Hello everyone!

I hope everyone reading (well, those in the States, anyway) had a happy and safe Thanksgiving, and I certainly hope that anyone in any civilized area who went out on Black Friday came home okay, given how uncivilized shoppers on that day tend to be.

Lol.

Anyway, time to once again transcend from one part of my larger story to another. And this time around, we start off a little differently than before…

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Shadowchasers

Shackled City

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Part 5

Legacy of the Demonskarr

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Prologue

Jalal had long regretted not making any attempts to establish a base in Cauldron earlier. Distrust of their ruling class and problems involved in accessibility made such a problem a headache that he tried to avoid as long as possible. After all, the primary goal of the Shadowchasers was preventing conflict between humanity and Shadowkind by preventing the former from even knowing about the latter. Cauldron didn't have that problem, as the Veil didn't have much to conceal there. Most residents were Shadows or Shadow-touched, and almost all humans were Aware. Mundane humans wouldn't last long on Cauldron.

So, he assumed Cauldron would be mostly okay when left to their own devices and police themselves without aid from the Shadowchasers.

Was this the right choice? Maybe, maybe not…

~/~/~/~/~/~

Four years ago.

On the east part of the greater island of Cauldron, a mile outside of Redgorge, the second largest city, a goat farm was being ransacked by a rustler who, in most places, would be considered a dimwitted amateur. He had come to rob the place alone, in broad daylight, when the farm was at the peak of business for the day.

Thing is, this rustler was a hill giant, a Shadow not known for intelligence or subtlety. He was seventeen feet tall, morbidly obese, smelled terrible, and was very ugly, bald with a sloping forehead and tusks on his lower jaw. Once most everyone on the farm had fled from him, he simply grabbed the - unfortunately penned - livestock, shoving the poor things into a huge sack he was carrying.

Naturally, a patrol of town guard from Redgorge had responded, and they - plus the owner of the farm (holding and consoling his wife) and his employees - were watching from a safe distance, unsure what to do Even worse, they were not surprised in the least. This was the third place this month Hugga (the name this giant called himself) had ransacked.

"Dammit," said one of them, "I thought Lamour made a deal with these jerks?"

"The 'deal' has become little more than extortion. This is King Snure's way of 'encouraging' a 'renegotiation'." The comment had come from a man in plate armor, and the crest of St. Cuthbert's House on the front. It was Gregory. While they were all glad to see him, he was just as angry as they were.

"I have half a mind to go into that idiot's office and wring his fat neck," said one of the guards. "Uh, if he asks, I didn't say that."

"I have absolutely no idea who you are," replied Gregory in a reassuring tone. "Be that as it may, Snure is trying to goad us, and if it ends in violence here, he'll use it as an excuse to end the 'deal' completely."

"You have got to be kidding," said the first guard.

"We are not dealing with rational people here. Thus, my best advice would be to -"

And then there was a loud scream. "MANDY!" screamed the farmwife.

The giant's attention had been drawn to something on the roof. A young teenage girl had tried to climb there to get away from him, but clearly, it had not been high enough.

"Forget that advice." Gregory straightened his belt and then marched up to the giant with a cross look on his face. The situation had just gotten much, much worse and the chance for truly peaceful negotiation was gone.

"Mmm… appetizer!" said Hugga. Of course, Mandy was hysterical, sobbing, "No, no, no! Please!" as he reached for her.

"HEY!" shouted Gregory.

"Eh?"

"Down here, big guy!"

Hugga turned, noticed him, and seemed annoyed. "Wha? What humie in metal suit want? Go away!"

It seemed that, from a giant's point of view, six goats and one human made a decent meal, but adding a second human was a bad case of indigestion waiting to happen. Gregory wasn't going to let this big jerk intimidate him.

"Listen here," he demanded. "You think you can just barge in here and start taking everything in sight?"

"He's either the bravest man I've ever seen or the craziest," said one of the guards.

"You're obviously new around here, so I'm willing to cut you some slack if you give everything back and promise never to do it again, got it?"

Hugga's answer came quickly, in the form of a laugh and a mighty smash with his club down on Gregory.

Hugga laughed loudly. "Dumb humie," he chuckled.

Mandy was screaming more than ever now; "Quiet!" ordered the giant, and he threw her in the sack where he had stashed the goats and other ill-gotten gains. Thinking Gregory to be dead, he hoisted it over his shoulder and started lumbering away.

But Gregory wasn't dead - he had not been dumb enough to try to reason with a hungry giant without a stoneskin protecting him. He was already sitting up even as the guards rushed to help him.

"I'll take that as a no," he groaned. "You, gimme that."

"That" was the halberd the guard was carrying, a long pole-weapon with an axe-blade on the head topped by a long pike.

The guard didn't object, so he grabbed it, and then charged at the giant, aiming for the easiest used to collaborate with a gnome who fancied herself an expert at giant-slaying. She had told him that giants - and for that matter, most large creatures - had a universally exploitable weak spot. It was not the most pleasant nor most sporting way to approach a fight, but given how Hugga hollered and grabbed his behind, it did the job.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size, fatso?"

Of course, the irony of that taunt was not lost on him, but as Gregory had hoped, Hugga was far more willing to fight him now. He dropped the sack holding poor Mandy; Gregory sidestepped, making sure it was on the opposite side of Hugga as he was.

"Hugga no fat," growled the giant, "Hugga big boned!"

He swung his club at Gregory, but this time, the warrior ducked aside.

"No, Cthulhu is 'big boned', you are FAT!"

Furiously, Hugga swung at him again, only for Gregory to dodge aside once more. He backed up slowly - as he expected, the guards went for the dropped sack, and the brute was too dense and too angry to notice them. He dropped the halberd, his hand inching for his mace at his side.

"And you swing like a girl too."

"Okay," grunted the giant, "now you make Hugga mad!"

"Bring it on, fatso."

The giant roared, gripped his club with both hands, holding it above his head as he clumsily lunging at the Hand of Cuthbert, slamming it down hard…

He missed… The club only slammed into the ground…

…and Gregory did not. He leapt on the giant's weapon, and then ran up Hugga's arm like it were a ramp.

"Wha? Huh? Uh…"

By the time Hugga even knew what was happening, Gregory was on his shoulder, his mace held to the sky. He brought it down, clobbering the giant on the crown of his thick head.

"Uh… Urg…"

Gregory leapt from the giant's shoulder, landing on his feet; Hugga was not so lucky, teetering for a second or two, and then collapsed, falling on his stomach with a crash.

Cheers came from everyone watching. Gregory took off his helmet, looked at the giant, and then looked up at the sun.

As he had done many times before, he closed his eyes, placed his hand over his heart, and softly said, "Glory to St. Cuthbert."

~/~/~/~/~/~

"That should hold him," said one of the guardsmen.

Hugga was still out, snoring loudly, the guards having tied him down with thick ropes in a way that would have impressed Jonathan Swift. Hopefully, once Zhent and his men got here they would have some better way to restrain him, at least until any "negotiations" with Snure could be done.

Mandy was being comforted by her relieved parents. She had been very lucky, having been freed from Hugga's sack with only a few bruises. Those poor goats hadn't been so fortunate, two were dead, and the rest were injured; all but one of the survivors would have to be put down later. While Gregory anticipated having a word with Snure once he could get enough support to do so (dealing with a hill giant marauder was one thing, going even near a Fire Giant King's stronghold was something else entirely) for now he decided to look through the smaller sacks on Hugga's belt.

According to legend, the sacks that giants carried were stuffed with gold. These were, for the most part, just legends. A giant's belongings were usually little more than food (rarely fit for human consumption), and whatever oddities the owner assumed were valuable. One near constant was that anything they owned was old, worn, dirty, and smelly. Gregory was far hardier than these guards and was a lot less likely to catch any nasty disease from going through this stuff, so he had volunteered to do so.

This didn't seem to be much different than the typical giant's bag. There was an old bone (probably from an axebeak), a hunk of stale cheese, beef jerky, a large plug of tobacco, an old book (too mangled to read), a beer tankard…

…and…

Hello… What's this?

There was indeed something interesting here.

It was a disk shaped stele made of what looked like silver, but not quite as heavy. The convex side had an etching of a strange-looking figure on it, a tall, thin, gangly figure with six arms, like a Hindu deity. All six arms were symmetrically outstretched, holding a different object in most of them. There was a dagger in its lower-right hand, a hammer, a trident in the upper left, and a shuriken in the upper right. The middle-right hand was an open palm holding nothing, and the middle left had its palm facing up with a cube hovering over it.

While he had no idea who the figure was, this was familiar to him; he had long searched the ruins on Cauldron since emigrating here years ago on the final request of his deceased grandfather and had found quite a few artifacts depicting these odd six-armed beings.

But when he turned it over and looked at the concave side, there was something interesting there. A crude map of sorts had been scratched into the surface, clearly not by whoever had made the engraving on the front. It showed a path leading from a skull-like object labeled "headless demon", past the label "home", past "big cave" and finally to "Vaprack's Voice".

Still, as interesting as it was, it was hardly more of a curiosity for now. This miscreant had been apprehended, and right now helping the victims took priority.

~/~/~/~/~/~

Three years ago.

Gregory looked at the dilapidated structure in front of him. Supposedly this hovel about twenty miles inland from Redforge was where Hugga called home, and from the look of it, nobody had been here in the past twelve months. Zhent had given him the location, and when he had asked why they hadn't searched it yet, Zhent told him it "wasn't a priority".

That strange stele the giant had… The unknown purpose it had seemed to gnaw on him. While it didn't seem to be magical or cursed, his curiosity had gotten the best of him, and it had become his hobby. Possibly even an obsession. He had easily found out who Vaprak was - a powerful demon who was worshiped by some trolls and ogres - but still had no idea what "Vaprak's Voice" was.

Eventually, he wondered if the place on the map marked "home" might have indicated Hugga's house, and his first investigations into that lead had indeed located a "headless demon" of sorts, a statue in the jungles in the center of the island that most assumed was a damaged depiction of an ophidia. When he discovered the giant's house was only five miles away, he knew he was on the right track.

When he pushed open the door to the large, decrepit windowless, dome-shaped structure, it became clear from the stink that Hugga had lived here. It was plenty big enough for a giant, maybe even a small family of them, but not the sort a giant was likely to build; probably a smokehouse that he'd stolen or found abandoned.

Lifting his lantern, he figured this would be an unpleasant, and likely short search. Everything was filthy, wet, and probably infested with vermin, and what little furniture the place had covered was with mold. No wonder they didn't search the place yet, he thought. He made a note to get a booster shot as soon as he got back to the city.

Five minutes later, it seemed he had hit paydirt.

There wasn't much here except bones, spoiled food, containers the food came in (mostly stolen), a tinderbox, and other junk. But upon searching the shoddily made bed, he found a rectangular plate made of the same metal as the disk. It was another stele!

Naturally, he brought it outside to take a better look at it. There was another of the strange siix-armed creatures on the right side of the stele, though unarmed, its hands folded in front of it. There were odd runes on the upper left side (which he could not read) and six similar runes in a column below that, each next to vertical slashes. The topmost rune in the column was next to one slash, the second next to two slashes, and so on.

It wasn't hard to fathom that this was some sort of codestone, with those six runes meant to represent the numbers 1 through 6. But to what?

Why is it that every solution you find leads to more questions?

~/~/~/~/~/~

Two years ago.

In his modest cell at the cathedral of St. Cuthbert, Gregory woke up. He was sweating heavily.

It had been a nightmare, a horrific one. And it was the third time.

He had seen the sky above Cauldron, on fire. The city had been reduced to a burning hellscape, with the horrendous screams of innocents - interspersed with pleas for mercy. This was not an act of nature, Cauldron was being invaded. He could only barely see the creatures, as they were concealed in smoky haze every time he tried to get a good look at them, but he saw enough. Some were tall and gaunt, others were stout and squat - but just as tall - and maybe two or three were twice as big as the first and twice as stout as the second, and hulking.

Many of the victims saw him, crying out his name, most pleading for help, some of them begging for death. He could see many of his friends and allies among the tortured victims; Jenya, Havan, Illewyn, and Nichole…

Then a cruel, evil, laugh that echoed over the city and through his head for several minutes after he woke up. After taking a minute to convince himself it was a nightmare, as most everyone does, he fumbled for the light by the side of his bed.

When the flickering light of the flame illuminated the room, the first thing he saw was… the disk-shaped stele. It was on top of the rectangular stele. He couldn't believe he had still kept these things, starting to question whether there was some curse on them that was simply too well-hidden to see.

He thought back to the dream. He'd had nightmares before, but this seemed different, as it was lingering in his mind. He still saw the poor souls who were suffering in that horrible hellscape, and…

…wait… why had he seen Nichole?

~/~/~/~/~/~

Sixteen months ago.

Gregory sneezed loudly. This was a bad idea, he told himself, for the twentieth time in the past hour.

He had at first been overjoyed when a very old (500 years) rakshasa tailor had heard him talking about Vaprak's Voice and told him he did indeed know there was a landmark in Cauldron that used to be called such. Several dozen miles east of Hugga's house was a pair of large, metal truncated tubes which, when the wind blew into them, made a hollow roaring noise, like that of a primitive beast. He assumed it was another device of ophidia design, but he had not studied it enough to confirm this, nor did he know what purpose it served. All he knew was that some of the more superstitious tribes of Shadowkind would often call it Vaprak's Voice.

The rakshasa gave him rough directions to this landmark, and it was immediately obvious why not many Cauldronites knew about it; it was uncomfortably close to the Demonskarr. But Gregory had spent too much time on this pet project to give up now. Still, he would not risk anyone else on such a journey and decided to go alone.

Soon, however, he realized his folly, as he had chosen to go right before the rainy season. As Cauldron was celebrating that year's Flood Festival, he was caught in soaking downpours, struggling to find makeshift shelter and subsisting on k-rations. The rare times it wasn't raining, he had been assaulted by swarms of mosquitoes, and he was constantly itching from the bites. He first started to feel the first signs of a cold about three days ago, and now had a full-blown one. He was soaked to the bone, cold, hungry, itching, and probably lost. Still, he trudged on, unwilling to turn back. He wanted answers, if only to get the fixation he had with these accursed steles out of his head.

Finally, when he was mere seconds away from giving up anyway, he heard the roar of Vaprak's Voice itself. The odd pipe structure was in front of him, encouraging - or possibly daring - him to keep going. So he did, and only an hour later, he was in front of a cave entrance, revealing a tunnel going down.

Even if it led nowhere, it was a shelter. He entered the cave and started down…

…down towards the Demonskarr…

At first, it seemed like his luck was improving. He was finally able to make a fire to warm and dry himself, his cold started to clear up, and he even felt safe sleeping in these dark, eerie caverns. Unfortunately, after about a day of descending these tunnels, he realized he was low on supplies, not just food, but the kerosine needed for his lantern to stay lit.

And then he saw the doors, a magnificent bronze bas relief of celestial hosts supporting mounted warriors in a battle against an unseen foe. The sides of the door had burning braziers with the smell of incense.

The doors started to open, filling the dark cave with bright, invigorating light…

After days of slogging through Cauldron's jungles, he reacted the way most would - he fainted.

~/~/~/~/~/~

"You're awake! You're finally awake!"

Gregory was indeed awake. He had woken up… In a hotel?

As his eyes adjusted, it did indeed seem like a hotel room, a very expensive one He was in a bed, a soft feather bed with clean sheets. The room he was in had a pleasant odor and a calm, friendly atmosphere. He even heard soft music coming from somewhere. The walls were clean and whitewashed, and there was a lit fireplace, a chandelier, a sofa, and a clock, all of them fancy antiques. There were even paintings on the walls.

And then there was the woman who had spoken. Standing before him at the foot of the bed were three goddesses. Women who seemed to be of ageless beauty, wearing laurel crowns and Grecian-style togas. They seemed identical, the only difference being the color of their waist-length flowing hair. One was platinum blonde, another raven-black, and the third (the one who had spoken) auburn.

"Uhm, am I dead?"

All three giggled. "No," said the redhead, "afraid not. But we feared for a while you might."

"Your fever was very high," said the brunette. "You were gravely ill. Malaria, we believe. You are lucky you came here when you did, when we were still able to heal you."

Malaria? Gregory thought back and remembered how miserable he had been, the fever that had been plaguing him, how exhausted he was… And all the mosquito bites… He certainly could have had that dreaded disease, and these goddesses had cured him of it, he owed them his life.

"Oh, and you owe us for the carpet you puked all over," said the blonde one. Then she giggled and sat down on the bed next to him. "Just kidding. We have been waiting for you for a long time."

"Uh, look, I'm… I'm grateful and all, but I hardly know you…"

She giggled again. "No, no, that isn't why. You are safe here, Champion. Rest. The first part of your journey is complete."

Champion? That was an odd one, but he did feel safe, and as the strange woman touched his forehead, he drifted back to sleep again.

~/~/~/~/~/~

Gregory had spent four days in this strange mansion. It was indeed a beautiful place, with fine carpets, artwork in every room, and fancy furniture. The food his hosts gave him was both exquisite and satisfying. He was well-fed (having lost weight on his trip here), rested, healthy, and they had even cleaned and polished his armor; wearing it, he could swear it wasn't as heavy as it used to be. But it all seemed… empty. What purpose did this place have? He never saw any servants or custodians who maintained the place, and he never saw his three hosts eat or sleep.

A few times, his mind wandered as he remembered old stories about witches who lured children into their clutches with food in an attempt to fatten them… But then his mind stopped wandering - way too corny.

He had taken a vow of hospitality long ago, and knew that a gracious host must also be a gracious guest. Questioning his host's motives was not gracious. But he was still concerned.

On the evening of the third day, he was sitting in one of the studies of the complex, where a cool waterfall-fountain and soft, Baroque music amid artwork did little to comfort him. He leaned back on one of the couches, looking at the disk-shaped stele again. It didn't seem as threatening now, but was just as puzzling.

He looked up and noticed the hope chest in front of him, a large cedar chest the size of a coffee table with a small statuette of an angel on it.

It seemed… familiar, in a strange way…

"You seem troubled, brave one."

He sat up to acknowledge one of his hosts, the blonde muse. "Oh, uhm," he started, "I'm okay, Phoebe, it's just…" He signed, he needed answers, so maybe he'd have to hurt her feelings a little. "Why am I here?"

Phoebe smiled softly. She turned to the entrance to the room, where Calliope and Fiona had entered, nodding to them.

"You are wise to ask, Champion, and we will be glad to show you. Come…"

~/~/~/~/~/~

Gregory followed the three goddesses down a long hallway, Phoebe giving an explanation that seemed concerning, but at the same time… suspicious.

"You came because you suspected the nightmares you were having had deeper meaning. I fear you are correct. Dark portents predict a grim future for Cauldron, threatened from within by evils that stem from the island's very origins."

They approached a door, very similar to the one that had led him into this place.

"I see..." he said, in a doubtful tone. "I suppose you all don't know enough to give information more specific than that?"

"Sadly, we do not, but as the God of Justice will affirm, when Evil rises, Good shall rise to oppose it. Gregory, long have we waited for Cauldron's Champion… "The door started to open. "We believe that the Champion is you."

The chamber within was a sight that was of a very different design than the rest of the mansion, and was glorious in its simplicity. The room was a four-sided dome, the apex of which was thirty feet high. An odd pentagonal mirror was on the opposite side, casting a dark reflection of the room. The reflection was distorted in an unsettling way, with shimmering pinpoints of white light, like twinkling stars. Facing the mirror was a chair made of stone with triple armrests, in the center of a colorful hexagonal diagram on the floor.

"The Starry Mirror! Legends say this ancient oracle will divulge great insight to anyone bold enough to discover its secrets."

"You made it this far, brave one," added Calliope, "the Mirror can give you the answers you seek if you choose to continue."

Gregory was very nervous, even if he wouldn't admit it. For a few seconds, the possibility that his hosts were witches wanting to fatten him seemed like something easier to handle. But Calliope was right, he had come so far - and he couldn't back out now.

Slowly, he sat upon the chair. It seemed… calming yet invigorating, and the mirror did seem to react. He closed his eyes, like he did so many hundreds of times before when he prayed. He saw the starry field in his mind's eye.

The stars were drifting, gently falling. They changed to motes of colored light… And then he started to move past them, like he was walking forward, slowly moving towards… something…

But then his eyes snapped open. It was like… whatever he was moving towards had pushed him back. He held his forehead, shaking his head and said, "No, I'm sorry ladies, I… I guess I'm not the one you're looking for."

"Do not be discouraged, brave one," said Fiona. "She put her hand on his shoulder, talking with soothing encouragement. "Maybe you are not ready now, but you have time."

"You mean…"

"Prove yourself, brave one. When you return home, find your true purpose, prove yourself worthy of being the true Champion of Cauldron, and when you return, the Starry Mirror will still be here."

Two days later, he left out the way he came, much healthier, stronger, and better equipped. The rain had passed, and the sun shone with the light of Pelor overhead. He thanked the three goddesses profusely and started his way back.

He hadn't gotten the answers he had wanted, but at least now he knew he wasn't crazy for pursuing them.

~/~/~/~/~/~

Eight months ago.

"For the last time, Gregory, NO!"

Gregory knew he should have been grateful that Zhent had even agreed to talk to him, and that finding him in a bad mood was to be expected. But he had seriously hoped he would be reasonable.

"Zhent, this trafficking ring is getting bolder by the day, children are being kidnapped out of their beds! Doesn't this mean anything to you?"

"I have my men working overtime, Gregory, the sentinels at the city gates are doubled, and you are here telling me they should be looking for a 'malachite fortress' behind 'doors with teeth'?"

"Sergeant, listen to me, I know it sounds strange, but -"

"But what? Let me guess, you had a bad dream?"

"Well, you see -"

"Join the club, Gregory, everyone in Cauldron is having bad dreams lately. Last night a guy was brought in for taking a whiz on the street outside Cram's Clams. He said he was binging on coffee so he wouldn't fall asleep." Seeing Gregory's expression, he nodded and said, "Funny, right? Well, it would have been if it hadn't been the third time this month. It gets worse by the way, we also brought in this jerk who was selling Terran brandy outside the House of Brick."

"That's… bad."

"You're damn right it's bad, we had to talk down a suicide last week who had taken that stuff for a month. She begged us not to let her sleep." He sat down at his desk, picking up a pen to resume the paperwork he had been doing when Gregory came in. "This whole town is going crazy, and I can't afford to tell my men to start chasing rainbows because of some stupid dream that you think is an omen. The Lord Governor would can my ass in a heartbeat."

"Chasing rain- Listen, Zhent, there's a difference between being 'stupid' and being 'ignorant'." He started for the door. "A stupid person is unable to learn, and an ignorant person chooses not to."

Zhent looked up. "Are you suggesting I'm -" But Gregory had already left, the office door slamming shut.

Outside the office in the hallway, Gregory leaned against the wall, angry and frustrated. He hadn't gotten the lead about a "malachite fortress behind doors with teeth" from a bad dream, he had gotten it from the Star of Justice, and the answer it had given was far more elaborate than any "portent" he had ever heard. But Zhent didn't even know the Star existed, few outside Cuthbert's faithful did. It was clear Zhent wouldn't change his methods unless that idiot Lord Governor told him to.

Those four children… and there would be more… What atrocities would be needed before Cauldron's leadership would be convinced? Much like the nightmare he'd had, that one with Nichole, he felt -

Wait… Nichole…

Zhent wouldn't do anything to help him unless the Lord Governor demanded it? So be it. He would leave them to their devices and call a favor someone who would help him.

~/~/~/~/~/~

Seven months ago.

Well, that certainly went well.

He couldn't believe Reynaldo had the nerve to treat poor Maddie like that. Who had even let them into the cathedral?

Nichole and her organization had been a godsend. They had saved Cauldron from being reduced to ruins twice, and that man had the unmitigated gall to accuse Maddie of being an accessory to the atrocity she had prevented. At least he had gotten them to back off, but…

All this… I must get to the root of the problem…

It was all about cause and effect. In his eyes, he had arranged it all so that Nichole and her friends were dealing with the effect while he investigated the cause. But he had given them too much to manage so much on their own, and at the same time, he couldn't do his part on his own either.

He dug into his pocket, withdrawing the disk stele from it.

Maybe… he thought.

One hour later, he had left the stele in a box at the door to Nichole's room, along with a letter telling her how important it was, and that should he not contact her within two months - an amount of time that would, most likely, indicate he had failed - that she was to leave Cauldron and get as far away with it as possible.

Which, he was certain, Nichole would never do. She would turn the city inside out looking for him, discover his task, and hopefully, succeed where he had failed.

They were on the same page now, whether she knew it or not. He was counting on her.

~/~/~/~/~/~

Six months ago

Somewhere in Redgorge, in a large hall with a table lit by torches and a fireplace, a meeting was taking place. While the Last Laugh had thrown their lot in with the corrupt leadership of Cauldron, another group of outlaws could not be swayed.

"This meeting of the Chisel will now come to order."

The man who made the statement, wrapped a gavel in front of him on a podium, to indicate the start of the meeting. Except rather than a gavel, it was a mini sledge, which he rapped upon a small anvil. This was the leader of the Chisel, someone known by the rest of them as simply the Foreman. He was a hulking muscular man, wearing only a ragged pair of trousers and an iron welders mask over his face.

The other members of the Chisel were also masked, but with far more elaborate, better made masks, all of them with animal motives. The male members wore Victorian era tail coats, the females fancy dresses from the same era of fashion.

The idea that a man dressed as a manual laborer would be in charge of a group dressed as nobility was fully intended, given the group's stated goal. Cauldron was in a state of moral and societal decay, the blame for which, they attested, was squarely on the corrupt, neglectful, selfish nobility. While they knew the task in front of them was monumental in scope, they sought to change that.

"First order of business," started the foreman, "Town Crier would you kindly?"

The member of the group he had indicated, a young man in a black coat wearing a cat mask, stood up clearing his throat.

""As I'm sure everyone knows, Cauldron has become something of a powder keg lately. There was the issue with a slave ring some months ago that was foiled, thank goodness, the crisis with the flooding, and an evil cult attempting to exploit it. In merely a fortnight's time, the surviving leader escaped custody due to a terrorist strike, and an angry umber hulk attacked midtown. Indeed, our… unofficial alliance with some folks from out of town has prevented these crises from turning into an outright calamity."

"If I may interject." The comment came from a woman in a maroon dress with a fox mask.

The Town Crier nodded. "Yield the floor to the Wandering Minstrel."

The Wandering Minstrel stood up. "On that note, I would propose that our unofficial allies be given disclosure."

"I will second that motion." A man with a wolf mask and blue coat stood up. "I believe they can be trusted."

"Quite an unorthodox request," said the Foreman, "Not a decision that should be rushed."

"Sir," said the Wandering Minstrel, "they have risked their lives and dignity repeatedly, they deserve to know why they are doing so." She stopped, looking over the other members of the Chisel. Even among those who wanted change and reform, there was still a great deal of distrust of the world outside Cauldron. But at very least, she hoped they would at least consider it. "Yield back to the Town Crier."

"Thank you. As I was saying, the unrest that these crises have caused has been bad enough, with citizens becoming far more tense and anxious. But it's gotten worse. The Lord Governor has, for the first time in a decade, made a noticeable hike in taxes in order to cover costs of repair, renovations, and in some cases, reparations. That hasn't gone over well with anyone. As I'm sure I don't have to explain, Cauldron has the reputation of a 'tax haven' of sorts, and the recent changes have been viewed as an extreme abuse of power. I do believe the Honest Merchant can give a… firsthand view of that."

"Thank you, Town Crier," said the man with the wolf mask. "Ahem, yes, tax evasions and protests have started, and any visible benefits of the change have yet to be seen. The richest citizens, whose taxes are collected first, are the loudest complainers. The worst part is, the Lord Governor has started to use the Alleybashers as 'deputized' tax collectors."

"Legbreakers, you mean," said a woman in a mouse mask.

"Sadly, that is an accurate description, as the Alleybashers have the reputation of brutal mercenaries at the best of times, and many are little more than glorified thugs. Rumors are starting to circulate of groups given the authority to break into businesses and even private homes to seize what they claim is due."

"Is that even legal?"

Another member replied, making everyone take notice. "No, but Cauldron's legitimate - I use the term loosely - constabulary is either unwilling or unable to police their own. My opinion, 'unwilling' is far more likely."

They took special notice as the comment had come from the Brave Crusader, the newest member of the Chisel, who had yet to contribute much as a member. Despite his mask - that of a panther - it was obviously Gregory. While no member would outright state their identity even to other members (that was an official rule of the Chisel), he was the worst-kept secret among them.

"That is quite a serious accusation, Brave Crusader," said the Foreman.

"Sadly, I must maintain it. The higher-ranking members of Cauldron's watch have become little more than toadying yes-men to the aristocracy. Sergeant - excuse me, Lieutenant Zhent has long been one to turn a blind eye to the greater good in his attempts to conform to his view of the law."

"I have to agree with Brave Crusader," said Honest Merchant. "Many like Zhent seem willing to enforce any and all policies that the nobility of Cauldron enact, no matter how extreme and impractical, and as a result are endangering both the citizenry of Cauldron and themselves. Action must be taken."

"You say that as if you have a plan to do so," said the Foreman.

"I do indeed." The Honest Merchant cleared his throat and stood up. "After the founding of Cauldron, Spellmason and his associates initiated a policy called the Old Law of Peers, stating that anyone blood related to one of the five original founders of Cauldron has a right to challenge any other official to a duel of mortal combat for the position, should he feel that official is untrustworthy or dishonest. I should state that such a view of Zhent is widely shared."

"Trial by combat?" asked the mouse-woman. "To the death? How… reactionary."

"Indeed," said the Foreman, "and clearly intended as a last resort, but given their attitude, it may be the one solution that Cauldron's elites would hesitate to refuse. Though I do not know of one who qualifies as blood related."

"The Brave Crusader qualifies."

Everyone looked at Gregory, who slowly stood up with a slight nod.

"Not something I like to advertise, but yes. Should the Chisel approve, I would indeed volunteer."

There was a long silence, then everyone turned to the Foreman.

"This is a rash decision, everyone, and a very risky one. Not one we should make lightly. Should such a challenge be made, then any outcome would be unpleasant."

"We have to do something," said the Wandering Minstrel, "and we may not get another chance. If I may be blunt, the city of Cauldron is on the verge of an uprising should this gross injustice continue."

"Point taken." The Foreman lifted the hammer. "All those in favor of enacting the Old Law of Peers?"

At first, only two raised their hands, then two more, and finally, a total of twelve.

"All opposed?"

Only two responded.

"The ayes have it. May the Pelor's wisdom guide us. Adjourned."

~/~/~/~/~/~

Four months ago

The night of the Demonskarr Ball.

"Nice doin' business with you, Mr. G."

Gregory quickly counted the cash that the gnome had given him, the "pledge" for artifacts he had handed over, including the rectangular stele. This generous donation would help the cathedral's coffers far more than a bunch of old trinkets, and he felt relieved to have gotten rid of it. He had painstakingly copied the runes from both steles onto paper, so he felt he could do without them. Hopefully, it was just information that he could still translate.

"Tygot, could you do me a small favor?"

"If I'm able to."

"Thank you." He pushed an envelope with a wax seal over the counter, and a 20-Sovereign bill. "Wait until Monday, and they bring this letter to City Hall and place it with the incoming mail. I don't think I have to tell you that confidentiality is needed."

"Hey, hey, I'm a pawnbroker, Mr. G, privacy is what I do."

Gregory walked outside, the cool night air feeling invigorating and refreshing. After ten minutes of walking, he took a minute to breathe in deeply. Never before had he felt so alive. The stage was set, and the true reckoning was at hand. Two weeks from today, he would…

…would…

…something was wrong.

He felt a pain in the pit of his stomach. What have I done?

The true repercussions of his plan were starting to sink in. He had all but accused Zhent of taking bribes, and if he did confront the man in two weeks, he'd have to do so to his face. He had called Zhent corrupt, of being an accessory to some… conspiracy…

He had no proof at all that Zhent was part of this conspiracy. Hell, he had no proof there was a conspiracy. Zhent was a jerk, but could he really condemn - and likely execute - someone for…

…doing his job?

He looked behind him. There was still time to go back, to tell Tygot to call it off, but what then? Someone in Cauldron was up to no good, everything that was happening couldn't just be -

"Gregory?"

Havan had startled him. He had meant to leave town, but it seemed he had been so deep in thought he had taken the more familiar route from the pawn shop. He had made it nearly to the cathedral, by the time he realized it.

"You're certainly burning the midnight oil," said the acolyte, "What's wrong?"

'Oh, uh, nothing, really. Couldn't sleep, thought I'd just walk around the block a few times, you know."

The bariaur chuckled slightly. "Yes, I do. Nichole was having the same problem." She started to turn to leave. "She was acting kind of strange, asking where she could get a pastrami sandwich. I told her a glass of warm milk would be better, but…"

"Wait, what? WAIT!" He grabbed her by the arm. "What did she want?"

"A sandwich! She just wanted a sandwich!" He had grabbed at her so suddenly, she was trembling in fright.

"I'm… I'm sorry…" He let go. "Havan, listen, did she specifically say what she was looking for."

Havan gulped and said very quickly, "Pastrami on pumpernickel, with horseradish. Please, I -"

Then, he hugged her. "I'm so sorry, Havan. Go… Go inside, go to sleep, you've helped so much."

The acolyte watched him walk back into the cathedral. That was… weird, but then, it was hardly the weirdest thing he'd ever done.

~/~/~/~/~/~

Four months ago.

Right after the Demonskar Ball.

It was 3AM.

Gregory certainly recognized Nichole's "sandwich order", a code he himself had taught her. He had no idea who had given Nichole the code, but exactly when Havan had told him - it couldn't have been a coincidence. As the old axiom stated, "The gods move in mysterious ways."

Was the challenge he was making to Zhent a justified means to oust a corrupt official, done for the greater good? Or was he making a false incrimination against an innocent man?

He didn't have to call it off. He had a better solution now.

In front of him was Carnegie's Cafe. It wasn't open, of course, but he didn't intend to come here when it was. He had deposited his most recent contribution in the cathedral's donation box and grabbed anything he thought would be useful from his quarters, and then placed a menu for this shop under the door to Nichole's cell. This would ensure she came soon, and he would ensure she got what she came for. Even if she didn't know what it was.

He walked around the building to the alley in the back, and placed his hand on the wall, speaking a short phrase in a dead language that few understood. As he had expected, a square outline about a foot on each side formed on the wall, and then opened the way a panel would.

He took a wrapped package from his coat. Taped to it was a note that said, "Order for delivery, Pastrami on Pumpernickel with Horseradish. To be picked up within three days."

What it really contained was his Grimoire. He had intended to give it to Nichole eventually, and while doing so now was earlier than he had intended, he knew he might not have another chance.

He placed the package inside the opening and watched the door slide shut, again leaving no sign there had been a door at all.

It was time for him to go have a word with those three muses. He was prepared for the trip this time and had a plan. There were two options now, all depending on whether or not he had made a wise choice.

If he had, then in two weeks' time, if his accusations had been correct, he would approach his foe with far more insight and would succeed. He'd be considered a hero.

If he was wrong, he would not return, even if he was still able. They'd all consider him a fool - and whatever dark fate he was heading towards would be well-deserved.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

End of prologue.

"Legacy of the Demonskarr" proper will begin soon.