"Wake up."

Magister Saagar sat up with a start, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of his chambers. A shadowed figure stood at the end of his bed, a black silhouette against the window, beyond which the first glimmers of dawn were just beginning to snuff out the stars.

"Who's-"

"Get dressed, Saagar," said the intruder. His voice gruff, harried. "And be quick."

"M-my lord Gavos?" said the magister, wiping sleep from his eyes and pulling himself from his bed.

The magister struck a match and lit a gas lamp on his bed table. He was scowling, annoyance overcoming tiredness and shock alike. You could always count on the Synod for these sorts of unpleasant surprises. Likely Gavos- thinking nothing of disrupting another's sleep since he needed none- was here for some esoteric text from the Scholam Library, probably to settle some wizard's dispute that- in Gavos' magic-addled mind at least- could not wait. Whether aether could be said- univocally or analogously- to have weight, or whether the life-force of beasts was intermediate between the human and vegetative or merely an advanced form of the vegetative, humankind's anima being different in kind from beasts, or whether, should secondary worlds exist, they could...

The intruder stepped into the yellow circle of light. Gavos' weathered face was pale, strained, his eyes- usually bright and sly- were haggard and watchful. He pulled absently at his grey-black beard with one gnarled hand. The other was wrapped tight around the black metal of his staff.

"Hurry and get dressed," said the wizard, "they are coming. We must go."

"Who's coming?" asked Saagar, alarmed.

"The Darkwatch," said Gavos, "We need to get out of here, but first we must to the Library."

"Darkwatch...but why?"

"No time," said the wizard, "We're going to the Library. I need you to find me something, several somethings. Then we're getting out of here. Let's go, put on pants, man!"

Saagar dressed hurriedly while the wizard paced between the window, with its view of the Scholam's courtyard below, and the bedroom door, to peer down the empty hall. He was clutching his staff with both hands. He looked genuinely afraid.

"What have you done, my lord?" asked Saagar, "Why is the Dark-"

"What have I done?" snorted the wizard with a humorless laugh, "I've done nothing. I've spent too long doing nothing, not seeing what was under my nose. The question is what have they've done. You're dressed, grab anything you'll need to bring with you, we're not coming back here."

"Not coming back? I must pro-"

Gavos muttered something. It was guttural and deep and in some subtle way different than the normal tongues of men.

The magister twitched, shuddered, and then went silently to his armoire. He pulled out a satchel and quickly packed a few extra clothes and small personal oddments.

He came back to Gavos, who was waiting by the door.

"Now to the library," said the wizard.

"I'll go, I'll go," said the magister, pale and sweating, "just please, don't do that again."

"I won't," said Gavos, not unkindly, "You'll understand soon, but we must hurry now."



They met no one on the way to the Library, the shadowed halls of the Scholam silent as the grave in the cold hours just before dawn.

The Library itself was quite grand, even in the shadows. A high hall of white marble rising to a silvered dome. Crowded shelves covered the walls in every direction.

Gavos handed the magister a small piece of paper. "Find these, quickly, meet me back here."

Saagar nodded. He was afraid now, mostly of the wizard, with whom he had been friendly-if not exactly friends- for many years. But now he realized how little he knew the man. Why was the Darkwatch coming for him? The thought of the Watch sent a new chill down Saagar's spine. It was unlikely the Invigilators would spare the magister despite his innocence, they were not known for clemency. He was, willing or not, an associate of their main quarry, and would be treated like an accomplice.

Saagar glanced down at the scrap of paper. Five titles were scrawled there in the wizard's spidery hand.

Atlas of Nagath and the Dark Lands

Salazar's Elements of Rule

The Serpens Cycle

Verses of the Prince

The Last Months of the Nagathi War

The last two in particular caught his eye. They were in the restricted section of the library, behind lock and-

Gavos gave the magister a small, silver key.

"Get moving," he growled.

The wizard lingered at the library entrance while Saagar plunged into the gloom of the stacks, holding his oil lamp close as he scanned the spines of books.

He found the first three titles easily, slipping them into his satchel, and was headed for the iron grating at the back of the library that sealed off the restricted section when he heard a loud bang and muffled voices coming from the library entrance.

"IN THE NAME OF THE DARKWATCH, IN THE NAME OF THE SYNOD..."

Saagar cursed, freezing in place where he stood, hidden deep in among the shelves.

"I am Gavos, fourth of the Synod," the wizard's firm reply echoed throughout the library.

In his ear, Saagar heard the wizard's urgent whisper: keep moving, fool!

The magister spun around, confused, but Gavos was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, Saagar could still hear his voice booming from the front of the library: "By what authority do you invade the sanctity of the Scholam?"

Saagar hurried to the restricted section, unlocking heavy iron grating and slipping behind it. He wondered, once he found the books he needed, what he would do.

There was a loud crack at the front of the library, and a voice that certainly wasn't the wizard's shrieked in pain. Sounds of a fight followed, with bellowed yells and the ringing of drawn swords.

Saagar hustled into the darkness of the restricted section. He found the Verses of the Prince easily enough. Though censored the book was not particularly rare and the library had a number of versions. The Last Months of the Nagathi War was a different matter. He thought he remembered seeing it once at the back...

He turned a corner around a cobwebbed shelf and let out a cry of surprise, dropping his satchel of books. A man was standing in front of him, leafing casually through a thick tome. He was tall, handsome, of indeterminate age, with steel colored hair and a trim beard. His robes were white, fringed with gold.

He smiled at Saagar.

"Looking for this, Magister?" he asked.

It took Saagar a moment to recognize the figure in the gloom. Another wizard. Qux. Head of the Darkwatch. Saagar had met him once or twice at various Scholam functions.

"My lord I..."

"Not to worry, not to worry," said Qux, "I know you had no part in Gavos' little scheme. You hardly know what you're up to, I'm sure."

He sighed, and placed the book back on the shelf.

"Still," he said, almost sadly, and took a step closer to Saagar, "still we'll need to-"

There was a flash of light and a splintering crack. Qux was sent sailing backwards.

Saagar turned to find Gavos behind him, drenched in blood that did not look to be his own.

"Grab the book, let's go," said the wizard, who was advancing on his prostrate colleague, his staff lowered.

Saagar plucked the Nagathi War from the shelf and dropped it in his satchel.

Qux sat up, nose bloody, snarling.

"You're either blind or complicit, brother," said Gavos. Qux began to speak but Gavos hit him crosswise with his staff and sent him sprawling, "My guess is complicit. I'd kill you but I haven't the time."

Gavos grabbed Saagar's arm with one gnarled hand and slammed his staff onto the white marble of the floor with the other.

There was a roar of wind; the magister's vision failed and he felt himself falling.

When his sight returned and he could feel once more the ground under him, he wasn't in the Library any more.

Among the peoples of Geryon and the lands beyond, many distinct cultures with their own, varying traditions exist, reaching varying levels of incomprehensibility to their increasingly distant cousins. Among the most strange and culturally distant from the rest, perhaps, are the Widu Tu'vat dwelling in the densely forested valleys and montane forests unclaimed by, so untouched by the ravages of civilization that one might think they were habited by nothing greater than simple, animal life. By many, these Widu Tu'vat were considered a strange, inscrutable, and oftentimes dangerous folk, if only because they were so poorly understood.

Edmund Ædelræd, the enterprising adventurer that he was, knew better than most common folk. Where there was mystery, there was surely fame to be found, perhaps even riches - or so he thought, mere days ago.

Now, sprinting through the forest, twigs crunching beneath the hooves of his steed, he wished he'd stayed home. Cuthbert - his squire - was only a short distance behind him, fear ever-present in the teenage boy's eyes.

"Keep your head down, lad - and don't you dare stop!" Edmund snapped, quietly as he could manage. Perhaps whatever had been following them had lost them, he hoped. He hadn't been so lucky as to catch a glimpse of their pursuer, but whatever it was, its intent was made clear by the flurry of arrows that speared his bodyguards through while in the middle of donning their armor. He'd been quick enough to mount his steed and run, squire in tow - but only narrowly.

Worse, he could *hear* the creature following them, leaping from bough to bough, the only signs of its passage being the rustling of leaves and the sickening delighted, sadistic giggles that seemed to echo from all around him. Whether the source was male or female, he couldn't tell - he was too busy listening to the thump of his heart against his rib-cage; the sound of his own ragged breaths.

Just a bit further, he reassured himself. Ahead was an old, wooden bridge, crossing over a raging river - perhaps, were he quick enough, he could use battle-magic to collapse the thing, preventing his pursuers from following? Just a little bit further, and...

Suddenly, his steed froze, whinnying, adamantly refusing to move even an inch further. "Move, stupid beast! Come on!" He barked in frustration, kicking the horse's sides. It remained unmoving.

Casting a glance at Cuthbert, he noticed his squire was undergoing the very same struggle, both animals stopped dead as if arrested by some foul magic. A flash of dark, grey fur crossed his field of vision - and he suddenly found himself, without warning, groaning in pain, his body slamming to the ground with a loud thud. Still, his steeds did nothing.

He began to push himself up, only to find a powerful force slamming him back against the ground.

An enormous wolf, nearly large as a horse, its expression contorted into one of abject rage.

The giggling. In the commotion, he hadn't even noticed the absence of the source of the laughter - but now, it was back, and closer than ever. Behind him. Rolling him eyes upward, he tried to get a better look - but all he could find was the very top half of a ghostly-pale face, eyes black as the darkest nights, pointed ears poking out from beneath a forest-green hood. It tilted its head down at him in curiosity.

"Defiler." It hissed, voice now bereft of joy, dripping with only the most foul of venoms. And yet, it had a strange, almost beautiful quality to it - both entrancing and terrifying at once.

He opened his mouth to speak, only to be silenced by a growl from the beast pinning him against the dirt.

"You've come here seeking treasure, yes? Riches? Fame? Do not answer - I already know." The voice hissed, bending over to stare directly into his eyes. "I can smell it on you, knight. The scent of what you have stolen."

"I'll give it back! Don't kill me, I-"

A crow landed on a branch, nearby, then another, and another... Soon, the boughs the creature had been bounding along were crowded with black-feathered crows and ravens, squawking and cawing, as if mocking him.

"It is too late for that, little thief. His mind so small, his thoughts so selfish... The many lives you have ended to feed your lavish habits, the lives you have cut down so brazenly to fuel your forges, to build your estate... It is too late for mercy, pathetic little man." Again, the creature laughed, the sound sending a shiver down Edmund's spine.

One hand shot out, reaching for his blade while the other weaves arcane runes in the and, and-

Vomiting blood, searing pain shot through his chest - a pair of arrows, their bone-forged heads, speared into his lungs, filling them with blood. He only now just noticed the creature's bow drawn, life fading from his eyes.

Elun sighed, quietly shaking her head. A hand rested on the snarling wolf's head, a pleased sigh rumbling out from between its teeth.

"This is not your punishment to share, young, little man." She said, not even bothering to give the squire a glance. "You will take these horses, and you will run, never to return."

Awestruck with fear, the boy could muster the wherewithal to do little but nod.