The Incantarium is dead, long live the Incantifiers

Prologue

The blood war lasts forever. A war of ideas, a war of belief, a war of fiends. Baatezu and Tan’ari, one the embodiment of tyrannical law, the other the incarnation of destructive anarchy. Since the first skirmish, it’s never seen pause. And never will, until one side is completely annihilated.

On the Gray Waste, on a blood soaked battlefield, lie countless corpses. A splash of crimson against the uniform gray. A band of creatures, native to the waste, scour the remains. Night hags.

"Come, there’s another live one over here!" On of them cries in a raspy voice.

The elder of the gray sisters makes her way across the carnage, enjoying the looks of rage, fear, and despair frozen on the faces around her. Fiends from both sides lay strewn at her feat, their bodies already cooling. But best of all were the mortals, their faces could not help but show the abject horror that they had experienced before their gruesome demise. Foolish, bloodthirsty mortals. Humans, elves, and hundreds of other races, who had actually thought that they could win fame and fortune in the Blood War. She strode across the battlefield, among thousands upon thousands of the dead.

It had been a relatively small skirmish. One with no clear winner. Which was good, for the hags at least. In the large-scale battles, one side usually came out on top, and decided to stick around. By the time the Hags got their pick of the battlefield, all they found were scraps. But it wasn’t meat the hags wanted. It wasn’t to loot the dead. It was to loot the living, to take something from them that was far, far more valuable then the armor they wore, or the weapons they fought with.

"Hurry! He has a glaive in his gut and he won’t be here much longer!" The lesser Night Hag said impatiently.

The mortal in question was a blood stained human, or is it tiefling? He certainly looked human enough, but his aura didn’t seem right. As if it mattered at this point. Nevertheless, the mortal raised his head to look at his rescuers, his ragged breath quickening as he saw the Hags. He tried to reach for a rune scribed sword lying nearby, but was pinned to the ground by the glaive.

The elder Night Hag stood over him, clutching a green and blue gem. She started to mumble syllables of arcane power.

The lesser night hag leaned close to his ear, close enough for him to smell her fetid breath. "I know what you thinking. I’ll bet you’re praying to each and every power you can think of, praying that you won’t die. You’re prayers about to be granted, I can assure you, you’re not likely to die for a very, very long time."

The night hag cackled and stepped away, the green and blue gem grew brighter, and brighter…

Chapter one

The fiend landed a few feet from his Arcanaloth superior. The large, four armed beast lowered its canine-like head and folded its wings. "Sir, the Baatezu have the soulstones, as you requested. They are ready to trade for a contingent of Mezzoloths, and the information you promised them, as per the agreement."

The Arcanaloth folded his arms, drawing his gold and crimson robes closer as he looked down his furry muzzle. "Are you sure that they have them all?"

"Yes, I counted all four hundred myself." The Nycaloth said.

"Good. Then you won’t be worried with the news that if we are missing even a single soulstone, you will be added to the pile, is that understood?"

The Nycaloth lost his air of confidence, and shuffled uneasily. "Yes sir."

"Now, do you want to go and check again?"

"Yes sir."

The Arcanaloth sneered. "Go."

As the Nycaloth took to the air, the Arcanaloth smiled to himself. Four hundred soulstones. More than enough to bribe his way into certain records in the Tower Arcane. As the Yugoloth plotted, a portal in a nearby cave was opened, a portal to the Abyss.

The transaction was still in progress when the Tan’ari attacked. Dretch’s clawed their way through Lemures; a Bebilith slammed the Arcanaloth to the side, against a large rock. The Soulstone he had been examining was dashed against the rock, sending green and blue crystal fragments flying.

The air shimmered, and suddenly there was a person sitting where no person had been before.

He clutched his throbbing gut, blood pouring out of the wound. His eyes were swollen shut, but he still could sense, practically see, the magic ring on the hand of the dead Arcanaloth next to him.

Where he was, and what was happening, held no meaning to him. All that mattered was getting his hands on that ring. He crawled through the gray colored dirt, and grabbed the Arcanaloth's shoulder, trying to drag himself closer. He could feel himself drifting away. It wouldn’t be long now.

And then he felt the cold metal band. He clutched the ring, and felt it start to grow cold. As his vision of it dimmed, he felt the skin around his wound regrow, the torn organs heal and shift back into place. He absorbed the magic of that ring as thirstily as a dying man drinks water. He felt the swelling around his eyes reduce, and painfully opened them as he got to his feet, sturdying himself against the rock face.

His eyes were like liquid quicksilver.

He looked around, making as quick an examination of the surrounding area as possible. He was still on the Waste, which was bad. He was in the middle of a battle between the Baatazue, Tan’ari and… Yugoloth? To many to kill, and the Tan’ari seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Have to hide.

But gods be damned if he still didn’t hurt all over. He tried to walk, but found that his leg was still broken, it had only just begun to reknit. He dragged his broken leg as he made his way along the rock face.

It wasn’t long before he caught the attention of a Gelugon. The insectiod ice fiend outstretched his hand, and absentmindedly sent a wave of freezing cold in his direction. The Incantifier braced himself against the wall. The cone of cold caught him dead center, awashing his entire body with skin blistering cold, to no effect.

Actually, that’s not true. His leg, while still in pain could now support his weight, and several other minor cuts and bruises vanished. Doing his best to escape from the storm of claws, teeth, and spells around him, he ducked under a wounded Bebilith and made a run for the other side of an oddly shaped mound of dusty gravel. It was only when he reached the other side that he realized that it was a mostly disintegrated creature.

He waited for a nearby Retriever to direct its attention to a raging Pit Fiend before making a break for a rocky hill that looked like it might provide some decent cover. As he ran across the open plain between him and the hill, he heard an all too familiar scuttling sound. He turned and saw a crab-like Mezzoloth charging toward him. Frantically looking around for a weapon, he spotted the body of a fallen Barbazu, glaive still in hand. He snatched the weapon from the fallen corpse, and rather than wield it, held it by the shaft. The glaive seemed to lose some of its color, as if it was suddenly several years older. He tossed it away, and pointed a finger toward the Mezzoloth who was now only a few feet from spearing him.

He smiled, and uttered a word of arcane power. A tiny, paper thin blue beam lanced out from his finger, and hit the Mezzoloth in the chest, burning a tiny hole completely through its body and out the other side. The Mezzoloth staggered, and fell.

He finally closed the distance to the hill, a more than decent hiding spot. As he circled around, he was forced to slide to a stop, as it was he found himself teetering on the edge of the cave’s mouth.

He glanced back at the battle behind him. The Tan’ari were winning, and fast. Their superior numbers and surprise attack had won them the day, on this battlefield. They wouldn’t be distracted by the Baatazue for much longer, and by then he needed to have a hideout.

By the time that the last Baatazue was slain, he had already lowered himself into the cave, and was quickly seeking refuge in its deeper caverns. Unfortunately, from his retreat he didn’t see the Tan’ari forces move toward the cave, heading for their portal home.

It wasn’t long after that that he found himself at the tunnel's end. No more room, no place to hide. He crawled back through the cave, carefully looking for any branch of cavern he could have missed, when he heard them. He could actually hear the heavy footsteps of some of the larger fiends as they walked above him. He scurried toward the mouth of the cave, and silently cursed his luck when he saw the fiends just above it.

A Balor at the head of the group stepped forward, into the cave. He prepared himself quickly trying to think of some feat of magic that he might use to ward off the fiends, or better yet, escape.

He was just about to make his move when the Balor stopped, and drew a knife. It raised it, as if to strike at some invisible opponent, and then plunged it into its hand, the strength of the blow forcing it through its hand. The air shimmered, and the Balor faded away, but the shimmer remained. A portal.

The Tan’ari quickly stormed into the cave, one by one vanishing into the portal. It seemed like hours before the last fiend was through.

He waited a few moments longer, listening, and hearing nothing but the apathetic silence of the waste. He crawled out of the cave, and looked around.

The waste was as gray as he remembered. A gigantic splash of crimson on the ground, a backdrop for the countless bodies of various forms of evil. He trod through the corpses, picking up magical items when he found them, and devoured them. Until at last, he came across the chest, buried under the body of a Nycaloth, full of softly glowing gems.

He picked one up, and studied it for a moment. A fellow trapped soul. He dashed it against the ground. There was a shimmer, and a man appeared on the ground, screaming in absolute agony.

All the skin on his lower half had been burned away, and so had small portions of his fingers. He stopped screaming only long enough to sob out a feeble request.

"Make it stop, please just make it stop."

The man with the silver eyes didn’t respond. He only hung his head, leaned down, and incinerated the man’s head, as quickly and painlessly as possible. He glanced at the chest full of soulstones. How many contained souls who would die upon gaining their freedom? He would have to find a healer first.

He filled his bag with as many soulstones as possible. But there was still over half a chest full of soulstones left over. He dragged the chest over to the cave, and gently carried it as deep as he could go. No doubt, anyone looking for it would find it easily enough, but he’d be damned if he was going to let the hag’s have it for free.

He climbed out of the cave, picked a random direction, and began his march. Alone, across the waste.

Chapter 2

Day and night are often blurred on the Waste, so it is hard to tell exactly how long he wandered. All he knew was that the pack of soul stones was heavy, and it wasn’t long before he started to feel the emotional tug of the waste. Once or twice he had to dodge Mezzoloth patrols, and then came the day that he was spotted by a Nycaloth.

He was traveling across one of the many great open areas of the waste when the Nycaloth flew overhead. He had tried to find cover, but he was spotted. Seeing only an easy target, the Nycaloth dove, readying his axe. The man with the silver eyes waited, and then dodged to the left just in time to be missed by the axe, but managed to touch the Nycaloth’s arm while doing so, releasing a powerful flash of lightening. The Nycaloth spasmed momentarily, enough to disrupt his flight and drive him into the ground. The fiend got to its feet, no worse for the rough landing, and prepared to charge. The man with the silver eyes waited, and prepared a spell to ensnare the fiend in an invisible wall of blades when the fiend approached, when the Nycaloth made a surprise move. As the fiend charged, it threw its axe ahead of it, while preparing its claws for attack. The axe caught the silver eyed man in the shoulder, shattering the bone and driving him to the ground. The pack full of soul stones was torn from his arm, and fell to the ground, spilling its precious contents.

The Nycaloth leapt at the man, who hastily erected a weak shield of force. The Nycaloth slammed into the invisible shield, and fell. As the fiend hit the ground, there was a sound of breaking glass. The man with the silver eyes winced. There was a shimmer, and a man fell to the ground, gasping and clutching at his throat. His eyes a brilliant blue, and his skin the color of gold. An Aasimar. He spotted the fiend next to him, and rolled away in terror, still gasping for air.

The Nycaloth, momentarily surprised by the Aasimar’s sudden appearance, let his guard drop just long enough for the silver-eyed man to propel a spike of solid ice into its skull, killing it instantly. The spellchucker crawled over to the gasping man, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

The gasping man nodded, coughed, and pointed to the Incantifer’s bleeding shoulder. “I… I’m fine.” He gasped. “You actually look a lot worse than I do.”

“I appreciate your worry, but the wound is not as bad as it looks. However, if you have a magic item on your person, I can be in good health in a very short while.”

The gasping man frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t have any healing items for you cutter.”

“I have no need for items of healing, any magical item will do. Like that gem in your pocket, the one that lets you see invisible creatures.”

The gasping man was worried. How did he know what I had? And that accent sounds familiar, but…

The man slipped the gem out of his pocket, and handed it to the man with the silver eyes. Silver eyes, why is that important. I remember hearing something about silver eyes…

The man with the silver eyes took the gem, and felt it. Not just the gem itself, but the power held inside. He concentrated, and the gem became just another piece of rock, any trace of magic removed.

Just a moment afterward, his shoulder was fine, the crushed bone repaired, and the torn flesh replaced by newly grown skin.

Suddenly, the man on the ground realized the word that had escaped him. “You're an Incantifier!” he cried, and tried his best to crawl away.

The man with the silver eyes raised his hands and yelled, “Wait! If my faction and yours are opposed, I swear I will show you no trouble, not in these accursed lands. Whatever enemies we might be in Sigil, let that not carry here.”

The man stopped crawling away, and turned around. “You don’t know, do you?”

The Incantifier looked puzzled. “Know what?”

“The Incantifier’s are gone, dead or worse.”

The man with the silver eyes was taken aback, before his face being distorted by rage. “How? When?” The Incantifier yelled.

“I don’t know the specifics, but they challenged The Lady, and were punished for it. It was a long time ago, it must have been hundreds of years before the great upheaval, at least!”

The Incantifier faltered. “Great upheaval?”

“Sorry friend, but I can’t be around you. I don’t want to be on the same plane as you when the Lady decides to come calling.”

The Incantifier was frantic now. “Why? Why would she come for me?”

“Because you’re a bloody Incantifier!”

“So what? I pose her, nor Sigil, any threat.”

The man was silent.

“And from the looks of it, neither of us are in the right condition to cross the Gray Waste alone. Without help, it’s not likely that either of us will live to see the Ladies shadow.”

The man shuddered. “Friend, that might be a good thing.”

They sat in silence for a few minuets, before the Incantifier broke the quiet.

“So, what is your name?”

“Aral, of the Believers of the Source. And you?”

“My name is Zalke Beri.”

"Well Zal, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but next time you summon a fiend, you should at least set up some way to protect yourself first."

Zalke was dumbstruck. "I didn't summon any fiend."

"Of course you did. How else did that Nycaloth and I get here?" Aral said, matter-of-factly.

"The Nycaloth spotted me from overhead, and I didn't have anyplace to hide."

Not it was Aral's turn to be confused. "But, then how did I get here? Just a little while ago, I was being thrashed by a 'loth, said I hadn't kept up my end of the bar... well, that parts not important. But then he had one of his cronies hold me down, damn Nycaloth grabbed me by the throat, hence the gasping, when 'flash' and I'm sitting next to a confused Nycaloth. You explain it then."

Zalke just hung his head. "I'm afraid the tables have turned, my friend. Now it is you who are uninformed."

"How so?" Aral asked.

"You have been imprisoned inside of a Yugoloth soulstone, as have I. A considerable amount of time has elapsed since my imprisonment, and I would assume that the same can be said of you. You were released when your soulstone, unfortunately crushed by the Nycaloth." Zalke managed to roll over the dead Nycaloth, and pointed to the crushed remains of a red gem. "And there is its remains."

Aral looked around. "If that’s true, then we should move. Now. If that Nycaloth was on patrol, they'll be missing him soon. Come on, we can talk on the way." Aral got to his feet, brushed himself off, and picked up the Nycaloth's axe. "By the way, would you happen to have any water?"

A look of worry crossed Zalke's face. "I am afraid that I do not. In fact, I have no food or water of any sort. I don't need any, you see."

"Damn, well then, lets hurry. I don't want to be on this damnable plane any longer than I have to. So, where’s the portal you’re looking for?" Aral asked.

"Unfortunately, I do not have any portals in mind. I do not even know our location, aside from the Waste. The only portal I have yet seen was a portal to the Abyss."

Aral paused for a moment. "You wouldn't happen to have any spells of flight, would you?"

Zalke sighed. "I have none prepared, but I do have a scroll of levitation, I believe."

"Good, good. That will work just as well. Cast it on me."

"What for? It only allows vertical movement." Zalke asked.

"Because, from up there," Aral pointed at the sky. "I might be able to spot a landmark. If so, then I think I can lead us to a portal out. I hate to admit, but I've had dealings on the Waste before."

Zalke nodded. "Very well then." He took a bundle of parchment from his belt, unrolled it, and scanned through the pages before finally selecting one. He drew a circle within a triangle on the ground. "Step inside, and be careful to not smudge the lines."

As Aral entered the circle, he became disoriented as he suddenly found himself floating. He closed his eyes, and willed himself up.

He felt like he was falling, but away from the ground. He opened his eyes, and looked around for any landmarks.

The Gray Waste spanned out before him. The bleakest shade of gray imaginable, in all directions. Faintly, off in the distance, he could make out a tiny line of color against the gray, dark red or maybe black.

And, much closer, a few dots of green, growing bigger.

Aral cursed, pulled out a couple of copper pieces, and tossed them to the ground ahead of him, before willing himself down.

"Nycaloths!" he cried, stepping from the circle and breaking the spell.

"Where?" Zalke asked.

"Three of them, flying from that direction." Aral said, pointing out the oncoming fiends.

"Did you notice any landmarks, do you know where we are?" Zalke asked hurriedly.

"No, but it doesn't matter." Aral replied, sifting through the gray dirt. "Because, I spotted the Styx, and it's in..." He picked up a copper piece and smiled. "This direction."

Zalke grabbed the pack full of soulstones and started running. "We must cover as much ground as possible, I have a plan."

"What?" Aral asked, breaking into a run.

"Flee."

As they fled across the waste, the Nycaloths closed in overhead, searching for their comrade. It wasn't long before they spotted the body, and sent one of their number to examine the body. The other two stayed aloft, searching. In a span of seconds, they spotted Zalke and Aral, and changed their flight to pursue them.

Zalke stopped, and reached into his pack. He drew out a thin wire rod, and drew a large rectangle in the air, while mumbling arcane formulae.

As he finished, the rectangle glowed white and sizzled with power. "In, now." Zalke yelled. Aral, recognizing it as a variant of the Dimension Door spell, ran through, quickly followed by Zalke.

Once they reached the other side, the Dimension Door closed, and fizzled away. Zalke whispered another series of indecipherable words, and drew a pinch of dust from his belt. He through it into the air, and shouted the last syllable. The dust burst into a cloud of mist, which floated to the ground and seemed to condense around an invisible frame. The mist took the shape of a large horse, and solidified.

Zalke climbed onto the steed, and turned to Aral. "Come, we must hurry."

Aral shakily climbed onto the spectral mount, and no sooner was he on that it leapt forward into a run. As the steed raced toward the Styx, Zalke took a single piece of what looked like hair covered in some sort of gel. He mumbled to himself, and the hair glowed blue, then faded away.

"That will make us invisible from the air." Zalke said, grabbing a small pouch of dust. He leaned back, and poured it in a stream back the way they had come. "And this shall obscure our tracks."

"How long will we be invisible to them?" Aral asked.

"Not long enough to reach the Styx, of that I am certain. But with hope and luck it may be enough to convince the fiends that we either teleported far way, or left the plane entirely. Either will suffice, as it will mean their departure."

They road on in silence, as fast as their mount could carry them. During the hours that past, Zalke could feel the soul numbing pull of the waste increase. Aral, tired and thirsty, fell asleep on the spectral mounts back.

He awoke to find himself lying on the ground, with Zalke sitting a few feet away, keeping watch.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Aral asked.

"No." Came the reply.

"How far?" Aral asked, licking his dry lips.

"The Styx is still a full days ride ahead of us. However, I have prepared a series of Dimension Door spells which will lessen the distance to a few hours to that rivers vile banks."

"Speaking of which," Aral said. "When we reach Sigil, we're going to have to pass you off as a poet, with the way you rattle."

There was a pause before Zalke spoke. "What was the great upheaval?"

Aral took a breath. "Long time ago, four hundred years last time I checked, probably longer now, there were a sodding lot of factions, the Incantarium among them. I think the Incantifiers got themselves mazed before the upheaval, but either way, all the factions kept quarreling like imps and quasits. There was probably something to trigger it, if there was I never learned it, but one day the Lady has the Dabus tell each and every factions that one way or the other, there would be only fifteen factions in Sigil."

"Well, sure as the spire all the factions start fighting. Some ran away, a couple broke up, and a few joined together. I think that’s where the Mercykillers came from, but in a week there were only fifteen factions left. The believers of the Source among them. You'll have plenty of time to get to learn about the new ones.”

"More time than you know." Zalke replied.

"So, I meant to ask you before, but I fell asleep. Exactly why are your carrying around all those Soulstones?" Aral asked, gesturing toward the bag.

"I found them after I was released." Zalke said. "I could not leave them to be discovered by the hags, so I took as many as I could."

"Yea, and you can buy a fortune for those on the right market." Aral pointed out.

"What?" Zalke said, disgusted. "How can you say such a thing after being imprisoned in one yourself? No, I plan to free them, once we reach safety."

"Why not do it now?"

"That was my original plan, however, I am afraid that many of them may have been mortally wounded or tortured before being imprisoned. The first soul I freed had been horribly burned; I had to take his life to end his suffering. No, I refuse to release them until I find a competent cleric."

Aral coughed. "Anyway, we need to get going. I'm not sure how much longer I can travel without water."

"Actually, I may have a temporary solution." Zalke said. "But first, do you have a container? A mug, or perhaps a metal flask?"

Aral pulled out a tin bowl. "Will this do?" He asked.

"Perfectly." Zalke said, taking the bowl. He mumbled an incantation, and a spike of ice formed in the air. But rather that be propelled forward, it fell into the bowl.

"Now, I think you may wish to use the sword of yours to help it melt. Unless you want to wait...” Zalke said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"Someday, I'm going to find out how you always know what I have." Aral mumbled, pulling out his saber. He held it over the bowel and whispered the command word. The blade glowed yellow, and then burst into flame. Soon, the bowl was filled with water. Aral tossed aside his blade, and eagerly drained the bowel of its contents.

"Oh, that’s good." He said. "You wouldn't happen to have more, would you?"

"I’m afraid not. I spent much of my time preparing our means of transport." Zalke said. "Can you now travel?"

"Yes, as long as we reach a town or tavern soon, and I might just risk a 'loth bar by the time we get there. I'm telling you, first thing I do when I get back to the foundry is commission a Decanter of Endless Water."

"Doesn't a foundry typically forge metal?" Zalke asked, drawing a glowing rectangle in the air.

"Then let them make it out of metal!" Aral cried.

The spell finished, and they stepped through the doorway, it collapsing into a cloud of static behind them.

They emerged from the dimension door with the Styx in sight, though still a ways off. The continued their journey on foot, again being forced to take cover as a Nycaloth flew overhead.

Finally, they reached the vile, blood-like river Styx. Clouds of mist hung over it in patches. It was into these patches of mist the Zalke stared.

"An Oarsman will be here soon, of that I am sure. Ready you moneypouch, a ride in the Oarsman's skiff is not free, and not cheap if you want your memories to survive the voyage."

Aral hung his head sheepishly. "I'm afraid I don't have much jink, didn't have much on me when the 'loths got me. You?"

"Nor I. One does not carry money onto the field of battle. That serves no purpose but to pay the looters."

"I have... a gold piece and four silvers." Aral said, counting his coins.

"Don't even try and pay with silver. It is painful for fiends to touch, and this is not the time to anger our only mode of transport."

"So, one gold piece then."

"That’s the least we need to actually call one, I think." Zalke said, taking the gold piece. He walked over to the black, frothing river and held his hand out above it.

He held it there for a few moments before one of the clouds of fog flickered, and the water rippled, as if someone had dropped in a large rock, except that there was no splash.

A large, flat-bottomed skiff sailed out of the fog, a thin figure in a large dark blue robe at the helm. Although the Oarsman's pole was in the water, it was only just dipped in, and the boat seemed to guide itself to the shore.

The figure turned toward Zalke, exposing the skeletal face of a Marraenoloth.

"Child of Charon, we seek transport by means of the Styx. Will you grant us passage on your skiff?" Zalke said, reciting the ritual.

The skeletal figure paused for a moment, and suddenly began to shake. A wheezy, rattling cough filled the air, and it took both Aral and Zalke a moment to realize that the fiend was actually laughing.

"Well met, traveler. This skiff would carry you, for a price." The voice rasped.

"I’m afraid, Oarsman, that we have but one gold piece between us, and we wish not to pay you in silver. What other means could we seek to buy ourselves passage?"

"There are currencies other than gold in the lower planes." The Marraenoloth rasped.

Zalke, confused, looked back at Aral.

"He means soulstones." Aral said.

"But, I can not give away another's soul..." Zalke said.

"Than we have to find another way off this plane, and by then I'll have died of dehydration." Aral replied curtly.

Zalke hung his head, and mournfully reached into his pouch. He pulled forth an amber colored stone, a little smaller than a fist. "I am sorry." He whispered to the soul trapped inside, then turned back to face the fiend.

"Will this meet your price?" Zalke asked, proffering the stone.

"Indeed." The Oarsman replied, taking the stone. "Step aboard my skiff." The fiends red eyes flashed as he stepped aside, making way for the Incantifier.

As Zalke stepped past, the Marraenoloth resumed his stance of blocking access to the boat. "Your price has not been paid." It said, speaking now to Aral.

"I don't have any gold." Aral said.

Although the fiend made no movement, the skiff started to pull away from the shore.

"Wait!" Aral yelled. The skiff stopped. "I have these."

The Aasimar opened his hand, revealing four silver pieces. The Marraenoloth moved the skiff back into place, and took the silver pieces, hissing as he grasped them.

After Aral had boarded the skiff, the Marraenoloth dipped his pole in the water, and the small boat moved away from the shore. It slowly turned to face a could of fog up ahead.

"No one has bothered with the ritual of passage for a long time." The fiend began.

"It's only right to show respect" Zalke replied.

As the skiff the neared the mist cloud, the oarsman spoke. "What is your destination?"

"A safe haven, near a portal to either The Outlands, or Sigil." Zalke replied

"Or someplace else that I can get a drink." Aral said.

The ferryman turned his head back to face Aral. "There is no need for thirst here, feel free to drink as much of the surrounding water as you like."

The Marraenoloth began his wheezing laugh again, more at the look of disgust on Aral's face than at his own joke. The skiff entered the cloud of mist, and the laughter faded off into the distance. When the mist cleared, there was no boat in sight.