As Mort throws himself out the window, all within Sharmukh's office panic at his sudden movement, involving several shouts of , "Six preserve us!" before the realization dawns on them of what Mort had actually done. Sharmukh moves to the window to witness the fruit of this madness while several of his retainers attempt to pull him back. His line of questioning was not intended to bring doubt upon Mort's ability to complete the task, rather it was intended to ask what Mort was willing or able to promise to Sharmukh in return for the boon he had demanded.

Sharp metallic spikes pierce their way out of Mort's skin, assaulting him with pain and visiting his mind with several flashing images.

The first is of a humanoid figure clad in a black robe with a long neck and a mask-like head with empty sockets. The image lingers, it's dark gaze demanding and punitive.



It opens its palm at Mort and the palm expands into an infinite, intricate arrangement of golden and bronze geometric shapes.



The vision strains at the limits of Mort's mind before softening into a senseless iridescent mush within which ghosts and motifs of familiar shapes can be seen.



The moment seems to last an uncomfortable eternity but passes in a flash. It has taken a toll on Mort's consciousness, but is not debilitating, and does not affect his flight in the slightest. As for the spikes, Mort's body seems to not have spawned any in such a way as would impede the flapping of his wings, and do not become an impediment. At the window, Sharmukh has been crowded back by his retainers. One loads an arrow into a crossbow while others ready their spells.

"Speak!" One of them calls out, "And state your intention! Is this a demonstration? An attack? Are you still of sound mind? Speak!" Paranoia grips the office as they await Mort's reply.

(Is Mort flapping outside the window?)

"My mind? Sound?" Mort booms, "I am but a vessel through which the will of greater beings flow! The state of my mind is neither a relevant nor useful question. I will go on this quest. And I will hurt no innocent person. Unless they stop me from going on this quest. Then the innocence of the person is neither relevant nor useful."

He squawks.

Sharmukh pushes past his retainers and looks with confusion at Mort. Realizing that continued negotiation would likely prove unproductive, Sharmukh states, "I have taken your request into consideration, and if it is within my power, I will make it happen, given certain conditions. I will draft a message to Lathesa's Roost. If you would like to come back inside, I can hand it to you, or I can have it sent over to your escort before you set out."

Several retainers protest Sharmukh's decision, but he silences them with a wave of his hand. "At this point, any infrastructure that can be established in Lathesa's Roost is welcome. Besides, there will be conditions. The letter I will write will be addressed to whatever leadership remains in the Capitol for them to execute at their discretion."

A day or so passes in the City of Light as the expedition prepares. The decision has been reached to head to Omega, Capitol of the Free Guilds, golden city of the Humans; the ultimate goal being the Great Temple of Omega Mammon, scarab god of gold and commerce. A small contingent of thirty soldiers gathers at the North Gate of the city. Among them are three large supply wagons pulled by draft horses. Though some of the higher ranking officers are mounted, the vast majority are on foot. Though not much special treatment is given to the party, they are allowed a horse if requested, whereas there is an empty space on one of the wagons for Ahelair and Mort, given their advanced age. The humans of the expedition seem particularly enthused, this is their best chance to see their homelands once again before they die. The rest however, have already resigned themselves to the decision and express little to no open resentment.

As the double gates swing open, the expedition marches forward; like an army going to war, the streets are lined with civilians sending them off, but it is a solemn affair. Once the entire contingent has passed through, the gates swing shut and an eerie silence falls on the band. Some of them haven't been outside the city walls in months, maybe years. However, the surrounding land was still being desperately protected by Councillor Graft's army, so the expedition wasn't yet completely unprotected. Be that as it may, a commanding officer still shouted, "Watch for Pathfinders, and refrain from looking them in the eye. Some say that's how the madness spreads."

Pathfinders were the followers of the Dark Ones, specifically, Halgdurion the Seeker. Men and women from all walks of life who had been taken by the Madness. Their ability to blend in with normal folk had been instrumental in infiltrating the cities and separating their means of communication. The madness spread like a plague, and even now, the City of Light's City Watch still continued to carry out witch-hunt-like sweeps of the city to root out Pathfinders.

For the time being, things were relatively safe for the expedition, and it was a ripe moment for some last-minute preparation.

Maybe it was the fresh air, or perhaps the fact she was finally somewhat free, but Res was feeling particularly gracious and social today.

She had requested a horse, and quickly decided afterward that she found the beasts smelly and temperamental. Her horse seemed to have a very obvious problem with excessive flatulence, and seemed to enjoy spitting up cud, which she wasn't quite sure horses were supposed to do.

After the thirtieth or so explosion from the beast's behind, she decided to break the awkward silence by communicating with her state appointed companion. A youngish Dwarven woman, with a chiseled jaw and large square forehead. She had been intensely silent, minus the heavy breathing.

"Once we're far enough away from everything, you can just leave you know. Jana? That's your name right? Anyway, I won't tell I promise." Res stared intently into Jana's eyes, trying very hard not to ogle her unnaturally shaped face.

The Dwarven woman squeaked and looked absolutely mortified, "I would never! I always do my duty!"

Res shrugged and opened her mouth to say something else, trying her absolute hardest not to be rude, alas she really couldn't think of anything. So in true Elven gutter rat fashion, she quickly swung her attention elsewhere.

Spotting the Orc, Res urged her horse up to him and tapped him on the shoulder with her fishing spear, "Tell me mister, what did you do to get caught by these losers?"

Sitting quietly in the back of one of the wagons, Ahelair watched, still as a statue, as the once grand City faded from view.
He was finally leaving the beloved city that he had called home for the last 140 years. Leaving behind his loved ones but not their memory.

Eventually, the old elf relaxes and lets out a long sigh. Whether it was leaving the downtrodden city or leaving behind his old life, either way, he felt better than he had in what felt like an eternity.
He fondly watched as his grand children, ecstatically running up and down the trail, screaming with laughter as they are chased by their parents. Flyssia, riding alongside the wagon on some invisible steed was singing one of her favorite traveling songs... A song she had often sung when the 2 of them traveled as adventurers.

Ahelair quietly hums to himself, content to get plenty of rest until his skills are needed...

-{ while Ahelair is not actively seeking out people to talk to, he would not be opposed to anyone striking up a conversation with him }-

Mort considers the near future.

Whatever it holds, it's likely not going to be peaceful. To guard against unpredictable, chaotic fluctuations of the journey, Mort needs to be ready with a full hand of cards.

Mort knows he is not the best fighter. When it came to fight or flight instincts, he was unabashedly a master of the latter. "Always run away from a hard fight," his father had said, "and if you're not sure if it's a hard fight, run away anyway. The best place to stab an enemy is in the back. Preferably when they're sleeping. And preferably stabbed by someone you've hired. Preferably without a paper trail."

Mort weighs his current wealth. How much money and belongings does he have that he could use to leverage capitalist loyalty? He busies himself by walking up and down the caravan and scanning for people he can talk to. He summons up as much of his old skills as he can in identifying people's desires, weaknesses, and leverage points. What he's looking for are people with knowledge of where they're going, people who have experience dealing with Pathfinders, people who are good at fighting, people who can heal, and really, people who have useful skills.