Another day dawns in Sigil. The light comes as it always does - slowly, reluctantly. It struggles to pierce the clouds of smoke and acidic soot which cover the Lower Ward. What light does make it through the veil of smog does little to chase away the darkness of night. At best, it allows those who live by day to more clearly see the debris along the edges of the roads and avoid stepping in the polluted rain puddles. In the Cage, the dawn is merely a sign, telling those who prefer the cover of night that their custody of the city is over and that it's time to let those who live in the light take control. And so, the two halves of Sigil pass by each other as one heads for home while the other leaves.

There is one figure which does neither. It wears a leather cloak to ward off the rains of the Lower Ward and it is standing in the middle of the steps which lead up to the entrance of the Armory. Even though it forms an annoying island in the flow of customers seeking the Doomguard's weapons, it has been left alone where it has stood through the night. The figure has remained unmolested for three reasons: it is small, just over two feet in height; it wears the colors of the Dustmen; and it is a mephit. The mephit stands on the stairs, clawed hands clasped in front of it, head bowed as if in prayer. It remains in this pose, unmoving, until as much light as this dawn will give has reached the city streets. Then, it raises its eyes to the engraved skull over the front doors, and slowly stretches its wings, shaking them and leaving a light coating of dust on the steps. Ignoring the scornful glances from the beings nearby, it begins to speak softly to itself - but words are for those within the Armory.

"So, I have done what you would not. I have honored the dead by spending one day in vigil over his body - or, at least, what is left of it. For the Doomguard, when a member dies, he has joined with Entropy and that is that, as they say. His name is written onto the wall, and then he is forgotten. This is no way to welcome Death. We of the Dustmen know that, however pointless and useless Life is, its end must still be marked, lest the petitioner try to return and thus fall from the path to True Death. And so, I have marked the end of one of yours. He was a friend of my master, and, I think, the best of you. I envy the tragic and pathetic ending of his Life; if only I could have such a tragic ending. But, he is gone now. I do not know what burial rituals his people followed, but that is a pointless ponderance as I have no body to prepare anyway. I know what rituals the Doomguard have - none. So, I perform the only ritual I can, the one of his asking."

The mephit pauses. It looks around, then nods once. It takes a breath, draws itself up straighter, and then speaks once more. This time, the voice - while reedy and grating - is loud and full of conviction.

"Know this, Doomguard of Sigil. I am Gauntwing the Pale, Mephit of the Night, Keeper of Blackest Secrets, Purveyor of the Cloud of Death, Slayer of the Great Horned Evil, Oldest of all Dust Mephits, and now, the Solemn Bearer of the Remains of Chakan the Decay Knight. As a member of the 5th Ring of the Dustmen, I now carry out both my duty and the last wish of Chakan. Your loss is Death's gain."

With that, the mephit launches itself skyward, showering dust on the nearest, surprised patrons of the Armory. Gauntwing flies straight up from the city streets, piercing the thick veil of dirty air to break free into full daylight. Even though it is momentarily blinded, the dust mephit does not stray from its path or slow its pace. It flies straight up towards the other side of the ring of Sigil, taking care not to gaze at the vast *nothing* which lies outside the ring of the City of Doors. The mephit continues its flight until it reaches the very center of Sigil's ring.

Gauntwing stops and hovers. It turns slowly in a circle, gazing at all parts of the city from this vantage point. The mephit thinks to itself, #This is really quite a breathtaking view. I hope more of my friends die so I can see this again.# After the self-indulgent thought, the mephit resumes its solemn air in preparation for the conclusion of its self-created duty.

"Behold, Chakan. Sigil, the Cage, the City of Doors, your adopted home. In your Will, you stated that if you should die, you wanted your body cremated and its ashes scattered over your home. Given your tragic and enviable end, there was no need to burn your body. Rather convenient for it to crumble into dust like that. But, my master was kind enough to let me carry out your last wish. And so, I have held your dust deep inside me until the time was right. The time is now. I will scatter your ashes the best way that I can. May the next part of your journey to True Death be less pointless and tragic than this one was. Good-bye, Chakan."

With that, there is a soft *poof* as the dust mephit explodes itself into a vast cloud of dust. After an hour, the mephit reforms and, regretting that it could not join the Doomguard in Death, flies back to the streets of Sigil. The vast could of dust that was the elf born as Toris Stonewillow, the elf who escaped to Sigil at a young age and became Chakan, Decay Knight of the Doomguard, spreads further and further out, eventually falling in a thin, barely noticeable layer of dust across the surface of Sigil.

Killraven looks around the small semi-circle that is the group known as The Fivers. But now, they are only four. The passing of Chakan leaves the group diminished; not just in body, but somehow in spirit as well. #It is as if one of our hands had lost a finger,# the gladiator thinks to himself. They are standing near a ruined building in the Hive. It looks like most any other building, but to Killraven, it is special, unique. It holds The Post. He used to practice here, before he was cured of his afflictions. But, apart from his kip, this is the only place in Sigil he can really call his own.

Valas steps forward and places a cloth-wrapped bundle on the ground. He carefully unwraps it, and then steps back. Lying on the canvas are two mummified body parts: a left arm, and a ring finger. Rogan then steps forward and drops a battered stovepipe hat on the ground next to them; part of the brim has been ripped away and blood still stains the hat band and tarnished Doomguard symbol. Lilah remains where she is, silent, tail slowly twitching.

Killraven looks at the small collection before him. #This is all that remains of my sword-brother.# The mul frowns. Even though this is burial in accordance with Chakan's last wishes, it still feels wrong to just abandon his mortal remains to the scavengers of the Hive. Something should be said, shouldn't it? The gladiator scratches his head and shakes his dreadlocks. He takes his axe -- the exceptional steel axe brought from the realm of Goibunu, and kneels down, placing it among the remains of the elf.

"Goibunu. This is, was, Chakan.

"You probably aren't going to be meeting his soul, but I like to think that he had enough honor in him that maybe he has a chance.

"Anyway. He was a good Doomguard. He caused lots of decay. He stuck to his beliefs as best he knew how."

Killraven pauses and rubs his chin.

"I guess about now you or some other Power's deciding if his soul's going to find peace, or burn.

"So, I just thought you should know.

"He was a Fiver. We fought when we had to, shoulder to shoulder . . . I got no complaints."

Killraven looks at the scattered remains. He withdraws the axe and places it back in his belt. He stands, about to leave, but has one more thought. He kneels back down and speaks softly:

"Chakan. If any Power calls you out... about what you've done... tell 'em to come see me. I'll stand for you in death, same as in life. And... that's a promise."

With that, Killraven rises and leaves. The others take a few moments to gaze at the remains, and then also turn and follow. Soon, the bits of Chakan are left alone in the Hive. But not for very long. A small figure steps out of the shadows of the ruined building and comes over to the remains. Its head bows in prayer for a moment, then it kneels and reverently gathers the hat, the arm, and the finger back into the cloth bundle and carries them away.

Ovi hunched behind one of the ornately carved buttresses lining the quite-deserted hallway. The dust of years lay undisturbed along the sides of the hall, and the tracks of his last passing here were still visible, though that had been months ago. The air was still and silent, and smelled of dry stonewash steeped in pride and history. This place was long since dead, he reasoned. Why, then, he asked himself, was he sweating? Why did his hear beat so, racing wildly in his chest? Ovi forced himself to stand, reshouldered the burden he carried, and moved into the center of the hallway. He took a deep breath, hearing it echo in this empty place of his ancestors' making, and knew. His spirit rose within him, rejoicing at being home.

He took a moment to savor the sensation before calming himself. The citadel had not yet reopened these lower passages - that these Ways had not been reclaimed made his task here a little less difficult. But, he reminded himself, everything up to this point - tracking the Fivers, locating his charge within the ruins of the Hive, bringing it here from Sigil - that had been the easy part. No, to succeed in this task he needed to remain focused; with a touch to his black headband's gold circle, denoting spiritual matters, he took another cleansing breath and started for his destination. He must not fail.

As he traveled through the lower Ways, he found his mind drifting toward the people he had left behind; his friends. His elders. His wife. Eoki had taken his leaving poorly; she had railed against him in protest. His hear twinged anew with the pain of his departure as he thought of her. As much as his heart cried out to see her again, he knew he could only cause her pain if he were to reappear here. No, he could not allow for her to see him. He could not allow any of his brethren to see him here. {I am but a shadow here,} he told himself. {A ghost. Though I move among them, I must be absent from their sight.} Using his race's born talent to make himself unseen would not make him totally undetectable, he knew. Even unseen, the Grey could sense their own kind when they were near. Very well. To spare them pain, to spare Eoki pain, to spare himself, he resolved to be more than unseen. He would be a shadow.

Ovi climbed hand over hand through natural chimneys, moved through fissures in the rock, and crept through Ways long since forgotten to reach his objective. Twice, he came upon other Duergar moving down the passageways, and pressed his invisible form into crevices and niches, remaining hidden until they had passed. Each time, he silenced his mind with the golden circle of his spiritual mission, letting it fill his thoughts, and prayed that the pounding of his heart would not betray him in this place where he was dead to his fellows. Once, a Duergar whom he had known had paused, sensing him, then moved on after a few endless moments, making a sign of warding. At last, Ovi arrived at his forge's necropolis, and noiselessly slipped inside, shutting the heavy doors silently behind him.

Ovi removed the bundle he had carried home from his back and carried it reverently before him as he walked amid the ranks of tombs, dwarven and elven alike - moving not with stealth now, but with ceremony. Softly, under his breath, he recited an invocation of the spirits of the ancestors, over and over until he stood at the foot of an elven marker, unremarkable in its simplicity, but engraved with the characters of the family name he sought. He opened the bundle, chanting louder now, but still quietly, and arranged the mortal remains of his friend upon the slab. A finger; an arm; a scrap of hatband that carried the Doomguard skull. A charcoal sketch, simply but skillfully done, of a razorvine bloom, was unrolled and held in place with small prayer stones. Ovi lit incense for the ancestors, and a candle for a beacon to the spirits. After intoning his prayers, he spoke simply:

"Chakan-san. You believed that all would go to Entropy. In this, you led the way. You claimed the Soul Cage as your home. Much of your flesh remains there as dust. But I have brought was remains back to the place of your ancestors. With this act, I honor your memory."

Ovi then began the second part of the ceremony, and presented his gifts to the spirits. He placed a few cage in a shallow bowl, alongside a stoppered flask of bloodwine and two scrolls - one a prayer to the spirit powers, and the other a haiku Ovi had penned.

"If I see you in the spirit worlds, I shall tell you what I have done. Perhaps then you can find peace among your kind at last. You were of Sigil, my friend and teacher... but you are Grey."

After an hour or two of quiet reflection, Ovi left the candle burning, and made all possible speed back to the portal. He never looked back. The lone candle remained lit for some time, its wan flame illuminating Ovi's eulogy in a flickering glow.

"Chakan, of Sigil.
Warrior, True to his Code.
He was of the Grey."