He had been hidden for four days, that Rogan might better tilt the wagering at the arena house to the greatest profit. Killraven sat motionless on the floor, massive legs tucked underneath him and his back against the wall. Across the room from him, propped up in a similar fashion, but against a barrel of strong beer, sat Ovi, pulling at his tankard from time to time as if drawing the answers to life's mysteries from it. Of all his new companions in this strange landscape, Ovi was the newest, and perhaps the most unusual for that; the rest had faction business to tend to, jobs to work, things to do. They had all come and gone from this place, but Ovi had stayed with him the entire time -- No, not with him, Killraven corrected himself, just by him. Ovi practiced his own exercise regimen nearby when the Athasian trained on the roof, they shared the same mealtimes (such as they were), and traded off watches when it was time to sleep; beyond the occasional courtesy, however, neither of them had said much to the other. In fact, Ovi's silence was a welcome compliment to his own. Small talk was difficult with no lips.

He knew the deep-dwarf had an interest in maps, and had seen him studying the ones of Sigil that Demiche (Karlina? Gavin?) had supplied him with closely -- yet he seemed to have no inclination to see those streets for himself. Perhaps that was just as well; The streetplans in Sigil were subject to change from day to day, especially here in the Hive. From what he had seen of the Duergar's temperament, Ovi viewed his every undertaking with the utmost seriousness, from scouting to combat to making tea. Under that focus, even the most mundane actions were more than just a task; they were a discipline, a ritual. Killraven had not objected to Ovi's company, sensing a similar intensity to his own in the Duergar, apparent in that conciseness of motion, and of speech; Ovi only spoke when he had something to say. Perhaps it was for that reason that Killraven took careful notice when Ovi refilled his mug, settled back against the wall with a sigh, took a drink and began to talk.

"I have been... Watching." Ovi rumbled. The syllables of Sigil's language, only recently taught to the dwarf by Valas/Oberon, still came out thickly when he spoke. His hesitations, though, were not due to any struggle with vocabulary, but rather to thoughtful word choice. "These... companions that we traver wis, they have many skirrs. Work together as team. Very good, But I think that you-" he indicated Killraven with a tilt of his mug "-and I are se onry ones who are True."

Killraven, who had acknowledged Ovi's voice by turning his head to face him, considered these words for a moment. The mask he wore, or the face beneath it, could not register confusion, but it was evident enough in the Mul's reply. "What?"

"We are True. To what we are," Ovi gestured toward where Moc slept, motionless, on the sill. Beneath the window, Rogan's sack shifted occasionally on the floor as Gauntwing counted dust motes, Marbles were still scattered around the bag from earlier that day, when Ovi had been honing his blowgun skills. "Rike bird. Or maybe stoopid mephit. Bird... is bird. Does not try to be tiger. You see?"

Killraven grunted.

Satisfied, Ovi restated, "You, me, we know our path. The others are wrong."

Something in that did not sit right with the gladiator, and he shifted position to better confront the gray dwarf. "Wait. How is Chakan 'wrong'?" Chakan was an able fighter, a capable leader, and a loyal servant of the Doomguard; he had never claimed to be anything else. And he was dedicated to that faction's codes like no other warrior he had seen here. How could Ovi dismiss such strict adherence to beliefs as wrong?

Ovi pulled at his beer again, and replied, "Werr, not wrong. Wrong word. They know their path, but they make... mistakes, each one.

"The weapons -- eh, sword, short sword, bow, spear, pike, crub -- are toors of the warrior, yes? To be kept in good repair, sharp, each for use in right situation. But Doomguard never fix, prevent rust, repair armors. Abuse equipment tirr it break, then get more. Wastefurr. True warriors do not make this mistake." Killraven considered that, nodding slowly. "The weapon is... extension... of warrior. Not being abre to trust weapon is rike not being abre to trust hands."

Killraven turned his head away, the analogy striking a little too close to home. "That," he said, speaking almost to himself, "I understand." Ovi, in response, watched him for a long moment before resuming.

"The warrior must know these toors, and how to appry them. This, Chakan- san does werr. But warrior should not carry more weapons than he need. Chakan-san srow himserf with equipment. In this, Chakan-san make mistake."

"In addition, a warrior must know when and how to attack. Even scout must know these things. Rirah-sama is good scout, but has no controrr; use too much energy in avoiding. I watch, in bar, Drow attack with sword. Enough to back out of reach of sword, yes? Rirah-sama frip--" here Ovi drew circles in the air from right to left -- "Go back ten paces! Too much. Then, rater, Drow is open to attack. I have seen her throw knife. Rirah-sama have knife crose to hand -- take time to throw egg instead. Egg! What is that? Every form I have seen say: against many opponent, dispatch with speed and efficiency. Rirah-sama..." Ovi shrugged and tilted back the rest of his beer. "She does not know economy in defense, or to press advantage in attack. This is her mistake.

"Honorabre Valas-san has a great mind, many skirrs, and impressive focus of power," he continued, drawing a fresh mug from the barrel's tap. "In the forges, I saw him fight the dryder rike a demon of war. But a warrior, being a warrior, does not have to hide from his enemies. Valas-san wear mask, take new name, to do just that. And this is his mistake.

"Rogan-san I do not understand. He says he is peg on game board, made to serve interest of gods. This is fine and good; everyone is dedicated in this way, to their gods and emproyers, doing their duties as given them. He does not rack in courage, or in powers; but if he is warrior, as he say, instructed to hunt down others rike him, why does he abandon the warrior ways to become merchant? In this, I think, he ignore his duty as warrior, and denies his nature by hiding; this is his mistake.

"But most important, a warrior is at peace with what he is, and does not pretend to be what he is not. Kareena-sama make this mistake many time. Some day, she is tempre-priestess, but some day she pretend to be warrior, some day scout and thief, some day beggar... She is bird trying to be tiger. And spider. And gecko-rizard. She is not at peace, and I fear for her as friend when she come to troubre." His peace thus being said, the Duergar turned his attention back into his mug.

Killraven digested that for a while, and silence reigned in the room while Ovi finished another mugful of beer. The Athasian's voice broke the silence just as the dwarf reached around to refill, and the question, much like the asker, was unadorned and cut straight to the quick: "Do all of your kind view the world as warriors?"

Ovi regarded his massive companion as the mug filled, positive appraisal in his dark eyes. "Yes," he answered, twisting closed the tap. "We do. Every Gray, Erf and Dwarf arike, is trained by dojos to fight. Hand, foot, weapon. It teaches focus, respect, community. And defense against enemy. Even humbre farmer, to do his job, must defend crop from barbaric Humans who wish to rob him of what he has made. So -- you see, no difference. Many task; one path."

Killraven grunted.

"Mmmp. Yes. One path. Many degree of focus on path, as werr. Many Dwarf make mistake, too. Is the way rife is." Ovi took a deep swig of beer, leaving a sudsy mustache on top of his real one. He grimed at his companion for a moment, showing an expanse of square, grayish teeth, then wiped the joke off of his face with his sleeve. "Where I come from," he continued, "there are some -- Erf and Dwarf both -- who have strayed. Wish to save stoopid Humans, or destroy sem, Both of these, White, Brack -- equarry misguided."

"And you are Gray."

Ovi nodded. "We reave them to their own barbaric ways. But I speak of berief, not of Path, of focus. There are some who can forrow Path wis ease. Some require training, time, to find what is True for them." He drank again. "Me... I am son of tradition. Arrways, were my famiry Wayfinders. And I have aid. Compass. Which keeps me True."

The gladiator resettled his weight back against the wall. "You're talking in riddles now."

"I do not. I have... Wait. I show." The dwarf rose and crouched over his pack of gear, a slight fumbling with the fasteners the only indication of the massive amount of drink he'd had. In a few moments, he carefully withdrew a frame made of twined ironroot, with a tanned piece of hide stretched across it. One side of the hide bore perhaps a dozen markings of uniform size, varying in shape and complexity in black ink. It was this meticulous work that Ovi brought over to Killraven and displayed for him, his eyes aglow with a warrior's pride. "This," the Duergar stated simply, "is what I am."

Killraven looked up at the dwarf, his head almost on a level with Ovi's due to his seated position. "I can't read that," he answered flatly. Beneath the mask, his one good eye tried to communicate what his words did not: an explanation that he had never learned letters due to his station in life, and a regret that he could not understand more completely this thing of obvious value that his companion was sharing with him.

Ovi, in response, grunted in comprehension. "Wis my peopre -- as I think it is wis yours -- the tasks we do define what we are -- here." He thumped his chest. "And who we are define the task we do. This is poem, which I wrote. It is my... essence, written, that I may meditate upon it, and stay True. It say:

I do what I know.
I find the Ways, watch, learn, teach;
And sometimes I hunt."

Killraven's good eye studied the patterns of ink that made up the credo, then studied the dwarf who had penned it. Everything he had seen the Wayfinder do had been in accordance with those words; even here, in Sigil and among the planes, where even the most fundamental laws could change with the crossing of a threshold, Ovi had remained true to them, And if this little man, an outlander like himself, far from everything he had ever known, could stay loyal to his beliefs, then perhaps Killraven could, too...

He was silent for a long time, and Ovi, sensing the gladiator's reflection behind his twin masks of flesh and metal, waited patiently. At the window, Moc stirred from his slumber, preened a moment, then stretched his wings and took to flight out the window. "It is good," Killraven rumbled softly, "to be reminded... of what is important."

Ovi nodded soberly. "Hai." he agreed, and replaced his poem with the same amount of care as he had removed it.