The world I will tell you of today is a vast one. Vast and ancient as the dusty, leatherbound tomes one might observe on their grandfather’s desk and never once touch. Unlike, however, those books that were probably picked up from the antique section of a quaint little mom-and-pop just off the street where his favourite pub was, in hopes that they may one day serve as handy icebreakers, I hope to intrigue you with the histories and mysteries that this world has to offer. Of course, no world, however expertly crafted by an aspiring fantasy author to amaze and inspire the literary traveller, simply offers up its histories and mysteries. One finds that one must delve, deeper and deeper through the layers of this crafted world, if one wishes to uncover its endless array of timeless temples, celestial citadels and devilish dungeons, hoping to find something worthwhile. Something that feels out of this world yet belongs perfectly in it. Something to cherish and inform others of in bursts of fervent exposition. Something… unique.

So, my dear explorer of fantastical realms, duly keeping in mind that you have only just met me, I urge you to take up my offer to together delve into this terrain of imagined chaos and wonder. I cannot promise to you that our journey will be a simple or direct one, for I will guide you through many chasms and caverns overflowing with distant lore, of dragons and giants and wizards and gods, as you would guide your tired eyes along the inky lines of that dusty old book.

As is custom, every world needs a name. Neither you nor I have ever come across one that lacked a handy label. A name is good for many things. Chiefly, a name serves as a reference to a thing that is important to a shared understanding, a collective consciousness, a culture. And what is more important to a culture than the very sky and soil that it is born between? Every culture needs a name for its world. With that said, a small problem emerges for us. The many cultures of this world have experienced trouble arriving at a common definition for the same world that they all happen to share. The elves have called this world Atruni, believing it to be a rather more accurate description than the ones who came before them had. They were the colossi of epics and nightmares; giants who walked the surface with rumbling steps and stopped only for conversation. Not surprising in the least given how lonely a giant can get. They were all of them solitary inheritors of a yet older kind, one that the sane of mind would prefer never referring to in any manner. The names they have given to this world and its many contents have been lost to time. All the better for us.

For all of times, elders and newcomers alike have placed their faith in the idea that they have found the perfect name for the world. However, I believe if you asked the world itself, it would have a radically different idea… or more likely none at all.

After the elves had found comfort in the feeling that they had organised their realm and its affairs to an adequate degree, they also found that nature can never be trusted to maintain the status quo. Not long before the great dissolving of the once massive elven empires and federations, a younger, bolder, and oftentimes stupider kind emerged under the sky. They called themselves, in many different tongues, with many different meanings all leading to the same conclusion; ‘human’. Now, my curious companion, I do not believe there is much necessity in me explaining to you what a ‘human’ is. We share in all clarity the same idea of human. What it means to be human, what a human does, how a human treats another human… These are all topics that have been covered in much greater and much longer works to the point that a human can spend the entirety of its limited time as a human to study and understand what a human is. However, I kindly request a tiny portion of your time and patience as I offer a brief summary of all these qualities of the human. After all, who can truly know who might end up reading these words? How could we know whether or not the reader shares the same understanding and knowledge regarding the human?

Humans can often be distinguished by their limited lifespan, their seemingly unlimited and untethered imagination and above all else, a desire to find in all things qualities and resemblances referring back to the human. They use many words for many things and their vocabulary is filled extensively with things they have never seen, touched, heard, smelled or tasted, yet still felt the need to describe. A human can speak about ‘love’ and ‘friendship’ in the same breath where he speaks of ‘fire’ and ‘warmth’, oftentimes able to use one to refer to the other. They even have a word for when a word is used instead of another word. It’s called a ‘metaphor’. What is a ‘metaphor’? It’s ‘clever’! Wild, is it not?

Within a relatively short span of time, humans have progressed from hunting and gathering in close-knit communities of familial bond, to creating, ruling and toppling colossal empires, republics, kingdoms, sultanates and many more principalities with differing names and mechanisms; though all sharing the same fundamental need: A collection of humans, as it is seen, must first organise the dynamics of power before it can achieve peace. And to a human, ‘peace’ is one word with countless meanings.

Many have had wildly differing ideas about how to achieve this state of ‘peace’. Many disagreeing with one another. Yet some, in large parts, were able to arrive at a compromise, a consensus, between great numbers of humans. A few of those, held almost unshakable faith that they knew the way of achieving total, final, generational peace… and close to believing that they had almost got there. Remember when I told you about those timeless temples and devilish dungeons? Fathomless dwellings of elder lore snuck deep beneath the earth’s crust, away from sunlight and prying eyes… There weren’t many who could claim a place among those constructions. One who could, a single assembly of busy minds sharing the same goal, was called the Chronicon Cabal, which holds partial interest in our story today.

Too widely known, and still with too many members to be accurately called a cabal, the Chronicon had nevertheless kept loyal to its traditions and roots, as reflected in the name. Roots reaching deep below ground and to far history… At exactly the point I choose to begin our story, they had been operational for no less than eight thousand three hundred and ninety-two years. Roughly three hundred and thirty-five generations of humans. That is a long time for even the eldest of elven elders and quite a challenge for the average human to conceptualise. Thousands of wars, famines, plagues and revolutions have swept the surface during that time. New religions had been born, along with new gods, with some dying or forgotten. There were even times when the nature of magic and the supernatural had been irrevocably altered. Cities fell out of the sky to feed the soil. Magical portals to new dimensions gaped and swallowed unfortunate masses into the domains of demons and horrors unknown. All during that time, the Chronicon, the Keepers of Time, had predicted, prepared for and planned around these calamities, never once leaving room for surprise or margin for error. They, those capable few, had earned the right to call themselves, ‘Architects of History’, for they alone knew all too well what to expect.

Naturally, our story begins at the exact moment the members of the Chronicon Cabal, found themselves suddenly face-to-face with an unmistakably impromptu incident. Truly for once, they, the immaculate predictors, the subduers of chaos and masters of chance, those who always knew what to expect, faced the unexpected.

For the few moments leading up to that instance, we shall pay attention to one Shaumzatvar XVIII, who is a man, a great man as some say, deeply involved in the Chronicon’s operations, being that he is the cabal’s Supreme Divine Patriarch. His Transcendence (that is his style of office, for those of you who have never met the head of a religion before) has spent his countless years serving as the Chronicon’s guide and administrator for all matters spiritual. Lately, he has tasked His Transcendence with the conducting of sermons aimed at the upper-class members of the general public. These faithful citizens were largely comprised of successful merchants, lesser nobles and gentlemen, bankers, well-to-do tradesmen or tactful hoarders of generational wealth, along with their families. They had mostly found out about the secretive cabal through referrals, personalised invites or public flyers (those being handbills, not actual flying individuals). The Chronicon also had other efforts to publicise their sermons and similar events, such as masked balls, effigy burning nights, extra-judicial witch hunts or executions, town-square mass flagellations, walks of shame, charity runs, gladiator fights… Ah, and we shouldn’t forget finger painting, folklore and reading days as parts of the children’s matinee. As I recall, many young kids were screaming in excitement upon hearing the story of St. Bremer the Sullied, who survived dismemberment at the hands of twelve, foot-long beetles who gnawed at his flesh from dusk till dawn. That was a fun read! Those folks down in Public Relations really know how to rouse the rabble.

Alas, let’s not get too carried away in verisimilitude. If you don’t know what that word means, don’t worry.

One such sermon was being held by the Supreme Divine Patriarch Shaumzatvar XVIII, on a warm mid-week afternoon, deep underground (with adequate ventilation, of course), with His Transcendence talking about the virtues and sensibilities men must hold, between his long pauses where he thought of what to say. For the last hour or two, he had spoken about the need for distinguished citizens (such as the ones he could almost see beneath his lectern) to act as examples to those less fortunate. One crucial aspect of fulfilling that need was coming to terms with how much they dislike the lower classes. That disdain had to be turned upside down, transformed into acceptance… Sympathy… And even… Love. The paternalistic love of a master, of course. They must needs remind themselves, daily if they can, that to err is common. To correct… that is gentle.

With all that said, I also feel it’s somewhat relevant to inform my dear reader that Shaumzatvar XVIII owned a personal harem that, with all its contents (animate and inanimate) combined, was worth more than the very city that the attendees hailed from. The harem, which had floors of solid gold and pillows stuffed with feathers from extinct birds, only made up one sixth of his entire wealth.

At the end of another long pause, where His Transcendence was just about to begin yet another lecture (this time about the nature of philanthropy), a new guest arrived. Well, perhaps not so much arrived… but appeared. On the front row, there was a higher, throne-like seat left empty to commemorate the revered St. Dulcer who could not attend the sermon due to being permanently stuck between the border realm of the astral and ethereal plane. The seat had been empty for quite a long time. Exactly two hundred and seventy four years’ worth of dust was gathered on it, up until the moment that someone… appeared on it.

That someone was Zez.

Now, for all my omniscient knowledge, I must regretfully inform you, my dear companion, that I do not know who Zez is. I am not even particularly sure about what he is. And I could almost certainly never tell you how he came to be, in that exact moment, in that exact spot. Alas, you have no cause to worry, for neither could anyone else in this story. Well, perhaps Zez himself had some ideas, though I myself am not privy to those. I suppose we shall read on and learn. Hopefully, lest it drastically derails the story I have crafted for you.

From what I and Shaumzatvar XVIII could tell, at first glance mind you, Zez was a peculiar character. As His Transcendence looked on in sublime shock upon this newcomer, he noticed how… short he was. Quite short, truly… almost childlike in stature. Yet, his slim neck supported a large head, with a face that was veiled behind a thick, short, pale yellowy beard. His features showed age, wrinkles and sharp, angular facial bones. His grey-green eyes revealed a hint of intellect, true, but he seemed… quite misplaced. His mind, from what we could read from his face, seemed to be rather… empty. Not dull… empty. It almost seemed like he was in a state of mind accordant with the unusual circumstances he was surrounded by. The misplaced mind of a misplaced individual, one might say. If one is inclined to wax poetic.

Now, Shaumzatvar XVIII, being that he was the Supreme Divine Patriarch for so long, and never experienced such an out-of-place moment for even longer than that, did not know how to approach the situation. Should he address the short man in the nave, who was dressed like a farm-boy out of a folk tale, with even a feather on his cap? Should he… call the guards? Was that man dangerous? Was he an illusion? What—why was that happening?

Such questions, when assaulting a deeply established mind (one which held no space for any whimsy) can prove quite tiring. Even dangerous, to some extent. So, the mind of His Transcendence, being the robust, calculating machine of pure logic and sense, simply chose to ignore the situation. The sermon went on for another hour or half, after which the attendees (who in large parts did not even notice the short man on the throne, with some even thinking that he was just part of the event) conducted a short prayer, followed by hefty donations, and promptly left. Now, His Transcendence was left alone with his thoughts… and Zez.

Now might also be a good time to stress the fact that, this had definitely never been happened before. I am not even talking particularly about the appearance of Zez… Just the fact that, a high-ranking member of the Chronicon was experiencing something that had not been considered before. This was new. This was… unexpected.

That being the case, Shaumzatvar XVIII finally had no choice but to address directly the man that came to be. Not even the trappings of his busy mind could keep him from doing just that.

He travelled down the thirteen steps of the chancel, stepping on the sanctuary floor, and walked towards the throne of St. Dulcer. Only after a few paces remained between him and the short man, that the other made eye contact. Before that, he seemed to be quite curiously examining the entirety of the nave, its tapestries, embellishments, artifacts and painted walls. Now that he and Shaumzatvar XVIII had both recognised each other, there was no option left but to interact.

His Transcendence instantly found himself unable to formulate a sentence. Within all his memory, there was not a single instance where he had to greet someone he didn’t know. He had never spoken to a stranger before.

While he was busy thinking of the proper salutation, Zez himself simply raised his hand and… waved.

A flash of anger swept across His Transcendence’s face. Blood rushed to his sagging grey cheeks and his pupils grew. He pried his lips once but instead of words, air rushed out. Now that, was definitely new.

“Who are you?” Shaumzatvar XVIII asked in fury.

“I am Zez,” answered Zez.

“What—Why… Who are you?”

Zez, stumped, looked around a bit, then shrugged. “I am Zez,” said he. Then, perhaps after realising the impropriety of his demeanour, followed up with a question. “Who are you?”

“I—” His Transcendence swallowed his words. Then he remembered quickly that he knew very well the answer to that question. Clearing his throat, he began. “I am the Supreme Divine Patriarch of the Chronicon Cabal, Shaumzatvar, eighteenth of my name! I am the one and only head of my faith, and the faith of all those in the world who matter, who possess the capacity and power of will to shape the world and its fate! We, the Keepers of Time, are the true masters of this realm and all realms beyond it! I, Shaumzatvar XVIII, am an Architect of History! I am the Sole Champion of True Virtue and the Shadow of the Absolute Truth on the universe! I—”

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

He had to take a little breath of air after all that.

“I, the will and desire of the divine authority, command you this instant to reveal your nature! If you do not heed my word, I will rain down upon you with the fury and pain of all yesterdays! Hellfire will feel shame next to the torment I will inflict upon you! Now, speak!”

The words echoed between the stone walls of the underground sanctuary. Zez was looking rather patient whilst waiting for His Transcendence to say his piece. After he was confident that the man was finished, he began. He spoke quickly, in great length and detail about who he was, his life beginning from the early stages of childhood to one and a half century later, never skipping a single detail about any point of existence, and not leaving any room for follow up questions or reactions. At the end of this approximately two-and-a-half hour long monologue, His Transcendence was beginning to regret his question.

Still, he was a good listener and did not think to relieve himself of this tedious interaction. For he had learned that the man before him, who was called Zez along with many titles and monikers, was a great wizard of his age. His knowledge and skills concerning the arcane was vast and refined as much as the wizards of the Chronicon, if not surpassing them in many ways. Also, the things His Transcendence (who was a distinguished scholar of magic as well) heard was brazenly strange. He did not know of the spells and incantations that Zez spoke casually of and certainly had no prior knowledge of their extensive applications. This man, who did not simply appear but certainly arrived, at his doorstep was a diamond! Well, Shaumzatvar XVIII did not actually think ‘diamond’ in that instance… He thought of something far, far more valuable as a metaphor, but let’s be honest, neither you nor I know what that thing would be.

After the incessant barrage of information, anecdote, quip, exposition and emotional expression, Zez finally paused. His Transcendence, realised at that instant that he remained standing before St. Dulcer’s throne as Zez was sitting quite comfortably on it. We can be certain that that definitely, deeply annoyed His Transcendence, but was of secondary importance. Even as exhausted as he was, Shaumzatvar XVIII found himself eagerly awaiting the next words out of this Zez’s mouth. Blinking a few times, the wizard of diminutive stature, finally parted his lips.

“I’m feeling quite hungry.”

His Transcendence was at a loss for words.

“Care for a bite?” Zez continued.

So it was that our little Zez and the Supreme Divine Patriarch of the Chronicon Cabal sat down for a late night dinner at one of His Transcendence’s massive private dining halls. Sat on the opposite ends of an extravagantly long high table filled with every delight, solid and liquid, the two men could barely see each other’s faces. However, hearing one another was quite easy, for the hall was ellipse-shaped, which meant that any sound would bounce off the walls in such an angle that it would be heard from any point in the room. Don’t worry, that is the only physics lesson I will give you. I think.

Zez, faced with such abundance and variety and texture and colour and sensation, looked on, pondering… “Will all this be enough for the both of us?”

Such non-elegance, such bizarre appetite, such an outlandish candour! Shaumzatvar XVIII could not help but be incredibly astonished and exasperated.

A small relief was felt by His Transcendence when he found that Zez stopped talking whilst he was eating. Was that due to his impeccable grasp of table manners, or his gourmand gluttony, we cannot know. What we can deduce, however, is that Zez enjoyed every bite and gulp. Good for him.

After the food was over, Zez let out a great big belch. Slapping his belly full of untold delectations, he showed his satisfaction. Now, apparently, came the time for light musings and idle conversations. Following that, Zez would like to ask a few questions, given that he had only just arrived in this new world and did not yet know even the colour of the sky. However, His Transcendence had rather more pressing matters on his mind. He wanted to know… yes, truly know, what the existence of Zez meant. Chiefly, what it meant for the fate of the Chronicon Cabal and how they could best use him. Yes… Utilise this anomaly to further their ends. This new player in the game, this untapped source of unimaginable power… He would serve their designs. He would be of use.

From what I have gathered so far, Zez had other plans.

The short wizard leapt down from his dining chair and stacks of pillows and his feet met the ground. Taking a few moments to find his balance, he gratuitously stretched his legs and arms. Keeping his host in mind, he turned and proclaimed thus:

“I think I’d enjoy a stroll.”

A stroll!

At some point, as His Transcendence knew beyond doubt, enough was enough. Only, he was a tad unsure about when it was enough.

Something within him urged His Transcendence to rise to his feet, to declare proudly and authoritatively to Zez, that he will cease at once his nonchalance and stand firmly to deliver the rest of his report. Unfortunately, the Supreme Divine Patriarch also felt quite sleepy. Perhaps now was not the best time for dealing with this happy-go-lucky nuisance. Yes, sleep would be the kinder route of the fork.

However…

Zez looked on, arms dangling by his sides, eyes filled with nothing but slight amusement, looking even, one might say, innocent. It would not be right to just leave him by himself, wandering around the compound, getting in all sorts of trouble, annoying the residents and causing alarm. It would be best to… find someone else to deal with him for the night.

The Department of Humanoid Resources was based on the lower levels of the Chronicon Cabal compound. One might choose to take the elevator there as a direct route or travel through one of the seven specially crafted labyrinths to reach a portal opening directly to the antechamber. On the orders of the Supreme Divine Patriarch of the Chronicon Cabal, Zez was referred to the Chief Humanoid Resources Officer, for examination and interview. Our unfortunate Zez was thus promptly tied to an X-shaped crucifix by the Chief Humanoid Resources Officer, who conducted his conventional necromantic procedures to tap the life-source of this enigmatic visitor.

Makras the Practician, current holder of the Chief Humanoid Resources Officer title, was himself an interesting figure. He could be called old, yet not elderly, due to his undead nature but he possessed the vigour and desire of a brilliant young man who had big ideas to prove and a chip on his shoulder. Working day and night (mostly night), to access the very essence of life held within the living, he could, so far, only decipher the mechanics of animation. So, he could not bring back the dead, but he could move them forward, make them dance, jump and sometimes even swing a sword. The practical applications of such a skillset certainly did not escape him, however he was prone to seeing himself as more a theoretician. Therefore, he would ask for funding after funding to access the resources that allowed him to further experiment upon and hopefully one day reveal the nature of life. The resources in question being humanoids.

Our veteran friend Makras was speaking in a guttural, insidious voice to his captive Zez, who was getting rather bored. Picking up curious metal instruments (that might be intended for torture or surgery, your guess is as good as mine) and grinning slyly, with his yellowish green skin shining against the candlelight, he addressed Zez once more.

“Now, now… Don’t you worry my little friend. This will only hurt a little.”

Following that line, a sinister chuckle issued forth under his breath, barely audible. Zez did not seem too impressed if you ask me. His eyes kept darting around the room as he chewed on his moustache. Makras’s gaze was fixed directly on the wizard and as he soon saw how unbothered Zez seemed, he was a little irritated. It was almost as if the captive took his villainous speech too literally.

“What do you do here?” Zez asked out of nowhere.

“What?” was Makras’s retort.

“Here,” clarified Zez.

“I—” Huh. Makras paused. Why was the—What?

“I mean,” Zez began, “you seem to have so many apparatuses and devices that look so odd. Half of these would kill me! The other half would kill the user! What’re you even trying to do here?”

After a brief array of uncertain mumblings, Makras the Practician regained his composure and answered in a deeper, more menacing tone.

“My methods are beyond your comprehension, mortal. You, you weakling dependent on your flesh and blood to persist, cannot ever conceive of the power I wield. I alone hold the power of death, as I have mastered my own. Worry not, for before long you will learn first-hand the horrors I am able to conjure, as I lead you through twilit lands where no beating heart is heard. There, I will disclose to you the very materiality of, and the worthlessness of natural life. Your very soul will tremble as I--”

“I’m terribly sorry, I don’t often enjoy interrupting, but I must speak! I think I figured out what you’re trying to do!”

“Silence, fool!”

“No, no! Lend me your ear a moment, I think I have some ideas that might benefit you.”

“Wha—”

“See, a friend of mine, who was also a necromancer, which, true, I am making an educated guess that you are one, but I don’t think you will prove me wrong, also had ideas concerning your field of work and I must tell you that he spent considerable time and effort in experimenting with…”

And so Zez began talking about the intricacies of post-mortem bi-pedal reanimation, assisted ephemeral cellular decay, long-term sentience development in reanimated humanoids, habitual residue found in undead behavioural patterns, the potential use of classical conditioning in humanoid undead and finally extra-planar communication with local phantasmic apparitions through the use of achieving a semi-conscious state of multi-planar awareness (colloquially known as trance, I should add). After that lengthy exposition, which lasted an entire seventy-four minutes, Zez also hopped on a tangent and spent another half an hour talking about the times he spent on his friend’s laboratory accompanied by a gregarious opossum familiar.

Suffices to say, Makras the Practician, wished in all earnest that he could come back to life to die once more.

As dawn broke, the Chief Humanoid Resources Officer, who had not spent a single second in silence, decided it best to refer our little know-it-all to the Department of Security. Now, I understand that by now you might be just a little exhausted from all these slogging bureaucratic procedures and referrals and all these different departments, but I assure you, my dear companion, I do not believe it will take too long before someone finally manages to silence Zez. After that, we can continue on with our story, have a big adventure, maybe some twists near the end, save the day, get back to our homes and call it an adventuring day! Until then, let’s see what Zez will face next. Patience, my fellow.

Caius Sablehart was the Director of Security in the Chronicon Cabal. He was a figure of understated presence; in his mid-thirties, with black hair trimmed short and face shaven clean and somewhat broad shoulders stooping down. He looked on with tired eyes as his bulky hands were busy shifting through an endless array of daily documentation in an accustomed routine, almost reflexively. He did not blatantly enjoy taking unnecessary breaks from his work, but he did not often protest to the requests of his colleagues to ‘take a short breather’ as they approached with two hands holding cups of coffee. During those breaks he was not one to initiate conversation. He rather preferred to reply and comment on his colleagues’ varied attempts at banter. He was often seen as somewhat bland. Others preferred ‘reserved’. I myself might say, on a bit of an unrelated note, that the Director could subtly slide into the heart of an emotionally immature woman in her early twenties, owing to his rugged looks and aloof demeanour. He did have a certain kind of charm. Emotionally distant, unwilling to openly communicate and weighed down by past-scars and present responsibilities that he simply refuses to open up about. He was also recently divorced, the mark of his wedding ring still visible on his ring finger.

Needless to say, he would probably not be quite fond of our Zez.

As two Guardsmen brought Zez up to the upper levels, to the Department of Security’s main section, they also had to contend with questions, audible observations, sudden thoughts, witty remarks and copious amounts of side-tangents relating to anything from the gestation period of wyrms to the types of rocks found in some parts of the afterlife. It seemed to some, including myself, that Zez was having the time of his life. Just a blast! As expected, the two overworked and underpaid Guardsmen did not, or could not, share the same notion. Fortunately for them, and for my reader, I have decided to pick up the story from when they finally reached the entrance room of the Department of Security.

Zez was processed, filled-in and placed on a close-proximity probation. He was sat down next to the water fountain of the waiting room, with a receptionist eyeing him every other second. That was it. He had nowhere to run. The Chronicon Cabal had finally contained this tiny menace. Hopefully.

When word reached to Director Sablehart of this enigmatic anomaly of a visitor, he decided, after much consideration, to maybe walk downstairs and have a chat with him. Just a good, simple, everyday chat. They would just talk, no problem.

Oh.

A passage of long hours followed from the moment of Director Sablehart meeting Zez. As soon as our weary veteran opened his mouth to formulate the nigh disastrous sentence: “Now, I want to hear what you have to say.”

From that point on, as we have been made aggressively accustomed to, Zez would not stop talking. About anything, everything and almost nothing at times. However, given that this act consummates the narrative technique of the rule of three, it should thereby also consummate its narrative function. This time, things were different. Director Sablehart proved to be a good listener. By that, I don’t mean a good listener such as in the case of Shaumzatvar XVIII, who cherrypicked with surgical precision the parts of Zez’s monologue that mattered to him. No, I mean that our unassuming hero, Cauis Sablehart, actually listened to Zez. He even responded. Every single time to every single remark. I’m… I’m at a loss for words.

They seemed to be getting along rather well. The Director’s quiet and calm nature and Zez’s outwardly communicative (one might almost call it hostile) attitude fit in perfectly. They talked for hours upon hours about every single topic Zez’s restless brain could conjure up. The Director might not even have been aware of how long they remained sitting. It was… Astonishing.

However, in a sudden and dramatic turn of events, just as we were approaching the end of our chapter (which is a good time for setups and cliffhangers) Zez and Director Sablehart was approached by yet another new character introduction. This was Gideon Grimvale, the leading member of the Department of Spelunking and Adventuring and the Master of Campaigns. A blithe, cynical, sly individual who used any newcomers in the adventuring world to further his accumulation of unregistered wealth (called ‘loot’ in adventuring jargon) by exploiting their wanderlust and desperation. He is a character that we will definitely learn more of in the next chapter.

Presently, Master Grimvalor, addressed Zez directly, after entering unannounced to the waiting room, much to the muted surprise of Director Sablehart.

“Zez, was it?” Grimvalor asked.

“Just the man,” Zez replied.

A slim smile stretched across Master Grimvalor’s jackal-like face. “Good,” he said with devilish enjoyment. “We might have a job for you.”

And so, we all learned that this was only the beginning.