Factotum Dernan settled back into the plush high-backed chair and folded his hands before him along the Sensate faction symbol embroidered on the center of his tabard. One of his hands was gloved, the other bare. "Annali tells me you've been seen about here, using the Sensoriums any time you can find the jink. I follow the Market Ward's chant, so I've heard your name and what you've done… I must admit, for a Clueless, you've made quite a stir there. Being of a Prime world myself, when they told me that you'd applied for membership, I put in a request that you be directed to me."

Across from him, in a similar but appropriately sized chair, the Gray Dwarf called Ovi Bolim nodded politely. His expression was calm, but alert, and both his posture and his address remained formal. "Factotum is too kind in taking this speciar attention. What have you heard? I wirr terr if the chant is true, or if some berk is rattering bone box."

The satyr chuckled. "Please, cutter. Call me Dernan. You look like you're applying for a position with the Guvners… Be at ease. I've heard you stand on ceremony in your One-Pass Contest, but this interview is an informal one." He leaned forward on one arm of the chair, as if to share a confidence, and glanced down at the way his crossed haunches stuck out. "I never could converse over a desk. I'm just not built for it… Keep kicking things."

Ovi nodded politely once again, but did not relax into the chair. "With respect… this is stirr an interview. I wirr conduct myserf as such."

Dernan shrugged. "Have it your way." The satyr opened a hinged wooden case that he had brought in with him, revealing five small, round stones of various semiprecious minerals, nestled snugly within depressions in the velvet. "Though it's a truth that we've no requirements to join the Society of Sensation save a genuine desire to know, we'll be recording a few experiences of yours, just to see a little of what you've seen, and what you can offer us. Any objections to that?" The dwarf self-consciously pulled at the point of his oiled beard for a moment, then shook his head.

Dernan uncrossed his legs and sat forward, cloven hooves clicking on the marble floor, and smiled in approval. "Good. Now, recording's much the same as using, and I know you've done that. My job is to help you remember all the nuances of what you've experienced, to make a better recording." With a gesture of his hand the lamplight in the sensorium chamber dimmed, to cut down on possible distractions. "We'll address all five senses, but probably the one that's easiest on a body is that of Touch - there's a great deal of latitude there, so that's where we'll start. I'd like you to think of a touch, a texture, or a sensation your body has had, something memorable." Ovi nodded, and thought for a moment. When he moved to speak, the Sensate silenced him with an upraised finger, and picked up one of the stones with his gloved hand. "No. Don't tell me what it was like; take the recorder stone. Think of the feeling. Remember it. Visualize it. Feel it. And show me."

Ovi carefully took the offered recorder, and held it with both hands, as if to meditate with it. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow slightly in concentration. He took a deep, cleansing breath, then held perfectly still, remembering. Perhaps half a minute later, he opened his eyes and wordlessly handed the stone back to Dernan.

"Hmmm… Done that quickly? Well, let's see what we have," the Sensate said blandly, and touched the recorder stone with his ungloved hand…

--The harness holds. My body arches as my torso stops abruptly, but my arms, legs, head, and equipment wish to continue the fall… my body arches back in a spread-eagle, an inverted dive from a great height. There is a popping noise in my ears, and along my left arm, a wrenching sensation that goes too far -

I hear the echoes of a noise, as someone distantly calling… I wonder at it, and when I turn my head it echoes of the walls of the shaft and I know that I am screaming. That part of me which thinks cannot stop the screaming, and with my head turned, the noise is much louder.

I look down at my left arm, and I know why it is burning. My hammer, still attached by its strap, has broken my wrist. Its weight in the fall has also dislocated my shoulder, and separated the bones in my elbow. The scream continues, rawer now.

That part of me which thinks orders my right arm to grasp the rope that extends from my chest up into the darkness. I cannot do so until the scream is spent, my bowels voided, my throat too bloodied to sound the noise. The effort of my right arm jostles my left, and flaming needles pierce my flesh again… I wheeze my pain until I can consider my surroundings again.

I am suspended away from a smooth rock face which I had been angling around. I am alone, and without help. Swinging to my other anchors could be difficult, with nothing to push against… and my arm, with the hammer's weight still upon it, would swing. No. I must move my arm.

I know what I must do, yet my body responds but slowly, and with great effort. My joints are filled with crushed glass. It takes all of my will to bring my left wrist to my torso; my body is taxed by the involuntary wheeze of wet, choked air that is my involuntary scream of pain, still trying to escape from my throat. I finally grit my teeth against it and see the arm respond, something foreign to my body. At last my right hand grasps the hammer and secures it, with my broken wrist, to the harness.

I begin to swing. It takes a long time to work up enough momentum, and from time to time my arm is jostled, and I lose all the air in my lungs. At last, I am able to reach my anchored rope, and I grab it with my good hand. Then I realize there is very little I can do on a rock face with one arm. I pant for breath for what seems like a long time.

I am uncertain for how long I have dangled here. I realize that there are only two options left to me now. I can hang here, helpless, and die. Or I can try to move beyond the pain and live.

I hear myself making a strangled noise as I cry out. Squeezing away the stinging tears from my eyes, I start to climb.

Dernan released the stone and blinked in surprise, then cleared his head with a slight shake. "Well, that was… surprisingly complete."

Ovi shrugged. "My peopre are know for our attention, and powers of focus." He tried to say it off-handedly, but a small note of pride crept into his voice. "Crimb back hurt arm for very rong time. Stirr ache, sometimes, when near cisterns, or very wet places. Was this enough?"

"Oh, yes," agreed Dernan hastily, realizing that he was absently rubbing his own left shoulder. "And without Sensate assistance; very unusual, if I may say so. You obviously don't need any coaching on this. I warn you, though; you've set yourself a pretty high standard, which you'll have to maintain throughout the rest of this interview. Shall we focus on another?" Ovi nodded. "We'll try Smell…"

This passageway opens up into the ventilation chimney, about eight dwarf from the ceiling, directly over Smelter Number Seven. The glow of the furnace below reaches up the walls of the shaft, giving a reddish wash to the basalt. This place is warm, but it is secret; no one below can see the opening from the floor. My father discovered this fissure, formed by pressure and heat, back in his prime, and mapped the network of these cracks and crevices himself. Only I know of them now, and how to get here. I have come here to be alone, and to think.

I have killed three men in the past three days, in the ritual way of settling dispute among the Gray. All three of them had challenged my honor, my pride, the validity of my work. Tetsaku and Gorbur, each adequate scouts and warriors, had never liked me; but Oishi had respected me, and I him. His contest had scored me -- I rub my fingers absently over the sewn gash from his knife along my cheekbone -- and it saddened me to land my blow on him. But his words still haunt me. "This cannot be," he said. "Hell is an open place; it does not have streets. These are fancies, Wayfinder; a city cannot be inside a wheel. This is false, or you are mistaken. Or it is as Tetsaku said: you have moved beyond us, into the Dark."

Even my hearth-mate could not believe me. None but I have seen the streets of Sigil; only I know it to be true. Of all the Gray, only I know what Heaven looks like. Only I have been to Hell. Her doubt wounds me deeply -- far more than the gashes she has sewn shut, far more than the sting of mockery, or my loss of honor among the people of my forge.

I am disbelieved. They cannot take me seriously, and I am outcast. Deemed mad. For generations my line has marked the Ways for the Gray, and every mark we made was fact. I brought them the truth, from the places Beyond, and they argued with and pitied me. I no longer belong here, in this place.

I stand up and move to the fissure, and look down into the smelting vat. The smoke is a clean one, thin, and the heat that rushes past me is a hot wind; magical fire source, very hot. The smoke, then, is slag cooking off; powdered rock, baser metals. I inhale slowly over the pit, shallowly, trying to scent the ore as my father taught me, careful not to burn my nostrils. There is a crisp, metallic smell, like fresh-hammered steel, with a singular tang of licorice, burning pine-pitch and silver. The scent makes me think of fear, and joy, and need.

They are smelting mithril below me.

The metal's song, dormant in its ore, is growing louder -- like a chorus slowly joining a low, melodic chant that hangs just beyond your hearing -- in the rush of air in the chimney. The smell of the metal, and the smoke of the slag, hangs in the back of my throat like the drying burn of a strong liquor. I remember my father, and the knife he carried of that metal. He said that one who knows himself, and is upright and True, can join with mithril in more than body, in action. Mithril merges with a warrior's soul.

It would not be bad, to lose myself in mithril. My soul would live on in a hundred implements, aiding my people ...

Dernan's hand shook slightly as he replaced the recorder stone in its velvet groove. "Smelting mithril... I doubt that anyone has given us that. Very Duergar in sensibility. I'm sure the libraries will be well pleased with that one." The satyr reached for the next crystal, then thought better of it. "Let's take a quick breather, clear your mind for a moment or two. You've been recounting some very intense emotion, and I'd like to keep the clarity of your experiences sharp." Dernan produced a waterskin from nearby and offered it to the dwarf. "Cleanse your palate, so to speak."

"I am fine," Ovi replied levelly. "This is what I am." He did, however, accept the waterskin.

"If you don't mind my asking..." Dernan hesitated for a moment, and Ovi grunted. "A lot of us have been in that situation before, felt that mood. Obviously, you didn't step out into the chimney. What happened next?"

Ovi was silent for a moment, considering his choice of words as he worked the stopper off the waterskin. "I rearized that in furfirring my oath to my peopre, I had moved beyond them. I had reamed things they were not ready yet to know. And when they were ready, my Ways would be an aid. Untir that time, they would carr me mad." He squirted an ample amount of water into his mouth, rinsed for a moment, and swallowed. "So pike them."

Dernan nodded mutely, then clasped his hands together. "Ready for the next one? Let's try Taste." Ovi nodded, thought for a moment or two, then accepted the offered recorder crystal and gripped it tightly.

Eioki kneels before me and sets down the tray. <It is just as well that I must sit,> I think. <My knees would fail me.> Her eyes are downcast, because they must be. Her movements are so graceful... So simple, so precise. They glide over the tea set in a weightless dance, placing the cup, measuring the tea, ladling the water. It is beautiful.

I look at her dress. It is the color of ivory, with the hem and design embroidered in thread-of-gold. Her grandmother made the dress. The work is so fine you can see the ripple of the wyvern's muscles, count its feathers. Its cut is flattering, and compliments the slate of her coloring. She knows it, too. The dress is beautiful.

She feels my eyes upon her, and a small smile plays across her lips. She is nearly done now; her hands cup the drinking vessel and turn it slowly, that I may see a ripple in the glazing that has made a pleasing design. Her mother made the tea set. She raises the tea, and as she offers it, her gaze meets mine. Her eyes are warm, like polished jet in firelight. I pray that my hands do not shake, and accept the cup. There is the barest contact of our hands -- an almost electric touch. Her hands are warm; as is the cup itself.

She has chosen a blackroot and greenleaf blend, one of my favorites, though it is not brewed strong. Its faint aroma is heady, and the crisp sharpness of the greenleaf is mellowed in counterpoint to the full, earthy smoothness of the blackroot. I swallow, and feel the warmth travel down my throat, taking with it any reservations I might have had. The taste of the greenleaf leaves my palate clean, and I can feel the tea down in my stomach, warming my core. (I did not eat today.) As I lower the cup, she is still watching me, and her eyes are shining. She is beautiful.

I am a changed man; at one with her now.

And it is beautiful.

Dernan set the stone down and cocked his head slightly to one side. "Hmph."

"What?"

"An interesting choice, is all. Dark is that you brew your own poisons, and taste them all yourself; yet you choose an ordinary blackroot and greenleaf tea for our libraries. Why is that? And why record the whole ceremony? Why not just the tea?"

Ovi shifted in his seat. "You indicate to me that you wish... Unique experiences for Sensate ribrary. This, I feer, is singurar experience."

"Oh? And what makes this singular?"

"It was my wedding day," he replied. His face was stony and somber.

Dernan looked at him blankly for a moment before comprehension settled in. "Oh. Well. Even given the thoroughness of the recording noting the circumstance, I must ask again why you chose... Well, such an ordinary experience in the realm of Taste. Arguably, a body could step into any tea house in Sigil, and enjoy a cup of the same."

"Arguabry, body can arso step up to food counter and order minced satyr. Have you done so?" Ovi asked in reply. Dernan looked taken aback, but only for a moment; then he shrugged slightly, in concession of the point.

"Hmm... Well, I suppose that in its simplicity, it might have been overlooked in the library's records, and with so much context framing it, I could argue the 'cultural experience' angle as valid. I'll allow it." Dernan nestled the recorder stone back into its groove in the case, and withdrew the next one. "But I must request that you stick a little more closely to the program." Ovi grunted in response. "We have two to go... The next two are much harder to be unique in, so choose carefully. Do you have a preference as to which comes next? Hearing or Sight?" The dwarf shook his head. "Then Hearing it is. Whenever you're ready."

Ovi considered his choice for a while, then nodded when he had made his decision and accepted the stone. Dernan held his breath so as not to distract Ovi during the recording, and did the same again when his ungloved hand touched the stone...

My charges, though strange to us, act well in concert, and make very little noise dropping from the vent to the slag pile. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle in danger as I assess the room, and I behold the source of the clicking noises amid the roar of the fires... The bones of our ancestors are not at rest as they should be, but moving, mindlessly working the bellows of the forges here... <This is desecration,> I think.

I grip my weapons firmly, and look over at the others. Chakan-san has claimed no allegiance to our houses, or even our society, but yet he grimaces -- his blood responding to the sight of these desecrated Gray. The stupid humans, Lilah-sama and Rogan-san, are ambivalent, but wary; the monster they travel with waits in a warrior's stance beyond the slag pile. Valas-san, normally calm, logical and unruffled, seems agitated, his fingers twitching in anticipation of a spell as he moves toward the nearest furnace. Karlina-sama looks nervous and is perspiring heavily.

A noise startles me -- the furnace fires are rising! No, something is hissing, climbing out of the forges -- Maker's Fires! Abomination! Glowing orange with heat, it looks as if it had Elven features once; it is gaunt, its face skull-like, atop a starved body taut with sinew. One eye has been removed and a large lens rammed into the socket. It hisses, a wet log on a fire, and rises further -- Maker's Fires! -- The flaming embers fall away and its lower half is a mass of spindly legs. And it is stepping out of the furnace to attack my charges, who are not hidden from its eye!

Valas-san's face, normally a smooth mask of curious, intellectual study, crumbles into a look of dread, revulsion -- and recognition. The fiery abomination sees him, and hisses in triumph and satisfaction, advancing...

Valas-san clenches his jaw, and suddenly the panic is gone. His eyes are flashing -- or are they reflected fires? -- He grips the hilt of the sword by his side, draws a blade made of a ghosting shadow, and screams at the monster before him. It is a sound that is as foreign to his ears as mine -- a shriek of turmoil given vent, of rage, and defiance, and the escape of pressurized steam. A war cry.

He charges the creature, and tackles it, knocking it back into the furnace--

Dernan blinked, clearing his vision. "I must admit, you don't see too many of those. But I must have distracted you; I thought we were doing Sound."

"We were."

The satyr pondered for a moment, absently pulling on one of his oversized earlobes. "The battle cry?" Ovi nodded. "Hmm... I don't know about this one. Even given that these are the Fivers we're dealing with -- I recognized a couple of them -- I don't think that this is-"

"You do not know Varas-san," replied the dwarf with a chuckle. "If you did, you would know what is so... singurar here."

Dernan thought about that for a minute, and touched the recorder stone again, replaying the experience -- reliving it -- for a second time. When his eyes refocused, the satyr smirked. "Very subtly chosen, cutter. Shows you developed a quick eye for the hidden workings of the bloods you 'walked with. That adds depth to any experience." Just as suddenly, Dernan's approval vanished. "But there's no novelty to be found here. So a body who's usually very rational goes barmy and dives into a fireplace. Happens once a month or so, usually to some Mercykiller or Guvner unlucky enough to get locked inside a Xaositect bar. Any significance in this experience hinges on the fact that you need to know this 'slinger personally to appreciate the sound he makes..." He shook his head in disappointment. "Here's the straight chant. Though you've got an impressive memory which we'd love to have among us, you're real close to being sent back out for more experiences before you try again." Dernan sat back in his chair while Ovi stared at him, stunned.

The satyr shrugged. "Nothing personal, cutter. I'm just letting you know where you stand. I said you'd set yourself a pretty high standard. Now you've got to live up to it."

Ovi blinked for a moment, then slowly nodded his head as if admitting something that shamed him. "Hai."

"You have one more recording to do: that of Sight. You've got a pretty good eye for detail, but I'll warn you, this is the hardest -- especially for you, new to Sigil as you are, and from a Prime world to boot. The odds are we've seen it already; landscapes and sunsets and battles and festivals, all of that. Think long and hard about your choice. Visualize the experience. Put yourself there again. And show me something I've never seen before."

Ovi considered his choice for the better part of a candlemark, stroking his trim beard down into a fine oiled point and staring into the middle distance. Dernan waited patiently, a look of bemusement on his face. until the Duergar nodded and held his hand out for the recorder stone. He assumed his meditative position, but this time the process took half again as long as his other recordings. At last, he relinquished the stone to Dernan, the look in his eyes gravely serious, but his posture proud. Dernan arched an eyebrow at this behavior, but finally shrugged, and touched the recorder stone...

Blackness.

I am beginning to panic.

My hands, still numb from the cold water I landed in, still scrape and tear dumbly at the stone underneath me, searching for purchase, for the dryness of the air, the grit of dust. Water still runs between my fingers as I do so. My lantern went out the moment I fell into the water of the lake; fortunately I found the shallows quickly. I very nearly drowned before I could cut my pack loose. I found a "shore", and pulled myself out as far as possible, but the water trickles down under my fingers still, at the same temperature as the air around me.

I tell myself to keep calm. I make it a mantra. My body has begun to shiver -- I cannot see my own hands for lack of body heat. No one knows that I am here; the blackness is palpable -- a clammy hand that grips me tightly, making me smother, making my breathing shallow.

I sing for a while. The echoes surround me, but the blackness dampens the sound. I sing until I am thirsty, then press my lips to the rock. It is cold, and tastes of limestone. I sing again.

I do this a few times until my voice gives out.

I move my bowels, and for a few glorious moments, the warmth of my excrement gives me a beacon to focus my infravision on, orders the universe with an up and a down, a relative position with which to orient myself. The smell in the still air lingers for a while after the heat is gone and all is darkness again.

Hunger comes and goes.

I grip a fist-sized rock and bang it against the wall. (The floor?) I listen to the echoes, the splashes, and realize that I cannot judge the size of this cavern. Blind, gripped in the darkness, I am afraid to explore.

After a while, I cannot remember which way is up. I drop the rock, and it clatters and splashes away, but I cannot tell in which direction.

I listen to the silence of this place until I hear approaching footfalls. My rescuer breaks into a run, and I try to call to him. He gets no closer, and I despair when I realize it is my heartbeat.

I cannot feel my legs. I beat on them to return feeling, and find I cannot feel my hands. But my shivering has stopped.

I count my heartbeats. I lose track somewhere around two thousand.

The darkness begins to crush me. I cannot breathe.

I am going to die here.

And then the hallucinations begin ...

Dernan gripped the arms of his chair as if to steady himself. Drool glistened on his chin. His eyes focused on Ovi, and he asked, "How long?..."

"Two candlemark," the Gray Dwarf replied. "And half."

"No..." The satyr wiped his mouth dry with his tabard. "I mean you. If I remember right, a human in that situation goes barmy in less than half an hour. How long did this experience last?"

"Search team terr me they find me on the third day of my disappearance."

Dernan looked down at the recorder stone with a mixture of amazement and apprehension, as if it would leap from the table at him. "Amazing. I knew I had to worry you in order to get the really daring stuff; you were being far too conservative in your choices. But I certainly didn't expect anything so... interesting. An excellent choice, cutter. We've seen the Void, of course, and blindness in several forms, but never - what to call it? Deprivation of the senses. How positively controversial! That last recording might even have been enough to sign you on all by itself. As it is, I'm going to advise that my superiors try these, to show them the type of Sensates we're recruiting... I may even forward them to Erin herself. Welcome to the Society of Sensation, Ovi, Son of Bolim."

"Factotum is too kind," Ovi said mildly, but the pride shone from his eyes.

Authored by: Ken Lipka E-mail me: krlipka@yahoo.com

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