The island of Solarian spread out from the central mountain, rivers and lakes surrounding small sections of land. The water flowed naturally away from the idyllic mountain, glittering with the light of the sun falling from the sky above. The people wandered the streets on the upper islands, carefree and filled with the joy of living in such a wonderful place. The city prospered through trade with the outside world, their airships offering quick transport of goods and services. The beauty of it brought in tourists and vacationers, some of the finest word smiths of the world found the beauty a muse to their natural gifts. Painters used it for inspiration, writers for the quiet. The people of the world flocked to the islands for their natural wonder. And where tourism and beauty brings money, so to does it bring criminals. The city proper filled with people early, and spread among them the street rats played. Small children darting to and fro, in and out of the people. Their hands a blur of motion, many of them pocketing something pulled from the pouch of a tourist or local. Most of them, though, only played amongst the others, laughing and smiling with the joy of a child.

A dark figure walked among the crowd, his long duster-style coat dragging the ground behind his hard heeled boots, a large-brimmed hat pulled low, obscuring his face enough to hide the long scar down the left side, with a patch covering over that eye. He watched the ground just ahead of himself, trusting his sense of crowds to guide him through the throngs of people. He kept a constant watch on the kids. Others might not see their game, but he saw each pick, each sleight of hand. They weren’t nearly as good as they thought themselves, but they were good enough to get by, he supposed. Smiling, he loosened the strings on a purse hanging off his crossed gun belts. Holstered there were large, pearl handled revolvers, the belts themselves crossing over his groin with the handles angled toward his hands. The loosened pouch jingled with the loud sound of change, and it wasn’t long before he found the kids play bringing them closer and closer to him.

Pretending not to notice, he continued walking aimlessly through the crowd - until he felt it. The slight, barely noticeable shift in weight tugging at his belt. His hand, lightning fast, lashed out and wrapped around the wrist of a pale, emaciated child. Her eyes shown with fear beyond fear. So sure she’d been that he wouldn’t notice, she barely stifled a scream that would give away her fear.

“Now young’un, what’cher doin’?” His smile broadened, and his one eye softened with kindness as the smile touched a light within. “All ye had to do was ask, ya ken.” Tossing the coin pouch and catching it, he gently sat it in the girl’s hand, letting her down. “Buy yer’selves sumpin nice, girlie girl. Find me later, I might have a job for ye, ya ken.” The child nodded, fear replaced with wonder and excitement, before darting off to rejoin the group trying to hide behind a melon stand. Roija smirked as they darted into the shadows once again, figuring he might not see them again - but keeping a mental note of her for future work.

“Joseph, you got the bounty board ready, yeah?” The sound of his voice changed, the backwoods accent disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “I need some work, some poor little thing just stole all my money.”

“I bet they did, Roija, as if you wouldn’t have known a day before what they planned and stopped them if you didn’t want them to have it.” Joseph’s grizzled voice laughed aloud. “And yeah, it’s ready. I got one specially picked out for you.” Reaching out, he passed him a piece of rolled up paper.

Unfurling it, he looked it over. A good bounty indeed. A huge chunk of money, but a hard to find quarry residing in the darker parts of town, buried in the tunnels running through the mountain. A lot of them were old mining shafts, but with the mines mostly dried up - the gangs and outlaws began using them for hideouts and bases. Roija went in there some, mostly to retrieve bounties, and most of them knew him well - and knew not to fuck with him when he showed up.

Still though, the poster showed the dark face of a man Roija wanted to take a piece of anyway. Shifting his weight, the leather of his gun belts creaked against one another. He tossed Joseph a coin from another pouch, and turned toward the mountain - watching the sun begin to descend down the backside of it. “This’ll have to wait till the morning, but I should be back by tomorrow evening, old friend. Have my money ready, ya ken?”

Tomorrow wouldn’t be a walk in the park, and a lot of men would end up dead in his pursuit - but tonight, Roija intended to spend his time at the The Wandering Sojourn, drinking and working on a different kind of bounty. It helped that it was nestled just outside the old mining towns, close by the entrance into the mines. Maybe he’d recruit some help in the tavern, actually, being outnumbered - while manageable - didn’t appeal to his sense of fun.

Far from the City of Light there was a place not merely adrift in the void, but floating in the creases between dimensions where dreams grow, wither and die: Xiri’zûlvir, called the City of Many Paths and said to rest in the mind of the Sleeping God that dreamt the multiverse at the beginning of all things. An old aphorism described the Land at the Threshold as the point at which all lines intersect.

Aflutter in the roiling winds of creation surrounding the vast cityscape, there gleamed a thousand thousand portals, out of which poured the citizenry of the manifold worlds of the Dreaming Empire onto the glittering thoroughfares leading to the city proper. A place ancient beyond reckoning, situated in the epicenter of a web of myth and legend spun across star systems beyond number... a rock onto which many lesser nations had been placed, hammered, and broken, their kings and heroes conscripted into its legions or murdered, and all memory of their stories purged.

Qû’jara’jinyeva was one such warrior of legend, at a time and place called the Hero-Mage, Last of the Philosopher Magi, the Singer of Many Voices and Bearer of the word BATTLE by an extinct people, of whom he was the last. Four-eyed and four-armed, skin inked in the forgotten folklore of his kin, presently Qû considered his reflection in the glass of a window at the Ministry of Expansion in the Palatial District where the guild-princes and priest-kings of Xiri’zûlvir and its ecclesiarchy held their unholy court.

Sweeping his gaze across the horizon, where the far-flung refineries and factories of the industrial sector belched great plumes of toxic smoke through which the Gateways gleamed like constellations, Qû estimated that the Dreaming Empire was a cancer more than a city, a great tumor creeping across the stars. A ravenous thing enslaved to its own ungodly hunger, eager to devour the multiverse itself until its broken metabolism could sustain itself no longer... and he a serf yoked to that impulse in eternal servitude.

Just under six cubits tall, essentially humanoid but unnaturally muscular, skin a dark grayish-red and mostly hairless save the leonine black mane crowning the curve of his skull, the Hero-Mage cut an imposing figure. Besides his tattoos, every available space was filled by ritual scarring, his giri: one for every fearsome enemy slain. At his joints, collarbone and vertebrae protruded the black chitin of the symbiont fused to his bones, which grew to cover him in its exoskeleton when Qû entered his holy battle trance. His face was that of a predator species, all high angles and sharp planes, his jaw capable of unhinging to reveal double rows of sharp teeth.

The Hero-Mage wore black robes fit for travel, in one hand holding the kasa hat he often used to conceal his identity and in another hefted his song-spear, ensorcelled with the ideogram for instrument near the base of its blade, for through it he channeled the Art. Finally, encrusted in his brow was the purple amethyst of his Key, marking him as a chosen emissary of the Dreaming Empire, enabling the Hero-Mage to bypass the restrictions imposed upon travel through the Gateways so that Qû might ride the lightning wherever the whims of his masters might take him.

A gong disturbed his reverie and Qû’jara’jinyeva turned to see a diminutive creature ushering him forward. The monolithic door to the ministry's innermost chambers creaked and groaned as they swung slowly inward, revealing a space dimly lit by lanterns of many colors. Inside, he knew, seventeen lordlings awaited to instruct him on whatever cursed errand they intended. Doubtless another promising world had been discovered and they lusted to suck dry the marrow of its bones, and he would be their herald.

Crossing the threshold into the chamber, they were arrayed before him on their thrones, beings dizzingly varied in their physiologies and mannerisms, but equally terrible for the sheer degree of their wealth and excess. No surface in the room was free of ornamentation, a tribute to the decadence of the guild-princes, every object hewn from precious stones or metals plundered from world after world burned on the pyre of imperial progress.

One, a great wyrm that wriggled and coiled upon itself as it was attended by a host of manservants, regarded Qû with its head turned sideways so that it might fix a massive black eye on him. Alien though it was, the disdain it radiated was unmistakeable.

Precious slaveling, it hissed in a voice like the screams of children drawn through a reed. We have a use for you...



Machinery that had lain dormant for geological ages abruptly whirred to life. Dust floating free in zero gravity and undisturbed since the paleolithic period of Orst's earliest civilizations, fell to blanket the floor. An elliptical surface of light angstrom-thin flickered into existence, casting into sharp relief the cathedral architecture of the abandoned observation post: a Gateway where there became here, then faded immediately as a figure stepped through into the dark.

Four red slits cut through the gloom as Qû’jara’jinyeva regarded his ruined surroundings, unconcerned: it was typical of the Dreaming Empire to install locations such as this and then abandon them until some minor source of intrigue drew their attention back to what had been forgotten for millennia. Finding what he sought, the Last of the Philosopher Magi strode over to an alcove in a corner of the room, stepping onto a grated platform of black stone, unbleached by the sunlight of any star, ever.

The amethyst set in his brow flared, revealing a lune-shaped screen positioned over an ancient interface, itself housed atop a metal chassis containing conductors and transistors networked within a womb of wire. Beside it rested a glass tetrahedron, surgical machinery suspended from its upper vertex. Through his Key, Qû drew energy from local leylines to restore power to the device, breathing electron life into nanocircuitry and mechanical manifolds. Sine waves bounced across the screen, followed by further signal readouts.

Qû would have need of an assistant. Something well-versed in local history and lore, to guide him through the fog of a new world's superstitions. This was not the first time he had required such assistance. Neon glyphs began to loop across the screen, chasing scanlines in strings and then more complex shapes. Gas condensed within the tetrahedron as a certain regularity imposed itself upon the symbols, encoding the genome of a species of social ameba local to Orst.

The gas congealed into a soup of nucleotides, the inscrutable machinery inside beginning to execute small, precise movements at a speed even Qû's considerable visual acuity struggled to follow. Evolution accelerated at a breakneck speed, a million generations passing every second in the artificial amnion that recreated the conditions to nurture new life. Cell cultures began to web across the faces of the tetrahedron, dying and arising, and in the center something was born.

After many minutes that Qû spent in perfect stillness, watching the flurry of activity, a green slime occupied the entirety of the becoming chamber. It opened, its contents oozing out onto the floor like primordial soup. Small specks floated in the gel and focused into what Qû knew were eyes, regarding him with newborn curiosity. Small appendages extended from the mass to grip at his feet like a son clutching at the hand of his father. Using him as an anchor, the slime structured itself into a more solid shape, and despite its seeming simplicity this artificial lifeform was instilled with full knowledge of the cultures and peoples of Orst, or at least to the extent that the Dreaming Empire was aware of them.

It would be an invaluable aid in navigating the new and alien world, gifted with the speech and language of its locals, and able to teach him. A tiny orifice floated forward to face him and Qû watched in curiosity, anticipating the creature's first words, wondering what he would learn about the land he had come to conquer.

The green slime jiggled with childish joy at its own birth and said, "Boy howdy, partner!"



The sun slipped down over the mountains to the west of the paradisiacal island called Solarian and the star-studded pelt of the night sky rolled out over the land. When Roija pushed open the door to the tavern called the Wandering Sojourn, he would find it flourishing with the usual assortment of regulars and foreigners just passing through. This particular watering hole attracted a rougher crowd, the kind of men looking for mercenary work or slipping towards outlaw life and banditry.

That evening, however, there was a particularly strained silence beneath the tavern's music and bustle. A grim-looking stranger, head and shoulders taller than most everyone else and equipped with four arms, sat in a corner and nursed a wicker demijohn full of the strongest liquor the house had to offer. A wide-brimmed kasa hat mostly concealed his features.

He hadn't said a word since entering. When he'd arrived a few hours earlier, a few drunk boys saddled up to cajole and threaten the odd foreigner, through the haze of intoxication utterly unaware of the danger. When the wanderer offered no response to their hassling, the stupidest among them laid a hand on his back and reached for the wicked knife at his hip, thinking that tonight he'd use this idiot giant to prove his manhood to his friends.

He hadn't even seen the hand whip out from beneath Qû's robes and snap his neck as if swatting a fly. The other three rushed him, and without breaking his stride — practically unaware of the men at all — the Hero-Mage punched a hole through one's head, scooped another's innards out from his belly with one swipe of his lower left arm, and with the gentlest shove catapulted the last man onto his back five meters away with shattered ribs and a concussion that would leave him even dumber than before. That one survived, wriggling away in the dust towards parts unknown.

So it was that Qû’jara’jinyeva entered the Wandering Sojourn reeking of blood and sat down to drink and consider his next steps, and the people of Solaria knew that this stranger was a man who sought to reach heaven through violence. Most bizarrely, they realized he was not alone: an apparently sapient bubble of green slime clambered over his back and perched on his shoulder, wearing a cowboy hat and humming along to the music.

When the little alien ordered the warrior's booze for him, the owner of the tavern sighed and knew instinctively that it was fixin' ta be a weird night.