A dark plume of steam and smoke and noxious mist puffed out of the strange little chimney, smelling like all the things the upper districts weren’t. It dissipated into the hazy twilight between the tightly packed walls of the lower streets, settling into the perpetual fog that seemed to hover at around the tenth or eleventh level. Certainly there was a sun in the sky, high above the rooftops where clockwork gondolas transported the ignorant masses over the urban chasms below, but it could not quite be seen from the vantage of those who walked in the deepest downs. It was in this darkness that the city was kept alive, humming alongside the heartbeat of arcane engines.

What followed was a small yellow gem, streaked with bright white like a cream candy, chiming against the metal of the open vent as it tripped and tumbled out. It arced across the narrow lane, landing quietly on an awning that protruded from the far wall. The window beside it was closed and cloudy, but was not otherwise conspicuous. Perhaps it would stay there forever.

 
Thirdly and lastly emerged the thin face of what seemed to be a young girl, covered in soot and whatever other muck spewed from the vent. A pair of small hands grasped the edges of her prefatory pipe as she peered out over the street, unimpressed with what she saw.

There wasn’t much to fall on, except for the street nearly eight stories down. Squinting left and right, she could find no other purchase to break her fall if she should try to jump. She was not a climber or an acrobat or even a particularly skilled rogue; her only choice was to reach out into the proliferating shadow and use it as her vessel, fading into the darkness until it replaced her corporeality.

Down the way, perhaps half a block from the brassy chimney that had heralded her to Tarshitar’s underworld, was a pair of wooden doors. A series of steps jutted out of the wall beneath them, which would not have been entirely strange if the whole scene was not suspended eighty feet up from the street. She would reappear there presently, a gust of shadow turned tangible. Her attention remained on the street, eyes scanning the precipice of the stoop as well as any other ledge or cranny that might have caught her lost treasure, until finally, disappointedly, she was drawn to the doors. Though in hindsight she would never be able to quite explain why, she lifted her hand to the peeling patina of the unmarked entrance.

She knocked three times.

The corridor was narrow and it twisted sharply. Everything was too small, too cramped. People could barely fit two abreast in such conditions. The rooms that led off from the cracked plaster walls were just as claustrophobic. Poorly lit, cushions and smoke and exotic incenses did not help to relieve the sensation of being trapped in a house designed for dwarves. The air was damp and reeked of human squalor. Dull red lanterns swayed from brackets fixed into the walls. Images of dragons climbed toward them. A giggle, a guttural sound. Someone yelling elsewhere in the house. Everything was humid and the air smelled of sex and disappointment.

Mendean moved like a ghost. People would spot his approach, stare at him frowning for a moment, then before they could question the southerner's presence, they would forget him. It was the way he moved amongst the mortals. A thing seldom noticed and almost never recalled. And yet, the impression of him would remain, somewhere deep inside. It would only emerge during the nocturnal hours, sometimes to haunt them, other times, simply to observe.

For that was the way of this particular lord of chaos; this walker of the dreamlands. Wandering where he willed, following the threads of creation and unravelling them whenever possible. He sought something. No. He sought someone or some-ones. Keys to open a door, or simply smash it down, if necessary.

But that was for later. Steps had been taken. Arrangements were being put in place. Like all his schemes, this one was a simple one, but inordinately complex. He was a creature of chaos, not an arrow.

Passing an open door, Mendean made the mistake of glancing inside as he passed. The smell almost made him retch. He reached out, slid the door fully closed and continued down the corridor with a pained look. He needed to reach the end and do it quickly. A knock would sound shortly. The right person must answer. If the wrong person answered, then he would have to recalculate, reconfigure. So many variables to consider. It could become tiresome very rapidly.

One knock. Two knocks. Three.

Mendean's eyes flickered up in time to see a fat man in a quilted jacket, sat on a padded stool. He stirred and stood, remarkably quickly for someone his size. Mendean sneered. The world reddened and rippled as though becoming molten. For an instant the corridor immediately behind the door was filled with thin oily black threads that glistened. There was a wet sound, a yelp of surprise. The threads snapped back into the wall as the god approached. The fat man was gone.

Mendean, dressed in a dark grey silk robe covered with images of blue serpentine dragons surrounded by lightning bolts, approached the door and peered through a tiny spy hole. Then he nodded and opened the door, gruffly belting out a Tarishitan phrase, the meaning of which it would be easy enough to understand, even if one did not speak the language.

<what do you want?>

((OOC: It won’t always take me this long to reply, sorry.))

Halfway down the boy would be greeted by another frowning face, pale eyes peering past the his hip through the waxing echoes of curiosity. She had seen only a small flash of color beneath the door frame, but so had she sensed enough strangely potent magic to pique her interest. Ever since her raising, Chae had been fascinated by arcane power and those who wielded it; this was different, and greater, and yet somehow intimately familiar. She might have asked after it directly, if the revealed tenant would have had any patience for questions. But between his tone and his tongue, there was no use. Instead she tucked the peculiar scene into a close pocket of her memory, candid distrust bent on her brow.

“Excuse me,” the halfling replied, matching in aggression what she could not make in mystery. Using shadow magic to soften her edges, Chae skirted through the tiny threshold between the boy’s leg and the door hinge. Her eyes wandered widely over the immediate interior, nose wrinkling at first breath. “The day was long, though the sun is high. I desire a place to rest.”

That was not entirely the truth. Even if she did know what he had asked, the little lich could not have described what had drawn her here. Already she seemed to have forgotten what it was exactly that intrigued her about this place, this man, this moment. In any case, it would not satisfy her curiosity to stay outside.

“I have lost an agate stone,” she remembered out loud, head bobbing as she took measure of her surroundings. It was as good a reason as any. “Small, yellow, uncut but smooth. Hours I searched in the deep darks to find it, and then I had it, and then it was gone. Tomorrow the hunt begins again. Unless you know of a way to find it?” Her bony hand had been peeling down on a flake of old paint, when suddenly it broke away. Bluish knuckles flexed petulantly as she threw the debris at her host’s feet, as much an afterthought as an offering. Only when she looked him in the eye again did she remember that she did not speak his language.

Her tiny arms stretched out to either side, sleeves flailing toward the room around them and the hall beyond. “What is this place?”

He moved back, concentrating on what she was saying, but a combination of her strange accent and his own lack of understanding of her native tongue left the young god somewhat perplexed. He had not expected the visitor to have been a foreigner. The cards had not specified such a thing. It was difficult to understand what Mendean thought of as foreign devil-barkings as they spewed from the mouth of the tiny person in the doorway.

Mendean was able to tease meaning from the last part of the visitor's speech, based on tone of voice and body language. Mendean sighed softly. This was not going to be a simple encounter. He had other ways of communicating, of course, but he was reluctant to use them. At least, not before he had tried other options first. As far as he could gather, she wanted a yellow stone. Something was happening tomorrow and she was curious about the nature of the building.

Frowning, Mendean confessed to himself that he did not really understand what the lich was talking about. She wanted something. Had that been the word for a kind of stone? How did that figure into his plans? All he knew was that the arrival of the tiny undead creature was in some way significant to the overall process of things. He had so many plans, schemes within schemes woven together into a tough and durable lattice of interrelationships. The animated dead somehow factored into it, for good or ill. Observing her cadaverous appearance decided it might be worth trying several approaches.

She was from the other land across the sea. That much was clear. That she had recently risen was likely, given the lack of decomposition in her countenance. After all, those of her ilk that he had encountered in the past were generally in a much worse state. If she was looking for something, then perhaps he would have to help her find it. Mendean assumed favours were at least as much a currency in the barbarian lands of Canelux as they were here in the civilised lands of Parvpora…perhaps more-so.

That she was a puissant entity, he had no doubt. Creatures like her generally did not just pop into existence without developing a working knowledge of arcana first. Perhaps even the languages of creatures from the outer realms. He decided to try some of them in the hope that they might find some common tongue between them.

<This is a house of ill-repute. Do you understand my words?>

Mendean spoke the phrase in ancient Kelonian, the native tongue of his father, a thousand years previous. The Kelonians had dominated much of what was now the Vilmapolan coast and Bohar. It was a clunky, formal tongue, lacking in elegance, but some words survived into modern Bohari, Vilmapolan, Madagor and even the mongrel mash-up that was Adelunian. There was a good chance some of it might sound familiar to the halfling at the very least.

Next he repeated the phrase in a southern draconian tongue, three daemonic tongues and a codified mystical tongue. The last one extended the phrase into a level of precise complexity that made the air shimmer vaguely. That was the risk one took with arcane languages, given they existed solely to alter reality, but if channelled carefully, they could be used to convey information, albeit in a somewhat sprawling, spidery form.

When he was done, he stepped back and waited to see if there was any glimmer of understanding in the Lich's eyes. They had not rotted away yet, which was a good sign.

Eventually an understanding dawned, though perhaps not without that final guidance from the ether. Truly Chae was only fluent in the one language, which she had spoken from the moment of her raising; others were coming to her slowly, but only through makeshift translations in dusty old books. If only she could read lips as well as she could read pages. 

"No," she replied stubbornly, anxious eyes leading her feet in an erratic path between the building’s innards and its exit. She could leave, but this place was her only lead. Not to say that the people within would not keep a pretty little item for themselves, especially if they knew to look for it. No jewel was worth more in kindness than it was in coin, at least not to those who paid for pleasure.

The clear alternative, of course, was to ask the boy for help—whoever he was. What was a young man doing in a brothel anyway, answering the door? At the very least she could learn if he might be sympathetic to her plight. If he was worth the effort. As her face turned away from him, so did her own arcane senses peer closer. Cold fingers of awareness reached into the space around him, prodding intangibly into the sum of him, his aura, his magic. It did not occur to her to be cautious, nor to retreat until she was actively rebuked. Eyes averted, she asked slowly, “Magic?”

Clearly he knew some, but was it enough to be a judge of his character? She repeated the word three times. Once, in the fell tongue through which she had learned the necromancy that animated her; again, through the piecemeal syllables of a rune caster’s chant; and finally in a rough, phonetic version of Wyllmochvarian, in which many of the books of the Academy library were written.

Each was an invoking language, learned from long hours spent poring between sorcerers’ tomes and wizarding textbooks. But unlike the mystic webs he had weaved before, hers were not words of intent. Her undirected power channeled itself into an old spell, expanding the reach of her shadow with every echo. It stifled the already dim candlelight, advancing over the walls and floor. If he could see her through the darkness he would perceive no malice in her eyes, but rather a hungering curiosity, spiced with the seed of desperation.

<miss if u say that any more you will raise my dead brethren who i have in my satchel> 
I said appearing from a cloud of black smoke. she the girl who was alive for she had no heartbeat. 
raised from the dead by a necromancer and taught by the same possible one that was why the shadow was expanding. she was good at especially since she could do this with words no book. 

as i walked forward i notice a man who was sitting next to her always shifting his appearance 
< you boy you must be a dream god are you not?>

Magic was a thing the chaos lord understood. An underlying fundament of the universe, but not the source of creation. More a webwork that had inserted itself in, like in some exotic forms of paper, where threads of silk were added to strengthen it. He knew all the words for that thing, and yet, when he saw the hunger in Chae's eyes, he hesitated in acknowledging his understanding.

And yet he warmed to her when she used the words of his native tongue. Wyllmochvaran was a language that was known to spell-weavers across the continent. For one to be accepted as a pupil at the legendary academy, a working knowledge of Wyllmochvaran was essential. Indeed, the language had taken on magical qualities of its own over time, becoming intimately tied-in with the academy and imbued with significance. It was said that a fluent speaker of the tongue could weave spells, simply by speaking in the right (or wrong) way, even if they had no training in the arcane schools. Gestures used when speaking Wyllmochvaran could accidentally lead to strange effects, which was one reason that the body language of Wyllmochvarians was so reserved.

“Dakle, da razumijete neke od onoga što sam rekao?” So, you understand some of what I say? Mendean smiled. “Dobro,” he said with a nod, then stood up straight as he realised he had been leaning over the halfling without considering how intimidating such a gesture might have appeared to her.

He had always had an innate distrust of the dead. Dead things should not be walking about in the world, imitating the living. It was almost as if someone was giving the natural order of things the finger, by allowing the dead to roam freely when they should instead be in their own worlds. It wasn't as though the living regularly walked around in the worlds of the dead, was it?

But that had been his father's opinion. Mendean reminded himself he had to find his own way, come to his own decisions about the way things should be, based on his own observations. Coming to a decision, he rolled back copious sleeves and began to gesture in the air, tracing ephemeral sigils that quickly faded from view, moments after their creation. He used symbols that the lich might recognise from the basic lessons in magic that were taught in the first semester at Wyllmochvar in the hope she might recognise them.

The first was a representation of a location spell, the second indicated the colour yellow, then he made a sign representing things that come from the earth. He had learned that one on his first day in earth weaving class. He smiled at the memory of not knowing his own strength, which resulted in the classroom floor cracking open and a fountain of mud and gemstones pouring out. His teacher had scolded him, but he remembered the glimmer of amusement in the old man's eyes.

Next, he generated a collection of symbols representing different types of bargains one might strike with entities from the daemonic realms. Being half-daemon himself, Mendean gave the lich a knowing look. The implication being clear. I will help…for a price.

It was no threat. It was written in the lore about him that every interaction with the dream walker came at a cost. It was simply a statement of what would hopefully be obvious. Help offered by Mendean was never given freely. After all, he was half-daemon. It was the way of his kind. The contract was everything. A way of keeping things balanced.

“Da?”

Chae peered through the foggy language with growing familiarity, if only because the linguistic air was thinner in Wyllmochvaran than it was in Tarishitan. Her attention sailed towards the syllables she knew as if they were beacons on the coast of their conversation, and it was enough to guide her to his meaning. At least she recognized most of the symbols as they faded from his dancing fingers. A broad smile stretched over her cracking lips, dead eyes glinting with anticipation.

Her shadows retreated, swallowed up by her own accord. The candlelight glowed brightly around their contract, buzzing behind his magically charged words. Perhaps she could have survived without the gem, or found a replacement or searched harder on her own. But with this deal, it would be allowed to serve as centerpiece in the growing power of her phylactery. Yes, she needed it. And this is where it had lead her, to this demon, this debt dealer. 

This was where she was meant to go.

It did not occur to Chae to distrust the man. The boy. She believed thoroughly in fate and divine reason, she who had been pulled from the eternal slumber of death for a purpose she had yet to discover. She was already dead; though surely there were plenty, she could not conceive a worse fate. She had nothing to lose, nothing to fear. Either this was the first step on the path toward new meaning, or it was an obstacle to the same. In any case, all she had was time.

This was how it was meant to be.

“Naravno,” she said. Of course.

And suddenly there was a weight in her hand, a tiny change that was almost imperceptible at first. Her brow rose in understanding a moment later, her arm bending to raise the little gem between them. Its happy color seemed to shine in the dancing light of the little flame, though truly it was no more than it seemed. It was nothing, inert, without the coordinated and amplified powers that she had so diligently arranged to harness it. Still, it evoked something resembling joy in her cold, rotting face—the happiness alone might have even restored some of the color to those grey cheeks.

Her attention returned to the demon, if he had not already left her. For a long moment she studied his eyes, searching for motive and power. Then it occurred to her to ask the question she should have asked first, though she had yet to answer it herself. “Who are you?”

The question. He did not understand the words, but the sentiment was understood. It burned in her eyes in the way it did with all who encountered Mendean – even those who already knew him. He realised that it was time to reveal himself, but it would not be easy on her. He closed his eyes. The corridor creaked with the sounds of straining timbers. The air gained pressure. An orange-red light suffused all things, while the walls began to shift and flow. Mendean closed his eyes. He was bringing a part of the Nexus into the world, and the world was resisting.

Voices rose from all around, while Mendean himself appeared to diminish, slowly receding into the background. Although if one looked away then back, he would immediately have jumped back into the forefront of perception. The world rolled and swirled in tiny shifting configurations. Ergot fever-dreams. Nothing was still. Everything in constant motion. Chiaroscuro in motion.

I am. barefoot dressed in black portent of things to come angry passive broken mended folded in on self. The walker on the threshold of sleep. Pale skinned blue within blue Siva Zemlyst fractured lives two in one fallen One who seeks. master of the shattered lotus teacher visitor hidden risen dark haired hollow A melding.thief justicar fears the shining ones oh the rain falls down Fusion of two beings. nephew brother son Son of a daemon.laughter in the woods dweller in cities architect performer preacher not remembered seeker lost Son of the thimble rigger.brother of the dragon lurker within the black tower tunnel of worlds runt of the litter A lord of chaos. gardener player of games restive daddy issues father mother all gone alone shedding of skin Dream walker.has never known love keeper of secrets warden of the forgotten library A boy on the threshold of manhood.never stops walking as I was walking up a stair I met a man who was not thereThe nightmare.tore down the wall around the swamplands peered through the mist fought the white worms witnessed the death of a world on a humdrum town Where the many worlds meet, I can be found.felt him dying restored the khymera tainted by tawil at'umr travelled with the novella An orphan. student at wyllmochvar nobody remembers me nobody nobody knows me The one hundredth child. I spit on your conventions! Born of a serpent.this town will drag me down banished the wodewoses from the tree triumphed over the weaver of storms defied the golem masters Hatched of an egg. the rain falls down on a humdrum town was engaged to the daughter of a faerie duke walked the broken streets of attamesh saw the black sun I was once in the future. who is 'Him'? This town has dragged you down I will be in the past. once I sought apotheosis, I found it, but it was lost I will find you wherever you are I have been in the present. Oh the rain
I have seen many endings. and everybody's got to live their life how many equations have I formulated and then lost? I walked the living steps of hell and found my father's murderer A monk. Confronted the old soldier about the death of his nephew. I wanted them to swap places foolish boy arrogant old man Once an archon. And god knows I've got to live mine Dream walker. I ruled a city and now I rule another city. Neither of them were ever truly cities. Heir of Malach. mentor, friend, enemy, follower, never lover mother of ice father of sky The forgotten one. I bested the mind monster in the streets chess games to the deathWithout weapons. Many have felt my touch many have never remembered I summoned my uncle from his prison of another world Virgin. I walked the streets of Wyllmochvar, banner held high Discord. The man who fell through into my world was found in my spiritual home by the oasis I recovered his heart Granter of visions. I witnesssed the death of the spider queen Pain. Sidney helped me open my mind Sleep. The masked girl and I fought the abomination we slipped back and forth I taught the masked girl to draw The monster under the bed. What I saw at the heart of creation nearly destroyed me my father betrayed/saved us all I held his dying form in my hands but it was just meat my little brother turned to stone One who waits for you to close your eyes. I never wanted this never wanted this too much for one child too much A king. The man from the void was no man he ate the colours of the world but he meant well A pauper. I lost many friends on that day in tarishitar A student. When the voice speaks it speaks through me and the other two they worry me does it speak through them too or are they just pretending? Arch magus. you have nothing/everything to fear from me I have walked the cancer gardens of hell and smelled their sickly blooms. Her name means pain mine is a century One of the makers. I am a manipulator like my wicked father Triune. I will not eat the flesh Heir of Judge. My mother is insaneChild of ice. you know who I am.