing what failure meant, she refused to yield, refused to let go of the last tiny spot of light that was dancing in front of her vision. Unable to let go of the task that she had set for herself, her hand slipped into the bag. It was easy to find the potions in her well ordered extradimensional space.

No mistake now, she thought. Concentrate, where did you keep those for poison. Her head swam and her thoughts seemed to swirl and dance as though they tried to mock her effort and tried to prove it futile. A single snippet stayed in the speck of light for a moment and she reached for a potion, sending another prayer to her god, that she didn't fail at the last moment. With a last titanic effort she unstoppered the potion and tried to set it on her lips.

Valuable fluid flowed over her face and she managed to open her mouth. She licked drops of her lips, before they could flow somewhere else and slowly her mind seemed to focus again. Finally she managed to set the potion on the lips and swallow the contents of the flask. During the quickly racing heartbeats she needed to regain her composure she stored the stainless steel flask in her bag of holding and wondered a split moment is she had time to swallow another of her valuable elixirs. She decided against it.

She was already racing through her shadows again, following her opponent, finding his trail like a bloodhound following prey. He thought she was out of the game, so he had relaxed his guard somewhat, knowing he didn't have to spent valuable energy to strike at the far less skilled group. Leisurely he stalked through the shadows, his form darting in the deva's direction, dagger leading. He only noticed the other presence a moment later, a moment he didn't have as he was struck in the back by a lightening fast dagger and collapsed to the floor.

Jimora lingered in the shadows a few moments more to be sure he didn't have any other trick left or was enchanted by a mage to do something nasty. As neither happened she caught the body before the noise of it falling to the floor could betray her position to any minions he might have left. She quickly searched the body and wasn't surprised to find a soulsnake on his back and the sign of her homeworld's most dangerous thieves' guild around his neck. "Night Stalker", she hissed and tossed the sign carelessly to the ground.

Tandin had turned around a few heartbeats after Jimora melded out of the Shadows. The rest of the group turned only now to see her standing over the corpse of a slain assassin, who had almost killed them. "You don't look good", the halfling noted. Pathosis looked at her for several moments. "No I am not going to die anytime soon, but if the power your holy symbol indicates gives you the power of healing you better use it now. I am of little use to either you or Mertian in this state." Pathosis nodded and finally chanted the runes of the unfamiliar spell.

The shadow walker grimaced as the less-than-gentle spell reknit her flesh and skin. She pointed at the snake that only seemed a harmless tattoo on the dead man's back now. "That's the sign of our enemy, if you ask me. I have heard of that stuff. A thieves' guild on my homeworld uses it on occasion. It's a nasty and fortunately little known enchantment, that is - I think - called snake of the soul. It seems harmless, but takes possession not of your mind, but your very inner being, your soul. I fear our opponents have easier access to this than this enchantment, that only the best top-shelf spell-slingers can even hope to comprehend."

The four, even Pathosis, shivered. "Keep cool and watch out." She already received a gentle mental message from Mertian, informing where her assistance was needed next. Not for the first time she wondered why the sometimes violent transmissions other members of the network received didn't plague her. Maybe Mertian thought of her as something special, but she doubted that any mortal would ever have a special meaning to the ancient cosmic player. More likely it was somehow connected to her own mind. Either she had Shadow Walker abilities she didn't know about, or it was the wild talent she had not used for years.

"What is this all about?", the mephit asked, after being silent for an unusually long time. Jimora shrugged and said with her best indifferent voice: "It is all a game of cosmic chess. Mertian and the creature controlling those brain-things and also the assassin I killed are the players, or at least they think they are. With the multiverse being the mess it is, they might again only be figures of some even more powerful players." Someone wanted to ask a question.

Jimora was already gone.

Morning, Day Three
A Prime World
**[by Lars H. Löher]**

In a world, whose name isn't important, a kender opened her eyes and looked around. Where was she? What had happened. She surveyed her surroundings and surmised she was in a hut somewhere. A robed figure with a concerned expression in her face was leaning over her. "I though you where dead", the other female said. "Wouldn't be the first time I stop breathing", the kender noted. The other female nodded only and asked: "What happened. You looked agonised."

The kender did so again. "I... I have... been... ripped... torn... apart." Obviously she was lacking the adequate words, which was something that rarely happened to the resourceful and unusual kender. She closed her eyes again and performed a self-analysis. "My soul", she whispered in a toneless voice. "It's missing." The robed female said: "You should be dead then, even liches have souls, even though they have to store it in a gem." The kender shook her head and said: "My mind, or whatever is left of it keeps me going, but it will not do so for long.

"It costs me most of my energy to keep my body from decaying and have it stay in a reasonable shape. I cannot lead you anytime soon." The robed female asked: "How do you feel?" Bimbalina replied: "Hollow, empty, lost. I still have part of my mind. You know I split personality, when I entered the City of Doors, so I could quickly react to local danger, so my mind was split by something that looked like the Lady of Pain, but along other lines than my original separation.

"Something strikes me as odd." The robed female asked: "What?" The kender closed her eyes, her features twitching nervously several times. "After all my mistress told me about the Lady of Pain, she shouldn't just have cut the silver cord. She should have sliced my mind, the way she slices everything near her with her blades. Ithra said even from a distance the blades left almost lethal psychic impressions and even she was barely able to return to the physical world in time to survive." The mage said: "That's odd." Bimb nodded and said: "Yes it is." The robed female asked: "What if this figure wasn't Her Serenity?"

A disturbing and frightening thought indeed.

Morning, Day Three
An alley in Sigil
**[by Lars H. Löher]**

A carelessly tossed coin spins and dances. It doesn't just leap and fall over the cobblestones the way a coin thrown like this one should. Neither did it move like the whirlwind depicted on both sides. There was no discernible pattern, not even a slaad's tongue guess, what it was going to do next, leaping spinning, dancing happily and eerily in its agitated Limbo dance.

A few glimmers of light, unfathomable patterns again. Then more and more entwining dancing turning to flame, ice, acid and air in moments, radiate again and collapse. Slowly moving into the direction of a like-minded soul, a being so deeply unpredictable, that Limbo was going to fetch it even from the locked cage, ignoring any rules as it always did. Attracted and called by its destination, the swirl engulfs a body. Run to Limbo, throwing off the shackles of possession and mortality.

The corpse of the assassin Jimora had killed twitches and seems to move without animation. Parts become amorphous, change ever more and more randomly. Encompassing, slowly encroaching the chaos mater engulfs the dead body and the body becomes chaos matter, returns to the element it always longed for. Slowly weakening, limbo seeps out of the cage again. A multicoloured flash across the silver void and then nothing, only time- and spaceless nothingness covered by the illusion of silvery stars. A soul revels in its freedom.

In eternity.

Mid-morning, Day Three (...or is it a steamed duck?)
Limbo
**[by Shelaam]**

Looking at the road, Cray had to admit it, Bliss was good. If fact, he was damn good.

Delva's shield had initially protected them well as the mismatched group was swept through the vortex into the churning ocean of untamed anarchy that was Limbo. The plane was everything and nothing at once, the environment changing from seething magma to deepest void, and again to a desertscape twisted beyond the imagination of the most crazed artist, all without word or warning, rhyme or reason. To Cray's mind, it was beautiful.

But, despite being the home of chaos, it was well known to planewalkers that a cutter with a strong will and keen mind could impose a bit of order on the place, shaping his surounds to his will and whim. Knowing that Delva's magic would soon fail, it was decided that Bliss should try his hand at what was colloquially known as 'chaos shaping'. The illithid's initial modest attempt had gone well, changing a small area directly around them to a dusty plain.

Cray distinctly remembered that it was Harpsichord who had eagerly suggested that "it'd be nice to have a tad more space between us an' the goop o'erhead, so's we could all get a good breather, like", and so Bliss changed the surroundings a little, and they were walking along a long dirt trail, a respectable distance of 'sky' above them. When the trail widened slightly and became paved with flagstones, he'd begun to suspect that Bliss was getting a little over ambitious, but it hadn't stopped there.

The group was now taking a quick rest at a spring which had suddenly appeared beside their path. Harpsichord was meticulously examining one of the bronze 'milestones' which had recently begun to spring up on the wayside, while the illithid stared contentedly at the recurring mosaics, intricately detailed pictures of the Godsman motif studded into the centre of the road.

Of course, slapping a fancy new road through the middle of the countryside isn't exactly the sort of thing that makes the locals happy. Cray had anticipated this problem, and when the natives had shown up to voice their objections in their own quaint manner (by reducing the offenders to their component parts), he'd taken advantage of local custom and demanded single combat with their leader, a motley old fellow named Quorbosh. Despite the fact that his followers vastly outnumbered the travellers, the green slaad had been honour bound to comply. It had all worked out rather nicely, Cray mused, despite a few aching bruises he bore.

He was broken from his reverie by the grunting slurps of the new 'guide', apparently what passed for communication amongst the slaadi, great toadish horrors who were the only truly native inhabitants of the plane. Quorbosh apparently meant that the scouts sent out some time earlier had returned with news that the destination was close - his froglike minions were perfectly adapted to weathering the fickle conditions of the plane. The guiding device Cray had taken from Sigil told him this as well, linked as it was to the beacon or 'Guidon' as their destination, but magic was notoriously fickle in Limbo, and the slaadi knew the place like the back of their claws. He smiled once again at their good fortune at being attacked, and stood up, signaling that the rest was at an end

The companions looked downwards into the great, ragged hole which seemed to devour the end of Bliss' mosaic road, and Harpsichord breathed a low whistle of astonishment. "Then this'd be yer Pinwheel, eh, bosun".

The Pinwheel was an immense island with its own atmosphere, keeping out the ravaging chaos soup by itself in a way which scholars could only argue over. It reportedly had its own gravity as wellAlthough carpeted by thick forest and inhabited by ferocious beasts, it was one of the few stable patches of land on the whole plane, and thus a popular site for meetings and gatherings. To this effect, a great Guidon pyramid had been constructed at the island's heart.

With the help of the slaadi reports, Bliss had been able to direct his road so it touched the top of the atmospheric bubble near the very centre of the island. The purpose of this was not so that the four friends could enjoy a luxurious mile long plummet to the rocky surface of the Pinwheel, but to take advantage of the other unique feature of the island. For, curling majestically from the rocky prominence in the centre of the Pinwheel, gnarled and ancient as the Multiverse itself, climbed a silver root of Yggdrasil, the mighty World Ash. The tree's branches and roots were said to span every plane and age, and a canny planewalker knew that, as a means of getting from A to B, travel of the Ash could hardly be beat.

After a brief conference, Cray dismissed Quorbosh and his bloodthirsty band. The massive toad bowed subserviently to Cray, almost groveling, and he shook his head in wonder at the strange slaadi code. Killers to whom mercy and remorse were alien concepts, a slaad would make a meal out of you and use your head as a kick-ball if he thought he could. But for some reason they placed a huge amount of worth on individual might; if you could show that you could best any basher in the vicinity, one on one, they'd all lick your boots and bring you breakfast on command.

*We'd best get out of here swiftly,* projected Bliss. *Once word gets out that you bested Quorbosh, we'll have slaadi rushing from half a plane away to be the first to take your scalp*

The others nodded their agreement, and Bliss 'thought' a path leading around the outside of the Pinwheel's air bubble, being very careful lest the solid seeming road collapse into the island's stronger reality, an eventuality which would leave about thirty seconds to learn how to fly. Soon enough the churning elements at the edge of Bliss' stable hemisphere gave way to a rolling mist.

"Yggdrasil," declared Cray.

"I sure was a hand at tree climin' when I was a lass," volunteered Harpsichord with a snaggle toothed grin, "p'raps I'll have m'self a tad peek before you lot of golbodgers blunder yerselves into trouble". Brooking no argument, she slipped off into the mist.

About ten seconds later, a strangled yawp was heard. Cray pulled his chiv, and the three cautiously made their way into the mist The great root soon materializing in front of them, but neither Harpsichord or her assailant could be seen.

Then a familiar voice echoed from below "Take a care as to where you're puttin' yer feet. This tree's right slippery." Harpsichord appeared shimmying up the numerous lesser roots, branches and nodules that crusted the face of the wood, deranged grin plastered over her face. "The luck o' Hermes I tested it first, or who knows what problems the likes of yerselves would've had".

Cray sighed with resignation, sheathed his sword, and wordlessly took a firm grasp on the great tree.

Peak, Day Three
Among the branches of Yggdrasil
**[by Shelaam]**

"Y' can make me kiss a gehreleth if I'm wrong, but I'm wagering we're more lost than a ship full of Athar. Yer gerbil buddies seem t' be mighty scarce in these parts, Cray."

Annoying as it was, Harpsichord was right. Cray had used the World Ash many times on his trip around the ring, and ratatosk, the cunning little squirrels that made Yggdrasil their home had always been there, pranksters but always willing to guide a lost basher in exchange for a trinket, tidbit or riddle. Here, however, the creatures seemed to be absent, and the last hour had been spent vainly trying to pick a path amongst the intertwining, silvery limbs. Success was markedly absent, and rather than find a way to the howling tunnels of Pandemonium, they remained in the misty place between planes that was the World Ash.

Throwing his arms up in frustration, Cray bit back a sharp retort. "All right, so maybe they don't like it near the lower planes, I don't know. Maybe someone else has a better plan for finding a path." Surprisingly, it was Delva who spoke up. She had been silent for a long time, and was still very pale in the face. Now she looked confused, her eyes darting wildly.

"I... I seem to recall... something. This place seems... familiar "

Without warning, she threw her head back and let loose a wild keen, high-pitched enough to shatter crystal, just on the edge of perception, and with an intensity to touch the soul. Cray and Harpsichord stuffed their fingers in their ears, trying to escape the spine-chilling wail.

Bliss, who did not hear in the ordinary sense of the word, was not so discomforted, and seized the moment. An anomaly amongst his kind, the caring Bliss was generally respectful of the privacy of other beings' thoughts. But something worried Bliss about the enigmatic mage, a concern about her mysterious past awakened by her outburst at the Feast and Famine. Brushing her mind with a gentle probe, Bliss detected the dark morass of memory that was her hidden past.

He pressed more forcefully, bending his will to the task, but the mage's mind was strong, difficult to penetrate. He caught a glimpse of an image, part of the dark film that had wrapped Delva's memories into a bundle, storing them away from her conscious mind - an image of spiders, everywhere, smothering the walls of a great cave, of fangs and bloated abdomen and red eyes which pierced the darkness, of jointed, spiny-furred legs which crawled up your body and face, filling mouth, eyes, mind...

...Bliss jerked his mind back with a start, and realised that Delva's wail was dying down, and she herself was looking around with great confusion as if astonished with what she'd done. Cray and Harpsichord slowly recovered their heads from between their legs, the latter muttering a few inventive oaths from her seemingly endless repertoire, and looked tentatively towards the mage in case a second helping was on the menu.

When it seemed to Cray that the danger of having his eardrums ruptured had passed, he started to ask what had happened, but was cut off by the sound of scuttling legs and swooshing wings which grew swiftly louder. Within moments, a squirrel landed on the branch with a thud, obviously having glided in from great height. The creature was a ratatosk, but unlike any Cray had ever seem, for its fur was pure silvery-white, and its skin hung in great wrinkles which would have seemed comic if not for the great dignity it carried itself with. To everyone's astonishment, the diminutive elder strode toward Delva with purpose, abasing himself before her completely.

"Oh, Great Mistress," the ratotosk intoned solemnly in a voice which was at one piping and drawn with age, "I, Bierer of Bristletail clan hear and obey the ancient call. I am yours to command".

Delva seemed as amazed as the rest at Bierer's dramatic appearance, but the venerable creature remained prone in obeisance. Cray was perplexed, as he had never seen a ratatosk which was not jovial and mischievous, let alone one as wizened and serious as the specimen at hand.

The mage soon recovered her wits. "Er... rise, noble Bierer," she commanded, trying to summon as much authority as possible "your task is at once simple and of great urgency. You must lead my... retainers and I to the town known as Windglum, deep within the plane of Pandemonium."

"As you say, Mistress, it shall be done. A thin root, shooting off that which leads to the Winter Hall of Loki, grounds near this place. It is very close to here."

"Lead on, then, my brave servant," Delva replied, not entirely sure of herself but masking it well.

Bierer bowed deeply, his bush tail sticking high in the air. He turned, and wordlessly motioned for the companions to follow him along the path of slivered wood.

Peak, Day Three
The Astral Plane
**[by Yingzhi Zhang]**

Mertian hovered in the middle of the emptiness, a single white thread of shimmering light winding its way into the depths of his mind. A vital white thread that fed him the information he needed to act, now that his globe had been destroyed. While Cray's mission was apparently going well, Abigail's outburst was troubling. Partly because of her amnesia, and partly because normally not even Mertian could penetrate the dark recesses of her mind that had so abruptly revealed itself. Something about her felt eerily familiar... Feeling a presence, Mertian detatched himself from the Mindspider's thread and turned around.

Ninety seven aurumachs hovered silently in the Silver Void. Ninety seven pairs of golden eyes stared at Mertian gravely. Ninety seven minds now all focused upon him. The significance of the missing ninety-eighth aurumach was not lost on Mertian.

"As you requested, Mertian, we have come. What have you found that is so important it tears us from our duties?" one of the aurumachs asked in a deep voice.

"Undoubtedly you have all felt the reverberations throughout the multiverse," Mertian began. "Reverberations caused by the mere presence of one from beyond. Eons have passed, and He has returned."

The aurumachs murmured briefly among themselves, but did not appear altogether surprised. That was not unexpected - they would hardly be aurumachs if they didn't already feel the repercussions of the Enemy's presence upon the fabric of reality itself.

"How can you be sure of this, Mertian?" the deep-voiced aurumach asked. "It is true there have been troubling disturbances within the depths of the Multiverse, and within Sigil itself. However, this does not necessarily constitute His return..."

"He approached me in my own sanctum," Mertian replied simply.

More murmuring, though with a much more surprised overtone.

"Now, perhaps more than ever, we need to be as one," Mertian said definitively, looking pointedly at the spot where the missing ninety-eigth aurumach would be, were he here. "We cannot defeat this enemy if we constantly battle among ourselves. We must be united in our purposes."

"You and he have ever been at odds, Mertian," another aurumach asserted. "He would likely go his own way, as you often do. However, due to the significance of this event, we will make an attempt to bring him around."

There was a pause.

"And what of the other races?" someone asked from the back. "They are numerous, and may be quite useful. Perhaps some effort should be made to inform them of the upcoming crisis."

"No," Mertian shook his head. "The other races were not present when he came the last time. They are too young and would not understand the depth of the situation. They would undoubtedly begin squabbling and fighting among themselves, and we cannot spend the time trying to smooth over their differences. Time enough to inform them if the situation becomes too critical."

"What of the yugoloths? They are eldest of the younger races, and were present when he last came."

Mertian considered it. "It is a possibility. The yugoloths are strong, and have a powerful influence over the events in the lower planes. They are, however, notoriously untrustworthy."

"I will personally go...as representative of all rilmani," the deep-toned aurumach stated solemly. "The yugoloth must be made to understand this crisis overshadows personal ambitions. Fickle or not, they as a whole are not stupid, and they will certainly realize the consequences of His return."

The last question came hesistantly. "What of the One?"

Mertian groaned inwardly. It was an inevitability, he supposed, that someone would bring up that age-old question. He silently berated himself for not forseeing it.

"The One has been lost," the deep-voiced aurumach replied with the tone of an adult speaking to a young child. "He has been lost since the Dark One last came, and in the eons between we have yet to see signs of his return."

"Perhaps some effort should be made to locate him..." the other mused. "His power gave us victory last time, when we met the Enemy upon the field of battle."

"That battle came at the expense of over nine-tenths our number and two entire planes. The Great Ring cannot withstand another such costly victory, and neither can we. This time, we need to proceed greater discretion."

"But we have grown in power and numbers. We should start mobilizing now. If we strike quickly, before He has time to manifest all His power, we may have a chance, perhaps even to banish Him forever."

"For all our power, His is still greater. You forget - time has likely increased his power as well."

"There is no need for fighting, brothers," Mertian interceded. "We can pursue both courses of action. All effort should be taken to block His entry into the Outer Planes, but should that fail, we must also be prepared to strike quickly and, hopefully, decisively. In the meantime, my own forces will attempt to secure Sigil, to prevent Him from attempting to manifest His power through its portals."

"Very well, then Mertian. Do as you see fit. You shall not fail," the deep-voiced rilmani said solemnly.

"We shall not fail," Mertian agreed.

"We are Rilmani...." With the traditional parting triad, the ninety-seven rilmani vanished.

A chill ran down Mertian's spine as he gazed at the empty space where the rilmani floated just a moment ago. Deep in his mind, he thought he heard laughter. Mocking, derisive laughter that had just a touch of malevolent irony.

Mertian suddenly felt a lot less certain of himself.

"We are rilmani," he snarled into the empty void.

The laughter continued for several long moments, then vanished.

Early Afternoon, Day Three
Among the branches of Yggdrasil
**[by Yingzhi Zhang]**

Bliss was tired. They'd been climbing the roots of Yggdrasil for the past hour, and to be quite honest, his illithid heritage wasn't prepared to spend long periods of time scurrying about on a plane-spanning tree. After all, how many trees do you get to see when you spent most of your childhood in a leaky, sunless cavern? However, seeing as how coming along had been his idea in the first place, he resolutely kept his complaints to himself.

It wouldn't be so bad if Cray and the others were at least somewhat tired. Then, at least, he'd be able to salvage some of his pride. Unfortunately, Cray seemed to have hit a bout of good cheer (unusual and, Bliss considered, highly suspicious behavior for a Bleaker) and was moving along at a torturously brisk pace. Even that curious woman, Abigail, was moving faster than he was. Bliss sighed, rolled up the hem of his robe to prevent it from catching on his feet, and moved on.

The attack came almost without warning. With only a slight rustle of leaves to preface them, an enormous swarm of black beetles came flying out of the foliage, the sound of their wings like the rain upon a field. Bliss had only enough time to vainly raise his arms.

The next thing he knew, he was surrounded on all sides by the infernal beetles. They burrowed into his robes, up into his sleeves, biting and clawing at his tender flesh. He screeched, mostly with alarm, and slapped at them, but seemed only to encourage the onslaught. Somewhere nearby, Bliss heard shouts of consternation, followed by cursing. Lots and lots of the foulest cursing Bliss had ever heard from a definitely feminine source.

Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the beetles vanished, disappeared back into the dense network of leaves. While no one had been seriously hurt, or bore what could be considered minor wounds, the surprise attack was a little frightening. Harpsichord dashed a short distance after the beetles, waving her arms and shouting incoherently.

"Is everyone alright?" Bliss asked, looking around.

"We're fine," Cray replied, staring at Harpsichord. "What in Baator was that?"

"Given the circumstances, I'd say it was a swarm of large black beetles," Bliss replied sardonically.

"That wasn't what I meant."

"Then you should say what you mean."

Harpsichord came walking back, still muttering darkly under her breath.

"They got away, Mr. Cray," she said slightly disconsolately.

"Ah...that's alright, Harpsichord," Cray replied carefully. "Ready to go?"

"Our guide is indisposed," Bliss observed flatly.

They turned. The aged ratatosk was literally gibbering in terror, and it was running around and around the branch they were standing on with surprising speed. Evidently, something about the attack frightened it far more than it did them.

"Wonderful," Cray said acidly.

It took them the better part of the day to calm it down enough for them to continue.