****
"Huh? That wasn't..." Zenia tilted her head sideways, looking oddly at Malcolm for a moment before she stiffened and gasped. "Malcolm?"
Starting at her core and spreading outwards like blood staining a white sheet, the genasi screamed in agony as her flesh withered, blackened, and crumbled to ashes. A burst of black dust fell past her crumbling lips as she stepped forward, one hand out, reaching for Malcolm, a look of wounded confusion still on her face even as she disintegrated. Zenia was dead before she hit the ground and scattered into a pile of lifeless carbon and soot.
Malcolm turned and looked the dying Xaositect in the eyes while behind him the text vanished and a door appeared, yawning wide to another empty room.
"What the f*ck?!" Doran shouted in disbelief at what he'd just witnessed.
"Nephthys preserve!" Ashlanaya was aghast as her eyes shifted from Zenia's disintegrating corpse to Malcolm's utterly uncaring expression.
"What the f*ck you stupid little sh*t!
WHY?!" Surefoot screamed, "She saved your life before! Your head would be flapping around as a newborn vargouille if she hadn't held your damn skull in place, and you f*cking killed her! The f*ck?!!!"
Malcolm sneered as the bariaur rushed towards him. "Everything we've seen so far, do you think that we wouldn't all likely die if I'd chosen the other door?" He glared with contempt as Surefoot grabbed his shoulders roughly and shook him with rage. Malcolm palmed a blade and felt the razor-sharp tip between his fingers, oh so eagerly imagining sticking it between the journalist's ribs and puncturing his heart. It wouldn't be as fun as slitting his throat, smiling, and bathing in the arterial spray, but pragmatism over poetry for now. Zenia was a needed sacrifice. All of them were, and would be without a second thought. "I saved the rest of us you ungrateful sh*t..."
"What?!" Surefoot shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief at the rogue's utter callousness. His fingers gripped tighter on the man's shirt.
"Let him go." Ashlanaya's voice trembled with suppressed rage. "We get the Key first and then we deal with what just happened."
"The door's open, let's go." Malcolm gestured to the door as Surefoot grudgingly released him. Malcolm let the bariaur walk past him unharmed, expressionless outwardly but inwardly cackling. Watching Zenia die and the look on her face had been an absolute pleasure. It truly was.
Ashlanaya glared daggers at Malcolm as he stepped through, briefly opening her mind to examine what she saw. The rogue had already been evil before, but a trifling, middling evil. Now however, he glowed brighter than most fiends, and with a particular flavor she'd seen before: one just as specific and recognizable as the custom perfume she'd worn.
****
Just as before, the next room was empty except for a drifting line of text on the far wall. In truth though, the room felt emptier without Zenia there with them. The air was colder without her flames, and the mood grim without her often inappropriate whimsy.
“Who are you to hold the key? Why are you alone worthy to bare the key that could unshackle the Abyss, or bare wide the gates of Baator, or spill forth the Waste? To what purpose would the key do you? And what more… it angered The Bladed Queen once before, a second time for good or for ill, what will Her Dread Majesty do? What will befall you should you grasp the key?”
This time, should the Key's guardian or guardians see fit to inflict what they had before, Ashlanaya spoke first.
The hell...' she thought,
If I'll allow the Marauder or the Marauder's enchanted puppet to control the flow of events from now on.
"I am Ashlanaya of Pelion," The tiefling began, "One who has transcended the blood of her birth, one who champions the will and ethos of Nephthys the Blessed Guardian of Tombs and the souls of the dead. I would hold the Shadow Sorcelled Key with no desire or intent to use it for myself. I would take the Key for another, and what fate befalls them is theirs to decide, for good or for ill."
Malcolm immediately narrowed his eyes and studied the paladin's expression as she spoke, trying to divine her intent and wishing that he was more than a shadow of himself. Had he actually been there -perish the thought of keeping this present company, and perish the thought of trudging through the sewers and dirt of UnderSigil- he would have flensed the paladin's mind like an onion and plucked out her thoughts with practiced ease whatever the precautions she'd taken. But alas, this vessel lacked even the capacity for telepathy.
"That sounded perfectly appropriate." Doran nodded to Ashlanaya and then glared angrily at Malcolm. "I think we should have her answer from now on."
The paladin shrugged, "Assuming of course that the Key's guardians don't take offense, given its nature and history it seems."
"Apparently they like the reply." Surefoot did his best to smile given Zenia's death as the text vanished and the wall grew transparent for another door. This time however it was different.
"The hell was that?" Surefoot paused and stared at the archway into the next room, having just seen something there for the moment when the wall flickered and vanished.
Ashlanaya hesitated before stepping towards the next room. She'd felt momentarily sick when it had transitioned from wall to archway. She'd seen something there, more an afterimage that melted away in a split second and it had been something she didn't recognize but still felt implicitly disgusted by, whatever it was. She'd felt the same before when she'd seen a shadowy figure staring down at her. Whatever that had been, it provoked the same sick feeling just by proximity, even if she didn't understand what it was.
Malcolm however understood, or at least the creature that had usurped him did.
There for a fraction of a second, a face had appeared, similar in style to the iron sculpture of the Lady of Pain they had seen, only this one was leached of color, its eyes gleaming black, and with two pairs of horns, one of them curling, and one of them straight. Suspended in space and then gone, the face was of one of the Father/Mothers of the Waste. What in the Oinoloth's name did that mean? Malcolm's newborn mind swirled with a flurry of thoughts. What did that imply about the Shadow Sorcelled Key? What did that imply about the Ebon? Malcolm and his greater self stood in the shadow of giants. Soon though, if all continued as planned, the Marauder would have the Key in her poison-clawed, manicured hands.
****
The next room was altogether different from those that had come before. They had been empty things of white, featureless stone, but this room was anything but featureless. Far from no exit but the one they had entered, or perhaps the hint of a door on the far wall, this chamber possessed a multitude of them.
“Three doors now, and only one remains. Who am I? What am I? One door to the object you claim for yourself or your taskmaster, one to the reaches above and safe passage to that which fits your nature, and one door to the one to whom you speak. Choose your paths, choose your futures, utilize your free will, for WILL is all there is. There is no fate, there is no destiny, there are only the threads of the future and hands to grasp them; as told before and forever more, do as thou wilt.”
Three archways stood equally spaced, each of their keystones marked with a specific symbol. The first bore the outline of a black key, one with a symbol that changed and shifted between those of the various planes, and the final one with the outline of a head that they had briefly seen minutes before. The first archway swirled with tongues of shadow that weren't truly black, but an impossible color, something impossibly saturated blue and deepest black at once, something beyond the standard spectrum and a color all of its own that ached the eyes to witness - there waited the Key.
The second archway was clear as glass, opening onto scenes in all of the various planes. For one brief moment it revealed a scene of volcanic flames and souls being herded along a ragged slope, while distantly in the black void of the sky, three other volcanic furnaces drifted. A moment later and the scene changed, revealing an idyllic landscape populated by elven petitioners and a laughing coure eladrin flitting through the air. Every few seconds the scene changed, never repeating the same one as it cycled through all of the planes of existence.
The final archway revealed no details at all, only a rippling gray surface hinting at shapes and movement below the thin, rubbery meniscus of the portal itself. Looming above it however was the keystone and its profile of the Key's creator - not that any of them knew for certain what that meant, none of them at least except for the intelligence looming within Malcolm's mind.
"So we each have to make a choice." Doran glanced at the others. "I didn't honestly expect to have a choice at the end of this."
"I wish that Zenia would have had a choice." Surefoot glared at Malcolm. The rogue only rolled his eyes and continued to stare at the trio of archways.
"Personally, I have no desire to meet the Key's maker." Ashlanaya shivered as she looked at the keystone over the third arch. Whatever it was, it filled her with disgust and fear. "Escape would be lovely, but we have a commitment to fulfill, and if we don't, the fiend will hunt us down."
Subtly, Malcolm smirked.
You'll all be dead soon anyways. I'll see the bariaur butchered and on my table, and the others I'll leave my people to dispose of you in their own ways. If any of them fancy you, they'll have their fun first. I'd consider the same, but alas my standards are far too high.
"Getting her the Key will at least postpone that." Surefoot frowned, deeply wishing to simply be done with this all and not have to ever look at that particular 'loth again. "Hopefully."
Ignoring them all, Malcolm stepped forward.
They'll get the Key and bring it to me. If they don't, I can send other fools in their place. I need to know more however. I'm a puppet in this game unless I actually know what's going on below the surface, and I'll be f*cked if I'm serving the same role to the Oinoloth -beautiful and merciless as he may be- as these sods are to me. I wanted importance and power, and I'll get importance and power before this is over. Who are you Keymaker?
"I choose to meet you, creator of the Key." Malcolm spoke clearly and expectantly, with a cadence that was not at all his own. As he did so, he crossed his arms and stood with his hips tilted in a manner again, alien to himself, but not at all alien to the creature that had spun off a pattern of her own psyche to overwrite his own.
"Are you insane Malcolm?" Surefoot glared at the rogue for the second time in nearly as many moments.
"Leave him." Ashlanaya put a hand on the bariaur's flank. Something about her tone and the certainty in her voice made him pause and not utter the next burst of words he would have unleashed at the human.
"Shut up Indep filth." Malcolm spat, "I've made my choice Merlianik, now you make yours. Get the Key for your better or you'll be dead before..."
Malcolm never finished his invective against Surefoot. No sooner had the words begun spilling from his lips than the third archway rippled. Formed from the shadowy membrane of the gate itself, a multitude of hands reached through, wrapping around his arms, legs, and neck, dragging him forward, screaming and struggling. Leaving only fading trails of smoke in their wake and the memory of Malcolm's screams, the third archway returned to its original calm, placid state as if nothing had happened.
***
"What the f*ck..." Doran's face was pale, and his expression of horror was matched by both Surefoot and Ashlanaya.
Malcolm was gone, devoured by the third portal which still yawned wide, swirling with liquid darkness. The Keymaker's question still hung suspended in the air, asking its question to the remaining three.
"Whatever just happened to his body, that was no longer Malcolm." Ashlanaya's expression was haunted and drawn. "Just in the past few minutes, something changed about him. Our employer must have put some sort of geas or something even more powerful on him that activated as soon as he got within a certain proximity to the Key. She might have been controlling him from her parlor from the start, subtle at first, but overtly once I noticed."
"I'll be honest," Surefoot gave a guilty expression. "I suspected from the start that the Marauder would have sent along one of her own people to make sure that we returned the Key if we found it. I actually suspected that it would be you Ashy. You were the least obvious one to pick. My apologies."
"No need for that because I expected the same, except that it would be you," Ashlanaya gave a wry half-smile at her error, "You two had history and I suspected that as much as she hated you, it might have been an act. Still, I thought that she'd just have whoever it was kill us all once we had the Key. I didn't expect her to send a piece of herself or whatever it was that she had hidden within Malcolm's mind."
"We could always just leave." Doran's voice was soft as he gazed longingly at the middle portal. "I..."
They could see it within the druid's eyes that he was terrified of going any further forward after what they'd already witnessed. He didn't have any ties within Sigil, nor did her have any prior association with or link to the King of the Crosstrade.
"Doran," Ashlanaya looked at him, "We still need to see this through, but you don't have to go on. For all the fiend has to know, you died along with Zenia and Malcolm. She'll have the Key and honestly she'll no longer care about you."
Doran looked guilty, and for a moment he couldn't look up at either of his surviving companions. "Would you be ok with that?"
"Yes." Surefoot snorted. "Of course."
"You don't need to risk yourself any more." Ashlanaya smiled. "If you make it to safety, please do one thing for me however."
"Anything."
"Meet me in Sylvania. I'll take your payment and bring it to you. I owe you that. However if neither I nor Surefoot contact you within the next week, please find a way to raise Zenia from the dead. Make the attempt. She didn't deserve to die." Ashlanaya held back tears as she made the request.
"I promise you," Doran nodded as he made his way to the second archway, "I'll find a way."
The druid stepped forward and vanished. Having initially braced himself for the worst possible place that he might appear, on the other side of the portal, the sounds and bustle of Tradegate had never felt as welcoming as now.
****
Surefoot and Ashlanaya touched the surface of the first archway and immediately felt a cold, terrible chill, and then... nothing.
"What just happened?" Surefoot shuffled his hooves and stared at the blank wall in confusion. The text was gone and so were the portals.
"Surefoot," Ashlanaya motioned with her hand and caught her breath, "Turn around."
Behind them in the room's center stood an image of three grey obelisks glowing red and blue in random sequence. Cold and shedding an immaterial mist at their base, above them hovered the Key. If it were solid it was difficult to tell as it hurt the eyes to perceive its unreal, alien color, and for the swirling tatters of shadow that perpetually bled off of its surface. After everything that they had been through, there it was.
"That's it." Surefoot whispered. "It's real."
"We finally have it for the taking, but honestly, I hesitate to touch it."
"Maybe we should do what the ghost thought about doing, knowing what they knew after they'd used it?" Surefoot looked at the paladin. "Maybe we should just hurl it over the edge of Sigil and be done with it."
"I don't think we can." She replied, her heart thumping in her chest as she stared at the Key. "I don't think the Key's maker, whatever it is, will let us leave if we ever intended to do that. Besides something tells me that even if we did, it would reappear somewhere else. A poisoned thing that always finds itself in the hands of those desperate enough to use it. At least this way we know where it is, and we know that this time, the person using it and suffering from its use is a terrible creature of evil herself."
"That's the only thing that's kept me going through this to be perfectly honest." The bariaur laughed. "If what the ghosts of its past users said was true, Shemeska deserves it more than anyone else that I can think of."
"We touch it together then?" Ashlanaya approached the Key, standing opposite Surefoot, one hand extended out to touch the key.
He nodded and extended his own hand, now only inches from the Key, "On the count of three."
****
All was cold, terribly cold, and then the room was gone and they stood within the Hive. Judging by the state of the ruined buildings standing only a block or two away, they stood at the edge of the Slags. It would be a long, long walk to get back to the Marauder at the Fortune's Wheel.
"It's going to be a long walk." Surefoot sighed. "Do you have a preference as to which way we go. It's more or less equidistant from the Wheel."
"Towards the Market Ward if you don't mind." Ashlanaya glanced down at the Key in her hand. "I'd rather not risk being attacked while passing through the Hive and having the Key sniped."
"Let's not even consider that as an option." Surefoot widened his eyes and shook his head.
As quickly as they could, the two of them walked out of the fringe of the Slags and into the edge of the Clerk's Ward. As the buildings pressed around them, their passage did not go unnoticed, but not in the way that they had intended to avoid. Not a single passerby gave them notice, but every bound space they passed, be it doorways, windows, cracks in stone tracing out a ragged shape, and even the spaces framed by trees and vines, each of them responded. It began as a dull crackle and then they noticed as every portal they passed flickered into existence if but for a moment as they passed. Each of them sizzled with erratic potential in their frames and boundaries as Ashlanaya and Surefoot walked past, feeling the magnetic pull of the Shadow Sorcelled Key wrenching upon them as it had centuries ago. Even without an active will and desire to push the Key into action, the artifact's very presence was overwhelming, tugging inexorably and unguided against the fabric of the City of Doors.
"Hurry up." Ashlanaya whispered harshly, with a growing sense of panic. "
"Maybe we should have tossed it over the side."
"Nephthys guide me," Ashlanaya rubbing her fingers over her holy symbol, "I'm getting the same feeling that we're just repeating the errors of those poor damned souls below."
"As long as we don't use it I think we'll be fine." Surefoot cracked a worried smile.
"I hope that you're right."
They walked as fast as they could, and thankfully the traffic was relatively light in the darker hours of the day. With less people awake and on the streets, only the lamplighters, touts, and scattered others took notice of the flickering lights of the mad portals. Some residents of the city however never slept, and those few took notice.
"Ashy?" Surefoot tapped the paladin on her shoulder. "They're... staring... at us."
"Huh?" She glanced over her shoulder, thinking that someone had noticed the portal disruption had been centered on and following them. "Who is... oh f*ck..."
On the other side of the street, a quartet of dabus had been diligently repairing a crumbling wall and the cobblestone's adjacent. At the Key's approach, all of them had paused in their work and looked around, confused and worried. They dropped their tools to the ground and searched in near panic for whatever the source of their unease was, and then their eyes found the paladin and bariaur. As one, the dabus turned and watched them approach and pass.
"Are they following us?" Surefoot asked, too afraid to look and acknowledge their worried, and momentarily panicked gaze.
The dabus didn't pursue them, and in fact they didn't necessarily appear capable of perceiving them except for the aura of the Key's disruptive effect. They and the city was blind within its radius. The Key broke the rules of the City of Doors.
Ashlanaya doubled her speed, "I've never seen a Dabus look uncertain, disquieted, or even worried."
"Neither have I." Surefoot increased the rate of his trot to keep up. "What the hell have we done Ashy?"
"The sooner we get this to the Marauder, the sooner I'll be able to feel comfortable." The paladin was afraid.
"Gods above I just don't want to be mazed while being an errand boy."
****
As Ashlanaya and Surefoot walked towards the Fortune's Wheel, there to give the Key to the Marauder, one creature within Sigil was even more ill at ease than them. The false stars of Anti-Peak glittered dimly through the overcast skies above the Market Ward. A drizzle of greasy rain fell upon the streets, pooling like ooze portals amidst the cobblestones of the street, and tapping a tune upon the roof and window-sills of a small building decorated with elaborate designs all reminiscent of the ink-work performed inside. The shop bore no name, nor did it need to advertise its nature or that of its occupant; all of Sigil knew who owned and operated it.
Within his shop, Fell the fallen dabus stared out of the window and watched the bariaur and a tiefling walk past, oblivious of his eyes and even more oblivious of the corrosion that they carried. Fell trembled and cried out in fear, falling to his knees. It was happening again.
****
They entered through one of the hidden rear doors of the Fortune's Wheel, quickly ushered in by one of the Marauder's guards who seemed to have known when and where they would arrive with the Key. Most likely the fiend had agents following them within minutes of their arrival back up from the depths of UnderSigil. Despite what had befallen her puppet Malcolm -if indeed she was even aware of the specifics- her groomer-guards were as polite as ever. By polite that meant that they ignored the paladin and made snide remarks about the bariaur, including questions about how he might taste if their mistress finally tired of his continued taking of breath. Still however, they led them up through a maze of hidden corridors and stairwells, eventually to arrive at the Marauder's private suite.
"Be polite." The left-most guard at the Marauder's door instructed. They were the same tiefling that had slapped Surefoot's flank when he'd first been ever so politely summoned. "Don't speak unless spoken to. Avert your unworthy eyes from and yet simultaneously envy, admire, and yearn for Her Fiendish Majesty."
"You haven't lost a bit of charm I see." Surefoot rolled his eyes. "But trust me, I'll be averting my eyes. That's not just easy but necessary."
"I could always just slit your throat now." The groomer-guard smiled, his tone clearly desiring to actually follow through on the threat.
"We have the object she desires." Ashlanaya's voice was firm and her gaze at the other tiefling even more so. "Open the door and let us get this over with."
"So be it." The Marauder's guard stepped aside and motioned for his companion to open the door. "She's been waiting for you."
Come in, come in, come in! Close the door immediately upon entering.
The Marauder's telepathic voice was altogether different from her tone when last they spoke. Gone was her power and authority, replaced with a nervous, giddy anticipation like a spoiled child awaiting the break of dawn on a holiday when they would receive a gift. The 'loth nearly sounded desperate.
The two of them entered and the door closed behind them. Incense, drugged waterpipe smoke, and expensive perfume met their senses first as they stepped into the darkened room. As their eyes adjusted they briefly wondered if they were there alone, but then the undertone of brimstone filtered through and the 'loth spoke.
"Where is it?"
The room was empty except for an elaborate table carved from a single piece of wood, an ancient treant in fact who had been very much alive and screaming when the table was produced. The only light was provided by the pair of luminous purple eyes that denoted where the Marauder sat at the table's far end with a halo of dimmer, twinkling light provided by the entrapped souls in the gemstones that decorated her ears and throat. A goblet and five bottles of expensive wine stood in front of her, with all but one of them uncorked and empty. She'd been sitting and waiting, impatiently so it seemed. The rest of the room was too dark to show any details, but a rustle of silk and velvet suggested that much of the expansive chamber was blocked off from view by curtains. Given the suggested size of the suite, it was far too large to actually be within the spatial constraints of the Azure Iris, and more likely than not, her private chambers occupied a demiplane all their own.
"Where is it? Where is the Key?" The Marauder leaned forward as she spoke, the thousands of glass-beads that made up her favorite dress shifting and clinking like hushed wind-chimes. Her claws tapped impatiently upon the table and upon the marble floor at her feet. "Show it to me!"
"We have the Key as you tasked us to find." Ashlanaya's voice was calm. After what the fiend had done, there was no way that she was going to be cowed by the razorvine-crowned Waste-spawned harpy.
"And the others that went with you? What happened to them?"
"They died." The paladin's tone was cold. "By trap or by betrayal they died." She emphasized and drew out the speaking of the word betrayal.
“Oh?” The Marauder smiled, ivory teeth sparkling in the dim, flickering light. "Such a shame."
"Payment and you can have your Key." Surefoot spoke, doing his best to be as resolute as the tiefling.
"And why shouldn't I just send a lightning bolt through that thick skull of yours Merlianik and watch you dance and carbonize? Why shouldn't I just kill you both?"
Surefoot stiffened. "Because you can't risk my death."
"Feeling important I see." She smirked and sipped her wine, though from the tremble in her hand, she wanted the Key and she wanted the Key in her greedy bejeweled hands as soon as possible. Banter was halfway between delayed gratification and foreplay. "Why can't I?"
"Because I've spent years not publishing half of what I know about you." Surefoot did his best not to smile, hoping that his statement -which wasn't entirely a bluff- would have the intended effect. "I die and it gets released by the Temple of Hermes, the Temple of Thoth, and at least two other temples or organizations in the Cage."
The Marauder laughed and shook her head, "You don't matter Merlianik."
"I don't, but your reputation does." Surefoot glared at the Marauder. "You have enemies and they'll move at perceived weakness."
The 'loth sneered even as she genuinely pondered what his neck would feel like between her teeth. "Go away little fish," She motioned dismissively, "Swim away for a time, and then come back when this shark has fed again and you might dance for some morsels on the current. But swim well...” She snapped her teeth together and then turned her eyes to the paladin. "And you? Why shouldn't I kill you?"
"Because I have the Key and if need be, I will activate it." Ashlanaya held up a small but deceptively heavy box, one that had interestingly enough been on Malcolm's person and dropped when he'd been dragged to his death. Presumably the 'loth had one of her people plant it on his person.
"You will do no such thing! The Key belongs to me!" Shemeska barked. "Place it upon the table and leave. My people will pay you precisely what was bargained. Now give me my Key. Now!!!"
She was drooling as the paladin placed the box upon the table. Shemeska gestured and it lurched across the distance and into her hands where she cradled it to her breast like a lost child, whimpering and actually losing any pretense of dignity and class. The snarling, covetous arcanaloth was there, laid bare.
“Enjoy what you have fiend.” Ashlanaya said as she turned to leave, “The spirits of its last owners have only regret for their own use of its poison. The Lady’s eyes are upon you.”
“Then the Lady will be envious of what she sees.” Shemeska’s words were sharp and impulsive, but it was all on reflex. She stared at the box she held in her trembling hands and was barely aware of anything beyond its weight and substance.
Not wanting to spend any more time alone with the Marauder, and worried about what she might actually do with the Key in her possession, Ashlanaya and Surefoot turned and left. As soon as they'd crossed the threshold, without bothering to look up, Shemeska gestured and the door to her chamber slammed shut, locked on its own, and a dozen spell-trapped symbols erupted like blisters across the surface.
Back in the room, alone in the darkness, the Marauder shivered and paused before opening the box in her hands. Constructed to her specifications out of dozens of fine layers of plutonian lead and gehennan morghuth iron, she’d hoped that it would have blocked any potential exposure of the artifact to outside detection. As she held the box however, she noted with fascination that the box casts no shadow despite the illumination provided by her eyes and jewelry. Her precautions seemed wholly inappropriate if its influence actually pierced the boundaries of the container.
Finally with trepidation and genuine fear, she opened the box. The bleeding shadows wafted off of the Key to caress her features as they drifted across her face. Absorbed for once by something other than herself, she smiled and her eyes glowed in the darkness, their violet radiance refracted and scattered by the alien nature of the artifact in her hands.
"
View attachment Vorkannis.bmp be praised..."
****
Malcolm gasped as the hands that had wrenched him from the depths of Sigil and across the cosmos released him and that transitory moment of brutal, utter cold evaporated, leaving him somewhere else.
"Who are you Keymaker?" The sliver of the Marauder's intelligence called out even as it gazed out in wonder and terror at where it stood.
He stood before three great crystalline windows, each of them opening up onto a view of Pluton, Niffleheim, and Oinos - the three layers of the Gray Waste. This place was a tangent point of sorts, the same as the City at the Center. Each window focused its view upon a great monolith of stone, petrified wood, or fused and petrified bones, each of them carved with a litany of symbols in the burning, profane language of the baernaloths. The first monolith's symbols glowed blue, the second red, and the third not at all.
"The Loadstones of Misery?"
Somewhere behind him something stirred, and he had a profound sense of being watched.
Malcolm turned and gasped. Behind him the chamber extended outwards as far as he could see, perhaps infinitely so. Everywhere was strewn broken doors, crumbled archways, mirrors shattered in their frames, dead trees leached of life and below them empty pools of water now dwindled to mud. Everywhere to the extent of his vision the landscape was scrawled in a nightmare of runes, formulae, equations, incantations, and diagrams.
"Who are you? What is this place?"
The symbols and formulae formed patterns in their mad meander across virtually every surface, and then as if in response to Malcom's question, they twitched, moving like the fimbrae of a great heart beating, eyelashes upon a myriad of eyes, and something turned its attention upon the hapless mortal and its yugoloth-spawned parasite that had stumbled into this portion of its infinite demesne.
Creation of our toy, know that we are pleased in you. We are so very proud of our toys, each and every one as we break you. Your suffering is beautiful.
A titanic voice speaking in a tongue older than the universe itself spoke from everywhere and nowhere, pounding in the rogue's ears and inside of his head. Screaming in pain, he begin to bleed from his eyes, ears, and nose.
"What is the Shadow Sorcelled Key intended for?" Malcolm screamed out the words even as reddish dots from hemorrhaging retinas clouded his vision and a coppery tang filled his mouth.
The Marauder has passed this test. I would have expected nothing less of her.
"What is my role in this? How am I to use the Key?"
She is so very much like her mother, but she has not yet suffered nearly enough for that comparison.
Malcolm's flesh burned with each word, every syllable spoken hammered the cohesion of his body.
"Please Father/Mother! Please tell me what to do!"
The words sprayed his blood and he fell to his knees, no longer able to stand on his own. The mental parasite within his brain shuddered and expired, and then mercifully, every injury he'd ever experienced at the Marauder's hands exploded at once in a moment of sanguine poetry.
Lazarius Ibn Shartalan, 1st among the Demented, architect of the Loadstones of Misery, and creator of the Shadow Sorcelled Key looked down at the spatter of blood and smiled. Soon his bauble would rest in the hands of the one for whom he had fashioned it, just as surely as his kindred had conspired to fashion her to be ready to accept it.
****