3. The Night's Last Parade by Isolde Garibaldi

The Night's Last Parade by Isolde Garibaldi


  • Sarah Snow

    "Did you find her yet?"

    That's what he whispered, so low that only Roslyn and I could hear it. The Night Parade cultist was a sickly green underneath the mask, his eyes a pale yellow. A snaking tendril grew from his jaw, the skin around it mottled as though more were about to burst through.

    At the far end of Ogres Gorge, we'd come across them, a small group of robed figures with a man in Cerulean blues clutched roughly by the shirt, pushed to his knee before this very man.

    "The opening, near the city. You were nosing around it. Why? What did you find?"

    The masked man's voice was even, but demanding, the Cerulean trying to back away.

    "I'm not telling you freakshows anything!"

    "That area is more important than those idiots in the city realize. And I think this one found something", the masked man noted to his allies before my spell froze him in spot and the fighting broke out.

    Even outmatched, unmasked, the man was nothing if not confident. Contemptuous.

    "I don't think you quite understand how this works. You can't 'take us prisoner'', he sneered, leaning closer to Roslyn. Then that whisper.

    "Did you find her yet?"

    Sarah has been missing ever since our trip to Silvia's tree - I'm certain by now that the magic I unleashed there, the unique burst of 'amazing' Aesso had stored within her baton, had affected Sarah somehow. Made her remember, if not everything then 'something'.

    A wisp of purple, a cloudy haze - then the flames, purple, all-consuming flames. Nothing remained of him, nor the three others.

    The Cerulean remained, picking himself off the ground to dust his first star uniform off. Surin Trusho, he introduced himself as - a youngish man, plain of face, short brown hair and medium build, in all the senses of the word unremarkable.

    He claimed we ought hurry back to the phenomenon he'd been studying, this 'opening', with all possible haste. I should have heard the warning bells ringing, even then - but his words… the phenomenon, the sense of deja vu. Fort Fodel, green light...

    It all screamed Aesso. Sarah, Beeble, our return from the living nightmare, from Ravelzilch unravelled. Aoth took us there quickly, wind walking. Cultists moved in from the shadows, their robed outlines lit up by the green glow of the dream portal. We chased them off, entered...

    ...but inside, things were not what I'd expected. A cage, a 'lock' of stone with three sockets, doors - but it didn't 'feel' like the dreamscape. In fact, as we stumbled through the first door in search of our key, the place reminded me more than anything of Dabu's towers. And reeked of illusion.

    A blighted forest walkway, nightmarish shadowy creatures - seemingly plucked from Korvan's miasma. Everything reminded me of past experiences, but Roslyn's relentless dooting cheer drove some of the darkness away. Mazes, traps and portals spitting out nightmares, while our spells waned and our strengh dwindled, 'til Roslyn herself payed the ultimate price at the wrong end of a twisted orc's axe. Were we walking though dreams, illusion, a pocket plane filled with jumbled memories - whose were the smoke and mirrors, and how did any of this tie to the lost Sarah?

    The details, in the end, may not be relevant but for this - Surin Trusho, the 'first star' stellar investigator, who got one key all by himself where the lot of us struggled, bled and died - he was not what he seemed. My gut screamed this at me, my skin crawled with suspicion, to the point where I downed a potion of True Seeing, half expecting tentacles and green skin past the plain and uninteresting face.

    So focused was I on the would-be Cerulean that I failed to take a close enough account of the circular prison cage, into which we were now stepping, after having unlocked the door. I turned the last key, every instinct in my body screaming danger, danger, danger - I 'knew' something was wrong but I could not prove it, could not put my finger on the sore spot. So I stepped in first instead, the rest following.

    Once all were inside, 'Surin' stepped somehow back 'through' the bars while within, the circular stairway down vanished. He stood calmly on the other side, unpacking items from his pack. A black robe, bulky and foot-long. A mask covering his face, blue, black and silver, adorned with swirling and intricate patterns.

    We were locked inside, while the Observer noted in that infuriatingly even tone, garbled now by the mask:

    "I apologize for the deception. It is the only way. You're always so 'prepared'. Interrupting you in the middle of adventure, with your spells already cast, without an opportunity to rest - and bringing you here under these circumstances is the only way for the likes of you. I know because I have studied your patterns. Against the creatures from the blighted trees... against the corrupted orcs, after we dropped the labyrinthe... even in that madman's towers."

    He turned then, to Roslyn.

    "I will make you a bargain. Provide me the amulet - but for a second - allow me to see it, hold it - and I will let you all free."

    My claim of the amulet being lost in the maze was summarily dismissed, clearly they had eyes everywhere in this place, though what that place 'was' is still unclear. Obviously it had been repurposed to suit the Night Parade's needs - with this in mind, I wonder if it might once truly have been one of Dabu's skillful illusionary creations.

    With a repeat demand for the amulet, the Observer retreated, other cultists taking his place, standing guard all around the cage while we inside railed and tore at the bars. It was very solid, magic-wise. No means out, but sheer brute force saw some of the physical components bent and skewed. A small opening - small enough, I realized, for a pixie to slip out - I could escape, I could try but the others had not the same luxory.

    One for all and all for one. We had to do 'something' though, and fast. Weariness tugged at my eyelids, though any hope of rest was thwarted by bursts of bright light, clashing gongs that sent my skin crawling with flashbacks to M.

    The Observer returned:

    "Where did you hide her? I am aware that you've hidden her before during your exploits against 'the General'. But she is not at the College, nor the druidic Glen. Where have you taken her?"

    Heh. Wouldn't you like to know? I said nothing. For once, the Observer revealed more than he took from watching his 'subjects' give. I said nothing, stood still, while Roslyn settled for short comments, revealing nothing of worth. The rest of the group knew not enough to spill it, or opted as we did, for a clenched jaw attitude.

    "Who? The halfling with whom the parasite created by my predecessors bonded. Where have you hidden her? If you provide me with the information, you will be released."

    The black and blue mask turned towards me, seemingly frustrated at my silence.

    "Hm. You have things that do not belong to you. Masks and amulets... things that are not yours to keep. Just as the halfling isn't yours to keep."

    I bristled internally - how in all the blazing hells is a living, sentient, willful, vibrant, beautiful person like Sarah anyone's to 'keep' like a slave, like a 'specimen' of interest? But I said nothing, kept my arms crossed underneath my chest and stared.

    "You made a grave error in attempting to bring her back. An error which will soon be exacerbated."

    So they're upset their torturous, twisted little 'experiment' was tampered with, is that it? Well boo hoo, we 'did' bring her back and we are going to finish the job, regardless! No cage is going to hold the lot of us for long.

    "Hm. Not as talkative as usual. No matter - it is only a matter of time before we find her."

    With that, the Observer retreated once more. Soon after, we chose the brute force tactics, applying all of Aoth's enraged dire bear form to the task - the guards around the cage tried to halt the attempt with a hail of arrows, but shields took some of the brunt and Aoth, never a fan of cages, burst through in a roar. After fighting the cultists off, we found the doorway, hidden once more through illusion, and stumbled out into the foothills.


  • The Maze

    A quiet day at the Commons, a brief few days after we returned from Silvia's tree. I was weary, of energy, of resources, feeling stretched thin as gauze and hoping for the quiet to continue. But it did not.

    Leena, Aoth and Maria stepped out of a tree, bloodied and collectively in something of a panic. Yes, panic, speaking of a strange trap in the Giantspires, nearly closing around them. Purple and green, their magical defences fizzling - it would take quite something for the likes of those three to back down, I knew, but still I hoped. I hoped it somehow wouldn't concern me, that I could somehow opt out.

    When I first saw the wisp of purple, that hazy flicker in the air, I said nothing. I hoped they had seen it too, felt it, followed it - but as my eyes scanned the trio, I saw no alarm in their eyes. When I swivelled north, following the hint of purple, my heart sank further.

    There, up on the balcony, in bulky robes and fancy mask, stood the Observer, hand pointing west, towards the Giantspires, towards the big mysterious oh so dangerous mystery trap the others had just escaped.

    Yeah 'right'! Do we really look like your questionless maze mice, dutifully scurrying where pointed to?

    I had to point the figure out though, had to mention what I'd seen as I made my angry way towards the stairs, where the infuriating robed person 'of course' pulled an M, crushing a spellcrystal in hand. Disappearing.

    Augh! I am too tired for this, I thought, again wondering what would happen should I just walk away. Just… not bite the hook, leave it dangling. But I had an uneasy feeling in my gut, the sort I can't, just can't smoothe over. I knew something was 'wrong'.

    We made our way to the western walls, just as the Observer had bid us, but without intention of going near the strange phenomenon no doubt concocted by that same individual. A huge throng of Ceruleans manning the wall, lead by the cranky know-it-all Sixth Star Gorien Harbottle. Who of course told us to go away and leave it to the professionals, immediately.

    Perhaps we should have. It would have saved us time, time to intervene where we truly needed to, but whether out of weariness or indecisive curiosity, we stayed to study the glow on the horizon. Walls of purple and green, huge, glowing with such brightness that the light reflected on every window of all the city, it seemed. A big spell, a powerful illusionary magic. A modified version of Labyrinthe or Maze, said Maria, while the Ceruleans still wracked their brains.

    Gorien, I'll admit, knows his stuff though. A Maze spell, he concluded, connected to something that's altered the flow of time. Designed in a plane that has certain effects that differ from the typical spell.

    In other word, uniquely altered in that same typical way that all of the Observer's traps have been, tied to the Night Parade's usual haunts past the Prime. Or... I wonder. I wonder if the Observer has taken some of M's wild and daring experimentations into the Far Realm and modified it, using the knowledge gleaned while he himself is left to rot in Gaol. Something to consider.

    It was a 'big' spell. A flashy spell, eyecatching, mysterious, gleaming with mystery and threat. In fact, as we stood watching, a veritable army of monsterously deformed ogres and orcs poured out of the maze, making their way towards the city!

    It was a very, very elaborate diversion. So much so that I felt the tug of its allure, felt myself squirming and itching to go. I cheerfully declared our admission of defeat to Gorien, saying we would leave this in official, capable hands, whilst contemplating sneaking around to the other gate, going around instead - but as soon as we had left the gates, going in the opposite way, it became clear - every eye in the city was staring west.

    Every window gleaming purple and green, every finger pointed, the balconies filling with ooing and ahhing onlookers. All this effort put in, to make everyone's attention fix on one thing...

    ...so that no one would see the 'real' target, the real game afoot? We paused, mid-city, sending Aoth on a slow sweep of the city before venturing any further in any direction. The wait had me pacing, but was necessary, vital to what came next, for those sharp hawk eyes spotted one house in the Residential district, quite distinctly different than the rest.

    No one on the balconies, the windowed blackened and barred - isolated, apart, a small aura of magic surrounding it. It was the Hemway estate, and hearing this I broke into an instant run, heart pounding in my chest.

    The others were hot on my heels, but the city was not so completely enthralled by the lights in the far distance as we had first assumed. In fact, as our footsteps echoed down the empty streets, one by one, the figures on the balconies turned towards us. Robed, masked. Vaulting down to block our path.

    'Turn back', said the first, the group some dozen strong, slowly moving to surround us. The voice was garbled in the usual way by the mask, modular, sexless. 'You have a crisis to solve. Your city needs you.'

    Behind us, far behind, at the western walls, echoing screams and sounds of steel and magic. Battle breaking out, but that's what the city 'pays' its defenders for. In 'that', we are not indispensable. I drew my rapier, shouted defiance:

    'Get out of my way!'

    The dark-clad figures moved in closer. The soft shhhmm of blades being drawn, more or less in unison. A second figure spoke, sneering, greenish lips beneath a half-mask not unlike my own:

    'You should've turned back, Garibaldi. Now you die here.'

    As battle broke out, Maria's fingers sparked with magic. Fiery flames set robes ablaze, and a female figure shouted tersely, waving the others near with a commanding gesture.

    'Maria the Mage. Time to wake.'

    A burst of light, a crystalline cracking sound - another teleportation crystal used (how many do these nutcases 'have'?), whisking the majority of the wounded group away. One perished, one remained, suddenly alone, panicking and running.

    Leena's magic froze the attempt, just outside the Gaol. Through gritted teeth, the following words were spoken:

    'You are clever... you really are... But you still don't realize how predictable everything you do is.'

    The same words, the same sentiment as the Observer. I wondered suddenly whether any of these other persons were 'real', wondered if they were illusions, instruments, puppets - when suddenly another wisp of purple appeared. This time, I think they all saw it. The wisp built into a cloud, a small cloud filled with peering, leering, blinking eyes - and then purple flame, sudden and all consuming. Leaving nothing behind, not even ashes.

    The cultist we had slain was gone without a trace, presumably licked clean by those same ghoulish flames. We, however, had little time to waste investigating. We had to get to the Hemway estate, the choice of that house could 'not' be accidental.

    The house was still, shrouded with inpenetrable darkness within. We could sense aggressive spells flying within though, but also a barrier of some sort in our way, calling for caution. The barrier itself was easily dealt with by Maria, but as I was about to haste inside, I felt it - past the barrier, something 'more'. A trap, a version of baleful polymorph. Oh no no, no nooo... whatever 'that' did, it wasn't good.

    My dispel backfired painfully, but Maria's did the trick. We rushed inside, finding Monty and Vanessa slumped and bleeding near the door, rubble and debris all around after what must have been one hell of a fight. I healed them both as best I could, but Monty pointed ahead, a quiver of worry in his usually unflappable calm.

    'The master..'

    My heart nearly stopped in my chest.

    There, in the smouldering ruins of the room, stood a masked man, black singed robes flowing. A white-blue gleam along the razor edge of a longsword, held at the throat of Garric Hemway, beaten bloody, fallen to his knees.

    'Garric..!'

    Did I sound as pitiful as I felt, pleading and frightened, when I most desperately needed my calm, needed clarity of thought and decisive action? I was cold, I felt cold to the bone, a clammy, suffucating fear washing over me.

    Whispers to the left and right of me, Aoth and Maria plotting their actions as the swordman's voice cut through the air, modular but sharp.

    'Don't try it -..."

    Aoth makes her move, trying to hold the man immobile but he's prepared, he's making no empty threat - he has the upper hand, we should've seen it, we should've seen and not gambled with - ...

    Cold steel. Red blood, Garric's throat, Garric's...

    I can't, I can't undo this. I can do nothing, nothing but stare as my heart's squeezed tight, so tight I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't...

    Time slows to a halt.

    I know Garric is dying. The spell was too late, but I see it sink its hooks into the cultist now. Or is it just me who's frozen, is it shock that stops the beating of my heart, the turning of the clock?

    I blink, and Maria is no longer at our side of the room. She's across, she's tending to Garric, she's stemmed the flow of blood and he's wheezing, he's struggling to breathe but 'alive'. My heart beats and my knees feel faint, I'm useless but I stagger over.

    The cultist struggles against the spell, he grits his teeth and turns his gaze to the ceiling, snarling the words out past stiffened lips:

    'Time to wake'

    And then the flames take him, leaving nothing but the ruins wrought.

    Garric's tended to by Leena, he's weak and so pale I'm amazed he can stand - sheer stubbornness, but for once I'm grateful for it. A lesser man wouldn't have clung so hard to life.

    I feel wretched for what I must say next. He needs rest, but I don't see Jessica anywhere, nor Vanno. Where are they? Garric thinks they're fine, they're out on an expedition. Where to? Why, the Giantspires.

    'You have to contact them. A Sending to Jessica, if you can.'

    I know I'm pushing at his last reserve, but Garric loves his daughter. He grumbles, but he 'does' love her. However, it isn't Jessica who comes through on the other end, but Vanno. A bleeding, frustrated looking Vanno, who soon admits Jessica is not there - was in fact taken by the freakishly deformed ogres and orcs. The earful of abuse he got for this revelation was almost worth all of this - I feel a fierce wave of affection for Garric, and study the floor for a minute to steady my sudden urge to giggle inappropriately.

    Jessica is still in trouble.

    'Stay there and don't move', Garric instructs harshly, then turns to us. He wants to hire our help, and doesn't seem to register that payment isn't necessary, at least not for all of us. Monty mumbles - it seems coin might actually be scarce at the moment, and I feel like stabbing Vanno, though I still can prove nothing. I can't shake that feeling, the feeling that he's sabotaging things in one way or another. Why wasn't he 'here', after all? Conveniently away, conveniently 'losing' Jessica while the house is attacked. Is someone very much wanting to be the sole surviving heir?

    When we catch up with Vanno near Ogres Gorge, he is looking a little less brow-beaten. Tries to make us go after Prue and his gang first, in the opposite direction of Jessica's abductors, but I refuse and though he seems inclined to walk off alone, he's persuaded otherwise, skulking along in our party's wake as we slug through throngs and gaggles of tentacled, monsterous ogres and orcs, seemingly an endless stream.

    The Maze is falling apart, but some vestiges remain, walls flickering in and out of existance, solid one moment, ephemeral and wispy the next. We rescue Jessica, who is strung up like a lamb to the slaughter atop what looks like a pyre, soon to be roasted or worse. Then we double back for Prue and the rest of Vanno's entourage. But they are gone.

    There's signs of battle, near the remains of their caravan. Vanno claims Prue was there, her men and his big half-orc fellow - all capable fighters. But now there's just smouldering grass and deteriorating magic. Greenish flames. Residual traces of Hold Person, of Planeshift.

    Has the search for Vanno's mystery artifact brought them too close to the Night Parade, this time? Is their presence here, at this time, not due to Vanno's duplicity and animosity towards his family at all, but something tied to family history, to the cult that just won't die? Has the Masked Observer snatched Vanno's search crew? This is what he seems to imply, what the signs appear to point to. He even said he would 'share' what he knew, if we would help him get his people back.

    But he hasn't.


  • Vanno's Secret Date

    Vanno Hemway has since his arrival to the city been decidedly 'up' to something. At first I thought him just a ne'er'do'well, out to topple his uncle and become the new head of the family, but his underhanded tactics coupled with too convenient find of M:s leftover Halbrook disguise had my warning bells chiming. And now, it increasingly seems that he seeks some sort of artifact of the family's - related to the Night Parade. Such is my guess anyway, and he appeared to admit to nothing less, when last we met.

    But he also claimed he would 'share' and has done no such thing, thus far. In fact, Margueritte de Plousse, another of the city's newcomer movers and shakers, has warned of Vanno's request of her to import a rare flower with sedative qualites, deadly in high dosage. She added that it is nigh undetectable in wine, and that Vanno recently ordered much of the latter through Louis Auldreyuus.

    With all this in mind, I will record the following clandestine nightly conversation I eavesdropped on, between Vanno and Prue Davovil - a planetouched renegade Defender who has thwarted my every attempt at removing the implants Talbot Anderson's machinations inflicted upon her. Clearly, she is currently on Vanno's payroll, and these hidden encounters happen on a regular basis:

    Prue: "I fail to see why any of this concerns me."

    Vanno: "It concerns you because I'm paying you. You understand that employment tends to come with loyalty?"

    P: "You speak of loyalty as if you don't know that I abandoned this city as it so eagerly abandoned me. You speak of loyalty as if it operated only in one direction."

    V: "I looked out for you. I paid your way out of jail. That means you owe me."

    P: "Do you think I'm stupid, Vanno Hemway? Do you think I don't already know you're the one who hired the adventurers to capture me in the first place?"

    (Here, I'll admit I clenched a fist and cheered for the mechanised woman! You go girl, I hollered silently while Vanno visibly squirmed)

    V: "A mistake. I thought you were someone else."

    P: "Oh? And I am supposed to believe that it was not some guile-filled deception to secure 'loyalty' and 'debt'?"

    (Oh zing!)

    V: "..heh. Yeah, maybe after I realized the mistake, but not before. Vagabond and renegade Peltarchian officials who refused to return to the city - combined with the clear motive of the betrayer to 'enslave' criminals… It was an easy mistake to make."

    (Yeah 'right')

    P: "You're being idiotic tonight, Vanno Hemway. As you have been these past few nights. What changed, I wonder?"

    V: "Don't call me idiotic. (snippily) I don't know. It's been a few weeks. Ever since his capture."

    (Who? My mind jumped to Garric first, knowing he was going out of town to see Vanno's uncle - but it may be M - capture, later reference to gaol)

    P: "The one you wanted me to follow."

    V: "Right."

    P: "And yet one would expect your concerns to have abated by now."

    V: "You'd think! Good 'gods' I hate these people."

    (His family - or the Night Parade?)

    P: "I understand your hatred of them. You've articulated it often enough. Why don't you have your man provide you with more visible 'enforcement'?"

    (What man? The big sniffy fellow??)

    V: "...no. He's better served where he is. I need 'you' to do what I want you to do here. I pay you well enough - and not just out of feeling bad about the whole prison thing."

    P: "I think you are being overly cautious and sensitive."

    V: "I didn't get to where I am today by being careless and insensitive."

    (Really, Vanno as mister Sensitive? I almost giggled and blew my cover)

    V: "I want you and your boys in the Residential and around the Gaol. No mistakes. Nothing goes missing. Nothing slips by. You understand?"

    (So M-related? Night Parade related, somehow?)

    P: "We stick out in the Residential. You know that."

    V: "Psh. You and your hoods. If you want, I can have someone fix your faces, at least."

    P: "I rather prefer the way I look now than the way I looked before. I will let my men know of your offer, but we will make do."

    V: "...fine. Besides that, I want a report. Any luck finding it?"

    P: "None whatsoever."

    V: "So it's gone then. It wasn't in either of them?"

    P: "No. And the third?"

    V: "The group I sent came back empty-handed. Well, not empty-handed, but... they didn't have it."

    P: "Pity. Chasing baubles was never my strong suite."

    V: "I figure. That's why I want you on the Gaol and the Residential now."

    P: "Chasing smoke and mirrors was never my strong suite either."

    V: "There's more to it than that. I just haven't pieced it all together yet. And they learn 'nothing', you understand?"

    (What 'they'? The Night Parade? Us?)

    P: "... we will be careful. Though I expect to find nothing of them. They were rendered threatless long ago."

    V: "... we'll see."

    P: "You seem anxious."

    V: "It's been a weird night. We done here?"

    P: "..I have my orders."

    V: "Good. See you in a week."


  • The Experiment

    I woke slowly, feeling sluggish and spent, as though after a sleepless night's sleuthing. A cold stone floor underneath me, and the soft murmurs of the others as they too clawed their way out of unconsciousness. As my vision cleared, my heart sank - iron bars separated our group into threes, and firmly barred the way to any sort of freedom past the room we were in. There were levers inside each cage, and strange contraptions with hovering orbs in the centre of the room.

    A sudden flash-back to Chirade, a stab of fear to my gut that I doggedly fought down. No panicking, Isolde.

    A figure flickered into view, adressing us in a calm and dispassionate tone. He or she wore a bulky robe, rendering gender quite indeterminable, face hidden by hood and mask. The figure sounded very much like M:s mystery ally - and just like in Sheserai's vision, appeared to not be here in the flesh, but rather as a projection.

    'Pull the levers inside to open the door', the figure noted. 'This will kill the persons in your neighbouring cage, left or right depending on your choice. Note that you only have so much time before an event occurs.'

    Screw you, a rebellious voice screamed inside. There's always, 'always' more than one way to skin a cat and I was not going to be jerked around like a puppet again.

    'The bard questions the experiment, seeking a third option', noted the figure in that same infuriatingly even voice. During the course of our trial, this never changed. The figure would appear, present the premises and answer one or two questions, to then focus on our choice making process and reasoning, commenting as though we were not truly there or sentient enough to matter.

    It was 'really' annoying.

    We had no spells to utilize, nor any of our equipment, within the cages. While Shannon took to prayers, others tried to physically wrest the bars off or break the floor open, some being blasted with hot steam for their efforts. The 'event' consisted of the orbs in the centre of the room dropping down, spreading a foul-smelling gas, increasingly intense for each one.

    Poisonous?

    No one pulled the levers - the Observer speculating over moral implications or peer pressure as the reason, while the gas thickened. Rhona suggested we all pull the levers at the same time, but I didn't want to play the game, not at 'all'. I thought that if I clung to the top of the cage, I might escape the gas and whatever else would happen once the event occurred.

    'Tick tock, Isolde Garibaldi', whispered M in my ear, and I gritted my teeth. I am 'not' playing this game, do you hear me!?

    Three orbs down, four, five.. and then we were out of time.

    A burst of foul-smelling gas filled the room, but rather than killing us it merely reeked - and the doors popped open, releasing their captives.

    Next we needed to get out of the room - instructions were left by the door, but instead of heeding them we armed ourselves as best we could, picking up shards of glass and the odd bar wrest loose from the cages.

    There was actually another way out of the chamber. It involved a drop through some painfully hot steam coming from below, but the shard of glass I dropped down suggested it was not too far a fall.

    Perhaps we could find the back door out of this hellhole, by breaking free of the rat race no doubt laid out before us? It was worth a try, or so I thought when I took the plunge.

    Ow. Ow ow ow ow.

    The room was scalding, the air thick and hard to breathe. Those above managed to vent some of the steam, but still it burnt and the only door in there was firmly locked. My hair pin was 'of course' missing too. Had I had a chance to use that thing as intended even once, since aquiring it?

    The shard of glass was clumpsy and sharp, cutting my fingers as I tried to wedge it into the lock to manipulate it. It was easier once Maria came down to assist, but my hand was bleeding and all but useless after it finally clicked open. My head swam and I felt near fainting as we pressed on, into a long and winding corridor filled with cogs and machinery no doubt connected to the various rooms we were supposed to have entered.

    This was behind the scenes, and for that at least, I was actually glad.

    My recollection of the rest is vague, so taxing had the initial events been on me. I remember choices, puzzles purposely left unsolved, the Observer's constant commentry - never upset, never 'emotional' at all, but expressing preference for the 'proper' order of events and concern of the experiment's validity being compromised.

    'Your very presence influences the experiment', I pointed out after having worn my petulance out. 'The bard makes an excellent point', the Observer noted and vanished.

    There was mystery, treasure, rewards for 'solving' the rooms, there were innocents to rescue - illusionary, their cries a constant loop - and throughout it all, the Observer's focus on the choices we made, the reasoning behind it.

    At last we came to a room where one of the doors lead to our exit, the path to freedom. If we took this road, we would 'wake up', noted the Observer in their never-changing tone. We would of course forego the chance of more treasure in the various event chambers, the figure added.

    But one and all, we were in wholehearted agreement that this experiment should end, sooner rather than later. The Observer made no effort to stop us as we opened the door and stepped onto the winding stairs, going up and up and up. The air grew bright, a white, blinding light, and a peculiar, familiar scent tickled my nostrils. Daffodils and lilacs, and..

    My head hurt and my hip felt numb against the tiles of the steam room floor. It was the bath house in Peltarch, I soon noted, and we were all there, all dressed in the same drably mundane style of swimsuit. On the floor, right by the steam vent, was a bowl.

    Inside the bowl, the floral aromas still rose. Daffodils, lilacs and something else, something other than Tristyn's mix, the one he had used to sink us all into that shared dream at the masquerade. This was a very similar style of magic, wrought through very similar means. Night Parade magic, from our mystery man or woman who had, or so it seems, brought us all here in seemingly drunken revelry. The bath house staff were dazed and confused as well, but one of them noted a masked person wearing a bulky robe having come inside with us - robe, mask and all.

    An outside witness mentioned several masked persons included in the crowd, four with myself counted in, though that doesn't necessarily mean there was more than one cultist involved. If I were pulling this sort of trick, I'd have hidden the faces of such well known figures as Raryldor, Shannon and Maria, to avoid too much attention.

    While there may be others, I will focus my attention on The Observer, the one we 'know' is operating here and now. While there is still very little to go on, I believe it's safe to say we're looking for a spellcaster, most likely an arcanist. Unfortunately Tristyn learnt his dream-inducing tricks from Beeble, and was unable to help us with anything other than noting that others within the sect definitely knew the same arts. Everyone he had been in contact with was dead, after all - minus M who had faked his own demise.

    I suppose we'd best start there. Garric gave me another one of his infuriating lectures for letting Marcel live, but if we can wrest information out of the sour-faced prisoner, then that's got to be worth something.


  • The Masked Observer

    Whoever the robed Night Parader seen conversing with M is, it is clear now that this person has not left nor gone into hiding, but is currently active in our region. While Marcel has spoken not a word since his capture, his possible accomplice's activities warrants an attempt at conversation, much as I would love to have the words I whispered in his ear be the last ones I ever spoke to him. Perhaps we can continue letting him believe himself betrayed, perhaps taunting or even flattery (Halbrook insists one should respect a good foe) would do the trick. Either way, I intend on trying soon, ideally with my clever partners present.

    Thus far, our mystery cultist, henceforth referred to as 'The Observer', has sprung two sets of traps upon myself and others. The first appeared to have directly harmful intent, while the second struck me more as an attempt to gather information - quite likely for a new and refined stab at the first.

    Garric Hemway's nephew Vanno, with a seemingly supervising Monty in tow, hired a group to retrieve a stashe of items which he claimed were forgotten up in the mountains in our rescue of Garric. Once underway, however, it became apparant that someone knew of our intent and had gone before us to plant quite specific, personalized traps in our path.

    The first was a forest fire in the wilds past Ogres Gorge. We spotted the smoke rising from afar as we drifted in mist form through the air, Aoth's Wind Walking spell greatly easing our traversing of the dangerous territory. My nostrils filled with the scent of burning vegetation as we set down to investigate, but also something else. Something like.. honey?

    No, honeysuckle - very much like my own favoured perfume, in fact.

    The forest 'shook' as its massive guardian treant appeared, enraged at the fire. A fire, it soon turned out, it firmly believed 'I' had set. A figure with my appearance, with my scent even, had been identified as the arsenist, we learned as Aoth conversed with the angered being, whose roots, leaves and vines grew thick around us. It grasped my misty form, squeezing tightly, lashed out angrily at Gnarl who brandished his dwarven axe, but in the end was convinced of our innocence, much through Aoth's calm diplomacy. It even apologized, gifting us with a twig!

    There were a few bootprints in the ground, a trail to follow at least for a while - it lead us to a secluded area of the forest, where an intricate glyph glowed with tantalizing magic. Detect Magic revealed a lingering trace of teleportation in the air - whoever our mystery arsenist was, he or she was no longer present. But the 'gift' they had left behind was something I could not resist attempting to study.

    The runes and sigils were convoluted and complex - as I attempted to make sense of them a chilling realization struck, but by that time it was too late: this was a modified version of Snake Sepia Sigil, a spell which triggers as one begins to read it! Now it was starting to feel 'personal' - impersonation, followed by a trap a bard was 'bound' to fall into!

    The nature of the trap made it clear - this was indeed the work of the Night Parade. Nightmarish creatures poured forth as the spell triggered, tearing and draining my life force. It was a vicious fight which saw even the likes of Theaon challenged, but we managed to scrape by and continue on our way, the mist still carrying us.

    Or rather, it carried 'most' people - weary and out of sorts, I suddenly plummetted down towards the foot of the mountains in a whirlwind of flailing limbs, while Aoth shouted good advice at my dwindling form. Thankfully the party followed!

    Near my 'landing' site, we spotted a cage and approached to investigate. A little girl was trapped inside, sobbing and pleading to be released. Orcs had captured her, she said, and would eat her for dinner! By now I was suspicious of everything, and murmured so to Aoth with some regret. How sad is it not when you begin to see danger and deception in the faces of children? It turns out I was right, though - the girl was illusionary, a mere ruse to attract a group of nearby orcish brutes.

    After the last fight, I felt bruised and drained. I had absolutely no wish to fight and so put my best warrior queen act on, attempting to cow the orcs with intimidation and charm mingled. Infuriatingly, their leader evaded my spell, but the War Cry hit home and scattered the group enough that we needed fight but a few.

    Before our Wind Walk ended, we made our final push into the mountains proper. Near our destination, a snowy cavern not far from Garric's former prison, another surprise awaited us: a minotaur, its gleaming hide steaming in the cold air. It looked angry and confused, immediately addressing Gnarl and demanding that he bring him back home - clearly believing him a mage and ourselves some form of slave companions. Again, we sensed teleportation magic.

    It seems our mystery opponent is either a skilled illusionist or has picked up Marcel's tricks of the trade, in regards to impersonation skills. The minotaur was fully convinced Gnarl had yanked it from the cozy ruins of its warm habitat, and was seconds away from swinging its enormous axe when I offered it a crystal embued with that same spell.

    'Picture your home and crush the crystal', I instructed, and to my relief it did. I've no wish to take the life of someone so misplaced and lost, yanked from their rightful place to be used against us like a pawn. Besides, a big axe swinging at my neck is not a sight I favour!

    Finally, the cave awaited. Within, there were a plethora of mundane traps, which Gnarl did his best to mark out for us. I could sense magic from deeper within, and as we came upon a green-glowing set of intricate glyphs, I knew it at once as another Snake Sepia Sigil, modified in a manner resembling the first. Nuh-uh, fool me once.

    We left it unread and unloved, though it shimmered oh so teasingly.

    More traps, and then a door in smooth black stone, locked and without a handle or keyhole. But it could be manipulated through 'magic'… yes, I'd seen similar before, a variant of Dancing Lights. Through artful manipulation and magic, you could form images onto the dark 'canvas' and the right one would open the door.

    But which image?

    The Night Parade has more than one symbol. The clouds, the eye - I started with the eye as a test, remembering that with Chirade's door, I'd been able to sense when something fitted or not. It was a good ol' Beeble eye, and my heart gave a little twinge. No sight of him since the dream beach crumbled, no word or hint of his survival.

    The symbol felt fitting, but not quite right. I started to tweak it as the contingency set off - a failed attempt at unlocking the door saw the entrance cut off with a solid thunk of stone, and gas began seeping in through holes drilled into the walls. Okay, no problem, poison belt on...

    I barely even paused, so focused was I on the task. Okay, not 'that' eye but what about the other? Almost... The Kildarn's estate basement, with its dark stone door shimmering with blinking greenish eyes danced before my inner sight, just as I began to feel faint. Wait, hadn't I clasped the belt on proper-....

    I regained consciousness a moment later, a panicky Aoth having fixed the encircling scale to fit securely around my waist. Wobbling a bit, I continued the work, recreating the doorway to the Far Realm. But it was still not 'quite' right.. fewer eyes. Six.. five.. four.. three..

    Three.

    Three eyes and the door swung open, to gasps of relief all around. After a painful trap removal, the items were retrieved, mostly gold and potions. Vanno Hemway had expected something 'else' though, something I strongly suspect the person who came before us took. He wouldn't say what, though, and claimed no one knew of the cache but for him and Monty.

    Which of course puts both of them on the suspects list. Vanno had in fact offered up a very helpful piece of evidence against Marcel in exchange for a favour, earlier. I thought it a bit too convenient at the time, but The Observer strikes me as very different indeed from Vanno's persona and way of operating. He'd have to be an 'amazing' actor to pull that off. As for Monty - I don't want to believe any ill of him and besides which, he has always struck me as very loyal to Garric and Vanessa. I really should weasel the story of how they met out them sometime, however...

    Whoever The Observer is, male or female being thus far impossible to tell, a second trap was set a while later. This time, a commoner ran up to a group of adventurers gathered at the Commons, hollering about magical lights in the foothills. Wondering whether it might relate to our blue mystery, I followed with the rest, only to find a bright set of multicoloured lights dancing in the evening air.

    Rhona begun to cast Detect Magic, even as Raryldor sidled up to whisper that there was something peculiar about the commoner. And with that simple standard investigative spell, the trap was triggered. I had just enough time to curse before my vision turned black.


  • Prologue

    "Not quite. Not quite yet, anyway. A necessary method, to be certain. What's that?

    No, not at all. Not at 'all'. You need to broaden your horizons. Of course it's possible. That's what they failed to see, so long ago and even then, not so long ago. As far back as Callum Ferguson, the fool. Even my own idiotic son. Do you remember him?

    Of course you do.

    The borders hold more power than our main source. That's the classic mistake: willful blindness. Blindness to potential, to power, to strength - or is it fear? One of the two.

    You are joking, yes?

    …you must be."

    Marcel Finhund's voice is clearly audible above the whimpers and cries of the Doppelganger strapped to the surgical table infront of him. The scalpel makes precise little cuts as he peels the captive's dark hide off with dispassionate care. Yet every now and then he lifts his head, as though to listen.

    "There must be someone else in there with him..." I whisper to Sheserai, who frowns and focuses her will, the Legend Lore spell cast upon her ring flickering and then resolving to a greater clarity. Now we can see the third person present: a ghostly figure in a thick robe and hood, face obscured by darkness.

    The hooded person speaks in a dispassionate voice: "There are only two."

    M: "Yes, and we've focused too much on the one. The Region of Dreams - a potent source, certainly, but nowhere near as potent as the second."

    Hooded Cultist: "A very real risk. The others wouldn't approve."

    M retorts, snippily: "The cell is 'dead', or as good as. Let them disapprove. They have no more power here."

    Hooded Cultist: "The girl, the elf and the hin draw near. You're certain of it?"

    M: "They are of little concern. The elf and hin operate mundanely and the girl will make a fine pupil - her naivete can be turned. Besides, their official help is soon to be disposed of..."

    Hooded Cultist: "Perhaps minds can be changed about this border realm... if you succeed."

    M: "Success is a series of steps. Of which I have taken each and every one so far. Have a little faith."

    Hooded Cultist: "You have attracted quite a lot of attention. Questions are being asked."

    M: "The vampires will provide cover. And now, with this, 'success' is only a matter of time."

    The vision fades and I fight down my urge to shout at M:s smug echo. Instead, I find myself recalling Albus Pollux, the opinionated historian who wrote of Calimshan's history. I nod in silent agreement to that old friend, agreeing with his main point all over again: the Night Parade lives on.