The party moves to take their places among the hired security, keeping their eyes open and heads down. Katenaya moves forward, checking ranks, then takes her own place at the head of the file. She nods to a man in finely-crafted robes, who in turn looks for nods from handlers in the other segments of the expedition. When he's satisfied with whatever signals it is he needs, he moves to the right column of the gate and begins to intone something in a language long since dead. His hands etch sigils in the air, and as the chanting continues, those looking think they can actually see faintly glowing echoes of those sigils, burned briefly into the air itself.
When he draws forth an amulet from within his robes, the sigils become impossible to miss, now inscribing themselves in hotly-glowing light up both colums of the gate. The voice of the robed man grows, louder and louder, past the volume the humanoid voice should be capable of, and the runes continue to spread, in from the edges, until they meet in an explosion of light at the apex of the gate.
There is a tearing sound, oddly thin and delicate, as if someone were merely ripping a sheaf of parchment next to you. The surface of the air within the gate begins to quaver as if that over cobbles on a hot day, and the robed man's voice dies. He stumbles a bit, a young guardsman rushing to support him and move him aside.
"Move out!" Katenaya calls out to the gathered security detail. Likewise, the contractors' handler calls for movement, and the head of the wagon caravan snaps her whip. The throng, finally done milling, begins to move to the shimmering air of the gate. As bodies and wagons come into contact with the effect, they, too, quaver, then disappear.
The Zeire Gate awaits.
When he draws forth an amulet from within his robes, the sigils become impossible to miss, now inscribing themselves in hotly-glowing light up both colums of the gate. The voice of the robed man grows, louder and louder, past the volume the humanoid voice should be capable of, and the runes continue to spread, in from the edges, until they meet in an explosion of light at the apex of the gate.
There is a tearing sound, oddly thin and delicate, as if someone were merely ripping a sheaf of parchment next to you. The surface of the air within the gate begins to quaver as if that over cobbles on a hot day, and the robed man's voice dies. He stumbles a bit, a young guardsman rushing to support him and move him aside.
"Move out!" Katenaya calls out to the gathered security detail. Likewise, the contractors' handler calls for movement, and the head of the wagon caravan snaps her whip. The throng, finally done milling, begins to move to the shimmering air of the gate. As bodies and wagons come into contact with the effect, they, too, quaver, then disappear.
The Zeire Gate awaits.