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The Gate to Aragnatha By Lynn LeFey Chapter 1: Dungeons of Fantasy It was Wednesday, 5:30 PM, and Andrea Thomas walked toward the comic and game shop. The bell cuffs of her sagging denim shredded against the concrete. The hot late-summer wind blew through her excruciatingly short haircut. In a few more weeks, she intended on getting her hair dyed green, but for now, there wasn't enough to worry about. She pushed against the glass door leading into "Dungeons of Fantasy". At least the air conditioning cut some of the horrible summer humidity. A quiet ping chimed as she broke the light beam crossing the entrance. Tony looked up from his pen-whipped copy of "Comics Preview". "An-DEE!" he shouted. "Yo, what up, To-NEE!" she replied, flashing a nonsensical mock gang sign. "Latest issues of Gen-13 and the summer pin-up from Marvel are on the rack. Hey... I'm digging your "Disturbed" tee-shirt," Tony said. Andy didn't know if Tony actually liked her or just faked it, so that she'd do all her business at the shop. It didn't really matter. She slid her backpack off and dropped it beside the vending machine. She dug in her deep pockets and retrieved a handful of coins, dropping them in the machine. She selected the button marked "Mountain Dew" and listened to the machine disgorge her beverage of choice. She walked through the shop, looking at the various titles that might interest her. The hardcover collected volume of "Astro-City" with the Steeljack story was on the shelves. She grabbed it and carted her treasure to the front of the store. She'd missed two issues of the arc, and hated leaving a story unfinished, especially one that well done. She had a soft spot in her for the underdog hero. "Hey, could you put this in my pull box?" she asked. "No problem. Hey... you're, like, three dollars short of getting your twenty five-dollar bonus. You pick up, like, one issue of anything and you'll be good to go," Tony said enthusiastically. "Dude, you know I want nothing more in life than to one day do what you do for a living. You've gotta just LOVE it," she said. "Well, the pay sucks, but any job that allows me to read comics all day, draw, and see all the newest games when they first get released... Yeah, I guess it could be worse. I could be flipping burgers," Tony said, smiling. She flipped through her pull stack and found the latest "Amazing Spider- Man". She'd been following it for a while, since she heard about the movie... and since JMS was now writing it. She got hooked on J. Michael Straczynski after seeing "Babylon 5". Any sci-fi series with a lesbian as second in command of a space station just HAD to rock. And honestly, Claudia Christian was HOT! She retrieved her wallet from her back pocket, mostly by following the heavy length of chain connected to it. She unbuttoned the heavy buttons securing it, and withdrew a five. She also rummaged through the dice bin, finally finding a smoke gray dodecahedron (a twenty sided die). Tony rang up her new acquisitions. "You want the hardcover for the bonus?" he asked. "Yep. Sweet! A hardcover, for less than five bucks." She knew that she'd spent hundreds in this shop and it wasn't really "free"... but it still felt nice. She unzipped her backpack, and slid the new stuff in between her game books. The backpack bore two emblems. One was a patch of a rainbow triangle, the other a pin proclaiming "Grrl Power!" Andy wandered to the back of the shop and opened the door that led into the basement. The lights were on. She thought the DM must already be in. Only moments passed before the ping sounded again. This time, Tony looked up to see another regular, someone else here for the Wednesday night game. Michael Dickinson wore his usual shabby sweats and white Manga tee shirt. The shirt showed Aoi Futaba-Chan, a cute girl from "You're Under Arrest", a comic series Tony had never seen. Michael's long unkempt hair obscured his face. He stormed across the shop to the soda machine. Another Mountain Dew was dispensed. Tony didn't even get a word in before Michael was down the stairs, but he could have sworn Michael's lip was quivering like he was on the edge of tears. Tony tried not to think about it. Michael was a nice guy, but a total geek and a fairy. Phil Johnson and Larry Carroll came in together a few minutes later. Both were fairly big game nuts as far as Tony could tell, and both were older... perhaps mid-thirties. Phil was rather soft around the middle, although he exercised like a madman. He spoke constantly of the curse of "Fat Genes". Larry, on the other hand was the type with a fast metabolism. He also lifted weights, but to little avail. He was still thin, at best. "Good evening Gentlemen. I think the rest of the group is assembled and waiting. Can I do anything for you before the game?" Tony asked in his most professional tone. "Yeah. Can I see my pull box? And, did the special order small-press stuff come in?" Phil asked. Tony pulled the reserved books for Phil, then began flipping through inventory lists. "Sorry, dude... the small press stuff is delayed. Some hold up in distro," Tony apologized. "No problem. Is the Stronghold Builder's Guide on the shelf yet?" Phil went on. "Yep. Three copies left," Tony replied without needing to look. Tony knew Phil was a fairly strong supporter of the game industry, and tried to keep such customers well pleased. Tony rang him up, and bagged the new books. "I'll probably stop by Saturday to give the Guide a quick flip-through. Don't worry if you've cleared the three copies before then. It's no big thing," Phil said, picking up his bag. "Great, I'll be here," Tony said. Larry had dug out a handful of dice. "Could you ring these up... my other dice have been rolling for shit lately. I think they're out of juice," He stated. "No prob," Tony said, completing the transaction. The shop owner had come across a good idea using some of their basement storage for a game night. It brought in decent business. Phil and Larry descended into the basement. Tony went back to his copy of "Comics Preview". ... The cramped basement smelled of moist cardboard. Old faded cutout figures and game isle-caps lay strewn in the shadows. Inventory boxes were mostly kept in the storeroom upstairs, so there was really nothing to fear from a group being down here unattended. The concrete floor, folding metal chairs and table, and unadorned fluorescent light fixture all sang to the heart of any real gamer. As Phil and Larry approached, Phil took notice of Michael. He sat with his head laying left side down in his folded arms. Andrea busied herself with arranging her "Player's Handbook", character sheet, dice, and sheets of notes. Phil sat on the left of the table, next to Andrea. Larry sat next to Michael. At the head of the table, behind the quad- fold DM screen sat the feared Dungeon Master, Carl Asair. The players were mostly unaware that they had graduated, by process of elimination into this Wednesday game. Phil had stayed up late nights discussing the finer points of plot with Carl, and knew he had very specific things he wanted to see in his players. These four were some of the best he'd had in a while. Carl finally looked up from his notes, and took notice of Michael. "Michael... what's wrong? Do you feel all right?" Carl was a man who loved getting into a game, and could seem sadistic and cruel in his creation of horrifying situations in which to place his players, but he was also very clear to separate that from the real world. Michael lifted his head, and looked at Carl. The area around Michael's left eye was purple and swollen. The white of the eye was red; looking like it had a broken blood vessel. His lip still trembled and he sniffled as a tear ran down his cheek. "I got jumped again at school." He looked at Carl pathetically. A general burst of frustration and anger erupted in the small group. "Mikey, you gotta learn to stand up for yourself," Larry began. "Larry, wasn't it you that used to get beat up in High School all the time for being skinny?" Phil commented. "Yeah... but that was a different time," Larry returned. "Fuck all that! Michael, tell me who did it, and I'll go kick their asses!" Andrea said. "Yeah, great. 'If you don't leave me alone, I'll have my bull-dyke friend here bust your face'... Oh, THAT would help!" Michael stated sarcastically, his face contorting with pain. "The term is 'Stone-Butch'... thank you," Andrea returned. "Are you sure you want to be here tonight? One of us could give you a ride home, if you want," Carl said sympathetically. "No. I want to be here. Actually... I DON'T want to be here. I want to be HERE," Michael said, pointing at the large-scale map of the lands of Aragnatha lying on the table. "I'd rather be Tilara." A moment of silence followed. "I hesitate to say it, but I don't know if it's healthy burying yourself in fantasy if you have more pressing real-world problems," Phil started. "The issues aren't going to go away, and ignoring them just allows them to fester." "You're one to talk there, Phil. When was the last time you had a date?" Larry pointed out. "Look... I'm a fat, middle-aged geek-boy. Where, EXACTLY, are the ladies that are interested in such a catch, Larry? I'm not here avoiding my reality. I'm here because this is more entertaining than sit-coms. It seems obvious to me that Michael needs to fess up to the fact that he's... well... gay at least, and most likely some variation on transgendered, considering his propensity for playing female characters. With that truth may come the courage to face his reality, and make it what he needs it to be," Phil orated. "What about you? You're playing a female character as well, Phil. Does that make YOU gay or transgendered?" Larry returned. Carl and Andrea seemed nearly confounded by this exchange. "True, I play a female character, but if you recall, my characters have not CONSISTANTLY been female. This is not wish-fulfillment for me, it's simply stretching my role-playing repertoire," Phil argued. "It doesn't matter why I play these characters. I could never go through transition. My dad would kill me. I have nightmares about it all the time," Michael said softly. Andrea circled around the back of the table and stood behind Michael, hugging him. Phil and Larry, being well beyond the age of the two younger players, simply watched. Larry made a vague attempt at comforting Michael by patting his arm, but in general felt lame. Neither knew how to handle interaction with a young man so open with his emotions. They'd both grown up in an era where being a man meant sucking it up and not showing your feelings. Larry quickly lost interest in the human drama, and began readying his books and papers. Phil sat watching as the two high school kids walked to the staircase and sat down. He contemplated the difference in Andrea's gruff presentation and her affection and sensitivity toward Michael's plight. "We really can call the game for one night if you don't feel up to being here," Phil said to the two at the stairs. He thought that maybe it would be better if the two went off to Andrea's house, giving Michael some time to think. "No. Really, I want to play... Just give me a few minutes, okay?" Michael mumbled. Michael rarely seemed enthused about anything. A few times in the game, Phil thought he'd seen real excitement in the young man's eyes. Otherwise he seemed to live in a constant state of apathy. Phil's own experience as "the fat kid" gave him some appreciation for what Michael was going through, but he had no idea what the constant torment of being a "girly-boy" or whatever, was like. "I can't even imagine a kid being openly gay when I grew up," Larry said quietly to Phil. "Really... I can't imagine being gay, for that matter." "Some kind of homophobia there, Larry?" Phil asked lightly. "No... come on, man. In college, I experimented with... well... virtually everything: drugs, sex, religion. There's a point where you just know you don't like something. Thinking about doing guys just does nothing for me," Larry said, somewhat flushed. "Carl... what's your take on all this?" Phil threw a glance sideways at Carl, sitting at the far end of the table. He'd been staring intently at something behind the DM screen. "Sorry... what?" He snapped back to reality. "Did you ever think you'd live to see the day when youth were able to be openly gay in the public school system? I mean, you're from about the same age group as Larry and I, right?" Phil questioned. "Honestly?" Carl took a breath and exhaled. "I didn't grow up in the American school system. But, in my homeland, homosexuality wasn't all that well accepted either. I guess like here, it's something of an individual basis, but the culture just didn't really approve. Maybe with the exception of the extremely wealthy, where it was almost something of a status symbol," Carl stated, still rather distracted. "And where ARE you from? I never caught any accent from you," Larry interrogated. "Why, Mr. Carroll... I am from the MYSTERIOUS lands of Aragnatha!" Carl said with a horribly campy over-exaggerated gesture that nearly sent both players at the table into fits of laughter. Andrea and Michael returned to the table. Michael held the cold can of soda to his swollen eye. "So, if your character isn't wish-fulfillment, what is it?" Larry asked Phil. "Nightshade? I was brought up in a strict southern Baptist home. Nightshade is my look at the world through the eyes of a person not fettered with all the moral baggage I was given," Phil stated. Carl raised an eyebrow, impressed with how gracefully Phil had summed up the genesis of his character. "Why female then?" Larry continued. "I think someone as sneaky as Nightshade would have more innate power as a female. It's easier to sneak into some place if people take you to be harmless. It's also easier to seduce the people in power, which are usually male. And what about Hroken? Why did you make him?" Phil returned the question to Larry. "I don't know. It's my first divine spell caster, but at heart, I can't get away from wanting to hack the shit out of beasties. So, I decided to play a cleric of a God of War. Maybe the dwarf thing is a bit connected to being tired of being skinny. I know you bitch about your childhood, and how you got reamed for being overweight. I got it at least as bad for being rail-thin. At least when you're fat, you have the mass and muscle to kick some ass. I took Kung-Fu for six years after high school just to regain some sense of personal security," Larry admitted. "You know, Larry, you're the only player running a character that matches their actual physical gender in this game?" Carl interjected. "Yeah, I had thought about that once, and what it said about our group. Since you picked the players, maybe you have a better idea why that happened." Larry returned the ball to Carl's court. "I knew Michael would play a female character. I actually expected others to play characters that matched their own gender," Carl admitted. "So, why did you play a male character, Andy?" Larry looked at the young woman across the table. "Because I wanted to play a big, intimidating motherfucker. I'm not talking about like Xena. I wanted someone who people would fear just by looking at. That, and I wanted someone with a huge raging wanker," she added for shock value. The table erupted with laughter. Even Michael managed a smile. "Forgive me if this question sounds stupid, but you told Michael you preferred the term 'Stone Butch'. What exactly does that mean?" Larry asked Andrea. "Well, it's like... I love women. I mean, they drive me nuts, but I only want to be the one doing the touching and stuff. I don't want them to touch me back," she explained. "Why?" Larry asked, honestly curious. "I don't know. Maybe it's some freaky control thing. Some of it is I don't really want to be reminded that I have the... The parts I have," she said, trailing off a little. "You don't want to be female?" Larry pressed. "I mean..." Andrea stalled, looking at the others. "No, not really. It sucks, the whole being on the rag thing. And like, I get no respect as a girl. Plus... there are a lot more hetero chicks than dykes," she added. Somewhere inside, she felt like she was breaking some sacred lesbian oath. Men are bad, being a man is bad, wanting to be a man is bad, but it was how she felt. She'd spent the last two years accepting she was a lesbian, and finding a safe haven in their collective arms. There was the sense of belonging to a real community, and her statement was like an admission that some of their rhetoric was bullshit, and moreover, she was not truly one of them. She stared down, feeling vaguely like some part of her world was eroding at the edges. "What does that make you?" Larry asked. "I..." Andrea was totally at a loss. "It makes her a human, like the rest of us. We all face confusion and the difficulty of coming to grips with who we are. She's still in the process. Why try pigeonholing her into a label?" Phil jumped in. "Sounds like you're a trans-man," Michael said softly. Andrea looked across the table at her friend, meeting his gaze, but saying nothing. "What the hell is a trans-man?" Larry asked, somewhat confused by the new term. "Well, transsexuals go both ways, you know? Men become women, and women become men. Trans-men would be the counterpart to M-t-F's... umm, that's 'Male-to-Females'. They are F-t-M's... Female-to-Males," Michael stated. He usually spoke with little force of presence in his manner. Here, he showed a bit of confidence in his statement. "Damn! It sounds like we're not the first to bring to your attention that you have transgendered tendencies," Larry stated. "No. Look... I know I'm a boy. I know people think I'm gay, but I don't think I'm gay. I know gay guys. I get hit on by them all the time. I give off the vibe or something, but there is a fundamental difference between me and them," Michael explained. "And that is...?" Larry cajoled. "They want to keep their penis. I don't. I admit I like boys, but the thought of doing it with boys as a boy does nothing for me. I want to be... well, I want to be a girl. No... that's not exactly true. In some ways, I AM a girl. I mean, when I sleep, I dream of being with guys as a girl. I relate to other girls better than I do with boys. I mean, even you and Phil, I see it in your eyes when I'm around. Something about me makes you both uncomfortable," He pointed out. "I have to admit, I don't know how to read you most of the time, Michael... but I'm not disturbed by you. And I certainly don't dislike you," Phil assured his young friend. "Yeah. Do you think Phil and I would be here every Wednesday to game with you if you freaked us out?" Larry verified. "I guess not," Michael conceded. A moment of silence followed. "Well... if we're all done with our little 'psychology of role-playing 101', perhaps we could get on with the game?" Carl stated lightheartedly. The players shuffled briefly through their character sheets and notes, reading up on events from the previous game. Phil, in particular rifled through copious notes. The others mostly spent a few minutes reacquainting themselves with the nuances of their characters. "We ready?" Carl asked after a few minutes. The chorus of positive replies told him it was show time. "Okay. Last game you all discovered that there may be an heir to the throne in Hron-Borin, a daughter of the king, somewhere in the High Mountains to the North and West. Kulnak, this is your old stomping ground, and not too far from Hrokin's Clan. You've all been hoofing it for nearly a week. The mountains loom near, and the Wandering Plains sweep out to your East. The severe winter had forced many of the mountain's inhabitants into the plains in search of food, and two encounters with goblin raiders went fairly easily. Because of these raids though, you've been keeping watch at night, rotating shifts. The order I have listed is...Nightshade, then Kulnak, then Tilara, and finally Hrokin taking last shift and doing morning prayer then." Carl stopped briefly, rolling some dice from behind the screen. "Tilara, on your shift, the light of the small fire seems to be reflecting off something glistening some forty feet or so away, sort of hidden in the high grass," Carl stated. "Is it like the eye of an animal or something? How tall does this thing look?" Michael asked. "No, not like an eye, and lying close to the ground. It's reflecting greenish light. Perhaps an emerald or some such," Carl baited. Michael sighed. "Okay, I gather my spear and creep over to where I see the reflection, trying to move as quietly as possible. Maybe I'll get a chance to pocket some juicy gem like Nightshade did," Michael said, throwing a glance at Phil. "That's out of game knowledge, remember. No one caught her," Phil interjected. "No, but we suspect," Larry said flatly. "Okay, Tilara. Give me a 'Move Silently' roll," Carl requested, looking at something in his notes. Michael shook his purple D20, and dropped it. The die came up reading 16. He looked at his character sheet. "Seventeen total," he stated. "What is this thing?" Carl set an elaborate jeweled artifact on the table from behind the screen. It appeared to be an intricately carved horseshoe-shaped item, crafted of gold, with a great shining emerald set at the top of the arch. Along each side, other emeralds were placed, smaller, yet still beautiful. The group looked en masse at the item with fascination. Carl brought some beautiful props to the game, but this was a new level of realism. "Whoa," Larry stated, thoroughly impressed. "Wow... Carl! Dude... is this REAL?" Andrea asked. Michael reached forward and picked up the item, holding it for a moment. In his mind there was a sudden feeling of drunken disorientation. Chapter 2: What Passes for Reality He held the beautiful trinket but realized the lights in the room had gone out. No... not entirely. Behind him was a dim orange flickering flame. He now stood in high grass. He looked away from the golden arch, up at the sky. The totality of darkness made the stars stand out perfectly. His eyes seemed to drink in the starlight. Never before had they seemed so vivid. He turned to see three figures sleeping around a tiny fire. Michael's mind glitched for a moment. He had totally immersed himself in the story. He listened, trying to hear Carls voice as it described the scene. There was no voice, only the whistling of the wind and the rustling of the high grass in the light breeze. He looked again at the item, moving closer to the fire. Faint crackles and pops sputtered from the burning wood. He instinctively brushed the fine silk robes beneath him as he sat on the vacant bedroll. His body felt odd. He tore his mind away from the object, and stared at his hands. They were fine and delicate. The nails were short, extending only slightly over the tips of the fingers, and had no polish. Still, they appeared buffed nearly to a shine. On his slender forearms were arm guards made of brilliantly polished steel, traced with etchings inlaid in gold. "My Magical Bracers," he thought absently to himself. He set the spear down and touched his face. His nose was fine and narrow, slightly upturned at the tip. His lips were large and soft. His jaw was narrow and ended in a delicate chin. He stopped for a moment, then hesitantly ran his hands slowly up the jaw again to the ear. In the lobe was a hoop earring. He traced his hand farther, and realized that his ear ended in small point. He broke out into laughter, and flopped back on his bedroll. He was a half-elf! He was Tilara. Lying there, he confirmed the rest of the anatomy. Small breasts rested on his... HER chest. She reached for her crotch through the soft robes, and found no trace of a bulge. Her breathing accelerated... she felt like she might hyperventilate. She forced herself to take deep breaths. She'd said that she wanted to be here, and now she was. She took stock of the items around her. Her backpack, her spear... and perched on a small wooden stand was a red tail hawk, sound asleep. She smiled deeply at the thought. She listened to the nearby mule shift it's footing. She could smell the late spring grass, the mule... the other people with her. She sprang back to her feet. "Wake up!" she screamed. The still figures launched into a flurry of action. To her left, Nightshade reflexively rolled into a kneeling position, and fumbled to knock an arrow. Across the fire, Kulnak sprang to his feet, a bit wobbly, still half asleep, but with sense of mind to grab his axe. Hrokin grabbed his shield, as well as his war hammer. Tilara laughed with excitement and amusement. "Stay calm. We are not under attack, my friends. I simply wanted to enlighten you to our new surroundings," she said. The voice was foreign to her, as was her own accent and manner of speech. Somewhere in her head, she realized she was speaking a language other than English. She nearly laughed again. "Trade Tongue" or "Common" as it was sometimes called. She stopped and thought for a moment, then spoke a short poem in Elven. She thought that by all the stars in heaven, certainly it was the most beautiful language she'd ever heard. The others stared at her as if she'd gone mad. "Aye... well... now that I'm up, I'd best go put out that brush fire," Kulnak said in his thick native accent. He waded through the grass a ways off, yawning like a waking bear, and scratching his ass. He relieved himself with a great sigh. Hrokin chuckled his deep guttural laugh at the crudeness of his comrade. "What's got you all up and excited, Tilara?" he finally said, after scanning around their camp. "We're HERE, Larry..." she stated, looking the dwarf in the eyes, waiting for the moment of recognition. Tilara suddenly felt a moment of panic. Perhaps she alone would remember who they really were. Perhaps she alone had been transported. Again she felt her breaths coming faster. She looked imploringly into the eyes of the dwarf. His stout frame was heavily muscled. His long black beard was peppered with gray. He wore only a nightshirt, but held a large metal shield with signs of heavy usage. His thick hand gripped the leather- wrapped haft of a war hammer. He looked at her somewhat suspiciously, furrowing his brow, trying to remember. Tilara watched the emotions play across his course features. "We were talking before... Someone had struck you in the face. Your eye was swollen," he strained to remember. "That's right. You're real name is Larry Carroll," she stated in a soft voice. Her heart slowed somewhat. "I have no idea what you're going on about. If you two want to speak in some odd code, then feel free, but keep it down. I want to sleep. And see to it that you issue no more false alarms, half-blood," Nightshade warned coldly. Tilara stared at her. She was... beautiful. She wore a linen tunic and breeches, and through the material could be seen a soft and shapely form which was unmistakably female. Tilara wondered if she looked even half that good. Nightshade plopped back down in the bed of high grass lined with a bedroll, covered herself with a light blanket, and went back to sleep. Something else Nightshade had said... "half-blood". Tilara remembered her life before meeting the others. She'd been cast out by the elves, and raised by a small settlement of humans. But... she was really Michael. She looked into the eyes of Hrokin. He studied her face. "Are your realities colliding?" he asked her softly. She only nodded. "Nightshade and Kulnak don't seem to remember," she said sadly. "By the bright sky! I have a HUGE wanker!" came the bellow from Kulnak off in the weeds. The sadness in Tilara was replaced with a shock of laughter. Hrokin just smiled and shook his head. "What an idiot," he muttered. "Shut UP!" Nightshade screeched from under her blanket. "Honestly, this thing is a beast," Kulnak said, coming back toward the camp. He was tugging his leather breeches, and hiking his leg up every other step, trying to adjust his manhood. "I need a damned third leg in me pants!" he roared, looking honestly surprised. "If you don't stop playing with yourself, I'll pound that gardener snake of yours flat!" Hrokin said, almost laughing. "It'd take a bigger hammer than THAT. I mean, seriously, this thing's a monster!" Kulnak exclaimed. Tilara could see the bulge in the leg of his breeches. It looked at least eight inches long. She didn't think it was anywhere near fully erect either. She felt herself blush momentarily, and looked away. "Kulnak... Do you know anyone named Andrea?" Hrokin asked. "Andrea? ... Andrea..." He wracked his brain. "It has a familiar ring to it, but I can't place it." "It's you, Kulnak. You're real name is Andrea. Think. Think hard," Hrokin demanded. "What are you going on about? Look, I know I'm not all book-learned, but I know my name. It is, and has always been Kulnak," he stated flatly. "Why are you suddenly so fascinated with your manhood then?" Hrokin asked. "I don't know, it's just so..." Kulnak paused. "New? Different?" Hrokin suggested. "In a way, I guess. I'm not used to..." Kulnak's jovial expression melted. "Damn. Damn it all. Andrea is a girl in a dark cellar, sitting at a table with four men. I see her now. But it doesn't seem like me. It's like a tale I was told long ago, about a world where there are carriages drawn by no horse, and great steel birds." Kulnak looked troubled. "Well, that's our world, Kulnak... or was. I wonder how long we'll be here?" Hrokin stated, thoughtfully stroking the hairs of his beard. He stopped for a moment and lifted a great handful of the masterfully braided beard hair to examine it. Satisfied with the results, he dropped the braids, and went on about examining himself. Kulnak returned to his bedroll and quickly fell back to sleep. "I thought somehow that everyone would be as excited as me, but those two don't seem much to care... almost like this was little more than some amusing puzzle. Why am I so clearly aware of who I am... or was, and the other two are so oblivious?" Tilara pondered quietly. "You were awake when the ... manifestation occurred," he surmised. "And you?" Tilara looked the priest in the eyes. "I don't know. Perhaps it has to do with our strength of will. With my years of meditation and connection with Mahnook... Maybe I have better tools to see across the gulf," he contemplated. It didn't matter overmuch to Tilara why Hrokin was so clearly aware, only that he was. She thought this might be easier to handle with someone else understanding it. Hrokin busied himself with retrieving paper and quill from his scroll case. Tilara watched curiously. "Hrokin... you still have a few more hours if you wish to return to your slumber," she said softly. "I fear sleep will only wipe away more of the memories of my past. I wish to capture as many of them as possible before I go back off to sleep. I don't think it's fair for Larry to fade from my memory. Perhaps it would be wise for you to do the same," he pointed out. Tilara saw the wisdom in this, and retrieved her own writing utensils. She drew out pages from her scroll case, as well as a piece of lead for writing. She tapped it against the paper, waiting for the memories to return, then began to write. "My name is Michael Dickinson. I am seventeen years old and attend Marshal High School in Zanesville, Ohio. I like Manga Comics, and video games. I have an older brother, Todd. He's a jock ass-hole. I think, deep down inside that maybe I'm a girl. I get beat up regularly at school because people think I'm gay." Tilara stopped for a moment. She again tapped the lead against the page. "I hate my life." She sat staring off into the darkness of the night. Maybe she was made to remember so she would appreciate what she was given. Maybe... It didn't matter why. She put the writing lead away. She stared at the list of facts from her other life. She sat, thinking long and hard, trying to remember all the things that she would miss. Her cat... She almost laughed. It was the only thing really bothering her at the moment. She kissed the sheet of paper, and tossed it into the fire. "So little that you'll miss, Michael?" Hrokin asked. "Yeah. I really rather wish I had been asleep during the crossing. I think I could get used to this life very quickly," Tilara replied. She sat down beside Hrokin. His demeanor was often gruff, stern, hard like the stone he was raised around, but she needed to be close to someone right now. "It's alright. I like you better this way," he said, smiling. He put an arm around her, and she leaned against his massive frame. Somewhere in the back of Hrokin's mind, he thought what an odd scene this made. A dwarven cleric hugging a half elf. It didn't matter. He held clan and family sacred, and there was no doubt in his mind that this woman was his family. Tilara stayed awake another hour or so, then wandered over to her bedroll and lay down to sleep. ... Hrokin spent the next few minutes putting his armor back on, strapping the thick metal plates in various places. The creaking of leather straps and rattling of metal didn't wake his allies, for which he was grateful. They needed their rest. This could be a tough period of adjustment for them all. He stared at the fire, feeding it as needed. Several times he stood up and stretched his legs. He felt somewhat out of place in his new form. His thick, stout body was only slightly more than four feet by his reckoning, but the heavy musculature put him at over a hundred and seventy pounds. If his body matched the statistics listed on the fictitious character sheet from the game, he was every bit as strong as Kulnak. Certainly, he felt that he could move easily enough, even in the fifty pounds of armor he donned. Night wore on, and eventually, the faint glow of dawn crept up. As the sun crested the plains to the East, he knelt in reverence, and gave homage to the great Mahnook, protector of his clan, and bearer of the mighty hammer, Brathnar foe-crusher. He spoke his vows every morning at dawn, and humbly asked for the power to smite his enemies, whatever form they may take. It was at this moment that Hrokin realized what being a priest meant. He was flooded with the sense that Mahnook looked upon him with favor. He lay prostrate, humble before his God, and awash with Mahnook's power. He stood when finished, nearly in tears. He never knew... perhaps more accurately, Larry never knew, the great sense of belonging this brought. He thought back to the wee hours of the morning, when Tilara had tossed her paper into the fire. He understood more now what motivated that action. Tilara's bird shifted on its perch, and fluttered open its eyes. It leapt into the morning sky and sped off in search of food. Hrokin knew it wouldn't wander far. It had some mystical bond to her. They never wandered too far from one another. Hrokin went about building the fire up for breakfast. In a small pot he heated water. When it began to boil, he scooped two handfuls of oats from the feed sack and dropped them in, stirring the thickening paste. ... Kulnak sat up, blinking. "I just dreamed of a strange world, and of sweet bubbly liquid the color of piss," he said somewhat absentmindedly. Hrokin found his simple manner fairly amusing. He knew some humans had culture, but Kulnak came from wandering tribes. He was simpler. He was likely to say exactly what was on his mind, without thinking first. In some ways, Hrokin found that a refreshing trait. Kulnak stood and stretched. His ribs cracked at the sternum, as did his shoulders and back. He rolled his neck a few times, then turned away from the small camp. He covered one nostril and blew hard, discharging the contents of his nose on the weeds, then repeated the process with the other side. It sounded like a goose honking. Over his leather jerkin, he pulled a shirt of quilted baffling. Over that, he pulled on his shirt of chainmail. Next, he put on his belt, including two throwing axes. Finally, he slung his quiver and picked up the massive composite bow he'd fashioned himself. He briefly looked into the pot on the fire. "I'm off to hunt. If I can't find something, I may eat some of your glue." He smiled, patting Hrokin on the shoulder. He sped off through the high grass, running toward a knoll several hundred yards off. Unlike the others, this was not so much the wilds for Kulnak, as it was his home. The others were accustomed to being in large communities. The noise in such places was insufferable to Kulnak. He reached his destination, atop the small knoll. He looked all about, checking for the smoke of other fires. He could see something faint to the East, but it was so far away, it didn't concern him. He watched the grass, looking for movement not made by the wind. He felt somewhat distracted, finding his mind sliding back to a dream. He saw a world where huge steel birds with their bellies full of people roamed the sky. He had dreamed of a conversation last night with Hrokin about someone. He remembered something about a girl. He looked at his large hands, covered in calluses. At over six feet tall, he towered over everyone else in the group, nearly a head taller than even Nightshade. Now there was a beautiful woman, he thought. The mere reminder of her stirred something in his pants. He laughed. If he tried anything with her, she'd likely have his snake for a trophy. That only left Tilara. She was every bit as lovely as Nightshade, and certainly more friendly, but there was something about her that didn't fire his blood. It was like she was more of a sister to him than a piece of ass. He felt a need to protect her. Certainly, she'd shown the ability to bewitch people with some charm, and he had wondered if he himself had fallen for such devilry, but he thought not. They had been together too long. His feelings for her were his own. She also seemed of too gentle a nature to use her comrades that way. The grass stirred some fifty feet off. He stared intently. His strong shoulders drew the bow. It creaked under the tension. He saw a brief glimpse of brownish fur, and let the shaft fly. There was no more rustling in the brush. He walked over to the spot where his arrow had landed, searching the weeds. He found his shaft buried in the ground, with no game skewered. Then, near his foot, he saw a small brown rabbit trembling, paralyzed with fear. He reached down slowly and put his fingers around the neck of the young rabbit. With a quick twist of his wrist, the rabbit was dead. It would do for breakfast. He withdrew a small blade from his belt, expertly field-dressing the animal. He tied its back legs together with a leather chord and started back to camp. He emitted a piercing whistle into the morning air. Tilara's bird knew that the sound meant if it hadn't caught its own game, it was free to share Kulnak's. The rabbit was small, but would be enough for everyone to have a bite for breakfast, including the hawk. ... Nightshade awoke to a familiar whistle. Either Kulnak or Red had just caught some breakfast. She lay on her belly looking at the campfire. She watched Hrokin dump raisins into the pot on the fire. She realized her chest hurt from laying on it. She found it odd that she'd unconsciously rolled into this position. She sat up, trying to recapture something she'd been dreaming. She felt small and weak. She was by far the least muscular of the group. Even Tilara was reasonably well built, for a girl at least. But Nightshade suffered from having a very feminine, soft body. While it worked as a great asset in some situations, it was horrible for lugging her necessities through the wilderness. She smelled bad, and felt that she needed a bath. She hated the wilds, but could not deny that it was incredibly lucrative when they managed to find some unlooted ruins. She slid into the skintight black leather bodysuit that passed for armor. She tightened the straps around her ribs and on her thighs. She then proceeded to slip on her soft boots, and tighten the laces. She finished with her archery bracers. Hrokin looked up from the pot. "Interested?" he asked, motioning toward the oatmeal. She shrugged and dug in her pack for a wooden spoon. "It's always after about a week on the trail that I want to go crazy. I get really sick of oatmeal, nuts, and dried fruit. The elfy-girl there seems to be happy with that fare indefinitely. I think if it weren't for Kulnak's carnivorous streak, I'd go totally over the edge. Let's just hope it isn't skunk he's coming back with," She said with a wicked grin. "Nightshade... do you remember anything odd happening last night?" Hrokin asked. "I remember Tilara waking us up for no good reason. Is that what you mean?" she asked, in a bit of a nasty tone. "Yes. Do you remember why she woke us up then?" Hrokin prodded. "No. I'll never understand the way of elves, and the elf-blood is thick in her, even if she is a half-breed. Plus, she has that witchy way about her." Nightshade eyed the sleeping half-elf. Hrokin paused, trying to find a better approach. He finally decided on the direct one. "Do you know someone named Phil Johnson?" he pressed. It took him a minute to pull the name up himself. He feared the memories would fade even more if not constantly accessed. "Never heard of him. Why?" she returned, seeming disinterested. "Bear with me. Try very hard to remember the name." Hrokin watched her as she sat back, thinking. She absently licked oatmeal from her spoon. Her eyes moved, looking off into nothingness. Then, a brief flash of something crossed her face, her brow furrowed, and she frowned. "No. I don't remember anyone by that name," she stated, standing up. Hrokin was almost certain she was lying, but simply looked down at the thickening paste in the pot. He pulled it off the fire. Kulnak wandered back into the small camp with his catch, followed by Tilara's bird, Red. "I'm up!" Tilara mumbled, as if responding to someone calling her name. "Yes, Red, that's great, dead rabbit." She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Red perched on Kulnak's thigh, which was protected from the sharp talons by his chain shirt. Kulnak cut strips of flesh from the small rabbit and fed them to Red. Tilara sat, watching. She thought that Kulnak often seemed more comfortable with animals than with people. Even so, his seemingly peaceful nature was at odds with the utter heartlessness of his hunting... and particularly with the savagery of his fighting. Maybe he was simply a true predator. Nightshade had crept away silently from the others, and squatted in the high grass, trying to relieve herself. Something was wrong. She'd never felt so odd. Her life and livelihood were all built around her utter flowing grace, and yet now, for some reason, she found herself feeling out of sorts. Hrokin's bidding to remember "Phil" had awakened a sense in her that over her shoulder, a disapproving eye was watching. She had lived her life building impenetrable shields around her conscience. She allowed herself to be judged by no one. Do whatever it takes to get ahead in life. That had been her moral compass. Now, she had been infected with some sick sense of morality. Her eyes scanned the horizon instinctively, and the sight of riders approaching drove off her thoughts. She could see perhaps half a dozen riders, but could make out no other details at this range. She finished her business and crawled on her belly back to the small camp. The others looked at her with amusement as she returned. She didn't say anything. She only began to hastily don her sword belt, sling her arrows and retrieve her bow. Finally she spoke. "Six riders to the East. I'm going to circle South to flank them, in the event they want to make trouble," she stated softly. She didn't wait for approval of her plan by the others. Chapter 3: The Color of Blood Tilara found a piece of cured leather in her right hand almost before she was aware why she'd retrieved it. The riders were barely to be seen at this range, but experience had taught her she should get her protections in order before things had a chance to get ugly. "Misnah nath, kell hathuin," she muttered softly. Her left hand was held with index, middle, and pinky fingers extended, the ring finger folded. With a soft pushing motion, she completed the incantation. A floodgate in her mind opened and arcane energies erupted forth. She felt the fine hairs on her body waiver, creating a tickling sensation. Though she could not see it, she knew a layer of force enshrouded her. This sorcerous armor would endure for hours, by which time she felt certain that this potential conflict would pass. Hrokin glanced briefly over toward her, but seemed occupied with the winching mechanism used to cock his massive crossbow. He expertly loaded the weapon in less than ten seconds. Kulnak stood watching the riders approach. He drew out an arrow marked with red fletchings. The head was not made to pierce, but rather to emit a shrill whistle. Wandering tribes often kept encounters from becoming deadly simply by warning each other off with such arrows. If an approaching group still wanted to make trade, or speak, they would send one representative. He gauged the wind and waited. They rode fast, and in only seconds they would be within reach of his mighty bow. The arrow soared off, screaming as it went. It would come nowhere near to the riders, but still close enough for them to hear. Kulnak waited for them to rein in their mounts. There was no such luck. The riders spurred their horses, and charged ahead. The steppe riders of these parts, as hunters of men, were brutally efficient and very fast. "Tilara," Kulnak said, "maybe you need to persuade them more strongly." "They're still well out of range of my magics," she returned. At this, Kulnak only frowned. He knocked another arrow and waited. He would likely only get one good shot before the riders were upon them. The three waited, watching the riders coming fast. They were now less than a hundred yards away. Hrokin released his crossbow bolt, but missed to the rider's left. Kulnak fired a shaft, also missing. Both knew the riders would be upon them in seconds. Kulnak drew his battle axe in his right hand and a hatchet in his left. Hrokin retrieved his hammer, and positioned his shield. Tilara fell in behind the other two. She felt a sick fear growing in her, realizing that they were about to be set upon by marauders. She attempted to calm herself. Again, she chanted her incantations. As the lead rider approached, she released two bolts of jade energy from her palm. The bursts flew forth to the lead rider, striking him unerringly. While he jerked in response, and screamed in rage and pain, he pressed on. The riders charged into the small camp, with bared swords swinging. Kulnak leapt up, swiping his great axe into the side of the first rider. The blade sheared the chain links of the rider's armor, nearly spilling his entrails. The hand axe in Kulnak's off hand bit into the rider's thigh as he passed. In response, the rider lunged with long sword, biting into the flesh of Kulnak's left shoulder. He managed to dance around the blade of a second rider, but concentrated his effort in eliminating the first. Hrokin likewise paired off against two riders. Their blades beat against the thick plates of his fine dwarven made armor ineffectively. He patiently waited, and picked his target, finally shattering the knee of one rider with a massive strike of his hammer. Tilara ducked around her pursuers, avoiding their blows, and tried to come up with some plan of action. From the weeds nearby, a shaft whistled into the fray. Tilara watched the man she'd hit with her energy bolts take an arrow into the side of the head. His screams of agony were horrible. His wracked, convulsing body slid from the saddle and crumpled to the ground. Although Tilara knew the source of the arrow, she couldn't see Nightshade anywhere. The woman knew her craft well. She risked another incantation, even in the midst of melee. As her single foe wheeled his mount, Tilara managed to complete her third spell of the day. "Gently now! There is no need for such actions. Be at peace!" she spoke to him. He seemed unmoved by her charms, instead looking all the more hostile. "Witch! I'll have your head!" he screamed. Tilara stepped to the off hand side of the horse as he came near, and the rider nearly cut himself with his own hasty swing. Kulnak focussed on his foe, biting deep with his shining axe. The rider's eyes glossed over, and he slumped in the saddle, dropping his sword. Then he turned his attentions on the second rider, but his hand axe could find no chink in the fine rings of his opponent's mail. Still, the adversary likewise could not bring a telling blow against Kulnak, and their dance of death continued. Hrokin's opponent tried wheeling his horse to protect his injured leg, but Hrokin ducked under the great steed, grabbing the injured limb and wrestling the rider from the saddle. A sharp blow on the back of the rider's skull followed the ungraceful fall. The rider fell without so much as a gurgle. Meanwhile, Hrokin's second rider placed a fine strike that would have run most warriors through. Still, the blade was turned aside by the dwarven plate mail. He turned to face the rider with teeth bared. A shaft whistled from the brush again, sticking into the chest of Tilara's second foe. He coughed blood and staggered, trying in vain to bring his horse about. His arms were seizing up. Again he coughed blood and slid from his saddle, one foot caught in the stirrups. Tilara looked in horror at the death around her as a second shaft whistled into the side of Kulnak's foe. Free from attack, Tilara turned her attention to the only uninjured rider, who faced off against Hrokin. Again, she attempted her charms. "Come, lay down your arms and be at peace with us!" she beseeched. The rider turned his mount to face her, but she could tell from his eyes that he was no longer a danger. He slid from his saddle, ignoring the threat of Hrokin. He sheathed his blade and approached in a trance like state. "My... lady. Forgive me. I know not what came over me. I am forever your humble servant." He spoke sincerely. He took her hand gently and kissed it tenderly. Hrokin stared in disbelief. Even as Kulnak clashed steel with another rider, This one had simply surrendered to the half-elf. He almost laughed at the absurdity, but quickly turned his attentions back to the commotion. Kulnak battled against the rider for a few seconds. This one seemed determined not to be taken easily. He used his sword deftly to deflect several strikes of Kulnak's battle-axe, but eventually left himself open for a small cut from the hand axe. His undoing came in misjudging his allies. Hrokin had approached from his rear, landing a crippling blow into the rider's kidney. As he fell forward, Kulnak caught him in the side of the face with the axe. The rider toppled, and lay in a spreading pool of blood. With the fall of the last rider, Nightshade crept cautiously out of the grasses. She moved to check to fallen riders, and collect any shafts she could salvage. Tilara pulled a sheet of paper from her scroll case, and rolled it tight. She bound it in a small piece of chord. "Dear rider," she said to her new friend, "I beg you to take this important message to the traveling caravans to the south. On these plains, you cannot miss them. They are two days ride from here. Will you do this for me, dear friend?" she pleaded most sincerely. "For you my dear, I would do anything," the marauder acquiesced. "Tilara... see if he might loan you some coins as well," Nightshade said softly as she passed. Tilara looked at her sourly. She handed the rolled paper to the rider, who mounted his steed and sped off. "And what, exactly, was on that piece of paper?" Hrokin asked. "Nothing. The charm will only last until about noon, but that will put him half a day's ride from us when he comes to his senses," She said calmly. "Nice of you to let him go. You know, he would have killed you, given the chance," Nightshade interjected. "It doesn't matter. I will not stoop to his level. I refuse to loot or murder someone when nonviolent options are available!" Tilara returned sharply. "I think you should know that your decisions affect all of us. The equipment these men carry, and their mounts, are worth several hundred crowns per man. Letting him go deprives us of that, not to mention releasing a man whom just a minute ago was trying to run you through. Even though we would beat him handily in another encounter, he might catch us at night, unaware, or come back with reinforcements." Nightshade's temper was rising. "I will only say this one more time. I am not a killer. My duty is to defuse the situation, and remove the threat. That he attacked us does not automatically give us claim to his life and property. I cannot feel any remorse in depriving you of some of your precious swag." Tilara locked eyes with her. "Your gutless actions will..." Nightshade began. "Enough!" Hrokin barked. Silence fell for a moment. "Is anyone injured?" he asked. "I took a small cut, but nothing threatening," Kulnak stated. He was busy wiping blood from his axes. Even so reassured, Hrokin turned to move to him. "Hrokin... I'm glad you wish to heal me, but it can wait. These horses need corralled, and we still need to break camp," Kulnak said through winded breaths. Veins stood out on his neck, and his face was flushed. Hrokin knew the look well. A few seconds more of fighting, and Kulnak would have gone berserk, frothing foam about his lips and snarling like a beast. He let Kulnak go about tending to the horses. Nightshade busied herself with stripping the bodies of the marauders. Their armor and weapons were placed in a pile. Kulnak brought in the horses and removed their saddlebags. He sorted through the contents as Hrokin dressed the wound on his shoulder. Tilara simply found herself staring at the bodies of the fallen men. What kind of existence was this, fighting for your life against murderers in lawless lands? It seemed she'd discovered the bitter twist to her wish. Yes, she was now a woman, and one possessing great magical powers. The down side was she was getting the chance to experience death firsthand. It did make being punched in the eye seem insignificant in comparison. Again, something was disturbing her. Why were they here? As it had often bothered her in her other life... the WHY remained unanswered. "Ladies and gentledwarf!" Kulnak announced at some length. "I have good news. It seems the men we beat were heavy with coins. There is more here than I can count, but I would guess a score of great crown coins and two pounds of gold crowns each. I'm not one for numbers, and trust Nightshade will make fair tally here." "By all the light and shadows..." Nightshade whispered, drawing near. She grabbed a platinum coin, and examined it. It appeared genuine. "Can you... make sure this isn't disguised with some magical glamour?" she asked, looking at Tilara. Nightshade's anger was completely lost, replaced with the fascination of the shiny coins. Tilara came back to the small camp. The gourd in her throat just didn't want to go down. She felt nauseated and cared nothing for coins. Perhaps that was not entirely true. Somewhere in her mind, she understood the vast amount of wealth they had just gained, but the way it was acquired left her feeling very disturbed. She extended her index finger and thumb of her left hand, pointing them parallel to one another. Her pinky lay with only the last two digits extended, so that it was at a ninety-degree angle from the other two. The middle and ring fingers were tucked into her palm. "Luasniah" she spoke softly, as she rotated her left hand outward until the pinky pointed away from her. She stared at the piles of coins, laid out on the bedroll. There was no sight of any magic about them. "No magic," she said softly to Nightshade. She continued looking at the others, and her own arms, seeing the arcane energies flowing from certain items like coronas. There were various colors and intensities. Her bracers glowed, as did Kulnak's battleaxe. Hrokin had magical bolts in his quiver... all these things Tilara had known. Somewhere on Nightshade was another aura of which she had been previously unaware. She stared, waiting for the magics to reveal themselves more fully. She could finally see that the aura, while faintly surrounding Nightshade, actually emanated from a ring. None of the magic she and her allies carried was terribly powerful. She knew she'd cast this simple cantrip hundreds of times... but all those memories seemed only partially real, and doing it now seemed fascinating to her. She was a sorceress. She only hoped she could come to grips with the bloody lifestyle of adventurers. Nightshade made four equal piles of coins. The total ended up being twenty-six great crowns and one hundred twenty eight gold crowns in each stack, leaving two gold crowns remaining. Kulnak and Hrokin eyed the piles briefly, both agreeing the split looked equal. They gathered up the neat stacks of coins. Hrokin put his in the heavy leather belt pouch at his side. Kulnak swept his into a small sack, tied the top in a knot, and dropped it into his backpack. Tilara sat cross-legged on the ground, clinking the coins into her palm, one at a time. Clink-clink-clink. Nightshade watched her while expertly scooping her share into a leather coin pouch. "A skilled craftsman may make up to five gold crowns in a week. This pile is more than one would make in a year," she said absently. "That's right. And it will buy me a few nights stay at a very comfortable inn, maybe buy off a few town guards," Nightshade commented. Kulnak's mind had already turned to more practical matters. "Hrokin, I'm hoping you don't mind riding a horse. You've been perched atop the mule long enough. If we're all on horseback, we'll make much better time. I hope no one minds," Kulnak said as he checked the saddles and bridles of the horses. He slung the saddlebags back on the horses. He then chose the largest horse and loaded his gear. The others followed, and soon all that remained of the tiny encampment was the fire, Hrokin's pot, and a skewered rabbit on a spit. "If we can find a buyer for the odd horse in a village ahead, that'd be another fifteen or so crowns to each of us," Nightshade pondered, as she rotated the spit. "Well, these horses should mean we only have another two days until we reach the mountain villages." Kulnak said, trying to make a guess of distance. He was fiddling with moving backpacks and other equipment to the last of the rider's horses. At some length, he seemed happy with the arrangement, and returned to the fire. Hrokin laboriously dragged the bodies away from the fire. They were human, and he really didn't feel a need to perform burial rites on them. Still, he didn't want them around. It dawned on him that neither Kulnak nor Nightshade felt a need to bury them either. Only Tilara seemed at all phased by the indignity these men faced in death. She was only half human, but was brought up amongst humans. Certainly she felt some kinship. She eventually showed up with a small shovel, and made a good effort of digging a hole for them. Hrokin eventually assisted, after some breakfast. The graves were very shallow, and not likely to survive a hard rain, but at least it was something. Tilara finally returned to the fire and watched her three companions consume the rabbit. It didn't make her ill, certainly, but meat didn't seem to appeal to her. She paused, trying to think of her habits before the crossing. Had she been a big meat-eater? The memories were fuzzy. Chapter 4: An Answer Kulnak ate his breakfast, staring off into the distance. The others chattered away. He could hear them, but his thoughts were on the spot on the horizon at which he stared. "Tilara, I think maybe your friend is coming back," he finally said. The others turned their eyes toward the horizon. A speck grew clearer, becoming a horse and rider. Kulnak moved to grab his bow. Hrokin began winching his crossbow again. "Isn't there any rest this morning?" Nightshade asked rhetorically. "Whoever it is, they're not in any hurry," Hrokin said, waiting as the rider slowly approached. At a range of nearly five hundred yards from the camp, Kulnak launched another whistling arrow at the rider. This time, the mounted figure reigned in the mount. He produced a piece of white cloth and waived it, then began approaching again. Tilara noted that Nightshade had crept off again. It irritated her that Nightshade removed herself from harm's way, thereby making all the others suffer more chance of injury. Still, she had to admit Nightshade's ability to place killing shots when she was undetected was uncanny. The rider moved to about a hundred yards and dismounted. He held no weapon in hand, and leisurely led his spotted horse toward what remained of the camp. "He seems to be no threat, and for certain is not our friend from earlier," Kulnak stated. "Still, keep up your guard," he cautioned, glancing toward Hrokin. The smiling stranger wore a bright green tunic, tan breeches, and thigh high leather boots. On his back was slung a minstrel's mandolin. A sword hung from the man's belt, but he made no motion for it. His hair was long, curly, and blonde, held out of his face by a twisted cloth headband. "Hail!" he finally said, from perhaps thirty yards off. "Well, Tilara, with Nightshade off in the weeds hiding, that leaves you as our spokesman, as it were," Hrokin said. "All right. Cover me," she said. With spear in hand she wandered toward the approaching man... human from the looks of him. "Greetings traveler. What news?" she asked. It seemed a proper neutral greeting. "Good morrow, Tilara Otienna. I am Calisair. Perhaps in another time and place, you know me by a different name." He smiled merrily. "Calisair?" She rolled the name in her mind. It rang so familiar. How did he know her family name? She stepped back, afraid that he might be manipulating her with some foul craft of magic. "Michael... I know you. I know all of you. I brought you here," the bard continued. "Cal... Carl Asair." She squinted her eyes closed. "You weren't joking to the others when you said you were from Aragnatha, were you?" she questioned, recovering a fragment of conversation she'd overheard. "No, I wasn't. Come, let us talk. All of us," he said leading the horse on. Tilara fell in beside him. The two approached the camp, where Kulnak and Hrokin waited. Within about twenty feet of them, Calisair turned and scanned the weeds to either side. Finally, seeming unable to see what he was looking for, he bellowed loudly. "Nightshade! I mean no harm. Come, join with us!" At his statement, both Kulnak and Hrokin tensed. The man had them at an advantage. "Who are you?" Hrokin growled, as the traveler neared. "Easy, Larry. I am known as Calisair," he said, looking soberly at the dwarf. From behind the rider and Tilara, Nightshade stood from her hiding spot and approached with short bow at the ready. "I have heard this all before, Hrokin referred to as 'Larry', Tilara as 'Michael'. I tire of this game. State your business." Nightshade hissed. "Ah... yes... Not all of you have crossed over with equal grace," Calisair began. "I have brought you to these lands as my agents. As it was in the game, I need you to discover this heir to the throne of Hron- Borin. They are near to civil war,