User:Lhynard/Projects/In Absentia Lucis/Recaps/Chapter 2

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"Who be ya comin' out o' Master Dar'nts' case? I've not seen ya 'fore. Ya be outsiders? Master Dar'nts' be gettin' a fiend-horde o' visitors today. But I ain't mark ya goin' in, only comin' out."

Both of the strangers looked at each other. They each had only understood about half of what the boy said. Neither had ever heard such an accent or slang in all of their travels.

Khamael turned to him. "Did you recognize the other visitors?"

"Tall basher, long robe, long hair, no beard, big walkin' stick. I asked 'im for a coin, and 'e told me to pike it."

There was another awkward pause. "I'll be back," said Khamael. With that, he unfurled his wings and sprung into the air, leaving Throthar behind confused. The boy did not seem terribly phased by this sudden action, as if he had seen such things before. He chewed on a piece of straw or wood in his mouth.

Khamael flew straight up. His wings lifted him about one story with each powerful stroke of his feathered wings. Eventually he cleared the fog, and immediately, he felt the odd sensation that he was flying straight down. This confused him greatly, for he certainly had not flipped around to make a dive. Then he recognized that gravity was indeed still pulling down on him toward the direction of his feet. No, the cityscape that he saw "below" him was actually above him, some three-quarters to one mile away.

Looking to the side, the scene was even stranger. The city was curving from below the fog cover up and over him. On the other side, their was a great open chasm. As he was able to take in the whole scenario, it became clear to him that he was on the inside of a giant torus, open along the inside circle. This city was built upon the inside surface of this torus. The whole city was lit by the dimming light of late afternoon or early evening, though there was no sign of any sun. The strip of the torus that was open toward the center of the ring allowed in air from "outside" the torus, whatever that was. Somehow, gravity here held one to the inner surface.

It suddenly stuck Khamael that he was not even on the same world as Faerûn.

And it also struck him how foolish he had been to not recognize it earlier. The receipt that he had found along with the strange, large needle had given an address for the late Aldym Darants, and that address was in the city of Sigil.

Because of his mother's race, Khamael was more knowledgeable than many regarding the nature of the planes of existence. He had of course heard of a torus-shaped city called Sigil before. It was supposedly a city at the very center of the multiverse, if that were even possible. At least this was what the rumors said, though many people did not believe that the city even existed. Clearly, those doubters were wrong.

Khamael turned and dove back toward the low fog, arriving back to his feet in half the time it took him to ascend.

The elf and the street urchin looked at him in his crouched landing position and waited for him to speak. He stood up, furling his wings, and spoke. "The name failed to leap to my memory when I first read the receipt. We are on Sigil."

"Are ya all rubes?" said the boy. "'Course this be the Cage. Ya best find ya selves a tout, or ya'll get nicked or peeled."

Once again, Khamael and Throthar exchanged confused glances.

"Where be Master Dar'nts any'ow?" continued the lad. At least this was comprehensible.

"He rests in his bedroom," said Khamael, not technically lying.

"That canny graybeard always be givin' me jink so I can call kip. 'E be a good blood. Prob'ly be a garnish so I ain't peel him over, but I ain't charge the music or anythin'. I ain't that kind o' sod. I ain't do no cross-trade or nothin'."

Throthar considered trying to sneak a spell off to comprehend languages, but then he realized that such magic would not be able to translate slang and lingo. "We will need someplace to sleep so that we do not get robbed or killed," he said.

"Is there a nearby inn?" asked Khamael. "…assuming that they will accept coin from Silverymoon," he added as an aside to his companion.

"I ain't set foot in no real kip 'fore," the boy replied, "but I lann ya, if ya be lookin' get ya selves some bub, chant says the Beehive down yonder 'as some good mead. Best in the 'ole Cage, says the chant."

"In which direction?"

"Only one way to go. Alley ain't go nowhere that way. It's a blind." He pointed to their right.

Khamael open his belt pouch and tossed the kid a silver. "Thank you for the helpful information."

A big smile formed on the lad's face. "Stay peery, cutters!" he shouted as a final farewell, and he scurried off into the fog in the opposite direction from which he had pointed them.

"Farewell," said Khamael.

In the fog, it was hard to see very far, but each house on the alley looked like it had its own architectural style. It was a hodgepodge of designs. Some were stone, some were wood, some were metal, but all looked dirty and falling apart.

The alley seemed to open into a circle, with further alleys coming off in spokes. At the center was a stone and wood building that looked like it didn't have a single wall built at right angle to another. Torch light flickered in the smudged and dirty windows. Swinging from a rod over a crooked door was a wooden sign in the shape of a beehive.

Inside, the pub was toasty warm from a wood stove at the center. One could smell the honey in the air. Rarely had either of them seen such a wide diversity of patrons in a bar before. Spread around the room, they spotted a man with ram horns; a metallic-looking dwarf with hair literally on fire; a table with about twenty fairies flittering over a single beverage with a wooden straw for each; a tall, blue humanoid with extra long fingers and face, who barely fit in its seat and had to crouch over to not bump its head; a humanoid automaton that looked like a clockwork machine; a couple of anthropomorphic animals snuggling on a single bench; a trio of orcs; and a table with an elf and three humans. Sitting at the counter were a few more human men hunched over their drinks and a halfling woman. Fittingly, the bar was "a-buzz" with conversation.

This was perhaps the first time in Khamael's life that he did not feel out-of-place. Behind a bar counter, a bar wench nodded at them to acknowledge their presence, while drying out a mug at a sink. No one else gave them any attention.

Not a fan of crowds, the elven scholar Throthar stood awkwardly in the doorway, but Khamael stepped further in, moving toward an open spot at the bar to get a drink. Remembering the street urchin's recommendation, he figured that he would order a glass of mead, but one of the other patrons stopped him as he was about to sit at an empty stool.

"'Ey! That be another basher's seat. 'E be in the privy."

There was indeed a large walking stick resting there and a nearly finished glass.

Khamael apologized, stepped over a bit, and ordered the drink from the bartendress. The woman did not seem care that his coins were from Silverymoon and not from Sigil. She poured the glass and set it before him. It was indeed a delightful batch of honey wine.

Shortly thereafter, a tall man exited from a tiny door in the wall in the back. He had a mane of long, thick black hair but was cleanshaven. He wore a long, brown robe underneath a thick, patched traveling cloak. He moved to his glass and finished the beverage. Then he set a small pile of silver coins on the counter. The barwench's eyes widened at the apparently large sum.

It dawned on Khamael that this was likely the tall visitor to "Master Darants" that the boy had mentioned.

The man picked up his walking staff and turned to leave. Khamael took a quick glance at the coins, but beyond being silver, he could not tell anything about where they had come.

Khamael rapidly finished his glass of mead and set it empty on the counter. He followed behind the man and stopped him at the door near where Throthar was waiting. "Pardon me, may we have a word with you for a moment?"

"Step outside with me, if you wish to talk."

When they stepped outside, they found that the fog had cleared. It seemed to be night now, but there were no stars or moon. Throthar gasped at what the sky did reveal. Looking up, he saw the rest of the city, about a mile away with its twinkling torchlights, curved above them and out to the sides.

The man with the staff took a torch and lit it from one hanging at the door to the pub. "What do you have to ask or say? I do not have much time."

"I am sorry to take your time, but we are not from this realm. By some magic, we found ourselves in Aldym Darants house. A street boy outside the house mentioned that Darants had had other visitors. I believe that you may know who this Darants is."

"I am sorry for your predicament, but I am not at liberty to speak about my clients." He looked Throthar over. "You must be from Toril. You are a sun elf, correct?"

"Indeed."

Khamael looked over the man closely as well, trying to see if he bore any marking like that upon the magic needle. He could see no such markings.

"Sun elves rarely travel far from their home forests," the man continued.

"The trip was somewhat unexpected," Throthar replied. Then he asked, "What is it exactly that you do?"

"I deliver items for my company. That is a simple way of looking at it."

"Am I correct to suppose that you work for the Interlink Consortium?" asked Khamael.

"I do. Do you know of the Consortium?"

"Only recently," said Khamael. "Indeed, we were pulled from our plane to this city this very day, where we had a brief encounter with your client. I am curious if you might be able to assist us in returning to our plane, as I suspect it was one of the Consortium's items that is responsible for our presence here. At the least, can you explain to us how it was that we were pulled here?"

The man looked like he was thinking carefully for the proper response. "This is most unfortunate. However, neither I nor my company take any responsibility for how our magical products are used."

The two strangers did not look happy at his response, but he added, "However, I understand that you are in quite the predicament. You are welcome to come with me to Automata. The key I have takes me there. Otherwise, you will be stuck in Sigil for an unfortunate amount of time trying to acquire a key to somewhere useful. The locals call this place the Cage for a reason. However, once on the Outlands, you will have to find your own way back to Toril. My recall stone only works for one."

"This proposal seems reasonable to me," said Khamael. He looked at Throthar for agreement.

"I would agree. We should get out of the Cage."

"We are heading there." The man pointed up at an angle, to a spot about two-thirds around the inner ring of the torus from where they now stood. "It is about a mile and three-quarters."

So, the three began walking along the cobblestone of Sigil.

"For what it is worth," said their new guide, "Automata is one of the gate-towns or portal towns at the perimeter of the explorable Outlands. There are sixteen of them, one for each of the major Outer Planes. Of course, Toril is not in any of these Outer Planes; it is in the Material realm, but pick one that is to your liking, and you might have friends—or someone friendly enough—to take you home perhaps."

They continued walking in silence. After heading down one of the other alleys from the bar, they connected to a larger street, and the city took on a nicer feel. The residential area that they were leaving must have been a side pocket of sorts. Now, the buildings were much better maintained. Armed guards of various humanoid races were patrolling the streets, but there were not that many other citizens about after dark. Every once in a while, a taxi passed. This was essentially a large passenger seat carried on the back of two ogres or other giant creatures. Young boys occasionally were seen waving wands at tall poles, which caused the poles to glow like street lamps.

"Pardon my manners, but we never introduced ourselves. My name is...."

"You may call me 'Walker'. I am not in the habit of giving my real name to strangers."

Khamael paused. "You may call me the Angel of Silverymoon."

"Fair enough," said Walker.

"You are clearly well-traveled," said Khamael. "What can you tell us about this city?"

"Sigil is known as the City of Doors for a reason. The so-called Lady of Pain, an entity of god-like power, if not a god her- or itself, has full power over this city. It is said to have portals to every plane of existence in the multiverse. However, all of the portals bar the gods, and all of the portals otherwise require a key, only one of which I have.

"The city has no gates outside. A gate would not do much good; if the locals are to be believed, we are floating at the top of the infinite spire at the center of the Outlands. Of course, that is ludicrous. If a spire were infinitely tall, nothing could be hovering above it.

"Nevertheless, the Outlands are essentially the center of the multiverse. It is the plane where all of the other known Outer Planes meet and overlap. It is sometimes seen as a neutral meeting ground for the powers.

"Again, I am no expert in magics, but I have a wide knowledge of the planes of existence. It does not take my level of planar travel to know, however, the chant that no one, not even the gods, can enter or exit Sigil except by means of one of its 'doors'. So, how you two blokes are here, I have no idea. It is not supposed to be possible."

"Is anything of note occurring in this city of late?" asked Throthar.

Walker shrugged. "I arrived this morning, made my sale, and am heading back now. I am on my way back to Toril myself."

"Is today the 13 of Tarsakh?" asked Throthar.

Walker confirmed this. "That is the current date on your world of Toril, yes. I am actually from the Rock of Bral, not from Toril, but the Rock follows the same dating scheme of Toril, since it does so much trade with that world.

"You say that you have a key to one of the portals," said Khamael. "How does one obtain a key to the Cage?"

"That is a question that everyone asks. I was provided one by the Consortium. Gods know where they obtained that one. People sell them, steal them, trade them on Sigil all the time. Gate keys are almost a form of currency here. All the merchants here have them. All the buildings around you—where do you think they got the material for constructing them if not from somewhere else outside the city? There are no trees here; there is no farmland, no quarries. There is a whole commerce around controlling who has the keys."

Khamael asked, "So, should we need to return to Sigil, we could seek travel with a merchant?"

"If they are favorable to escorting you, that would be feasible, yes."

"The boy outside your former client's home mentioned other visitors," said Khamael. "Were you the only vendor when he made his purchase?"

"That I know of," said Walker. "We do not question our customers. We hand over the product, take the money…."

"I understand. I am just trying to figure out as much as I can about how we got here."

"I am on a fixed schedule. You caught me as I was on my way out. Tymora must be favoring you. Taking you as far as Automata is as much as I can help you. I must return to Toril, a world on the Material Plane. I have a package to deliver to a jungle there, and I must meet one of our operatives to pick it up."

Now they were approaching a large building of some obvious importance, a soaring, graceful structure with many tall spires.

"That is the Hall of the Speakers," said Walker. "It is the closest they have to a government building here in Sigil. The various fifteen factions at play in this city meet here to debate matters. That is about the extent of my knowledge of Sigil politics, but it is a nice building."

Walker led them around the massive complex of the Hall and to an easy-to-miss back street. At a swinging sign advertising "Grundlethum's Automatic Scribe" Walker stops. "The portal is back here." He guided them down a narrow walkway between the scribe's shop and its neighbor building. Large rats scurried. Wooden steps led down into a lower square, surrounded on all sides by the basement walls of the buildings above. It was the perfect place for an ambush, but Walker did not seemed concerned. He walked to one of the doors to a basement and opened it, pushing it open without stepping in. By the light of Walker's torch, they stared into a dark space full of tools and gardening implements.

He leaned his staff against the wall and removed a golden gear from one of his pockets. "The key. You will have only about six seconds to follow after me." He put the golden cog back into his pocket, picked up his staff, and stepped into the basement.

…Except that the basement was suddenly no longer a basement. With a flash of golden light, the view into the storage space was replaced by a grove of trees, yet ghostly, as if perceived through a dark window. Walker stood there on the ground.

Heeding Walker's warning, the two immediately followed after him, leaving the city of Sigil behind.

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