***
The tiny silver bell above the door jingled merrily. Florian smiled as she walked into the cluttered, eclectic and quirky confines of the Friendly Fiend where it seemed that A’kin was in the midst of unpacking several boxes and rearranging the contents of one of the shelves.
“Come in! Come in!” The ‘loth said as he turned at the sound of the bell.
“Hey there A’kin.” Florian said as the fiend recognized her.
“Just browsing today Florian, or perhaps looking for something particular? I do try to keep my customers happy and coming back as best I can.”
“You’re a sweetheart A’kin,” Florian replied. “And frankly you’re a much needed contrast to miss … oh you know who.”
A’kin winced. “My apologies again for that unpleasantness. I can’t really say why she feels the need to be that way, I really don’t.”
“No need to apologize pal, you’re not in the same category as she is. I won’t tar and feather you by reputation based on her.”
A’kin smiled courteously and began to unwrap a number of items for the open shelf space.
“Anything new?” Florian asked as she scanned the shelves for anything that had been added since the last time she was in the shop.
The smiling arcanaloth perked up considerably as she asked, taking his mind off of his decidedly more fiendish Sigilian compatriot.
“Let’s just say that I’ve got space on my shelves all of a sudden and I have to find something to fill them with.” He said.
“Oh?”
He leaned in closer. “Now I hate to talk business and money with a customer, but I like you, and you’re part of the reason actually for this all. I have been getting a –ton- of business from word of mouth advertising just because of those darling little animated dolls that I was selling. All of you down at the Portal Jammer have been using them as a lure and conversation piece of your own, and it’s rubbing off on me since I sold them to you in the first place. Can’t say I blame you, I found them rather cute.”
Florian grinned. “Well that’s great to hear that you’ve been getting something out of that as well.”
“Now, they’ve been selling so well that I’ve had a hard time actually getting my supplier of them to make enough to keep up with demand. It’s gotten to the point that I’ve been considering trying my own hand at making a few of my own. It seems fairly simple enough and I’m not really any slouch when it comes to crafting little bits of magic here and there.”
“The racial reputation actually rubs off in your favor there I’d think.” Florian said.
The fiend shrugged. “Actually, and don’t spread this around. But ok, I’ve actually made a few of them already to tell the truth. Just one or two, but they’ve really, really turned out well. However, for the moment I’m going to wait till the demand rises a bit higher.”
A’kin looked a bit guilty by the admission.
“It’s business, it’s not evil.” Florian said as she reached out and patted him on the head briefly.
“’There’s a difference?’ At least that’s the line the Baatezu use.” He replied as he leaned in ever so slightly to her hand like an oversized puppy.
“You’re not a baatezu A’kin. Too… fuzzy… for that. Among other things.” She said with a grin.
A’kin smiled and withdrew his head despite the fact that he seemed to enjoy it. It just wouldn’t seem proper to have another customer walk in and see that.
“Suffice to say, I’ve got a couple that I’ve made, and one or two that I know that you’ll enjoy particularly. I’ll be putting those up for auction in the next week or two.” He said as he rummaged around in a box, looking for something that didn’t seem to be there. “And, uh… the auction is likely to be invitation only just to prevent a few persons from possibly throwing another tantrum if they don’t particularly care for my sense of humor. All in fun you realize.”
Florian nodded as he emptied the box and finally turned it over and gave it a shake.
“And where did you go you covetous little bauble you?” He said. “Apparently the box wasn’t a good enough lair for you.”
Florian gave him an odd look.
“Sorry, thought something was in here, but he’s not.” A’kin said with a twitch of his whiskers. “I’ll be right back, just need to go to the back room and get something. Do take a look around.”
Florian browsed along the shelves as A’kin went to retrieve that nebulous ‘something’ from the back room of the shop. Among the items she saw were a number of random trinkets from a dozen odd planes: dust collectors, knickknacks and gewgaws, though some of them might work as portal keys or foci if you knew enough about the plane they originated on. Most of the things that A’kin sold usually had more than an obvious use, not that he advertised them as such. His clientele usually bought from him as a seller of curiosities simply for the novelty of their purchase, or his wiser and keener clients bought from him because of what wasn’t there at face value.
“Hmm, what the heck is this?” Florian said as she glanced at an item laying, partially wrapped in oilcloth, with bits of frost collecting on its edges.
She unwrapped the object as she heard the Friendly Fiend humming some random ditty to himself, the tune filtering out from the back room of the shop. Inside the oilcloth was a piece of bitterly cold, translucent black metal set within a steel frame of sorts and with a brass handle that seemed magically warded against itself being cold to the touch. It was a razorblade, or so it seemed.
A’kin walked out from the stock room carrying a few bottles of various tagged contents and a tiny stuffed figurine of a red dragon. The tiny chromatic drake was perched atop a tiny pile of gold and glanced covetously from side to side every so often.
“Grrr! Roar! Snarl!” It said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice for a dragon. A’kin put it down on his front desk next to the service bell and patted it on the head.
“Oh that’s cute. How much?” Florian said as she grinned.
“Not this one.” The fiend said. “This was a bit of a first attempt for me, and he’s rather cute. So I’m just going to keep him around for a while as I try to make a few more, but I already mentioned that I think.”
Florian snapped her fingers in defeat. “Oh well. But anyway, what’s this thing here?”
The cleric held up the odd looking razor.
“It’s a razorblade, but it can also be used as a paring knife, or probably for meaner things as well if you’re into that. It’s made from a shard of Ocanthan ice. Somewhat like metal, somewhat more like ice. It won’t melt, not with the enchantment on it, and it’s very very sharp.”
Florian had a sudden evil thought.
“You know what?” A’kin said. “I really should put that in a case or at least put a warning label on it. I’d hate to see someone hurt themselves with in.”
“Don’t bother. How much is it?”
A’kin shuffled over and glanced at the razor and its cloth wrapping. There didn’t appear to be a price tag.
“Hmm, no price tag. Oh well, how about I let you have it for say, 75 jink? It’s a bit hard to come by and it’s rather nice. Does that sound fair?”
“We’re shaving Shemeska.”
“Plus I know that your inn has been doing a brisk business, and…” A’kin paused and blinked. “Excuse me?!”
“Clueless does. He hates the bitch. And he mentioned the other day that he wants to see her shaved like an expensive lapdog in the Lady’s Ward. And I think I’ve found him a nice little razorblade for the job as a present.”
“Like I said, 50 jink sounds about right for it.” The fiend said without skipping a beat.
Florian grinned.
“And how about I throw in a bar of arcadian soap with it too.” A’kin continued as he took the razor and put it into a giftbox. “Rather nice stuff, smells like wildflowers from the first layer of the plane. Plus it strikes up a –really- nice lather, great stuff for a close shave I’m told.”
The ‘loth was getting out wrapping paper and a bow to pretty up the box like a birthday present.
“You’re a sweetheart A’kin. Do you have any sensory stones for sale?”
“Oh?” The jackal headed shopkeep asked. “Yes actually. Just above the petrified treant leg in the corner. There’s a stack of them next to the wind up armanite racetrack toy.”
“How much? We’re going to record this when we make it happen.”
A’kin paused again and tried to suppress a blush and a giggle. “Ten jink.”
“How much for two? I’m making you a copy.”
A’kin pursed his lips, inhaled deeply, raised his eyebrows conspiratorially and began to whistle with a grin plastered across his face. He took the two sensory stones, the bar of soap and the razor, and wrapped them up in the box, frilly bow and all. He slid it across the counter to Florian and took her money.
“Don’t leave yet, you’ve got change.” The ‘loth said as he counted back coins. “You gave me too much. It was all only 40 jink for everything. And I wouldn’t want to have a dissatisfied customer.”
“Did I mention how much I like you A’kin?” Florian said as she took her present for Clueless and her change. “I really do. I can’t when or if we’ll make this happen, but you’ll have a copy of it once we do.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it.” A’kin said with an innocent smile and shrug. “But you have fun with your purchase as I’m sure you will. Visit me again sometime. It’s always a pleasure. Oh, and tell Nisha that I’ll have some smokepowder in sometime next week for her to pick up.
Florian paused at the mention of Nisha and smokepowder, but she shook her head and put it out of her mind.
“I will. And you take care too A’kin. I’ll be back next week or so to check on those animated dolls. The dragon is adorable.”
She snagged a mint from the tray on A’kin’s counter as she left before the tiny animated drake claimed it as its ‘hoard’. She was smiling more so than she had in a while as she walked out of the Friendly Fiend and into the much less pleasant streets of the Lower Ward. Back in his shop A’kin was still smiling, giggling, and shaking his head as another customer walked in.
***
Clueless sat in his room, looking curiously at a pair of rubbery black goggles. The odd pair of eyewear had been knocked from the face of one of the Keepers that had assaulted them recently, but it hadn’t turned to muck after its wearer had died. Given that the enigmatic beings had seemed keenly interested in the golden globe of heavy magic that he had found in the Incantifers’ maze, the bladesinger wanted to learn a bit more about who they were and why they were after him.
The golden liquid was warm and thin between the fingers of his left hand as he held the goggles in the other and concentrated upon calling the proper spell into his mind. As it had done before, it did so again, and visions of the past flooded into his mind.
A short balding man with a beard stood in either an office or a lab, stacks of books piled on tables around him, and chalkboards covered over in arcane scrawlings. He had a devious look upon his face and something was circled on the board, some formula or theorem. There was a symbol on some of the books, an odd symbol of a knife and a book. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the symbol of the Fraternity of Order.
“That spell eating bastard isn’t the only one who can work wonders.” The man said as he rubbed his hands together and seemed to concentrate, staring off into space at something that only he seemed able to focus on. “But he’d never believe me even if I told him. He would, but I’d have to tell him the loophole that isn’t, and that’ll never happen. Course it didn’t work in Sigil, still not sure why, it should have. But now that we’re in someplace a bit more conducive to meddling, let’s see what we can do…”
The spell couldn’t convey what all the ancient sage saw or did, but it implied that either he reached somewhere that simply didn’t exist, making it so and drawing something out of it, or he imagined something that didn’t exist and never had, and then found a place, a reality where they did exist, and yanked them out and into our own. Wherever it was, it was… different…
Keepers. First one, then another, then a dozen and then more. The sage, wizard, whatever and whoever he was seemed ecstatic about his creations, or what he’d brought forth into the world, and they in turn seemed to answer to his beck and call like extensions of his will. They obeyed, but they simply didn’t fit. They didn’t belong.
How many he eventually called, Clueless wasn’t sure, but it was evident that he was using them as spies and saboteurs. He’d sent them out to gather secrets, both suspected by him and anything that others might try to keep for themselves. Shekelor had their still living, severed heads sent back to him; called them an ‘interesting creation, wonder where you found them. They don’t seem right. What have you found? They remind me of something, but I can’t really say what. You have me perplexed, and that is rare enough in itself. Consider yourself…’
The spell skipped, jumped track somehow, leaping forward in time to another pivotal moment in the Keeper’s history. “You’ve gotten too many people interested in you. You’ve been too high profile in your tasks for me. I want you to make sure that no one ever finds out where you came from and what you are.”
True to his instructions, that they did. They slaughtered him on the spot and his secrets died with him whoever he had been. The Keepers, wherever they had originated, were still in the world. They were still carrying out their warped versions of a dead man’s orders, still finding secrets and taking them, hoarding them, and keeping them safe for no reason other than it was what they did. But their maker, or their finder, had known Shekelor and had sent them after something of his at some point in the far-flung past. And they were still alive, still looking for it.
The spell ended abruptly and Clueless looked immediately to the globe and its golden liquid. That was what they were looking for, still after so many years. They would never stop.
***
Back in the main room of the Portal Jammer and later that evening, Toras sat by himself at one of the back tables, smiling and nursing a pale Bytopian ale as he watched the customers filter in and out of the tavern. Clueless was at the bar itself, taking and filling orders, and chatting up random people. Over the past day a few of the people that had stopped to chat up the bladesinger had worn symbols of the Free League, or had the same tattooed on their bodies somewhere. Toras had noticed it when he had been playing bouncer for the inn, but he hadn’t said anything. After all, if Clueless was joining a faction, at least it wasn’t the Takers or the Mercykillers.
Besides, if he was hanging out with free leaguers, it probably meant that he wasn’t going constantly hanging out with Sensates and whatever they tended to do, inhaling drugs or having orgies or whatever it was they did when you got a bunch of them together in one place. The fighter didn’t know particularly much about the intricacies of the factions, or the groups who used to be factions as it might be. As long as they didn’t mess with him or mess with people who didn’t need messing with, they were fine as far as he cared. At least Clueless wasn’t running with Xaositects though, they already had enough randomness in their lives with Nisha, though she did it in such a way as to be utterly endearing, if occasionally dangerous to all involved.
“Toras? Why is there blood on your hand?” Florian asked with some concern, jolting the fighter out of his thoughts as he relaxed over his drink.
“Oh man, I thought I washed it all off.” Toras replied as he picked up a napkin on the table, dapped it with condensation from his drink, and wiped it off as best he could.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” The cleric said.
Toras shrugged. “I got into a fight.”
Fyrehowl raised an eyebrow as she took a seat. Clearly she had heard the conversation thus far.
“I got into a couple fights actually.”
“Why?” Florian asked. “With who?”
Fyrehowl snickered. She knew what had happened; she’d seen it happen before.
Toras gave a guilty smile.
“Well you don’t look hurt at all.” The cleric said. “Did you clean yourself up mostly before you came back here or was it just that lopsided? Tell. What happened?”
That guilty smile was still there. Over at the bar, Clueless was watching and listening. Like Fyrehowl, he seemed to know already what had happened, either from previous incidents or about the current one.
“I was in the hive…” Toras admitted. “…picking fights with muggers, thieves, and pimps.”
Florian took a deep drink from her ale.
“Why?” She asked. “Eventually you’re going to run into someone that’s tougher than you, or who has too many friends. Beat up the wrong criminals and you’ll have gangs all over the inn. And Tempus forbid you piss of anyone in one of the organized underworld groups.”
Fyrehowl briefly made her best impression of the King of the Crosstrade.
Toras waved it away. “I’m smarter than that. Besides, I doubt she has her claws into pickpockets and smalltime pimps.”
“Yeah,” Fyrehowl mumbled. “She’s only into the high priced callgirls you know.”
“How long have you been doing this?” Florian asked.
Toras shrugged. “About a month or so? It’s fun.”
Florian took another drink. “What, are you trying to work your way up to fiends or something?”
Toras had that guilty grin again.
“For the Foehammer!" Florian said with an exasperated sigh. “Just be careful. I don’t want to find out that you were tossed through an ooze portal by an osyluth after you got too cocky down there.”
Breaking the course of the conversation, Fyrehowl turned her head to one side to look at something, a moment after Nisha walked past.
“Why does she have a cranium rat on a stick?” The lupinal asked bluntly. “And why was she making squeaking noises?”
“Wasn’t that one of the ones that we showed Jeremo?” Toras said. “One of the rats I mean.”
Tristol meanwhile had walked into the room and noticed them gathering together. He pulled up a chair and sat down to listen.
“Squeaking?” Florian said with a confused chuckle.
“It’s Nisha, don’t ask.” Fyrehowl explained.
“Well, that explains why she wanted a scroll of gentle repose from my stock of scrolls.” Tristol said. “I let her borrow stuff from there if it’s not too terribly expensive and she doesn’t burn the inn down in the process.”
“Better than smokepowder.” Florian said with a shrug.
Tristol shuddered. “Mystra forbid she ever gets her hands on alchemical explosives.”
The mage paused and stared hard at Florian. “She didn’t? Did she?”
“Talk to A’kin. I’m not at fault here.” Florian replied.
Tristol and Toras both looked worried.
“You guys look like you just pissed off a lich. What happened?” Skalliska said as she walked up to the table.
“Nothing hopefully.” Tristol said. “If wake up in a smoking crater one day, ask us again.”
“Anyway,” Skalliska said. “I had something to ask all of you. Everyone is here except for Nisha, so I figured I might as well ask.”
“Nisha is around here somewhere playing ratcatcher or something.” Fyrehowl said.
Skalliska nodded. She seemed a bit nervous about whatever it was that she was going to ask them. As she was about to say what it was that was on her mind, Nisha wandered past again, cranium rat on a stick in hand, only it was now wearing the Factol Darius doll’s wimple.
Florian motioned to the tiefling.
“Hey Nisha, what are you up to?” She asked, eying the cranium rat.
“Hmm?” Nisha replied. “Oh, me and Factol Squeakums were just going over faction business. It’s faction stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”
“…I… see…” Florian said.
“Nisha, put the rat…” Toras said patiently but firmly.
“Factol Squeakums.” She corrected him with a poke of the rat and its factol hat into his face.
“Put Factol Squeakums away and sit still for five minutes, Skalliska had something to ask us all I think.” Fyrehowl said to her.
“Why? What’s the fun in that?” She replied.
“Because if you do I’ll tell you what A’kin told me to tell you about smokepowder.” Florian answered.
Nisha jumped into a seat and assumed a demure and polite posture.
“There is method to my madness.” She said with a smile. “Except when there isn’t of course.”
“You had something for us Skalliska?” Clueless asked as he finished up at the bar and took a seat with the others.
The kobold nodded and pushed a letter to the center of the table.
“I got this in the post the other day.” She said, gesturing to the letter. “And you all know how I’ve been searching the Great Library and just about every sage worth their coppers here in Sigil to try and find anything, anything at all, related to the old pantheon of my original homeworld on the prime.”
Toras nodded. “You were telling me about it.”
Tristol looked at the letter as Skalliska continued.
“Well, that letter gives a location for a portal in the Outlands, somewhere within the domain of Chronepsis.”
“The hourglass dragon.” Nisha said. Factol Squeakums nodded his assent.
“Yes, the big hourglass collecting dragon.” Skalliska replied. “Well that portal leads to the Astral. Once there, the letter has instructions and details for how to reach what it seems to claim are the godisles of some of my old pantheon.”
Fyrehowl nodded. “So some of them might be dead, but if they’re not there, than you’ve got some of them that are still alive.”
“It would be closure at least.” Clueless said.
“And I take it that you’d like our help in finding this place?” Florian asked.
She and the others left out saying 'Is there gold involved?', though it was very much hanging on the tips of their tongues.
“Or at least your help in making sure that this isn’t a complete setup on someone else’s part. Those are never fun.” Clueless added. “…bitch…”
“Nothing on the letter to indicate that she sent it. Besides, Skalliska hasn’t ever done anything to her.” Tristol said. He’d scanned over the letter for any glyphs, symbols and signs that it might contain any form of magical trap or tracking dweomer. It didn’t as far as he could tell.
“I’m up for it. I could use a break from Sigil’s air.” Clueless said.
“So, we’re agreed?” Skalliska said hopefully.
“I don’t think anyone here minds.” Florian said. “You’re a business partner and you’re our friend. Given that what you’ve got there doesn’t have any detail on who sent it, or why they sent it, I think that it might be wise if you didn’t go alone.”
The others nodded their agreement.
“I think that settles it then.” Skalliska said with a smile. “We’ll start off in the morning?”
“Anyone here ever been to the Astral before?” Tristol asked.
“I have. Not that I remember it though.” Clueless replied.
“I’ve been there briefly.” Skalliska said. “You’re fine so long as you don’t anger the Githyanki. It’s pretty barren, all things considered. It’s probably more empty than the ethereal, and I think that you’d all mentioned having been there in the recent past, before you met me.”
“Aye, that we did.” Clueless said. “So it shouldn’t be all that much as long as whoever sent you that letter isn’t out for you. You don’t have any past enemies you know of, do you?”
“Not that wouldn’t just burst into my office and try to kill me there.” Skalliska said. “No, this seems legit, if a bit mysterious.”
“Well that’s reassuring to some extent. Sort of.” Florian said. “But yeah, that settles it I think. I don’t have much that I need to put on hold for this. Just let us set up people to work extra shifts here in the inn while we’re gone and we’ll get together to leave in the morning.”
“I’ll handle the shifts for the staff.” Clueless said as he walked back over to the bar.
Nisha had already vanished, though she’d left behind something scrawled on a napkin with a goofy looking cranium rat face doodled on it. ‘Ha ha! I’m not really Factol Squeakums! I’m an anarchist and I dissolve this faction! Muahaha!’
Skalliska ignored the Xaositect’s behavioral, possibly mental quirks. She was smiling, and far too happy to finally be close to gaining some closure on something that had been bothering her on and off for years.
***
From Sigil to Tradegate was a simple excursion, a normal method of leaving Sigil in order to reach the outlands. As far as they were concerned for the most part, Tradegate was the best match for their tastes of a combination of being safe, friendly, and having enough of a true organized town past the end of the gate from Sigil. From there it was a short teleport between gate towns till they reached the nearest to where Chronepsis’s domain lay. They marched out into the wilds of the Outlands that morning and walked through a largely featureless terrain of fields and forests, broken only by rolling hills and the occasional stream.
Upon nightfall they set up camp and slept well, all except for Skalliska. The kobold stayed up most of the evening and into morning, listless and simply not tired. She couldn’t sleep. She was too tense to drift away to sleep when she stood so close to finding some of the answers that she’d been longing for. Did any of her world’s pantheon survive? And if they did, would they be any of those that she would care to worship? She finally fell asleep to the sound of crickets and the far off glimmer of a spire butterfly or two, there in the wane light of early morning upon the Outlands.
The next morning they broke camp after breakfast and marched off into rougher territory that had seemed to spring up almost overnight. They hadn’t noticed it the previous day, and perhaps their belief, their intention to reach a specific spot in The Land simply drew them to it, or it to them. Who could say?
The ground was more rocky, growing more and more mountainous, and every so often the soil would tremor, possibly from the distant influence of the Caverns of Illsensine there somewhere unseen beneath the soil of the plane that took those who were balanced and those who simply fit nowhere else. They avoided trekking further in the direction of the baleful domain of the Godbrain, but it did give them a better idea of their location in relation to the domain of Chronepsis. And indeed they made their way to that deity’s home near mid-afternoon.
There was no great sense of entering something different, something greater than the raw surroundings of the Outlands. There was no sign, no grand entrance, and no servitors of the deity barring their path or shouting a welcome or warning. But oh how they immediately knew when they were truly standing within the confines of Chronepsis’ domain.
“…Wow…” Tristol said with utter amazement as he looked out over the realm of a god.
The valley stretched out as far as the eye could see, rolling hills punctuated only by the crumbling, ancient rubble of a vast cathedral. Here and there, pillars of marble rose up from the landscape like the tallest of trees; arches vaulted across the sky and skimmed the clouds where they still stood intact. In other places great chunks of stone littered the ground where they had fallen, overgrown by moss or lichen. It was as if the valley itself was a great sanctum, miles long and wide, built by titans with ranges of mountain as its outer walls to buttress its majesty in a way that no carved structure could. But no titan had ever graced this place but as a visitor perhaps.
Everywhere they looked they saw them: hourglasses. The ground was covered in those sand filled timepieces on open ground and on top of fallen stone. If the place took the form of an ancient holy sanctum, they would be its worshippers.
The hourglasses were arrayed in all shapes and sizes, some brilliantly ornate and carved from gold and studded with jewels while others were simple constructions of glass and wood. Some were larger than a giant and others were smaller than a closed fist. But most all of them were counting down their allotted currency of time, be it with sand, golden dust that shimmered as it fell, or something more like solidified starlight that twinkled and shed a ghostly luminescence as it dropped away into the lower basin of the glass.
They were the lives of dragons, one for each and every one of them that lived or –would- ever live, each counting down their days till the dragon passed into death and shed its mortal coil, cares and concerns, tragedies and joys alike. Chronepsis was the draconic god of fate, time, death and destiny, and the timepieces were his wards and possibly his petitioners as well, each counting down the life of every dragon in the myriad planes of existence.
Somewhere within the domain of the god would be an hourglass that they would recognize, some dragon of legend perhaps, and near it a portal to the astral. But somehow they would need to find the deity; petition Chronepsis himself. To use the portal, even once they found it, they would be required to ask his leave and gain his permission before it would trigger. And as they gazed out over the hourglass sea, listening to the rustle and trickle of sand from each, somewhere in the distance within the depths of the ancient ruin of columns, archways, galleries and sanctums, Chronepsis himself lay in wait, and some things are easier said than done.
***
