Planescape: Torment

Ragpicker’s Square

Sebastian — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 00:44:50 +0000

We spent the night at the inn, sharing a common room with a Bariaur, a centaur-like creature, and a crazed man who kept muttering about his fork.
Early next morning I set out for Ragpicker’s Square, where I thought for sure I would find some word of Pharod. A miserable place it was, full of piles of trash, and broken down buildings that looked as though they would soon collapse and add new piles.
As I entered the square, I noticed several figures draped in filthy, tattered brown robes, a long hood concealing most of the face from view. This costume I had learned to associate with collectors. I approached one. I saw his eyes narrow beneath his hood, and he took a step back.
“What do ye want?”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m lookin’ for some damned bodies is what I’m tryin’ ta do, but ye’d think the Dead Powers had packed up their kip an’ left the Planes, the way people are stayin’ healthy an’ all.” There was a sudden gleam in his eye: “We had a pox last month, an’ it was a glorious time, it was… bodies stinkin’ ta the high heavens, an’ plenty of jink ta be had, too.”
“Why are you looking for bodies?” He looked surprised.
“Well, y’haul the blighters ta the Mortuary. There, ya talk ta the Dusties, haggle a little, an’ get a few bits of jink. The Dustmen, they gather the dead… it’s their job. They pay us ta cover more area an’ bring any bodies we find ta ‘em. Then they make sure that the blighter’s body goes ta its proper place or gets cremated. They’re all serious about it, their barmy philosophy, but it just means more jink for me.” He winked.
“I’m looking for a man named Pharod.” I knew what his next question was going to be, and before he could ask I threw him several coppers. He narrowed his eyes suddenly.
“Pharod… what about ‘im?” Despite the jink, he still seemed hesitant.
“You seem suddenly wary… why?”
“Pharod, hmph!” He spat, sneering contemptuously. “Ragpicker’s Square is Sharegrave’s — me boss’ — territory, ye see. Pharod an’ his dogs came in a whiles back an’ tried ta oust us. We fought ‘em off, we did, so’s they’re all in hidin’ somewhere, now. We still catch one a’ his lads now an’ then ‘round the Square. Usually we turn ‘em inta a quick spot a’ jink at the Mortuary, the pikin’ sods.”
“Tell me about Sharegrave.”
“He’s me boss… casts his shadow o’er a whole mess a’ Collectors, he does. I’d stay away from him unless ye gots right good cause ta talk ta the man… I’ve never spoken with him personally, meself.”
“Do you know where Pharod is?”
“I know where the rat-bastard isn’t… he ain’t where most a’ the Collectors call kip, in Ragpicker’s Square, but that he’s close by there somewhere’s the chant.” Perhaps this Sharegrave could help me, assuming he was easier to find than Pharod. As I moved off the collector called out.
“Well, keep yerself safe, cutter. If I find ye on the streets, I’ll be kind ta yer corpse.”
A weasely-looking fellow was skulking about the garbage like a tattered shadow. Seeing me and Morte, he beckoned to me.
“Hsssssst… ey! Th’skull. Where ye get the skull, ey? Me skull, it is! Give it backta me.” Morte turned to the Hiver.
“Pike off.” I was more curious about this fellow.
“Who are you?” He ignored me, still staring at Morte.
“Skull’s mine, mine, ey! Give it ta me, I’ll forgit ye stole it.” He mumbled, his narrowed eyes darting. I was getting rather annoyed with this fellow, and decided to let him find out for himself.
“Go on, take the skull.” As if there was any chance he would be able to.
He chuckled dryly and smiled. As he reached for Morte, there was a snap! and the man’s hand whipped back. The man began screaming. “Aiggghhhh! Aighhh!!! I’ll kill ye! Kill ye!” Morte was holding one of the man’s fingers between his teeth like some macabre cigar. He spoke around the finger.
“Touch me again, and yer hand’s gonna join yer finger, berk.”
“Morte! Give the man back his finger.” Morte spat the finger at the man. It bounced off his chest and fell to the ground. No need to waste any more time here.
“That’s a hard lesson learned. Farewell.” The man, biting his lip from the pain, glared at me. Suddenly, he attacked! He was no match for Morte and myself, and folded almost immediately with a wound from my knife in his belly. I noticed Dak’kon, who had been silently watching, had joined in my defense.
I considered asking Dak’kon what he thought of my actions, but I was… apprehensive that I might find he did not approve. I noted for later consideration that his mere presence seemed to be having an effect on me.
Another man had been watching the fight. He was now whistling a cheerful tune and playing with a well-kept fighting knife. As I approached him, he stopped whistling and gave me a curious look.
“Hm? Wot ye want?” He continued, “Me name’s Ratbone, cutter. I’m a thief-fer-hire in the employ o’ Sharegrave, the boss o’ the Collectors ye see ‘round this square. He pays me mostly ta learn his lads ta be real quiet-like, an’ how ta fight if they runs inta a spot o’ trouble. That’s likely the only questions I’ll answer fer ye, cutter.” He sniffed and shrugged.
“Where’s this Sharegrave fellow?” He nodded towards the large, dilapidated house beside him.
“Careful though, cutter. He don’t like visitors. He’s right suspicious o’ everyone. Sharegrave’s not even his real name… just what me and some o’ the others calls him.”
“I’m looking for a man named Pharod. Do you know where he is?” Ratbone shook his head.
“Nay, I don’t. Hear he’s nearby, though. Some o’ his lads come runnin’ though at times, makin’ fer some hidey-hole that’s who-knows-where. Somewhere up around those elevated platforms, I’ll bet, but it’s none o’ me business.” He shrugged and spat on the ground. “Live an’ let live, says Ratbone.”
I waited a moment, since I thought he might have more to say, but he remained silent. I decided I might as well go in and visit his boss, and see what he had to say.
There were three men in the main room of the house as I entered. Two were obviously low level collectors, in dirty robes. The third was different. Tall and lanky, this pale, grim-looking man exuded authority despite his gangly and somewhat awkward frame. A good portion of his left ear was missing; what little that was left was a ragged mess of scar tissue, as if the ear was bitten off, rather than cut. His narrow, shifting eyes — almost mere slits — looked clever… and dangerous. This must be Sharegrave. I greeted him. He spat out a reply.
“I don’t know you, berk.” He glared at me. “What do you want? Answer quick, before I call in some men to make quick work of you.” I suspected he did not suffer fools easily, and I had had enough of appearing foolish yesterday. I got right to the point.
“I’m looking for a man named Pharod.” The tension in the room suddenly rose.
“Now, what a funny thing to be asking about. What do you want to know about old blood Pharod for?” I knew better than to appear friendly with Pharod.
“He has some things of mine, and I want them back.” The man was silent for a moment, then cracked a smile.
“He steals from us all, doesn’t he, whether we’re living or dead?” He chuckled.
“What do you mean?”
“Our main source of… living… around here is the dead. You follow?”
“You’re a Collector.”
“Aye, that’s right.” He looked at me as if he was considering something. “Now, there’s only so many deaders at any one time. My bloods and I can only gather so many. If somebody else is gathering deaders, that’s that much less jink that goes into our pockets.”
“Pharod is taking bodies, too?”
“Aye. The rub is that that he’s found a mother-lode of them. Now, I haven’t heard of any massacres in Sigil.” He frowned, tapping at his chin. “So I’m quite interested in knowing where all the deaders are coming from.”
“I could find out for you, if you’d like.”
“Oh, aye? And how would you do that?”
“All I need to do is find him. Let me worry about the rest.” I left unstated that, if I found Pharod, I would be the one determining when and how I would fulfill this promise.
“Hmm. Heh. You got it; I’ll even give you one hundred copper commons for your trouble. Go up on the platforms, follow them to the North and West, and you’ll come to a gate that leads to Pharod’s bolt-hole. Getting in and getting the information is your deal. And if anyone asks, you don’t know me, and we never had this talk, hear?”
I left Sharegrave disgruntled. I still had no clear idea of how to get to Pharod. I might as well inspect the area of the Square that had been described to me, but I still kept an eye out for anyone else who might be questioned.
I ignored the collectors about the square. It was doubtful they knew anything more than their boss. There was, however, a wooden hut ahead. It didn’t look as far gone as most of the other wooden structures about, so I determined to see if anyone was inside.
There was one occupant. The squat old woman looked like she had had all the color bled out of her — everything from her hair, to her shawl, to her robe — all were shades of gray. The only splotches of color on her came from several strange herbs, which were tied to her belt by their stalks. The herbs made a strange swsshhh when she moved, like a broom.
The elderly woman turned and stared at me… and I noticed the gray shades blanketing her body extended to her features as well. Her hair was a wispy gray, and her eyes were like chips of granite. She frowned when she saw me.
“And who might ye be, hmmmn?” Once again caught by the embarrassment of not having a name, I fell back on my all-purpose lie.
“The name’s Adahn. Who are you?” With a sly cackle, she wagged her eyebrows.
“Have ye not heard of Ol’ Mebbeth then, the midwife of the Square? Have ye not now?” She narrowed her eyes, and her voice dropped. “Well, now ye have, fer I be Mebbeth.”
“You’re a midwife? What do you do?”
“I set bones right, drive the cough outta the sick, yank out squealing, stubborn babes, mend cloaks or a rag or two, make cures and herbs and other such.” She squinted at me, studying my scars. “Be needin’ a cure or three, do ye then?”
“Aye, ye be needin’ some cures ta lookatcha. D’ye want ta buy some, do ye…?” She glanced at the scars covering my body again, then shrugged. “Too late ta be askin’ for them, I think.”
“Do you know someone named Pharod?”
“Pharod?! That — that — pah!” I watched as Mebbeth spat once… twice… three times, then followed it by making a semi-circle over her heart. “That gull tird! Whatcha be wantin’ with the likes of him?”
“I need to find him. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s not in Ragpicker’s Square, that much I ken tell ye… ye need ta find a way under the Square ta get ta that tird spider’s kip.” She spat again. “Even talkin’ ‘bout him leaves a foul taste, it does.”
“He’s under the Square?”
She jabbed her finger at the floor. “Aye, he’s buried beneath these piles of trash, him and his boys, and a tough time ye’d have diggin’ him out of his nest.” She shook her head. “Let be, let be, child.”
“I need to find him. How do I get down there?” Mebbeth frowned, then sighed.
“Hear tell, Pharod’s got a gate that leads to his nest somewhere here in the Square… it’s jist a matter of findin’ it. Ye might want to ask some of the others, some who travel a bit more than Ol’ Mebbeth.”
I had a curious impression looking at Mebbeth. I thought I could see a faint glow about her body. I had a feeling I should know what that meant. More, I had a feeling it was something I could once do — and needed to do again. I tried to empty my mind, to somehow reach what I couldn’t consciously remember. To my surprise, it worked. Out of the darkness popped a question.
“Are you a witch, Mebbeth?” Mebbeth scrutinized me.
“I say naught as to what I am and isn’t, but whatcha be wantin’ ta know so fool bad for that ye hound an’ ol’ woman, barkin’ and sniffin’ fer a juicy bit of gossip?” Of course, that was where I was headed — magic.
“I want to learn about magic. Could you teach me?” Mebbeth laughed.
“Pah! I’m no teacher, no school-mistress all set up ta teach like them in the big Festhall! There’s others somewhere I’m sure that’d spill the dark of it… ye’d be wastin’ yer time with ol’ Mebbeth, so ye would.”
“I don’t agree. I think you’d have a lot to teach.” Mebbeth looked at me intently.
“Oh, aye? Why do ye want to learn such things?”
“Because I may need it to solve the mystery of who I am.” After a moment, Mebbeth nodded.
“The Art may help, it may not, and ye must not rely on it ta solve all o’ yer problems.” She sighed. “Child, it’s most like only going to add another chip to yer pile o’ questions…”
“I understand. Will you teach me?”
“Pah!” Mebbeth shook her head. “One should make songs rather than make magick. Songs have more beauty. Magick’s been made dull, common-place, soiled by the mob of people that have tromped through it… hmpppph.” She squinted at me. “I’ll teach ye… but first ye’ll need to do some things for me, ye hear?”
Mebbeth set me a series of tasks before she would tell me any more. I eagerly rushed to fulfill them, the urge to find Pharod temporarily forgotten. I vaguely recognized the tasks set me as tedious jobs often given to test the dedication of someone just apprenticing in the art.
I spent the rest of the day running about the Hive, mostly going between Mebbeth’s and the market. From my errands she ended up with a crude frame made from a barbed plant, over-starched rags and a container of fish ink. She spoke to me when all was done.
“Ye’ve done well, child. All I’ve asked. Now, I ask ye again: after all ye’ve seen, do ye still want to learn the art?”
“Yes. After all, the guiding goal of your errands was to test my persistence, was it not?” Mebbeth smiled, then nodded.
“Yes… mayhap, child, mayhap.”
“And that’s not all; you knew who I had to see to accomplish each errand, didn’t you?” Mebbeth nodded again, slower this time.
“Mayhap, child, mayhap… iffen so, what did yer senses tell ye about them?” I reflected on what I had learned from those I had talked to while running my errands.
“Mourns-for-Trees showed me that my beliefs affect the world around me, Giscorl taught me that ritual is a wasted effort if the purpose of the ritual is ignored, Meir’am taught me that no matter how much I think I know, there is still much I can learn from another’s eyes.”
Mebbeth was silent for a moment, then she walked slowly over to me and touched me on the cheek. “Oh, child…” She sighed. “Ye will be a master sorcerer one day, ye will. Ye have the knowin’ of it, yet… ye’ve come to Ol’ Mebbeth for help, ye have. What could a midwife teach such a one?”
“Much, Mebbeth. I want to learn all you have to teach.”
“So ye’ll walk the path then…” Mebbeth paused. “Well, first things firstly: jest havin’ the knack for the Art isn’t enough. Ye need some means of givin’ it focus: usually ‘spells.’ The spells are usually in a book. So the Art demands ye have a spell book or its like a-fore ye ken cast spells. Ken ye read?”
“Yes.” I had no trouble reading inscriptions when I was in the Mortuary.
“Then let’s test it, ken ye read this?” Mebbeth drew forth a small tattered card… it looked like a recipe.
I examined it. The writing on the recipe swam before my eyes, each symbol twisting out of focus whenever I tried to read it. Almost instinctively, I relaxed my eyes, allowing them to take in the page all at once… and the symbols suddenly bled together: the recipe listed measurements, ingredients… it appeared to be some minor divination.
“This is a minor divination, isn’t it? It looks like it’s a spell that allows the user to see the ‘nature’ of an item… to see whether it’s enchanted or not.” Mebbeth’s eyes widened.
“Who are ye to test Ol’ Mebbeth so?! Are ye some fiend?”
“No… well, not to my knowledge. What’s wrong?”
“Well… not expectin’ it, was I…” She nodded at the recipe, then plucked it out of my hand. “What ye see, it’s written in the language of the Art. If ye’re not a mageling yet, it should be all-a-swirl-jumble of mish-mash.” She snapped her finger. “Yet, clear as crystal, ye pluck the sense of it right up. Mayhap ye tell Ol’ Mebbeth why that is?”
“I think I may have known once, but forgot… seeing the symbols just jarred my memory.”
“Or else a natural gift, ye may have… no matter, no matter, ye’ve just shaved seasons off of yer learning, ye have.” Mebbeth harumphed. “An I’d been lookin’ fer someone to handle the chores around here, I had…”
“If you need help with anything around here, you can still ask… it’s the least I can do in exchange for you teaching me.” I cursed my run away mouth. I still wasn’t sure why I reacted so favorably to Mebbeth, but I couldn’t afford to waste too much time here. Fortunately, her answer allayed my concern.
“No, no, don’t worry yerself about that…” She frowned. “Well, ye ken read spells well enough, but spells are no good to ye without a book to put them in…”
“Do you have one?”
Mebbeth glanced around the hut, and then she caught sight of the black-barbed picture frame I made. She picked it up carefully and studied it. “This’ll do.”
“That thing? It’s just a frame.”
“Ah, but so are ye, child…” Still holding the frame, she picked up one of the starched rags I got from Giscorl. With a yank, she pulled off the greenish starched-surface film; it fluttered in the air like a wispy bit of cloth. “Whatever Giscorl uses in the wash, it works better than curing, stretchin’ and stonin’ does on a normal rag. Can’t afford parchment, I can’t…”
She took the starchy film and pulled it over the black-barbed frame, latching the rag’s edges onto the hooks around the frame until it looked like a small greenish-black painter’s canvas. “It’s missin’ something…”
“It needs something written on it…” She took the tankard of ink I had given her and set it down next to her. She dipped one of her fingernails into the tankard, then drew it out, mumbling to herself. She began to scratch symbols onto the frame, one by one, still mumbling to herself. Some time passed, before Mebbeth looked up at me.
“All’s done.” She stood, drying her ink-stained fingernail on her robe. She tilted her head, regarding the strange, framed page in front of her. “A page fer yer spell book, it is.” She indicated I should pick it up.
I realized I was familiar with the purpose of a spell book. I could copy spells into it in from scrolls I might come across, and then memorize and cast those spells drawing on my own control of magical forces. I could feel my knowledge of these magical forces strengthening, and knew I would be able to learn in days what would take others years of study to master. I could see that Mebbeth knew I didn’t need her help any longer.
“All right child — don’t tarry here any longer. One such as ye has other ways to spend one’s time rather than hang around Ol’ Mebbeth.”
“You’re not so old.”
“Pah, ye flatterer! Yer tongue is so lined with silver it’d shame a Baatezu! Get ye hince!”
“Thanks for everything, Mebbeth.”
“Pah! Ye ken thank me by not playin’ the addle-cove with what’ve learned. The Art’s damned many a fool who sought to bend it in ways the Art weren’t meant to bend. Now get along with ye!”
The was still enough time in the day to investigate the entrance to Pharod’s Lair. I found a wooden walkway leading in the general direction I had been told of, and followed it, careful to avoid the planks that looked too rotted.
The causeway ended in an archway, which led only inches into a small building before becoming blocked by a solid wall of refuse. The rubbish was packed so tightly it may as well have been stones and mortar. Morte was staring at something.
“Hold up, chief… look at this.” Peering down, I noticed a number of dirty footprints that led into the archway… and did not turn around. “There must be a portal through here or something.”
“A portal? How do we open it?”
“Haven’t the slightest, chief. It’s got to be a common key, though — look at all the traffic that’s gone through! Maybe one of the low-lives around here will know…”
“I’ll ask around, then. Let’s go.” I remembered earlier when I thought Ratbone might have something more to say. I returned to him, to question him further.
“Do you know how to get through that trash-packed archway northwest of here?”
“Eh? Nay, I don’t. Say… ye could ask Creeden, the Rat-Catcher. Sometimes he goes pokin’ about up there an’ disappears for an odd while. Creeden’s usually in the Hive, right outside the Office o’ Vermin and’ Disease Control.”
I thanked him, and hurried back into the hive near the market where I had met Creeden before. He was still there, selling his ratsies. I asked him about the archway in Ragpicker’s Square. He thought for a moment.
“Aye, I know wot ye’re speakin’ of. There was a lass, name o’ Nalls, who I saw walk through there, once, while I was lookin’ fer rats. Don’t know how she did it, though. Ye can prob’ly find her northeast a’ here, rootin’ around a pile o’ lumber for nails an’ the like.”
My questioning of Hive inhabitants was paying off, since I knew just where she was as well. I thanked Creeden and went off in search of her. She, too, was where I had seen her last, pulling nails from old timbers. I asked about the archway. Nalls nodded slowly.
“It’s a portal, ye know. Stumbled on it quite by chance, I did… alls ye need ta do is have a handful o’ junk on ye when ye walks up ta it, an’ ye’ll be able ta pass right through. There’s a small open space past the portal, an’ a gate leadin’ underground, but I figured no sense in askin’ fer trouble so’s I just turned around an’ went right back. Here…” She handed me a handful of junk. “Use this, if ye likes. I was gonna toss it away, anyhow.”
I thanked her, and since it was rather late headed for the same inn to spend another night.

Dak’kon, Part I

Sebastian — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 00:43:27 +0000

This exhausted the short list I had gotten from the bartender of those who might help, but I approached another table, something drawing me. The man before me was old. His dry, yellow skin had the scars of one who had traveled everywhere and never rested long in any one place. His pinched face was inhumanly angular, and his ears swept out from his skull, tapering to points. He wore a loose-fitting orange tunic, and a strange, shimmering blade was strapped across his back. The blade looked to be a two-pronged glaive, made of some metal whose surface swirled like a film of oil on a pond.
The man turned to me, his eyes like polished coal. He stared through me, and for a moment, I wondered if he might be blind. The weapon suddenly turned a dead, flat black, mirroring the man’s eyes.
“Are you all right?” I asked. He said nothing for a moment, merely searched my face with his eyes, then he replied.
“Hail… traveler.” His voice was quiet and somber, like a wind whispering through the branches of a great tree. The man met my gaze, his eyes burrowing into mine. His weapon drained of its black color, resuming its shimmering I noticed before I spoke to him. “Your eyes have the weight of one who has traveled far to be in this place.” The man’s gaze did not waver from mine.
“I am known as Dak’kon.” The emphasis he placed on the word known struck me as odd… yet familiar at the same time. “You… are not known to me.”
“I do not know myself. “ I replied honestly.
“That is for the best. In knowing yourself, there would be little in the Planes left worth knowing.” He fell silent for a moment, still studying me with his coal-black eyes. “I would know why you have come to this city.”
“I’m looking for answers… I have many questions.”
“Speak your questions. I will hear you.”
“Your features are… unfamiliar to me. What are you?”
“A githzerai.” When he said no more, I repeated his statement, as a question.
“A githzerai?”
“A githzerai is one of the People.” Again I had to prompt him.
“One of the People?”
“A githzerai.” Wondering if he wasn’t as humorless as he appeared, I asked my question again.
“Yes, but what is a githzerai, exactly? “ Dak’kon was silent for a moment, then spoke.
“Our history does not need to be made known to you. We would bleed to death on time’s blade before I recited a fraction of the histories of our People.”
“I don’t need to know your histories… but I would know of your people as they are now.”
“Know this and accept it as an answer: We are the People who make our home upon the shifting plane of Limbo.” With a deft motion, Dak’kon slipped the blade from his back and held it before him.
“There, we mold the matter of Limbo with our minds. We forge cities with our thoughts.” As I watched, a series of rippling waves of metal began to roll forth from the center of the blade. The pitch and crest of the waves matched the inflections in Dak’kon’s voice. “In its chaos we dwell, with only our knowing to preserve us. We are the githzerai.”
“What is that blade you have… it moved, shifted in response to your voice.”
“It is a karach blade. It is an object that lets others know the rank of the wielder.”
“What rank does the blade signify?”
“The blade is a symbol carried by the zerth. A zerth is one who knows the words of Zerthimon. In knowing the words of Zerthimon, they know themselves.”
“Zerthimon?” I prompted again.
“Zerthimon founded our race. He knew the githzerai before they knew themselves. He defined the People. He gave them one mind.”
“You seem to place a special emphasis on ‘knowing.’ What do you mean?”
“All things, whether structure or flesh — their existence is defined by their knowing of themselves.”
“And if a man does not know himself?”
“When a mind does not know itself, it is flawed. When a mind is flawed, the man is flawed. When a man is flawed, that which he touches is flawed.” Dak’kon paused. “It is said that what a flawed man sees, his hands make broken.”
“Do you know yourself?”
Dak’kon fell silent. His coal black eyes took on the same distance that I noticed when I first spoke. I sensed this question was important, so I pressed him.
“I ask again: Do you know yourself?” When Dak’kon spoke again, his voice had changed; his words echoed, like a great stone dropped into a chasm. It looked like he was forcing the words from his chest.
“It is not my will that you know this.” I was now sure his answer, or refusal to answer, would tell me much.
“Perhaps I was being too kind phrasing it as a question: Tell me.” The answering words came out of Dak’kon slowly, as if they were being carried one by one.
“It… has come to pass that I do not know myself.” Dak’kon’s voice dropped to a whisper, like sand. “I do not know why. I know it has happened, but I know not the how, nor the when… nor how to know myself once more.” I felt a sadness at these words, which I was careful to keep on the inside, away from Dak’kon, for it was obvious he would not appreciate it. I turned to a more neutral subject.
“Can you tell me about this city?”
“It is known by the name ‘Sigil.’ Among the People, it is known as the city that does not know itself.”
“It doesn’t know itself? What do you mean?”
“The city exists, but it does not know itself. In not knowing itself, its existence is flawed.”
“The city exists in opposition to itself. It has set itself apart from the planes, yet it seeks to be everywhere at once. Its walls are doors, yet it keeps these doors locked. Such an existence tells of a thing that does not know itself. In not knowing itself, it is flawed.” I considered his statement, and formulated a counter-argument, displaying a suppleness of mind which I felt sure I could not have managed a short time before.
“What if the city is not flawed? A thing does not need to be ordered and have a purpose to know itself. What if these contradictions are strengths that you cannot see?”
“To your question, a question: What if the city is flawed, and you see its contradictions all around you?”
“To your question, a question: You claim this city’s existence is flawed. You have accepted this rather than explore the possibility that something greater may exist. That suggests you are flawed… and that you do not search for knowledge, but only for a convenient answer.” Dak’kon fell silent.
“There is no knowing the answer to the questions we have asked. Yet the city exists. That is all.” I was not ready to let the subject drop.
“Yet I would maintain that we know ourselves by the questions we ask and the ones we do not. If we cease asking questions and accept only what we can perceive…”
“Then we will cease to know ourselves.” Dak’kon’s voice had changed slightly, become heavier. “Such words have been spoken before. I have heard them and know them.”
“Where have you heard them?”
“The words are mine. Once, I knew them and knew their meaning. I had forgotten them until you spoke.” Dak’kon’s gaze traveled through me, and his blade stopped shimmering, bleeding of all color until it was translucent. There was a moment of silence, then Dak’kon looked up at me. “I would travel your path with you.”
I sat, stunned yet again this day. I looked at Dak’kon, and realized I could not refuse him. I felt a connection, somehow, to him.
As I agreed, he said “Your path is mine.” Strangely enough, his voice seemed distant, and it echoed, as if he were speaking from across a great distance.
I decided I had had enough for one day, and headed back to a small inn I had passed earlier. Along the way, when Dak’kon had fallen a little behind, Morte hurried up alongside, and commented to me in a low-voice.
“Ah… I don’t trust the gith. I say we leave him behind.”
I was surprised at his words. What could Morte possibly know about Dak’kon, anyway? I ignored him, and continued on.

Smoldering Corpse

Sebastian — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 00:37:36 +0000

A tout was calling out to passerbys as we meandered down a street.
“Step right up, come see the burning man! Try to put him out, buy him a drink. He’s thirsty. He’s on fire. He’s red hot. Come on in. Come on in, see what I mean!” I paused, glancing at the building behind the tout. Seeing me stop, he yelled to me.
“Come on in cutter! Come on in cutter, you’re goin’ ta love this!” The building was evidently a bar; this seemed like a good place to gather information. I entered. To my surprise, there was in fact a flaming corpse, twisting in mid-air above red hot grills set in the floor.
There was a woman standing nearby, with fading bruises on her face and arms and a look of despairing longing in her sunken eyes. She might have been pretty once, but those days were long ago. She turned slowly to face me. Life poured into her features, and the spark of sardonic light that danced in her eyes now made me wonder if my eyes were deceiving me.
“Welcome to the Smoldering Corpse, scarred man.”
“Who are you?”
“I? I am Drusilla. And you must be clueless. Don’t ask me how I know that. It just shines off you.” Ignoring the interjection, I asked a question.
“What can you tell me about this place?”
“Here? This is the Smoldering Corpse, though the person smoldering ain’t dead yet. He’s just keepin’ himself alive ‘til someone comes along to help him out. Sods who like to see people in pain come here. Fiends like it. Folks who don’t much care for bein’ bothered come here too… the name alone keeps out most of the berks.”
“Who is that burning by the entryway?” That despair I saw on her face before flitted across it again like a black-winged shadow before she mastered herself.
“That’s Ignus, one of the greatest wizards ever to come out of this slummy excuse for a cesspool. They caught him and they opened a channel to the plane of Fire through him, and now he’s just a doorway for it, keepin’ himself alive by force o’ will alone. If someone could douse him for a few moments, it’d give him his life back again — but they don’t make enough water to do that.” I considered the burning corpse a moment. It seemed to me there should be some way… never mind.
“What’s your connection to him?” Her voice in reply practically throbbed with a deep ache.
“I was Ignus’ lover and he, my beloved. He loved the flame more than me and now he has become the flame — and because I love him, I love the flame… but that’s all done with now. Now I wait for him to douse himself. I sell what little I have just so I can be near him.”
I turned away from her sorrow, heading over to the bartender. I saw a leather-skinned man with just a hint of ashen color to his face. His teeth seemed sharper than normal, and his eyes were filled with the boredom that comes with having seen too much. His voice was nasal and clipped.
“You again, eh? Whaddya want this time?”
“ ‘You again?’ What do you mean?” I spoke with resignation, since I had been recognized yet again.
“Yeah, ‘you again’. You got a hearing problem or something now? You was in here ‘bout fifteen years ago, got all bubbed up, smashed up the place, and left a pile o’ coin that wasn’t enough to pay for the damages. So you plucked out your own bleedin’ eyeball and tells me you’ll be back to reclaim it when you got two hundred coins together. With fifteen years of interest, you got about five hundred coins. You got the jink, pal, I got your eye.”
“Five hundred? That’s ridiculous!” He paused for a moment, considering.
“That it is. Tell you what. Give me three hundred, and the eye’s yours.” Something prompted me to agree.
“It’s a deal. Here’s your money.”
“It’s a deal.” He produced a darkened, wax-stoppered, wide-mouth bottle from his pocket. I heard the sound of liquid sloshing around inside it, along with a heavier, squishier noise. Opening it, the stench of some sort of preservative agent nearly made me gag. Floating in the viscid muck was an eyeball. “You’d better figure out what you want to do with that… now you’ve exposed it to the air, you might as well put a pickled egg in the jar for all the good it’ll do you. Make up your mind, cutter… pickled egg or not?”
For a moment I stared at the eyeball, unable to believe I had spent nearly all my remaining money for it. Then I acted, before I could think myself into inaction.
I reached into my socket and popped my eye into the palm of my hand. The bartender helpfully severed the optic nerve, and directed my hand to the jar of goo that sat on the bar. I deposited my eye in the preservative, wrapped my fingers around the old one, and slid it into my empty socket. The pain of this entire operation was incredible. After a moment, though, I could feel the optic nerve reattaching itself to this new eye… and suddenly, I was hit by a flash of memory!
Memory flash: A vast expanse of chaotic, ever-changing wasteland stretching before me, a group of humanoid vultures plummeting toward me, cruel weapons ready to strike, and my own shining blade clutched tight in my fist…
Memory flash: Three toughs surrounded me, in the colors of an enemy I couldn’t quite place. Long daggers glistened in their hands, and the light glinted cruelly from their exposed teeth. I glanced at my scarred hands, and knew that soon they would be covered in blood…
Memory flash: An enormous frog-like creature came bounding over/through/under chaos-stuff, headed for me with a mouth full of teeth. I hurled my javelin through the shifting matter and pinned the creature to a sudden stone plinth…
I realized I had recalled some of my lost fighting skills.
I asked more questions of the barkeep, who was named Barkis. There were numerous customers in the bar, including a couple of fiends, and I asked him who might help me. He gave me a short list of the patrons who might be able to help, and I moved out to talk to them.
I saw a slightly stooped old man with a full grey beard and a lion’s mane of grey hair. He wore a couple of shoulder guards as armor, and he kept a helmet nearby. He smoked a pipe and carried a pouch of tobacco around his waist. He looked pretty strong, but he was a little plump and also appeared to have some sort of breathing trouble.
“Well, now, aren’t you a sight, lad! Never have I seen so many scars blanketing a fella — like a scar cloak ye’re wearing! Where you been — hanging out in a grain thresher?!” He laughed. “Oh, I’m just jesting with ye, lad, no offense meant and I hope no offense taken. I’m Ebb.” He extended his hand.
“Greetings, Ebb.” His handshake was firm.
“Now, I hereby tender my apologies for the unfair jesting, lad. Hope no hard feelings; can I buy you a tankard or two of something to smooth any ruffled feathers?” I hadn’t taken any offense, and nodded agreement.
“That’s the spirit, lad! Bide a moment.” He rose to his feet and headed to the bar. After a moment, he returned to his seat with a pair of tankards. “Here you go, lad. Drink up!” He took a massive swallow from his own tankard, puffed on his pipe, and said, “What can ol’ Ebb do for you on this fine Sigil day?”
“I had some questions about this place.”
“Oh, well I gathered that, jest to look at you. I mean, you don’t look like you’re from around these parts, lad… you look a little too out of sorts to be a seasoned native!” Ebb chuckled, then took another drink. “So what can I help you with, lad? You need to know the lay of the land?” Ebb winked.
“Who are you, and what are you doing?”
“Ebb Creakknees, Third Measure of the Harmonium, now retired and being a tout with one’s voice since I don’t step as lightly as I might these past two or three decades!” He chuckled.
“Third Measure of the Harmonium?” Ebb puffed up slightly in pride and got a semi-stern look on his face.
“Aye, Third Measure of the Harmonium…” He relaxed a little. “Though I haven’t served a tour of duty in many a decade. Pushing a quill wasn’t quite up my alley after all the fights and skirmishes I been in, so I just bide my time keeping tabs on things down here in the Hive and helping out a little where I can. An’ you look like someone who might need a hand… are you in some kind of trouble, lad?”
“What fights and skirmishes have you been in?” I asked, refusing to be deflected.
“More than I can remember, lad!” Ebb rolled his eyes. “Well… almost more than I can remember, leastwhys. I did an all too-long tour in the Blood War, that infernal muck-up War of Lies on Terras, far too many years in the Black Centuries War…” Ebb began to tick off the wars on his finger and counted silently to himself. “…eh, then there was the Three-Planes War, and many others, I even took part in the Harmonium War of Liberation. Oh, towards the end there, I was also in the Sigil City Watch… some could argue that was the most dangerous of them all!” He laughed loudly. The mention of the Blood War felt like a cold dagger slipping into my heart. I asked him to tell me more of the Blood War.
“Aye… the Blood War: The most dangerous family feud this side of the primordial soup. A mean-spirited mob of fiends on one side, a batch of war-monger fiends on the other. It’s the war that creation sparked, and they’ve been digging into each other ever since.”
“The tanar’ri, vicious killers who care for none but themselves, and the baatezu war machine, all for law and order under their infernal rules. The whole mess spills out into other planes from time to time, and it’s made the multiverse a less-pleasant place to live.” I thought he might know something of the man I sought.
“What do you know of a collector named Pharod?”
“Well, now I don’t know everything there is to know about ol’ Pharod, but I know some of the dark surrounding him. If you’re determined to track down that spider and nail him to a wall, then I suppose I could spill some of the chant so you know what you’re tangling with.” He paused to tamp his pipe. “Pharod dug his nest deep into Ragpicker’s Square not too long ago, got a bunch of collectors and gangs together and started what one could almost consider a collecting faction… be that as it may be…”
“Where can I find him?”
“Well, lad, if you’re looking for Pharod, which I would say is pretty barmy of you, you’re a little off the beaten path. You want to be finding Ragpicker’s Square. Chant is that Pharod’s set up his kip somewhere in the Square. Even an ol’ fella like me who’s been around the ring a few times don’t know exactly where. I figure that Pharod wants to keep the dark on his location dark. If you’re all bound and determined to find Pharod, go to Ragpicker’s Square, and try and dig up Pharod’s location from some of the locals. Try and be careful about it, since there’s plenty in the Square that would make a gut-harp outta you as soon as look atcha.” I then asked a question I had been wondering about the city.
“Tell me of Sigil’s layout.”
“Whew. Let me wet my tongue.” He took a pull from his tankard. “The city floats above an infinitely tall spire — the Spire. It lies on its side like a discarded wagon wheel, but there’s no spokes that connect it to the Spire. It’s divided into six wards, each of them with its own function. Right now, you’re in the Hive. I think the purpose of the Hive is to be squalor to the rest of the city’s grandeur!” He laughed. “Factions — philosophical clubs, or gangs if you prefer — divide up the running of the city between ‘em.”
“Were you in a faction?” Ebb raised his hand as if to stop me and laughed slightly.
“Oh, now, hold on, lad — I’m no has-been faction member… they say, and they’re right, that once ye’re one of the Harmonium, ye’re a Harmonium for life. We’re the bloods that try and make sure Sigil stays outta trouble. No rocking the spire, no folks getting too over-enthusiastic about hurting each other, keeping the city down to a low roar. We try and keep the peace, lad, and most times, we do a decent job.” Another question bubbled to the surface of my mind.
“Tell me of the Lady.”
“Well, now, not many know much about her, lad, and I’m figuring even those that know more than a little don’t know too much more. She’s a mystery, she is, and even should you run across her… Powers forbid… she’s silent and deadly. She’s not evil, far’s I can tell, but she keeps the dark about herself and Sigil pretty tight. None’s been able to penetrate it, and if they have, they’ve been mazed.” I asked him about mazing, which I had already experienced for myself.
“Aye. Sometimes bloods will be packed off to a place where they can’t do no harm. The Lady, see, she’ll take a bit of Sigil, and make a little dimensional pocket out of it, a maze. She places those that have crossed her in there and lets ‘em rot.” Ebb puffed his pipe. “Now… you can’t escape getting mazed once the Lady sets her gaze on you, lad. She’ll get you eventually, no matter how hard you try and dodge her. You’ll be walking down an alley, or about to step through a portal, or take a left turn down a street you’ve gone manyfold times before, and suddenly you’re someplace you don’t recognize. Now, mazes aren’t escape-proof. There’s always a way out of each one… a portal the Lady places there. You just have ta figure out where it is and how to use it.”
“Getting back to the Lady, chances are you won’t meet her unless ya do something really bad… Hurting a lot of people, killing a dabus, challenging her rule, worshipping her… She hates that, we figure, or interfering with a dabus’ work (which may as well be the Lady’s work)… If you’re lucky, just the Mercykillers will come for you, but if she comes, you’ll be dead as soon as her shadow falls on you.”
“Now, the Lady can do almost anything in Sigil, lad, near as we can figure. Make it bigger or smaller, make new portals, seal off old ones, make sure the Blood War don’t break out in the streets, keep folks from teleporting into the city, keeping the Powers out.”
“Powers. It’s another way of saying Gods, lad. And there’s a great horde of them across the Planes.” Ebb took a puff from his pipe. “They can’t come to Sigil, though… the Lady has a way of keeping them out that she hasn’t spilled the chant to yet. Be that as it may, it’s kept Sigil from being seized by outside interests.”
I now turned to another who had been sharing Ebb’s table, silent up to now. I saw a soft-looking man with gentle, far-staring eyes. He dressed in supple leather clothing, and carried various implements of use and destruction about his body, such as ropes, spikes, tinderboxes, and empty vials of air. He looked half-gone — literally. There was an insubstantiality to his existence, as if his essence had been partially leeched away. He focused those eyes on me, and suddenly I found them gripping and determined.
“Greetings to you, o seeker,” he said. He carefully set down the mug he was holding, and gave me all his attention.
“I have seen the far reaches of the multiverse and returned to tell the tale. I have walked upon the bodies of dead gods and spun moonbeams in the Astral ahead of a thousand shrieking githyanki knights. I have passed the edges of existence and watched my essence shiver away before me. What is it I can do for you?”
“Who are you?”
“I am Candrian Illborne, traveler, dreamer, talespinner, and so forth.”
I talked to him for a long while about the different planes. The Inner Planes of matter, substance, true physicality. The Ethereal Plane, through which the Inner Planes were filtered, to form the elements of the Prime Material, the worlds of mortals. In the Prime Material belief was born, from which the spirits that created the Outer Planes were born. When mortals died, their spirits passed through the Astral Plane.
The Outer Planes and the beings which inhabited them were created by and of belief and thought and faith. The Outer Planes were divided by travelers into the Great Ring, of which Sigil was a part. This Great Ring was of immediate interest to me, and I questioned Candrian closely on the planes which make it.
The lawful Upper Planes. Candrian gave a small shudder when describing them. “I am not the best person to speak of the planes of law,” he said, “for the innate structure and ultimate patterns they impose frighten me. I steer clear of them, because I value my individuality more than I value the knowledge they’ll bring me. They include regimented Arcadia, nearest of the good planes to the unbending order of Mechanus, and Mount Celestia, home of the archons, an island in the Silver Sea.”
The neutral Lower Planes. “The neutral planes, eh? They’re vile and barely understandable, and they’re more insidious on their own than you could ever imagine. Take Gehenna, for example: Four volcanoes in stages of dormancy floating in an infinite void, each of them somehow alive, and each of them wanting your soul by whatever means they can get it. Populate it with yugoloths — the worst of the fiends, in my opinion, and you’ve got the place. The plane of ultimate evil — at least, that’s what they call it — is the Gray Waste, a no-place that drains color from your body and spirit, stealing away even your apathy — and it’s the site of the worst battlegrounds in the war down there. Don’t get me started…Then you’ve got Carceri on the chaotic side…”
“Ah, Carceri and its poisonous jungles, acid swamps, destructive waters, strung like a string of rotten pearls nestled within one another…” He paused and looked at me carefully, again fixing me in place with his eyes. “Remember this, seeker: Carceri is a prison, home to the gehreleths, one of the most dangerous types of fiends there is. The strength of the prison is the strength of the captor, as strong as the prisoner lets it be. Destroy the prisonkeeper, and a body can escape the Red Prison. There is almost no other way out, not when the gates close themselves against you and watch you spin off into the vast space surrounding the orbs. Be wary of Carceri, traveler, for its bonds can be greater than flesh.”
The lawful Lower Planes. “As much as I detest the order of the lawful Upper Planes, at least they present a modicum of goodness. Their lower planar counterparts, though… Acheron’s a place of ricocheting cubes that never see an end to battle, swarming with the souls of dead humanoids. Baator…” he shivered involuntarily. “Baator is a place best avoided. Those fiends you see over there are but the merest expression of the deviant corruption embodied in that soulless machine of order. All that is bad about bureaucracy and order originates from Baator, and it spreads like a stain across the hearts of mortals. Though there is some knowledge to be found there, it is rarely worth the spiritual rape the plane inflicts.”
The chaotic Lower Planes. “The Abyss isn’t someplace you should consider going. Where Baator’s all orderly, the Abyss is full of chaos and change, and none of it’s pleasant. When it becomes something that approximates normality, that’s when you should be most wary of it. It’s home to the tanar’ri, what most primes call ‘demons’, and they’ve got that name for a reason. They are unpredictable and murderous, and the few you can trust are few and far between. The few I have met who I’d trust, I still don’t trust entirely — they are creatures of chaos and evil incarnate, and if they’re putting on a friendly face, who’s to say it’s not part of a larger agenda?”
The Boundary Planes. “There are two Boundary Planes to my mind, and they are diametrically opposed. One of them, Mechanus, is the very essence of law, a place where beliefs fit together, interlocking, turning, in a massive machine that is the entire plane. Some folks’d have it that the gears of Mechanus are the engine that drives the planes. The other plane is Limbo, a swirling morass of Chaos that follows no rules, none, and just when a body thinks he’s classified its behavior, it goes and changes on him — or it doesn’t. You just can’t tell. I was in Limbo not too long ago…”
He closed his eyes, remembering: “I had a githzerai guide with me, an anarch who could shape the illogical matter of the plane into forms of his desire. We had fought off the harrying of the slaadi, the chaos-creatures who call that plane home. It seemed there were more than usual, but then, one can never tell what’s ‘usual’ in Limbo… but I digress. In the midst of all this chaos, we came across a series of huge, metal, interlocking cubes, like some sort of puzzle box. It wasn’t something we had shaped, consciously or not, and we couldn’t find a way inside. It was like… like a bastion of order within the confines of disorder, a seed of law. That is the best I can explain it.”
The Outlands. “The Outlands are absolute neutrality. Probably the best place for a body to visit in the Outer Planes, outside of Sigil, if you don’t want to have a plane’s morality forced into your heart. Everything balances out in the Outlands — as it should be, for the plane that sits at the center of the Outer Planes. Powers’realms are scattered about here, and there are handfuls of ‘gate towns’ that open into the rest of the Outer Planes. The gate towns usually mirror the philosophy of the plane their gates open on to — and if the balance of belief isn’t kept in the town, the town slips into the nearby plane. It’s a bad situation for everyone, because few of the folks in the towns really want that change.”
He had also just come back from the Negative Material Plane. When I asked him of it, his eyes clouded over. “I went to the Inner Planes to discover my true essence. I made the mistake of visiting the Negative Material Plane in order to understand my body’s urge to decay and the cycle of death in life. I thought myself protected against the ill effects of the plane with my magic, but I was wrong. The blackness of infinite nothing pressed on my soul, and I was beset by shadows that sought to snuff out my very soul. I lost my way for a time — for an eternity — and nearly lost my existence. I could feel my essence falling away from me, and am even now half-gone. Never will I return.”
“How did you survive?”
“How did I survive?” He smiled tightly. “With a piece of nothing that held back the nothing. Nothing can stop nothing, you know, and so I carried nothing in my hand to protect me. Do you plan to journey to the ultimate negation yourself? You have the smell of desperation about you, and so I make you this gift. Hold it in your hand when the shadows press in, and it should protect you and your friends somewhat, should they remain close to you. Heh.” He passed me a small, black token that looked as if it had no dimensionality to it all.

Mazed

Sebastian — Tue, 27 May 2008 08:17:26 +0000

I left the ruined building, troubled. I took a step… and found myself elsewhere. I was alone. My surroundings were totally different. I was standing on stone, formed into concentric rings. There were gaps between the rings, although stone bridges connected the rings at irregular intervals. The rings themselves also had gaps in them.
When I looked down between the stones, all I saw was a gray nothingness. There were only a limited number of rings as well. Beyond the outer ring was more of the gray nothingness, as though the space I now occupied was somehow bounded. Arches were placed regularly along the next to outermost ring, each arch I soon learned contained a portal. However, the portals only transported me across the rings; none seemed to lead out.
As I was verifying this, I noticed a place that wasn’t bare rock, where rubbish was piled. I moved to investigate, and found someone before me had camped here. I found a curious object at the camp site.
It appeared to be some sort of journal. Sheets of dried human skin had been stretched across a framework of bone, and strangely enough, it appeared the sheets of skin had healed together at the seams, forming the spine of a makeshift book. It looked like the outer sheets of skin formed a cover for a series of other skin sheets locked inside the bone frame.
A series of symbols had been written in blood across the exterior of the sheets of skin, but I couldn’t make them out; they appeared to be some form of writing, but they seemed to be written upside down, right to left, and at odd angles that made my eyes hurt.
Despite the crudity of the writing, I had to admit the design of the bone frame was actually quite intricate; the bones had been carved so that they snapped neatly together. It looked like the bones could be unhooked from each other, allowing the book to be opened and read.
I unlocked the bone frame, which unfolded with a neat snap. I opened the book, and studied the pages… they were filled with the same strange series of symbols as were on the exterior cover, and they didn’t seem to make any sense.
Much as I tried, I couldn’t make sense of the symbols. I despaired, and decided to put the journal down. As I re-hooked the bone frame, I was suddenly struck with a strange thought — that the pages of the interior weren’t supposed to make any sense. I… whoever I was at the time… put the symbols there to deceive anyone looking to read the real contents, which were hidden somewhere else in the journal frame.
I examined the edge of the frame, and noticed that one of the bones had a hairline fracture around one of its ends; I put my hand over the edge and twisted off the top of the bone, revealing a hollow space. Inside the space was a small, rolled-up scrap of skin.
It was difficult to read, but I could make out most of it.
TRAPPed TraPped LADY’S WILL be done DODge her gaze… too MANY I KILL’d, too MANY strangle and kill and stop the BREATH in their throats… there’s a WAY OUT I KNOW it then I’ll give the BLADed one the laugh…
… ONE of the ARCHEZ holds way Out, ONE of them does, ONE has the way out, can’t just keep GOING through them one at a time, maybe — maybe I should go through one, THEN walk back to the same portal without…
The entry trailed off into indecipherable scrawls. For some reason, I had a feeling that was the last entry… either the incarnation died in the maze or escaped somehow.
I found that if I entered the portal in one of the arches on the periphery, then went back to that same portal without entering any other, I was transported to an arch I could not reach before. The portal in that arch allowed me to leave, returning to the Hive at the spot where I left. I felt I now knew where Aola’s disciples had disappeared.
I briefly explained to Morte what had happened. We left the Alley of Dangerous Angles on its other side, not too far from the Mortuary if my reckoning was right. I continued exploring the Hive, heading towards a section I had not visited before.
I heard a howling up ahead. What strange animal was producing the sound? Then I saw it was actually a wild-eyed man, hunched over, snarling and giving low growls. It looked like he hadn’t trimmed his hair in years… it was so long it formed a veil over his eyes. He had a long, stringy moustache caked with grease and sweat, and the tips of the moustache drooped so much that they had become tangled in his ragged beard.
I greeted him. The man stopped in mid-snarl, and he reached up to part the curtain of hair that covered his eyes. As his withered hand pulled away his dirty locks, several strange, puce-colored bugs fell from his hair and scattered across the cobbles. Behind the cloak of hair, the man’s flesh was moon-pale and creased with wrinkles. His thick, bushy eyebrows formed a ‘V’ as he stared at me.
“Hand, my take th’ moon fly, toooo?” I had difficulty, but thought I could puzzle out his meaning.
“ ‘Take your hand and fly to the moon?’ Not today, my friend.”
The man frowned, but his eyebrows tilted upwards in a reverse ‘V,’ creating a bizarre expression. I had no idea how he accomplished the facial expression, but it made me uncomfortable watching the muscles beneath his face shift into the new pattern. I couldn’t tell whether he was angry, curious, both or neither.
“Singed kisssspeak a man, answersss pre-fur a wood woman heart.”
“ ‘A single kiss speaks a woman’s heart, but a man’s answer is what you would prefer?’ Very well, then, but know this: my answer is a question, and an answer from you is what I would prefer.” The man seemed mesmerized by my voice. With every word I spoke, a light flickered in his eyes.
“Barking Wilder Am-I, I-Am! A-Wanting, Asking-A, May-You, You-May?” I was starting to get a feel for his language.
“You may, and I will: Who… or what… are you?”
“Kay-osh!” He stuttered out the word, as if having difficulty getting his tongue around it. “Some say Xaositects, I say S-tect-I-soax. CHAOS-men. Men no. Nem no, men yes, three nose make a yes.” He hunched down on his knees and began to rock back and forth, singing in a child-like soprano. “Chaos-man, chaos-man, hop-a-long home, a faction-it-is, yet we-are-alone.” Not having anything to lose, I asked another question.
“I’m looking for a lost journal. Do you know where I might find one?” He frowned, squinted his eyes shut, then opened them back up. When he spoke again, his voice was level and straightforward… it was like a different, saner, person was speaking. The effect was eerie.
“More than one lost, more than one must you find. Each part of you had one, so more than one must you find.” He blinked and shook his head for a moment, as if surprised at himself, then chuckled uneasily. I asked if he could tell me where at least one of them was. He looked like he was about to object, then suddenly his left fist came up and smacked him in the temple. He howled in response, then suddenly stopped, blinking.
“One is in a cupboard in your guest room in the hall of the Sensates, and another is on the walls of a tomb sealed deep beneath the city where the stones weep. The others are…” Before he could finish, his right fist came up and smashed him in the face, causing him to yowl again. He blinked and shook his head for a moment, as if surprised at himself, then smiled uneasily.
That was his last moment of clarity. No matter how much I questioned him, I got no more answers. In fact, he didn’t even seem to remember what he had already told me about the journals.
Rather than spend the rest of the day in pointless conversation, I turned away. Morte commented on Barking Wilder.
“Well, that’s one tree with a snapped branch too many.” Morte rolled his eyes. “No sense in chatting with Xaositects, chief. They’re a barmy bunch.” I asked him to expand on the Xaositects.
“They’re a ‘faction’ who don’t have any rules… except don’t keep one thought in their head for too long. They’re sometimes called ‘Chaosmen.’ No need to explain why. They just seem to attract members like flies… well, members that are crazy or chaotic enough, I suppose. I don’t think they have any recruiters… though you really can’t say anything about them for sure.”

Hive Market

Sebastian — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 18:38:54 +0000

I realized I had come into a market area in the Hive. I was passing an old woman standing silently by the wall, staring off into the distance. She seemed to be unconcerned with the flow of traffic around her, and clutched a wooden pole from which dozens of small fish were dangling. I moved in front of her, catching her attention.
“ ‘Lo, sir, care to purchase some…” She squinted at me for a moment, trying to discern my identity. “Oh my! ‘Ere I was, thinkin’ ye one o’ me regular customers. Hrmm…” Her mouth pressed down into a tight-lipped frown, and she stared off over my shoulder.
I looked behind me, trying to see what she was staring at. I could see nothing of interest behind me. As I turned back to her, I caught her looking at me… she looked away quickly, resuming her staring off into the distance once more.
“What? Do I look familiar to you?”
“Goodness, no!” She paused for a moment. “Aye, ye do. I think… ye, or a man with yer very likeness, sir. T’was so long ago.”
“Tell me…”
“Well, sir, ye see… me sight’s not so good now, t’wasn’t back then, neither. But I thought I saw ye walkin’ past with a small group trailin’ along behind ye. It’s t’was so long ago, and ye walked by so quick-like. But I remember, now, the way ye held yer head up… there was a woman followin’ ya, tryin’ to stop ye. To get ye to turn around, speak to her… but ye pushed her away.”
“Beautiful woman, she was… looked so sad, so angry, all at once. She stood there for a moment, then followed along behind ye just the same, hustlin’ to catch up. There was at least two other gentlemen with ye, sir… the only one I remember too clearly, though, was tall, thin. Reeked of bub, he did; I smelled him from across the way. Looked like he hadn’t bathed in ages, too. He followed ye close, he did, an’ never said a word. Acted like the woman wasn’t even there, even when she bumped against him, tryin’ to stop ye. That’s all I remember, sir.”
Another incident from my past. I gave the woman a few coppers, walking on and straining vainly for any memory that would connect with this incident.
An area of the market ahead was filled with debris. A broad-shouldered woman was shuffling about amongst the huge beams lying on the street. She kicked at the beams with iron-shod boots; every once in a while, she bent down and wrenched a nail from one of the boards with her bare hands. She held each one up, appraising it, then dropped it into a leather sling bag. She straightened up, hearing my approach. She smiled politely, but from her stance and the way her hand rested close to the hilt of her weapon, I could tell she was ready for trouble. I noticed one of her eyes had a milky film over it.
“That’s close enough there, cutter… what do ye need from me?”
“Who are you?” She pulled three nails from her sling bag, tossing them spinning into the air and catching them in her palm.
“Iron Nalls, they call me.” She dropped them back into the bag with a muffled clink. “I sell ’em to a man, name a’ Hamrys, in the Lower Ward. Maker of coffins, he is.”
“Where’s the Lower Ward?”
“Eh… I used to know the way, I did, but the dabus have changed the streets ‘round again. Don’t know how to get there, now — I’ll need to chart a new path — but I figure the dabus’ll straighten things out eventually.” I had heard that term before, and wondered at it.
“Dabus?”
“Aye, dabus — the Lady’s servants.” She looked at me, puzzled. “Ye must be new to Sigil. They work all over the city, doin’ the Lady’s will. Always buildin’ an’rebuildin’, they are, usin’ what’s fallen or torn down to make somethin’ new.”
“The wood come from here an’ there. Sometimes dabus drop the stuff off, an’ I go through it before another pack comes to fetch it away. Probably rubble from buildin’s or walls they’re puttin’ up or tearin’ down.”
Dabus — I realized I now had a name for the mysterious floating creatures I had seen performing work about the city. I noticed a stench about this time. The smell like a sewer was getting worse as I moved forward, rising above the usual miasma I had already associated with the Hive, and which I was learning to ignore.
A man was looking at me with a strange, bug-eyed stare. His eyes were huge… so huge they looked ready to pop out of his sockets and roll across the cobblestones. He nodded eagerly as I approached, bobbing his head like a bird… and as I neared him, I suddenly noticed the smell of urine and feces surrounded him. The man sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, then opened his mouth to reveal blackened, rotted gums.
“Stories-for-coin, sirrah?” His breath reeked; it smelled like this man had been keeping rotten meat stored inside his mouth. “Stories-for-coin?”
“Who are you?” The man snorted, thick with phlegm.
“Names, names… who you are, who you are…” His head did a slight twitch every time he repeated himself. “Names… dangerous, dangerous.” He glanced at the ground and stirred the dirt with his foot. “Knowing a name or bein’ stuck with one, both’s a mess of trouble.” He looked back up at me. “My name’s a given name, not one asked for. Reekwind.” Once again I became conscious of his reeking breath and the smell of urine and feces that surrounded him. “A given name, a given name.”
“An… appropriate name.”
“Not my true name, true name.” Reekwind mumbled on, his head twitching every time he said name. “A true name’s a dangerous thing, gives others power.” He stared at me with his huge eyes and wagged his finger. “Keep your name secret, keep it close, never let it out.”
“Names are like smells… things can track you with them.” Reekwind coughed, his eyes almost popping out of his skull as he did so. His cough seemed to loosen his bowels, for he broke wind loudly, as if to accentuate his point. “If someone knows a true name, it gives them power.” He licked his lips. “The power to hurt.”
“I don’t know my true name.” Reekwind’s eyes widened at this; seeing his eyeballs bulge even larger made me uneasy.
“Then you are blessed, blessed. Remain nameless, and you shall be as a spirit on the Planes, untraceable, untrackable, unseen, undiscovered.” He smacked his gums wetly. “A name chosen, a name given… it allows others to find you and hurt you.”
“Have you been hurt?” Reekwind gave a twitching nod, then scratched himself.
“Let my name slip once, once, only once, only once.” His eyes filmed over as if the memory was painful, then glanced at me uneasily. “Tell you the story I can, I will, but three coppers must I see.” His face split into a smile as he said the word coppers, and his reeking breath hit me like a hammer.
I passed him the jink. Reekwind got into a stance, looked left, looked right, then faced me. His face clenched, then with a grunt, he broke wind again. The smell nearly leveled me, but he took no notice.
“Cursed, I! Walked the wards in splendor…” He stood up stiffly, nose high in the air. He sauntered back and forth, nodding to invisible passers-by. Reekwind froze, his arms akimbo.
“Crossed paths with a crossed one. Had the looking of a pumpkin, his seeds, curses!” Reekwind then thrust his belly out so as to appear fat, slicked back his hair with his filthy palm so he looked almost bald, and began drumming his fingers on his ‘fat’ belly. He then walked about, circling the spot where his ‘stuffy, upper class persona’ used to be. “All-a-jumble with curses, this one was.” With a sneer and a careless gesture, Reekwind tossed an invisible curse at the ‘stuffy persona.’
“Knew my name, let it slip I had, I had, all it took, took it all!” He stiffened up again, inhaling deeply and resuming his ‘upper class’ persona. The persona suddenly crumpled, and Reekwind broke wind violently, then exhaled, filling the air with his foul, reeking breath. “Cursed with stenches, smells, excrement! Came here to tell tales, all good for, all good for now. Now Reekwind is the name, given name, given name…”
“The Hive, the Hive… a tale I can tell, a tale I can tell, I will, but three coppers must I see.” He smacked his gums together and snorted like a pig. Intrigued to hear another of his tales, I passed over more jink.
“Spireward, spireward…” He pointed to his left, at the charred alley in the distance. “An Alley of Dangerous Angles.” He bent his limbs in a twisted parody of one of the skeletal buildings. “Not always angled, not always burned and charred, once alive, no longer.”
“Flames, fire!” He flung his hands up in the air, then waved them to simulate flames. “The alley burned, great smoke, ash everywhere… in the end, only skeletons of buildings left, bones of dead buildings, bones of dead buildings. Angles… everywhere, angles.” He hunched forward, his voice a whisper. Again, the stench from his body hit me like a wave.
“Dangerous, now, bad men have set up their kip there, kip there.” He bowed, then broke wind in quick spurts, like a bugle blowing. “That is the tale of how a street becomes an Alley of Dangerous Angles.” He made a semi-circle over his heart.
“A man made it so. A beast made it so. A man whom even fiends admire. A sorcerer’s tale, filled with madness, sadness, burning, yearning…” He hissed, then cackled in a way that reminded me of a fire burning. “A dangerous tale, a dangerous tale.”
“A sorcerer there was, no simple hedge wizard this, but a mage of power.” Reekwind brought his hands together reverently, then smiled evilly. “He burned with the Art, and the Art burned him.”
“The name given him was Ignus, a name respected, then feared, then hated, then punished.” Reekwind gave a rattling wheeze, then clawed the air and hissed, apparently imitating ‘Ignus.’
“Taught by one of the last great magi Ignus was, and as an apprentice, Ignus learned much, much… and nothing at the same time.” Reekwind shook his head sadly. “In his heart, his coal-black heart, a fire blazed. It burned, it burned, and it hungered.” Reekwind clawed at his chest, as if pain. “As it hungered, Ignus hungered. It was his wish to see the Planes burn.”
“In the night…” Reekwind hunched down and began to slowly stalk in the direction of the alley, a mad grin on his face. “Ignus came to the Alley that was to be the Alley of Angles, and the fire in his eyes, the fire in his heart, both he let out.” Reekwind pointed at the Alley, then flung his arms in the air, silently screaming and laughing at the same time.
“Flesh ran like wax, people like candles, and Ignus laughed, laughed…” Reekwind crumpled to the ground, his body wracked with imagined pain. “An evil, an evil was done, and forgotten not, forgotten not.” He stood up, then hunched over, looked left, looked right, then started mumbling, as if secretly in a conference with someone. “Something was to be done, be done…” He stood up, stiffly, his face resolute.
“A punishment was decided, all the hedge wizards, midwives, rune-tellers, copper-pinching witches, all manner of magelings… they came, all, even those with the smallest trace of the Art, to punish Ignus. Separately, they were flies…” He made a buzzing noise between his rotten gums. “Together, dangerous, dangerous.” He hummed, then raised his hands…
“Caught Ignus, granted his wish…” He swirled his hands, as if casting a spell. “He wished to burn, they granted it, using his own desire to fuel the casting. They made his body a door to the Plane of Fire — they intended to kill him, kill him…”
“Failed, failed…” Reekwind broke wind again, as if to accentuate the failure of the wizards. “Ignus lived, Ignus lived, only slept, blanket of flames, flames, turned in his sleep as he burned, never happier, never happier…” He shut his eyes, wrapped his arms around himself and turned slowly. “Burning… ever-burning…” His eyes suddenly snapped open. “One day he will wake, and then, then the Planes shall burn!”
This Reekwind seemed to know much. Perhaps his knowledge extended to the one I sought.
“Can you tell me where I could find someone named Pharod?” As I thought would be the case, this elicited a demand for more copper to hear a story. I agreed.
“Once a man of respect, Pharod was, a man, a man of goals, and position. All became nothing, nothing, turned to air.” Reekwind squinted, then broke wind, filling the air with a gut-churning smell. “Turned to air… and stink.”
“A liar, a cheater, a man who twisted law, Pharod was.” He hunched over, as if writing at a desk. He ‘wrote’ for a moment, then suddenly stopped, afraid. “Then one day, he found that he had twisted himself!”
“Such a liar he had become, that when he died, he was to go to a horrible place…” Reekwind shook his head sadly, then hunched over again and looked wildly in all directions. “Pharod would not accept it, would not, would not! He had cheated others, he would cheat his fate, too!”
“He read, dug in books, and consulted seers…” Reekwind stalked back and forth, his hand over his eyes as if staring off into the distance. “…and they told him that only in trash could he find that which would let him cheat his fate.” Reekwind broke wind again, then gave a reeking cough. “Perhaps they lied…”
Reekwind stood up stiffly, then began to fling off imaginary clothes. With every piece of ‘clothing’ he threw away, he became more hunched.
“Pharod threw away his position, his goals, and took up a new title…” Reekwind stopped, then leered at me. He clawed at his rags, shaking them. “And became a King of Rags! He would rule the trash, have his subjects search it all, and find that which he needed.” He shook his head. “He looks even now, even now…”
“Uh… do you know where I could find him?” Reekwind shook his head.
“He lives amongst rags and trash. There, you will find him, find him…”
No real help then. I continued walking, leaving the market area.
I was curious about this Alley of Dangerous Angles Reekwind had mentioned. It was nearby, and we entered. There were numerous burnt shells of buildings, and two gangs, who charged us a toll to enter the area. In a ruined church I met a man who named himself Aola, who seemed eager to talk to me, immediately coming over to greet me as soon as I entered the building.
“Welcome to the cathedral of Aoskar. Have you come to worship Aoskar with me? You can be his second disciple.”
“Tell me more about Aoskar.” Aola’s voice took on a tone of adulation.
“Aoskar is the Keeper of Gateways. Within Aoskar lies the power of portals, doorways and opportunity. Sigil, also known as the City of Doors, used to be the home of Aoskar, until he was ‘cast’ out by that accursed Lady. Now there are few worshippers of Aoskar here because the Lady forbids it. That will soon change, however, as I help the people to see the greatness of Aoskar. She cannot stand against the will of the people!” Aoskar, huh? I didn’t see how it could hurt to have a deity on my side. Even if this priest’s god didn’t help me, he himself might be useful.
“I wish to become a disciple of Aoskar.”
“Wonderful! It’s been so long since the last person asked.” Aola made me perform a series of complex rituals and then said, “You are now a disciple of Aoskar; go now and spread the word to the denizens of Sigil, so that all may know the glory of Aoskar!” Belatedly, I grew worried.
“Why are there no other disciples of Aoskar?”
“Over the years I have had many disciples. Unfortunately, they have all disappeared. It’s quite frustrating, actually. As soon as they become initiates I never see them again. Lately, there has been a rumor going around that the Lady herself is the cause. Now no one comes by any more. You are the first soul I’ve seen stop by in a long while.”

Morte, Part I

Sebastian — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 11:05:46 +0000

I felt it was time I learned a little more about Morte. I asked him to tell me about himself. He chattered so long as we were walking I was afraid he would never stop.
“Of course you got questions about me — you probably have questions about ALL sorts of things. Let me boil it down for you: when you’ve been as dead as long as I have… without arms, legs, or anything else, you spend a lot of time thinking, y’know? I figure it’s been a few hundred years since I got penned in the dead book, but time doesn’t really tally up the way it used to… without that mortality thing pressing down on you, all the days and nights kind of blend together. So you think about this, and you think about that… and the most important piece of wisdom I’ve learned over the past hundred or so years is this:”
“There’s a LOT more obscene gestures you can make with your eyes and your jaw than most people think. Without even resorting to insults or taunting, you can really light a bonfire under someone just with the right combination of eye movements and jaw clicking. Drives them barmy! If you ever get beheaded and your skin flayed from your skull, I’ll show you how it’s done. I got some real gems, chief — they’d drive a deva to murder, they would.”
“I know what you’re thinking: I’m dead. I’ve lost so much. It should have sobered me up to all that joy I missed, all those loves I’ve lost. Some people get all depressed about death — they haven’t TRIED it, of course — but one thing they never seem to realize is how it changes your perspective on things; it really makes you take a second look at life, broaden your horizons. For me, it’s pretty much made me realize how many dead chits are in this berg and how few sharp-tongued men like myself there are to go around — you spin the wheel right, and your years of spending nights alone are over!”
“Shallow? I’m not shallow. I just don’t get caught up in all that philosophy and faith and belief wash that every berk from Arborea to the Gray Waste rattle their jaws about. Who cares? The Planes are what they are, you’re what you are, and if it changes, fine, but things aren’t bad the way they are — and I should know. Go on, ask me some questions about the Planes, or the chant, or the people, or the cultures — when you end up like me — without eyelids, that is — you end up seeing a lot of things, and I can tell you almost everything you need to know.”
“It’s like this: We’re in this together, chief. Until this is over, I stick like your leg.”

The Hive

Sebastian — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 09:29:30 +0000

I passed through the doors, glad to be free of the Mortuary at last. I passed through a small courtyard in front of the building, and walked out into a city. This must be the section known as the Hive. My eyes traveled across the buildings in front of me, then up. And up. The city arced overhead. I realized the city must actually form a circle, and join with itself. Morte, noticing my stunned expression, offered an explanation.
“The city is Sigil, the city of doors. Sigil’s a ring-shaped city that’s squatting on top of an infinitely tall spire in what some claim to be in the center of the Planes… of course, how it could be at the top of an infinitely tall spire, and how the city could even be at the center of the Planes raises some questions.”
“Anything else?”
“Sigil’s called the ‘City of Doors,’ mostly because there’s a LOT of invisible doors that lead in and out of it — just about any arch, door frame, barrel hoop, book shelf, or open window might be a portal under the right conditions. It all depends on if you have the key to open it.”
“See, I guess the best way to explain it is — most portals are ‘sleeping,’ right? You could walk through them, by them, on top of them, and nothing would happen. Now, every portal has something that ‘wakes it up.’ That could be a tune you hum to yourself, a loaf of week-old Bytopian bread, remembering what your first kiss was like, and then — BAM — the portal gets its juices flowing, and you can jump through it, to whatever’s on the other side.”
“Like where?”
“Anywhere, chief. Literally. Any place you can think of, there’s a portal there. That’s why Sigil’s so popular across the Planes.” As I started to walk away from the courtyard, a passing woman started upon seeing me. She seemed to recognize me instantly; she stepped back in horror, and cried out.
“After all this time… ye bastard! May all th’ fiends in Baator take ye! One day ye’ll be sorry fer what ye did ta Aerin… by all the Powers I swears it!” She turned and fled.
I just let her go. I realized I might run into many in the city who recognized me, and I would have to be on my guard. But it was critical that I gain as much information as quickly as possible, and I resolved to ask anyone I met about the city, and particularly about this Pharod.
I ran into a few others that day who would not talk to me, who just made a sign against evil and ignored me.
A harlot was particularly helpful, after accepting a few coins, that is jink. She told me the collectors congregated in a section of the Hive not too far away, in an area known as Ragpicker’s Square. Morte spoke up as I finished with her. He was becoming predictable on certain subjects, I realized.
“Chief, can you sport me some jink… it’s… eh… been a long time, it has.”
“I’m not even going to ask how you intend to accomplish this.”
The woman broke in, “It’s twice the cost fer the mimir… or any other degenerate.”
At my questioning look, Morte replied, “Mimir’s a talking encyclopedia. That’s me, chief.” I motioned to Morte to forget his idea.
“Don’t sweat it, Morte. From the looks of her, I’m probably saving you from dying twice.” At this the woman cursed at us.
“May a pox shrivel yer innards! Ye have the stink and fashion sense of a goatherd, and ye’re twice as ugly!” She continued cursing us for several moments. Morte stared, hypnotized, as the harlot let loose this stream of obscenities. At the end of the verbal avalanche, Morte was silent for a moment, then turned to me.
“Wow, chief. Got a few more taunts for the ol’ arsenal.” He turned back to the harlot, who was catching her breath. “I’m also in love.”
Chuckling at Morte despite myself, I moved off.
I decided that although I now knew a general area to look for this Pharod, it would be better to learn some more about Sigil, and maybe fill in a few of the holes of my past, before searching him out.
I continued questioning those I met. Some of the local toughs must have taken my questions as a sign of an easy mark, because they drew knives and attacked. As I drew the blade I had found forgotten in a drawer in the Mortuary, I realized that I had used a blade before, and knew it well. Although I suffered a few shallow cuts, soon I was standing over the body of one tough as the rest fled. I also realized I must have killed before, perhaps many times.
The next Hive dweller I talked to was frightened, no doubt from the scars and the blood of my recent fight. He had little to say I hadn’t already heard, but I felt sorry for him, and gave him a few coppers. He glanced around to see if anyone saw the exchange, then tucked the jink in the folds of his robe.
“Thank ye kindly, cutter! May the Lady’s shadow pass ye by!” This piqued my interest.
“Wait a minute… Lady? What do you mean?”
“The mistress o’ Sigil? Ye’ve not heard o’ her? Ye must be blessed or more cluel… eh, know little about Sigil, indeed.” He laughed weakly. “Lady’s word’s law here in Sigil.” He thought for a moment. “ ‘Cept she don’t say much. Dead silent she is, actually.” He looked at me warily.
“Don’t want ta be talkin’ too much about her, cutter… ye don’t want ta cross her shadow nor be singing her praises, all right? Now, let’s say no more about it. Rattlin’ yer bone-box about the lady is dim, dim indeed.”
I came across a small Dustmen memorial not far from the Mortuary, just four walls around a central plinth. Dustmen stood outside, chanting about their ‘True Death.’ Curious, I stepped through an arch in one of the walls, and saw that the interior and the plinth were covered with thousands and thousands of names. I recognized the plinth from the dream or memory I had had before awakening in the Mortuary. I asked a man standing staring at the central plinth what it was.
“It’s a tombstone for the Planes.” He scoffed. “Graveyards of names are scratched on that rock. Can only hope my name’s the one that’ll split this stone in ‘twain.” He pointed at the base of the monolith. “ ‘Quentin,’ right there, hammered in just hard enough to send the damned thing crashing down.”
“The Dusties scratch the names of the dead on this monument here…” He gestured around him. “And on the walls of this place. Not enough space by my reckoning, but no matter… they do their best. Can barely read half the names.” I asked why he was here, especially since he was hostile to the Dustmen. His reply was illuminating.
“Reading the new arrivals. Try and find a new one every day, try and remember if I knew ‘em, nothing more.”
“The Dustmen record the names of all that have died on this monument?”
“Aye, they scratch ‘em on this rock… and scratch ‘em on the walls in this place, too.” Quentin scowled. “I don’t know why they take the trouble to take a counting of the dead… the Dusties have more care for the living.”
“The living?”
“Aye… y’know about the Dustmen mourners that come to this place? They aren’t mourning the dead, see, they’re mourning the living. You can barely get a word in them edgewise without ‘em asking to mourn some poor living berk for ye.”
“Seems to me the dead are thrice-worth the pity of any poor sod living in this pit.” He nodded at the monument. “Every name on there is blest in my book, it is.” He returned to his brooding, ignoring me.
As I was leaving, on a whim I stopped and spoke to one of the Dustmen mourners. I told her that my ‘friend,’ Adahn, was feeling anguish over a person who had died. She promised to mourn his pain. A smile quirked my lips as I walked away, as I heard the name Adahn mixed in among their chanting.
I continued questioning those I met in the streets of the Hive. One in particular had an interesting story, a haggard woman wrapped in rags. Her hair was disheveled and dirty, and her complexion was extremely dark. Burns covered her arms, and her right hand was a fused lump of flesh… it looked melted, like wax exposed to a great heat. I greeted her, to get her attention.
“What issit y’wanta me?” The woman’s accent was thick, and I had difficulty making out what she was saying. “Y’wanta me t’leave? NOT leaving this city, so I’m not. I can’t, tried, it’s not a city, it’s a prison t’everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” I asked.
“There’s Worlds, there’s…” Her eyes gleamed madly. “…planes that be sinking sands, fields thirsty nettles be, sightless worlds where y’limbs are given life and hate, cities of dust whose people are dust and whisper ash, the house without doors, the Twilit Lands, the singing winds, the singing winds…” She started to sob quietly, but she seemed all out of tears. “And shadows… the terrible shadows there be.”
“Where are these places?”
“Where’z? Where’z them places?” She flung the lump of her right hand in an arc, gesturing at the cityscape. “They’z all HERE be. Doors, doors, here to everywhere.”
“Doors?”
“You! You’re not knowing this?!” She squinted at me, and her teeth started chattering. “Tell you, I will: Beware every space you walk through or touch in this thrice-cursed city… Doors, gates, arches, windows, picture frames, the open mouth of a statue, the spaces ‘tween shelves… Beware ANY space bounded on all sides. ALL these’re doors t’other places.”
“Every door has a KEY it does, and with this key, they show their true nature… an arch becomes a portal, a picture frame becomes a portal, a window becomes a portal… all eager t’take y’someplace ELSE. They steal you away…” She raised the lump of her right hand. “And sometimes what’s on th’other side takes part of you as a TITHE.”
“What are these keys?”
“The keys, the keys number as many as the doors of this city. Every door, a key, every key, a door.” Her teeth started chattering again, as if she were cold. “And a key is…? A key is anything. It may be an emotion, an iron nail held ‘tween y’second and fifth fingers, a thought thought three times, then thought once in reverse, or it may be a glass rose.” She clenched her mouth closed to try and still her chattering teeth, and squinted her eyes. “Can’t leave… can’t leave…”
“How did you get here?”
“From…” She seemed to calm slightly, and her eyes took on a thousand-league stare. “Came from a place else from here, almost a life-ago, hummed a tune by a glade with two dead trees that had fallen together. A brilliant door opened in th’space ‘tween the crossed trees, showed me this city on th’ other side… I’z stepped through, ended here.”
“Why can’t you go back?”
“Tried! ALL doors here lead to OTHER places.” She shuddered and gripped her melted right hand. “Went through thrice-ten portals, some a-purpose, some a-accident, none a-them right. Can’t find way back…”
“There must be a portal that can take you back.”
“Can’t even leave here! This square! And there, th’place of death behind th’ gate waits for me!” She pointed at the Mortuary behind the gate, then turned back to me, her face desperate. “Can’t go anywhere in this city!”
“Anythin’ could be a door. Any arch there, any door here, could be a portal, don’t know the key, could get a-sent t’another horrible place…” Her teeth started chattering again. “…got t’stay way from the closed spaces, all could be doors, could have a key on me, an’ I not be knowing it…” I found this hard to credit.
“You… you’re afraid to go through ANY door or arch because it might be a portal?”
She nodded, her teeth chattering.
“How long have you been afraid of this?” She squinted, pondering.
“Since the last time I walked through th’ last portal, th’ place where m’hand…” She stops. “Since m’tenth Turning… I’m in me fourth tenth Turning that, now.” Her teeth begin chattering again.
“Thirty years? You’ve haven’t walked through any door for thirty years?”
Her vision seemed to clear slightly. She looked up at me, her teeth still chattering.
“If you got here, there must be a portal that can take you back. It’s only a matter of finding it —”
She smiled. Her teeth weren’t chattering because she was cold… they were moving around inside her mouth, her gums twisting as the teeth shifted about. They rose and receded as I watched, chattering as they rattled against each other. She hissed at me.
“Only takes ONE portal you steps through a-accident, t’drive th’ FEAR into you. I went through thrice-ten, lost m’hand, burned m’flesh, and lost m’sense.” She looked at her feet. “N’more, n’more.”
“I’m sorry… if I can find some means to help you, I will. Farewell.” I hoped I didn’t promise to help everyone I met in the Hive. I suspected the city generated unfortunates faster than anyone, even if he were immortal, could hope to help.
I passed by the Gathering Dust bar, but it was a Dustmen hangout. I had had enough of them, so I didn’t go in.
“Looks like the Dusties lost one of their deaders…”
I realized the comment was referring to me. The speaker was a striking red-haired girl dressed in leather armor. Her right arm was covered with a series of interlocking plates that looked as if they were taken from the skin of some creature, and a horned shoulder piece protected her left arm. Oddly enough, she had a tail… that was flicking back and forth as I watched. She noticed my interest.
“Pike off.”
Ignoring the comment, I greeted her, asking who she was. The girl sneered, then made an obscene gesture with her tail.
“Pike off, yeh clueless sod.”
The girl herself was well worth looking at, but did she know she had a tail? I realized I must have actually blurted out what I was thinking when she replied.
“Do I now?” The girl looked at her tail. “So I do! An here I was thinking that it was a trick of me eye. My, aren’t yeh a sharp cutter?” She bared her teeth. “Why don’t yeh piss off ta whatever hole yeh crawled out of and leave me be?! Me nor me tail is for trade, jig?” As I fumbled for a reply, Morte interposed,
“It’s just as well neither you nor your tail are for sale. You couldn’t squeak out a living with ‘em, anyway.” Fortunately, his voice was too low pitched for her to make him out, and she just looked questioningly at Morte. I’d already made a fool of myself. Might as well try to satisfy me curiosity.
“He didn’t say anything… but I’m still curious… why do you have a tail?”
“Are yeh daft? Can it be that yer dumber than stone, or mayhap yer the Power o’ ignorance? May the dabus brick yeh over and make yeh a street!” Morte answered my question.
“She’s a tiefling, chief. They got some demon’s blood in ‘em, and that makes ‘em paranoid and defensive… nice tail, though. Shame it’s plastered on such an ugly body.” I tried to interpose a comment, uselessly, as she replied.
“Yeh better latch yer bonebox, yeh foul-mouthed mimir, ‘fore I splits it from yer jaw, jig?”
“Why don’t you try and split my jaw, chit?! All I’m hearing is a lotta chatter from some Hive trash! Throw a punch! I dare you! I’ll bite your legs off!”
“Enough!” I finally got out.
“Aye, that’s right. Leash yer mimir, ‘tard, or I’ll bury him with his body, jig?” I figured I wouldn’t get anything more out of this one.
“Farewell, then.”
“Aye, pike off ta wherever yeh came from, then.”
I wondered on. A street vendor caught my eye. This foul-looking man was quick to notice he’d caught my attention; in moments he was upon me, hawking his ‘wares.’ He carried a long wooden pole; dozens of skinned and cooked rats dangled from it. As he spoke, he gestured to them with a broad, filth-encrusted hand, smiling a yellowed, snaggle-toothed grin all the while.
“Oye, cutter, ‘ow ye doin’ there? Wot sorta deeee-licious ratsies is ye interested in this fine day?”
I examined the ‘ratsies.’ Each rat had been skinned and gutted, their feet and tails removed; they dangled from the pole by hooks punched though their necks. As I examined the various manners in which they’d been prepared, I realized their heads were slightly misshapen — a bulbous knot of bone protruded from each cranium, covered in whorls that gave it the appearance of brain tissue.
“Those are strange-looking rats.”
“Ah, ye’ve got a keen eye there, cutter! All I sell is brain vermin, I do… I’m sure ye’ll find they’ve got a much richer flavor than yer usual rat. Quite nice, really!” He proffered them to me once more, waving the pole before my face enticingly… the rats swayed to and fro, hooked like tiny sides of beef.
“Brain vermin?”
“Aye, cutter, brain vermin. Foul creatures, they are. Now, yer normal rats, they just eat stored goods an’ multiply, spread disease an’ all that… a nuisance, really, no more. Yer cranium rat, though — brain vermin, wot I go after — they’re just trouble. When ye get more than a ‘andful a’ the little pikers together, they start to get smart on ye… sometimes real smart.”
“They become more intelligent?”
“Sure as I’m standin’ here before ye, they do! If I ran across any more than two score of ‘em, I’d flee for me case like that…” He snapped, to emphasize the point. “…I would! Ye get that many of ‘em in a pack, why… why, they gets smart as a man, they do!”
“Here’s my best advice for ye, cutter… if ye’re bent on catchin’ brain vermin, stick to small packs. A dozen or so, at most. But I’ll tell ye…” He stepped close, his breath fetid in my face, and spoke in a hushed tone: “Ye run into more than that… more than a couple dozen… ye run like ye’re in the shadow of the Lady!” He backed away from me again.
“Sorcery, cutter… sorcery! Ye gets enough of those lil’ fiends in a space, they gain all sorts a’ odd powers! Make a basher’s brain pour out ‘is ears, they will! Downright frightenin’… it’s just wrong, I tell ye.”
“Who are you?”
“Wot, me? Why, I’m Creeden, sometimes called Creed — the Butcherer-of-Rats!” He smiled grandiosely, exposing ill-matched rows of yellowed, broken and crooked teeth.
“You certainly seem… friendlier… than most around here.”
“Well, cutter, I try. Result a’ my business, I thinks… most folks around ‘ere are a peery an’ downright unfriendly lot, but I want every cutter to know that Creeden’s always got a warm smile an’ a pipin’ ‘ot, fresh-cooked ratsie for ‘em!” He winked at me, and touched my arm.
“I see ye’re leavin’, cutter, but a’fore ye go, wouldst ye like a nice, deee-liscious ratsie? One for the road, ye might say?”
“Why not…”
“Good, cutter, good! Wot sort wouldst ye like?” He pointed to each in turn with a grimy fingernail. “I got them baked, spiced, boiled, an’ charred! All fresh, all scrumptious… and only three coppers for two!”
“Charred,” I replied. That should hide any nasty taste.
I handed over my coppers and, in one swift motion, he ran a pair of charred rats through with a wooden skewer, unhooked them, and placed them in my hand. He winked at me.
“Enjoy, cutter!”
The rat was burnt and crispy outside, but tender and juicy within. It was a bit greasy and rather rich, tasting of some… other… meat I was sure I’d had before. The man looked at me expectantly.
“Did ye like? Wouldst ye like another?” Motioning that I didn’t, I continued on.

Deionarra

Sebastian — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 16:38:31 +0000

I moved about the perimeter of the first floor, among the memorial biers placed along the wall. Unfortunately, Dhall’s directions were of little use, since I had no idea which way was northwest. I studied the name on each bier as I came to it, hoping one would trigger a memory, carefully staying far away from any other Dustmen.
I came to a bier with a plaque which read, “Here lies Deionarra.”
Shockingly, an insubstantial phantasm of a woman appeared before the bier. A strikingly beautiful ghostly form, her arms crossed, her eyes closed. She had long, flowing hair, and her gown seemed stirred by some ethereal breeze. I realized I had seen her before. This ghost had appeared in my dream before I awoke in the Mortuary. As I watched, she stirred slightly, and her eyes flickered.
Her eyes slowly opened, and she blinked in confusion for a moment, as if uncertain where she was. She looked around slowly, then saw me. Her tranquil face suddenly twisted into a snarl.
“You! What is it that brings you here?! Have you come to see first-hand the misery you have wrought? Perhaps in death I still hold some shred of use for you…?” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “…’my Love.’ ”
Surprised by her venom, I plaintively asked, “Who are you?” In a sudden change of emotion, the spirit made a begging motion with her hands.
“How can it be that the thieves of the mind continue to steal my name from your memory? Do you not remember me, my Love?” The ghost stretched out her arms. “Think…” Her voice became desperate again. “…the name Deionarra must evoke some memory within you.”
“I think I feel the stirrings of memory… tell me more. Perhaps your words shall chase the shadows from my mind, Deionarra.”
“Oh, at last the fates show mercy! Even death cannot chase me from your mind, my Love! Do you not see? Your memories shall return! Tell me how I can help you, and I shall!” There was one main question on my mind.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You are one both blessed and cursed, my Love. And you are one who is never far from my thoughts and heart.”
“ ‘Blessed and cursed?’ What do you mean?”
“The nature of your curse should be apparent, my Love. Look at you.” She pointed at me. “Death rejects you. Your memories have abandoned you. Do you not pause and wonder why?”
“Memories aside… and assuming death has rejected me… why is that a curse?”
“I do not doubt your ability to rise from the dead. I do believe that every incarnation weakens your thoughts and memories. You claim you have lost your memory. Perhaps it is a side effect of countless deaths? If so, what more will you lose in successive deaths? If you lose your mind, you will not even know enough to realize that you cannot die. You shall truly be doomed.” I wondered how many times I had awoken in this Mortuary.
“ ‘Countless deaths?’ How long has this been going on?”
“I do not truly know. Except that it has gone on long enough.”
“What else can you tell me about myself?”
“I know that you once claimed you loved me and that you would love me until death claimed us both. I believed that, never knowing the truth of who you were, what you were.”
“And what am I?”
“You… I… cannot…” She suddenly froze, and spoke slowly, carefully, as if her voice frightened her. “The truth is this: you are one who dies many deaths. These deaths have given the knowing of all things mortal, and in your hand lies the spark of life… and death. Those that die near you carry a trace of themselves that you can bring forth…”
As Deionarra spoke the words, a crawling sensation welled up in the back of my skull… I suddenly felt compelled to look at my hand. As I lifted it up, looked at it, I could SEE the blood coursing sluggishly through my arm, pouring into my muscles, and in turn, giving strength to my bones…
And I knew Deionarra was right. I suddenly remembered how to coax the dimmest spark of life from a body, and bring it forth… the thought both horrified and intrigued me.
“Can you tell me where I am?” I asked.
“Where are you? Why, you are here with me, my Love… as in the times when life was something both of us shared. Now it is the Eternal Boundary that separates us.”
“ ‘Eternal Boundary?’ ”
Deionarra sounded saddened. “It is a barrier I fear you shall never cross, my Love. It is the barrier between your life and what remains of mine…”
As I was about to ask Deionarra about escaping this place, it caught in my throat. It occurred to me that if I told her I was looking for an escape route, she might feel I was abandoning her. I needed to be delicate about it.
“Deionarra, I am in danger. Can you guide me to a place of safety? I shall return as soon as I can to speak to you again.”
“In danger?” Deionarra looked concerned. “Of course, my Love. I will aid you any way I can…” She closed her eyes for a moment, and I watched an ethereal zephyr pass through her body, stirring her hair. After a moment, the zephyr died, and her eyes slowly opened. “Perhaps there is a way.” She stared about her, as if seeking out hidden enemies.
“I sense that this place holds many doors shrouded from mortal eyes. Perhaps you could use one of these portals as a means of escape. Portals are holes in existence, leading to destinations in the inner and outer planes… if you could find the proper key, you could escape through one of them.” Deionarra paused for a moment, as if attempting to remember.
“Portals will reveal themselves when you have the proper ‘key.’ Unfortunately, these keys can be almost anything… an emotion, a piece of wood, a dagger of silvered glass, a scrap of cloth, a tune you hum to yourself… I fear that the Dustmen are the only ones who would know the keys you could use to leave their halls, my Love.”
“Then I shall ask one of them. Farewell, Deionarra.” I turned away, too overcome with emotion to continue talking to the spirit. Deionarra spoke again before I could move away.
“Hold a moment… I learned much when I traveled with you, my Love, and what you have lost, I have retained. I have not divulged all that I know to you. My sight is clear… whilst you fumble in the darkness for a spark of thought.”
“And what is it your sight sees that I do not?” I asked.
“Time itself relaxes its hold as the chill of oblivion slowly claims us, my Love. Glimpses of things yet to come swarm across my vision. I see you, my Love. I see you as you are now, and…” Deionarra grew quiet. I felt apprehension, but the desire to know what she saw was stronger.
“What is it? What do you see?”
“I see what lies ahead for you. It ripples through the planes, stemming outward from this point. Shall I speak of what I see?”
“Tell me.”
“First, I require a promise. Promise you will return. That you will find some means to save me or join me.”
“I swear I will find some means to save you or join you.” I didn’t know what impulse had triggered this statement, but I did know I would be forced to attempt to fulfill my promise.
“This is what my eyes see, my Love, unfettered by the shackles of time…”
“You shall meet enemies three, but none more dangerous than yourself in your full glory. They are shades of evil, of good, and of neutrality given life and twisted by the laws of the planes.”
“You shall come to a prison built of regrets and sorrow, where the shadows themselves have gone mad. There you will be asked to make a terrible sacrifice, my Love. For the matter to be laid to rest, you must destroy that which keeps you alive and be immortal no longer.”
“ ‘Destroy what keeps me alive?’ “ I asked.
“I know that you must die… while you still can. The circle must come to a close, my Love. You were not meant for this life. You must find that which was taken from you and travel beyond, into the lands of the dead.”
“I shall wait for you in death’s halls, my Love.” She smiled, but there was only sadness in it. She closed her eyes, and with an ethereal whisper, she faded.
I turned away from Deionarra’s bier, still stunned at what I had promised. Morte asked a question, in a concerned voice.
“You back with me, chief? You kind of drifted out on me there.”
“No, I’m fine. Do you know who that spirit was?” Morte was puzzled.
“Eh? Spirit?”
“That specter I was talking to. The woman.”
“You were rattling your bone-box with some woman? Where?” Morte looked around, excited. “What did she look like?”
“She was right on top of the bier. Didn’t you see her?”
“Eh… no, you just kind of drifted out for a bit there, just stood there, statue-like. I was a little worried you’d gone addled on me again.”
“I’m all right. Let’s move on.”
I continued moving along the perimeter of the Mortuary. Too bad I didn’t have any idea where any of these ‘portals’ Deionarra had mentioned could be.
However, I did see something ahead almost as good. Doors, which most likely led outside. Hoping I wouldn’t find them locked, I moved towards them. Unfortunately, another damned Dustman had approached on silent feet, and was too close for me to pretend I didn’t see him.
He was a tired-looking man in a black robe. His narrow face was extremely pale, and he didn’t look as if he had been sleeping: his shoulders were slumped, and the flesh sagged loosely beneath his bloodshot eyes. He looked so lost in thought he might not even have noticed me, but I couldn’t count on that.
“Greetings…”
“Greetings…” The man turned to face me and made a slight bow. I suddenly noticed that his eyes weren’t bloodshot so much as they had a red tinge to them. “I am Soego. How may I…” He suddenly seemed to notice my scars, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m sorry, sirrah, are you lost?”
“No.”
“I do not recall admitting you.” Soego looked at me suspiciously, and his eyes gleamed red in the light of the torches. “May I ask what you are doing here?”
“I was here for an internment, but there seems to have been a mistake.”
“Who was being interred? Perhaps the services are taking place somewhere else in the Mortuary.”
“The name is… uh, Adahn.” The lie came easier this time. Soego’s eyes narrowed, and the red tinge I saw in them before seemed more pronounced.
“No one of that name resides within the Mortuary halls, living or dead.” His mouth twitched, and to my surprise, he sniffed the air for a moment.
“Uh… then I must have misspoke.” I silently cursed myself for using that name. Of course the Dustmen would know the names of their dead. I floundered, came up with another excuse, “I am here to see Dhall.”
“Dhall? Dhall the Scrivener can be found in the receiving room on the upper floor.” The corner of Soego’s mouth twitched briefly. “He is rather busy and his health is failing. Unless you have pressing business, I would not disturb him.”
“What’s wrong with Dhall?”
“Oh, there is nothing wrong with him. Dhall is…” Soego clicked his teeth. “…old. His long devotion to cataloging the dead has nearly run its course. Death will no doubt soon follow the wasting sickness he has contracted.”
“You know, I could do this another time. Can you let me out now?” Soego nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Why… of course, of course. Let me open the front gate for you.” He moved to the doors, and unlocked them. I had the strong feeling that he knew I was lying, but for reasons of his own he didn’t want to expose me, or didn’t care what I did. I hurried to leave the building.
* * *
A slab in the Mortuary, where a short time before the corpse of an immortal lay. The flickering light in the room cast moving shadows. A careful observer might have noted that certain shadows didn’t obey the motion of the light, but moved on their own, as if driven by a malign intelligence. The shadows moved about the slab for a few moments, as if questing. Then all was as before; the only shadows present were those caused by the simple blockage by objects of the light.

The Mortuary

Sebastian — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 20:52:37 +0000

A Dream: Lying on a slab, in a mortuary. A pillar covered with names. Racks of skulls. A symbol. A woman. A ghost.
I awoke, on a slab, in what was obviously a mortuary. As I levered myself up, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A floating skull. No, I realized as it spoke: a floating, talking, skull.
“Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? I thought you were a deader for sure.” I was confused, and had trouble focusing on what the skull was saying.
“Wh…? Who are you?”
“Uh… who am I? How about you start? Who’re you?”
“I… don’t know. I can’t remember.” I realized that I didn’t remember anything about myself.
“You can’t remember your name? Heh. Well, NEXT time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. Name’s Morte. I’m trapped in here, too.”
“Trapped?”
“Yeah, since you haven’t had time to get your legs yet, here’s the chant: I’ve tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt.” I needed to orient myself, and find out from the skull where I was.
“We’re locked in… where? What is this place?”
“It’s called the ‘Mortuary’… it’s a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider.” Could I have died? Did that explain the lack of memories?
“ ‘The Mortuary?’ What… am I dead?”
“Not from where I’m standing. You got scars a-plenty, though… looks like some berk painted you with a knife. All the more reason to give this place the laugh before whoever carved you up comes back to finish the job.”
“Scars? How bad are they?”
“Well… the carvings on your chest aren’t TOO bad… but the ones on your back…” Morte paused. “Say, looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. Spells out something…”
I looked down at myself, and realized the truth about the scarring. They covered every visible bit of skin. There was a tattoo on my arm as well, the same one from my dream. I wondered what was on my back, though.
“Tattoos on my back? What do they say?”
“Heh! Looks like you come with directions…” Morte cleared his throat. “Let’s see… it starts with… ‘I know you feel like you’ve been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTER yourself. Among your possessions is a JOURNAL that’ll shed some light on the dark of the matter. PHAROD can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he’s not in the dead-book already.’ ”
“Pharod…? Does it say anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s a bit more…” Morte paused. “Let’s see… it goes on…”
‘Don’t lose the journal or we’ll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, DO NOT tell anyone WHO you are or WHAT happens to you, or they’ll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod.’
“No wonder my back hurts; there’s a damn novel written there. As for that journal I’m supposed to have with me… was there one with me while I was lying here?”
“No… you were stripped to the skins when you arrived here. ‘Sides, looks like you got enough of a journal penned on your body.” The skull wasn’t being that much help.
“What about Pharod? Do you know him?”
“Nobody I know… but then again, I don’t know many people. Still, SOME berk’s got to know where to find Pharod… uh, once we get out of here, that is.”
“How do we get out of here?”
“Well, all the doors are locked, so we’ll need the key. Chances are, one of the walking corpses in this room has it.”
“Walking corpses?” I queried.
“Yeah, the Mortuary keepers use dead bodies as cheap labor. The corpses are dumb as stones, but they’re harmless, and won’t attack you unless you attack first.” The thought of killing, for some reason, made me uneasy.
“Is there some other way? I don’t want to kill them just for a key.”
“What, you think it’s going to hurt their feelings? They’re DEAD. But if you want a bright side to this: if you kill them, at least they’ll have a rest before their keepers raise them up to work again.”
“Well, all right… I’ll take one of them down and get the key.”
I approached one of the zombies mindlessly moving about the room. The corpse stopped and stared blankly at me. I could see the number “782” carved into his forehead, and his lips were stitched closed. The faint smell of formaldehyde emanated from the body.
“This looks like the lucky petitioner here, chief. Look… he’s got the key there in his hand.” I didn’t need Morte’s help to see that. It was holding the key tightly in its left hand, its thumb and forefinger locked around it in a death grip. I probably needed to hack the corpse’s hand off to free the key.
I must have a weapon to get the key. I searched the drawers in the room I was in until I came up with a scalpel. Morte, who was following my every move, chimed in.
“All right, you found a scalpel! Now, go get those corpses… and don’t worry, I’ll stay back and provide valuable tactical advice.”
“Maybe you could help me, Morte.”
“I WILL be helping you. Good advice is hard to come by.” I felt sudden anger towards the jabbering skull.
“I meant help in attacking the corpse.”
“Me? I’m a romantic, not a soldier. I’d just get in the way.”
“When I attack this corpse, you better be right there with me or you’ll be the next thing that I plunge this scalpel in.”
“Eh… all right. I’ll help you.” I approached the zombie again.
“I need that key, corpse… looks like you’re not long for this world.” Several thrusts with the scalpel quickly turned the creature into a now unmoving corpse, and I used the key I had obtained to open one of the doors of the room.
“Some advice, chief: I’d keep it quiet from here on — no need to put any more corpses in the dead book than necessary… especially the femmes. Plus, killing them might draw the caretakers here.”
“I don’t think you mentioned it before… who are these caretakers?”
“They call themselves the ‘Dustmen.’ You can’t miss ‘em: They have an obsession with black and rigor mortis of the face. They’re an addled bunch of ghoulish death-worshippers; they believe everybody should die… sooner better than later.” I wondered about the caretakers.
“I’m confused… why do these Dustmen care if I escape?”
“Weren’t you listening?! I said the Dusties believe EVERYBODY’S got to die, sooner better than later. You think the corpses you’ve seen are happier in the dead book than out of it?” Once started, I found I was full of questions.
“The corpses here… where did they all come from?”
“Death visits the Planes every day, chief. These lummoxes are all that’s left of the poor sods who sold their bodies to the caretakers after death.”
“Before you said something about making sure I didn’t kill any female corpses. Why?”
“Wh — are you serious? Look, chief, these dead chits are the last chance for a couple of hardy bashers like us. We need to be chivalrous… no hacking them up for keys, no lopping their limbs off, things like that.” I couldn’t understand where Morte was leading.
“Last Chance? What are you talking about?”
“Chief, THEY’re dead, WE’re dead… see where I’m going? Eh? Eh?” I could now understand, but I had difficulty believing.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Chief, we already got an opening line with these limping ladies. We’ve all died at least once: we’ll have something to talk about. They’ll appreciate men with our kind of death experience.”
“But… wait… didn’t you say before that I’m not dead?”
“Well… all right, you might not be dead, but I am. And from where I’m standing, I wouldn’t mind sharing a coffin with some of these fine, sinewy cadavers I see here.” Morte started clacking his teeth, as if in anticipation. “ ‘Course, the caretakers would have to part with them first, and that’s not likely…”
Morte continued, “Look, chief. You’re still a little addled after your kiss with death. So two bits of advice for you: one, if you got questions, ask me, all right?”
“All right… I’ll… try to remember that.”
“Second, if you’re half as forgetful as you seem to be, start writing stuff down — whenever you come across something that might be important, jot it down so you don’t forget.”
“If I had that journal I was supposed to have with me, I’d do that.” I felt a touch of anger at whoever had removed the journal.
“Start a new one, then, chief. No loss. There’s plenty of parchment and ink around here to last you.”
“Hmmmm. All right. It couldn’t hurt… I’ll make a new one, then.”
“Use it to keep track of your movements. If you ever start to get cloudy on important things, like who you are… or more importantly, who I am… use it to refresh your memory.”
The next room had more of the … zombies. They were wandering about, most obviously on tasks set by the Dustmen. One in particular, though, caught my attention. The male corpse was lumbering along a triangular path. Once it reached one of the corners of the triangle, it paused, then turned and staggered towards the next corner. “965” was tattooed on the side of its skull. As I approached, it halted and stared at me.
“Heh. Looks like someone forgot to tell this sod to stop walking the Rule-of-Three,” Morte commented.
“What do you mean?”
“These corpses don’t have much left in the attic, so they can’t do more than one task at a time… when they’re told to do something, they’ll keep doing it until someone tells them to stop. This poor sod probably finished some task, and they forgot to tell him.”
“The ‘Rule-of-Three.’ What did you mean by that?”
“Eh? Well, the Rule-of-Three is one of those ‘laws’ about the Planes, about things tending to happen in threes… or everything’s composed of three parts… or there’s always three choices, and so on and so forth.”
“You don’t sound like you hold much faith in it.”
“It’s a load of wash, if you ask me. If you look for a number, any number, and try to attach some great meaning to it, you’re going to find plenty of coincidences.”
I left the corpse tracing its triangular path and moved into the next room. In the center of the room was the first living person I had seen, obviously one of the Dustmen. He was writing in a huge book.
The scribe looked very old… his skin was wrinkled and had a slight trace of yellow, like old parchment. Charcoal-gray eyes lay within an angular face, and a large white beard flowed down the front of his robes like a waterfall. His breathing was ragged and irregular, but even his occasional coughing did not slow the scratching of his quill pen. The book he was writing must have contained thousands of names. As I approached him, he did not look up from what he was doing.
Morte interrupted, “Whoa, chief! What are you doing?!”
“I was going to speak with this scribe. He might know something about how I got here.”
“Look, rattling your bone-box with Dusties should be the LAST thing —”
Before Morte could finish his rant, the scribe began coughing violently. After a moment or two, the coughing spell died down, and the scribe’s breathing resumed its ragged wheeze.
“And we especially shouldn’t be swapping the chant with sick Dusties. C’mon, let’s leave. The quicker we give this place the laugh, the bet —” Before Morte could finish, the scribe’s gray eyes flickered to me.
“The weight of years hangs heavy upon me, Restless One.” He placed down his quill. “…but I do not yet count deafness among my ailments.” I wondered if he could help.
“ ‘restless One?’ Do you know me?”
“Know you? I…” There was a trace of bitterness in the scribe’s voice as he spoke. “I have never known you, Restless One. No more than you have known yourself.” He was silent for a moment. “For you have forgotten, have you not?”
“Who are you?”
“As always, the question. And the wrong question, as always.” He bowed slightly, but the movement suddenly sent him into a bout of coughing. “I…” He paused for a moment, caught his breath. “I… am Dhall.”
“What is this place?”
“You are in the Mortuary, Restless One. Again you have… come…” Before he could finish, Dhall broke into a fit of coughing. After a moment, he calmed himself and his breathing resumed its ragged wheeze. “…this is the waiting room for those about to depart the shadow of this life.”
“This is where the dead are brought to be interred or cremated. It is our responsibility as Dustmen to care for the dead, those who have left this shadow of life and walk the path to True Death.” Dhall’s voice dropped in concern. “Your wounds must have exacted a heavy toll if you do not recognize this place. It is almost your home.”
“Shadow of life?”
“Yes, a shadow. You see, Restless One, this life… it is not real. Your life, my life, they are shadows, flickerings of what life once was. This ‘life’ is where we end up after we die. And here we remain… trapped. Caged. Until we can achieve the True Death.”
“True Death?”
“True Death is non-existence. A state devoid of reason, of sensation, of passion.” Dhall coughed, then gave a ragged breath. “A state of purity.”
“Perhaps you can explain why the Dustmen want me dead.”
Dhall sighed. “It is said there are souls who can never attain the True Death. Death has forsaken them, and their names shall never be penned in the Dead Book. To awake from death as you have done… suggests you are one of these souls. Your existence is unacceptable to our faction.”
“ ‘Unacceptable?’ That doesn’t sound like it leaves me in a good position.”
“You must understand. Your existence is a blasphemy to them. Many of our faction would order you cremated… if they were aware of your affliction.”
“You’re a Dustman. But you don’t seem to be in favor of killing me. Why not?”
“Because forcing our beliefs upon you is not just. You must give up this shadow of life on your own, not because we force you to.” Dhall looked about to break into another coughing jag, but he managed to hold it in with some effort. “As long as I remain at my post, I will protect your right to search for your own truth.”
“You say that I have been here more than once. How is it that the Dustmen do not recognize me?”
“I am a scribe, a cataloger of all the shells that come to the Mortuary.” Dhall broke into a fit of coughing, then steadied himself. “Only I see the faces of those that lie upon our slabs. The dark of your existence lies safe with me.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I know scant little of you, Restless One. I know little more of those that have journeyed with you and who now lie in our keeping.” Dhall sighed. “I ask that you no longer ask others to join with you, Restless One — where you walk, so walks misery. Let your burden be your own.”
“There are others who have journeyed with me? And they are here?”
“Do you not know the woman’s corpse interred in the memorial hall below? I had thought that she had traveled with you in the past…” Dhall looked like he was about to start coughing again, then caught his breath. “Am I mistaken?
“Where is her body?” I asked, even as I wondered how I knew her.
“The northwest memorial hall on the floor below us. Check the biers there… her name should be on one of the memorial plaques. Mayhap that will revive your memory.”
“Are any others interred here who journeyed with me?”
“Doubtless there are, but I know not their names, nor where they lie. One such as you has left a path many have walked, and few have survived.” Dhall gestured around me. “All dead come here. Some must have traveled with you once.
“How did I get here?”
“Your moldy chariot ferried you to the Mortuary, Restless One. You would think you were royalty based on the number of loyal subjects that lay stinking and festering upon the cart that carried you.”
“Your body was somewhere in the middle of the heap, sharing its fluids with the rest of the mountain of corpses.” Dhall broke into another violent fit of coughing, finally catching his breath minutes later. “Your ‘seneschal’ Pharod was, as always, pleased to accept a few moldy coppers to dump the lot of you at the Mortuary gate.”
“Who is this Pharod?”
“He is a… collector of the dead.” Dhall drew a ragged breath, then continued. “We have such people in our city that scavenge the bodies of those that have walked the path of True Death and bring them to us so that they may be interred properly.”
“Doesn’t sound like you like Pharod much.”
“There are some I respect, Restless One.” Dhall took a ragged breath and steadied himself. “Pharod is not one of them. He wears his ill repute like a badge of honor and takes liberties with the possessions of the dead. He is a knight of the post, cross-trading filth of the lowest sort.” He paused a moment, frowning at the thought of Pharod.
“All Pharod brings to our walls come stripped of a little less of their dignity than they possessed in life. Pharod takes whatever he may pry from their stiffening fingers.”
“Did this Pharod take anything from me?”
Dhall paused, considering. “Most likely. Are you missing anything… especially anything of value?” His voice dipped as he frowned. “Not that Pharod would take exception to anything that wasn’t physically grafted to your body, and sometimes even that’s not enough to give his greedy mind pause.”
“I am missing a journal.”
“A journal? If it was of any value, then it is likely it lies in Pharod’s hands.” I now had another reason to find this man.
“Where can I find this Pharod?”
“If events persist as they have, Restless One, you have a much greater chance of Pharod finding you and bringing you to us again before you find whatever ooze puddle he wallows in this time.”
“Nevertheless, I must find him.” I said, annoyance edging my voice.
A slight warning creeped into Dhall’s tone. “Do not seek out Pharod, Restless One. I am certain that it will simply come full circle again, with you none the wiser and Pharod a few coppers richer. Accept death, Restless One. Do not perpetuate your circle of misery.”
“I have to find him. Do you know where he is?”
Dhall was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, he seemed to do so reluctantly. “I do not know under which gutterstone Pharod lairs at the moment, but I imagine that he can be found somewhere beyond the Mortuary gates, in the Hive. Perhaps someone there will know where you can find him.”
“Earlier you mentioned my wounds. What did you mean?”
“Yes, the wounds that decorate your body… they look as if they would have sent a lesser man along the path of the True Death, yet it seems as if many of them have healed already.” Dhall coughed violently for a moment, then steadied himself. “But those are only the surface wounds.”
To my questioning look he replied, “I speak of the wounds of the mind. You have forgotten much, have you not? Mayhap your true wounds run much deeper than the scars that decorate your surface…” Dhall coughed again. “…but that is something that only you would know for certain.”
For the first time, I considered Dhall as an individual, rather than as a talking information source. I felt a trace of concern.
“You sound ill. Are you not well?”
“I am close now to the True Death, Restless One. It will not be long before I pass beyond the Eternal Boundary and find the peace I have been seeking. I tire of this mortal sphere…” Dhall gave a ragged sigh. “The planes hold no more wonders for one such as I.”
“I do not wish to live forever nor live again, Restless One. I could not bear it.”
I stood for a moment, considering him and reveling in this new found feeling of ‘concern.’ But I needed to find a way out of the Mortuary.
“So be it. Farewell, Dhall.” As I turned to leave, Dhall spoke.
“Know this: I do not envy you, Restless One. To be reborn as you would be a curse that I could not bear. You must come to terms with it. At some point, your path will return you here…” Dhall coughed, the sound rattling in his throat. “It is the way of all things flesh and bone.”
I moved towards an exit at the far side of the room, nearly bowling over a female zombie.
This female corpse was making the rounds from slab to slab in the room. Her hair was knotted into a long braid and looped around her neck like a noose. Someone had stenciled the number “1096” onto her forehead, and her lips had been stitched closed.
Surprised, I mumbled “Uh…nice braid.” The corpse did not respond, doubtless not even knowing I was there. As I made to move on, Morte spoke up.
“Psssst. You see the way she was looking at me? Huh? You see that? The way she was following the curve of my occipital bone?” I tried a joke, as far as I could remember the first I might ever have tried.
“You mean that blank-eyed beyond-the-grave stare?”
“Wha — are you BLIND?! She was scouting me out! It was shameless the way she WANTED me.”
“I think you and your imagination need some time away from each other.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you’ve been dead as long as I have, you know the signals. They may be too SUBTLE for you to pick up on, but that’s why I’ll be spending MY nights with some luscious recently-dead chit while you’re standing around goin’ ‘huh?’ ‘Whatzz goin’ on?’ ‘Where’s my muh-muh-memories?’ ”
“Whatever, Morte. Let’s go.”
As I moved on into another room, I noticed another of the Dustmen busy at a bier. She was a slight young woman with pale features. The sunken flesh around her cheeks and neck made her appear as if she were starving. She seemed intent on dissecting the corpse in front of her, prodding the chest with a finger.
I moved up to her, and said “Greetings.”
The woman did not respond… she seemed too intent on the body in front of her. As I watched her work, I suddenly noticed her hands… her fingers were talons. They were darting in and out of the corpse’s chest cavity like knives, removing organs.
“What’s wrong with your hands?” I muttered, but Morte must have heard me, because he replied.
“Eh… she’s a tiefling, chief. They got fiend blood in their veins, usually ‘cause some ancestor of theirs shared knickers with one demon or another. Makes some of ‘em addled in the head… and addled-looking, too.”
Determined now, I tapped the woman, to get her attention.
The woman jumped and whipped around to face me… I could now see her eyes, a rotting yellow, with small orange dots for pupils. As she saw me, her expression changed from surprise to irritation, and she frowned at me.
She didn’t seem to hear my attempted greetings, instead leaning forward, squinting, as if she couldn’t quite make me out… whatever was wrong with her eyes must have made her terribly near-sighted.
“You —” She clacked her taloned fingers together, then made a strange motion with her hands. “Find THREAD and EM-balming juice, bring HERE, to Ei-Vene. Go — Go — Go.”
I moved off, smiling to myself at her reaction. I tried to put her out of my mind, but couldn’t shake the conviction that I had by implication undertaken a task, a task I didn’t feel right about ignoring. Fortunately, a quick search of the biers and tables in the immediate area turned up the necessary items. When I returned to Ei-Vene, she was still dissecting the corpse’s chest with her talons. Again, tapping her to get her attention, I gave her the thread and embalming fluid.
Without missing a beat, Ei-Vene snapped the thread from my hands and hooked it around one of her talons, then began sewing up the corpse’s chest. She then took the embalming fluid, and began to apply a layer to the corpse.
Fascinated by her work, I stood and watched her. Within minutes, she was finished. She clicked her talons, then turned to face me. To my surprise, she extended her hand and dragged her talons along my arms and chest. I stiffened, playing my part as a zombie, ignoring Morte’s comment, “Looks like you have a new friend, chief. You two need some time together, or…?”
As she traced my arms and chest, I suddenly noticed she seemed to be examining my scars. She withdrew her talons, clicking them twice, then bent forward and examined some of the tattoos on my chest.
“Hmmph. Who write on you? Hivers do that? No respect for zomfies. Zomfies, not paintings.” She sniffed, then poked one of my scars. “This one bad shape, many scars, no preserfs.”
Her talons suddenly hooked into the thread I had brought her, and lightning-like, she jabbed another talon into the skin near one of my scars. The sensation was curiously painless as Ei-Vene began to stitch up my scars.
When she was done, she sniffed me, frowned, then stabbed her fingers into the embalming fluid. Within minutes, she had dabbed my body with the fluid… and strangely enough, it made me feel better. Morte couldn’t resist a comment.
“This may be the second time in my life I’m thankful I don’t have a nose.”
Ei-Vene put the last touches on my body, gave me another sniff, nodded, then made a shooing motion with her talons. “Done. Go — go.”
I stumbled around a bit more, then found a stairwell down to the ground floor. I saw another of the Dustmen, who I approached. To my dismay, he regarded me with an alert, stony gaze, saying “Are you lost?”
“No.” I quickly replied.
“If you are not lost, what is your business here?”
“I was here for an internment, but there seems to be have been a mistake. “ For one brief, giddy moment, I wanted to continue, to say the mistake was I was the internment, but I wasn’t quite dead.
“Who was interred? Perhaps the services are taking place somewhere else in the Mortuary.”
“That could be. Where are these other services taking place?”
“Several internment chambers line the perimeter of the Mortuary. They follow the curve of the wall on the first and second floors. Do you know the name of the deceased?” Trapped by my own prevarication, I could only give one answer.
“Yes,” I replied. The Dustman was silent, obviously waiting for more. I had to make up something.
“The name is… uh, Adahn.”
“That name is not familiar to me. Check with one of the guides at the front gate… they may be able to direct you better than I.”
“Very well. I will do that. Farewell.” I moved away, glad that the Dustman seemed so eager to return to his interrupted duties that no suspicions had been raised.