The Wisdom of Youth (Play Included)

Voice resonating with choral harmonics, you say, "Quite so. I much to learn before I can be
considered a worthy member of Her Order, I feel. Thank you for joining me, Slakened. Will Sir Romaan
be about this month, do you know?"

An enigmatic expression veils Falaine's features to neutrality. "He may be. Are you seeking him?"
she inquires in a polite, neutral voice. "And as for your worthiness, well.. You've shone for your
Lady far more than any others I have seen. I suspect that it is your own standards holding you back,
not Hers."

The broad, curving lines of Avaris's sanguine antennae bend forward, twisting up at
the tips in a quiet frown. "Perhaps. I often feel that I am a disappoint to Her." With a slight
shake of his head, he extracts a hand from his back, gesturing with a flick of his wrist. "The
opposite, as it happens. Your Lady has commanded him to seek me out and interrogate me, regarding
the differences between Her and the Empyreal, and formulate a report."

Avaris's voice grows a shade tauter as he observes, "I would say that I do not know
why She has sent him to one of the least members of Her service, but I think I can imagine why."

Shifting her weight, oiled leather creaks lightly under the sliding plates of Falaine's armor as she
crosses her arms to fix you with a stare. "Her reasons are Her own, but She is one to teach, not to
torment. If you were unworthy of the lesson, be assured that She would not bother. And..." she
pauses, her eyes hooding for a moment as her ear fins flare and settle. "It is likely as much for
him as for you." Saying nothing more on that, the merian studies you with faintly narrowed eyes.
"Why do you insist on entering battle with a self-imposed handicap, Avaris? Your insistence upon
viewing yourself dimly... you may think it is a thing that pushes you forward, but in reality, it
holds you back. Confidence is key- if you do not believe that you are skilled enough to land a blow,
you will not follow through, and it becomes a self-fulfilling thing. If you insist upon believing
that you will be a disappointment to your Lady, rest assured, in time it will come to pass."

Yuleshka slips in from the north, doing her best not to trip.

Comprehension flashes across Yuleshka the Acolyte's face.

With a flourish of her arm, Yuleshka the Acolyte bows deeply.

A grand stage beneath a crystal canopy.
This location is flooded with shallow, crystal clear water. A thin pathway leads centrally down
towards a vast wooden platform, at the back of which rest vibrant red curtains which obfuscate the
interior from view. Ten neat rows of seats rest in front of the stage, each comfortably partitioned
to seat five separate beings. The smooth gravel that glides in from the north changes to a fine,
misty golden sand that bears the footprints of many individuals. Immediately in front of the viewing
area is a massive stage roughly fifteen feet deep and thirty feet wide. Embedded deep within the
crystal roof is a small globe of multi-faceted glass that reflects precise beams of light down on to
the stage, a few of the smooth sides tinted in a variety of colours. Embedded in the wood on the
right-hand side of the stage is a small crystal globe that holds a pale light. There are 2 cushioned
crystalline benches here. A milestone of white marble rests here upon a low dais. Her gaze cast
demurely downwards, Yuleshka stands clad in a simple white shift. Divine radiance limns the figure
of a holy champion who stands guard here, travailing against the ongoings of injustice.
You see exits leading north and south.

A gangly child on the cusp of womanhood, Yuleshka's colouring is pale, lending her an ethereal
quality accentuated by the simple white shift she is wearing. Her long blonde hair has been braided
and wrapped around her head in a coronet style. Though her gaze is often drawn humbly downwards, the
glances from her blue-grey eye are alert and piercing. Clumsy, skittish movements suggest that she
has not yet become used to the length of her limbs.
Yuleshka the Acolyte is quite powerful.

Falaine blinks and turns to Yuleshka the Acolyte, bowing reflexively.

"Apologies," Yuleshka the Acolyte stammers out in a low whisper, moving to leave the two to watch
the stage in quiet. Evidently, she is used to more silence in the room.

Realizing the stage is empty, however, Yuleshka the Acolyte exhales in relief as she glances over
her shoulder to peek at the playbills.

Listening to Falaine with the flat visor of his face pointing to one side, Avaris
is in the midst of responding to Falaine's admonition, only to hold a hand up to forestall Yuleshka
the Acolyte. "Please, stay. We can shelve the discussion for another time. The stage is for all."

You tell Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity, "We shall speak on the matter when a child is not
present. She does not need such heavy words to weigh her down. Let us strive to be bright, shall
we?"

Her clear desire to be polite at odds with her curiosity, Yuleshka the Acolyte wrings her hands and
says, "Oh! Um. Thank you. That is very kind." Determined to push away the mild anxiety that clouds
her, she asks brightly, "Did you finish enjoying a production? Or were you planning to watch one?"

Falaine nods an agreement to your words, though she shoots you a glance that promises that she has
no intention of letting the matter lie. To Yuleshka the Acolyte, she grants a rare, fully unguarded
smile. "Yes, please do stay. We had just finished watching a recording of a sermon, but it would be
a pleasure to watch something else."

You think to yourself: "Ah, she is nervous. I should not loom."

Her single eye bright, Yuleshka the Acolyte exclaims, "Oh! Then you must want a recommendation!"

Falaine's smile grows, quirking into a grin. "A recommendation would be lovely," she says solemnly,
glancing at you.

The antennae that flow up from behind Avaris's bladed crest flick up at Yuleshka
the Acolyte's words, his great head tilting with curiosity. "Please do." So saying, he lowers
himself to the ground with deliberately slow motions, so that he is seated upon the floor with legs
crossed before him.

This is far more Yuleshka the Acolyte's element as she grabs her skirts and rushes to the stage,
eagerly rifling through the titles available "Ah," she murmurs with quiet certainty, "yes, this one
will do nicely." Glancing back to you and Falaine behind her, she asks, "Have you seen 'The Spy Who
Loved the Sea'? It is by one of the Lady Carakhan's, and a personal favorite of mine." This last
admission may as well have gone unheard, so breathless is the krokani in her excitement to share one
of her favorite performances with others.

You think to yourself: A warm thrum of simple pleasure at seeing the child shift so readily towards
effervescent joy.

With a bright, genuinely warm expression, Falaine watches the eager examination of the playbills. "I
have not seen it, but it sounds like quite a production. I'd love to watch," she says sincerely,
lowering herself into a seated position alongside you. Leaning back on her hands, a lingering scent
of something wyrden in the air causes her to briefly and sharply study the room before relaxing
again, though less than before.

Bubbling over, Yuleshka the Acolyte exclaims, "The script is of course lovely, but also the stage,
and the costumes...!"

Placing his hands upon the curve of his knees, Avaris watches Yuleshka the Acolyte
with a benign, placid air, the solid blue spheres of his inhuman eyes awash with scintillating
points of brilliant light. "I confess that I have not, but if it comes so highly recommended, I
would be most delighted to view it." Gesturing to a spot close to Falaine, he invites, "Would you
like to watch it with us? Perhaps you can tell us about your favourite parts as it proceeds."

Realizing how fast her words have begun to tumble out, Yuleshka the Acolyte clears her throat,
suddenly self-conscious as she plays with her hair. "Ah, that is, if you like plays with intrigue."
At your interest, however, her hand ceases its nervous habit, and she relaxes with a slow exhale.

Yuleshka the Acolyte politely steps over to sit beside Falaine, placing her hands in her lap as she
says warmly, "Thank you. It is always so much nicer to watch with company."

Avaris inclines his head in easy affirmation, stating, "I am fond of all manner of
stories. Indeed it is. Do you get the chance often?"

Falaine nods, her smile reassuring. "I like any play well-written, and intrigue is a.." she looks
around exaggeratedly, lowering her voice and cupping her mouth, though the stage-whisper carries
easily, "..a guilty pleasure." With a twinkle in her eye, the paladin looks toward the stage in
anticipation.

Yuleshka the Acolyte stifles a laugh behind her hand, whatever remaining tension leaving her
completely at Falaine's exaggerated response.

Pride intermingled with a sense of abashed self-consciousness, Yuleshka the Acolyte says to you,
"One day it is my dearest hope to be a priestess at the Chapel of the Two Saints. I... may be not a
writer myself, but I love all stories. For the Celestial Saints have the greatest and noblest of
them."

Continuing the thought, now with confidence, Yuleshka the Acolyte says, "I would dearly love to be
able to share those stories with others, that they may have their own faith rekindled. There is
great power in stories, I think. That is one reason I love this story -- it is not just well-told,
but a reminder of the importance of faith, and trust in the Light."

Once satisfied that both Falaine and Yuleshka the Acolyte are settled, Avaris dips
his head in a pleased nod. Leaning forward slightly as Yuleshka the Acolyte speaks, he affords her
the entirety of his attention, antennae upright and twitching. "That is a most noble aspiration. I
am certain that you shall make a very fine priestess. You show the hallmarks of grasping how to
speak to the hearts of people, and I think that when you do, they shall listen. Your passion is
wonderful." He pauses, featureless face turning to Yuleshka the Acolyte, "Ah. Where are our manners?
We have not asked your name. How shall we address you?"

You think to yourself: "Ah, to see such love for the Light and those that dwell within it, in one so
young. It is a balm. What a lovely young woman this is."

Realizing that Yuleshka the Acolyte has forgotten this simple hallmark of manners, a faint blush
suffuses her cheeks. "Oh, yes. I am called Yuleshka. You needn't call me by any title, for I am only
an acolyte." She bows her head quickly up and down. "And what shall I call you? I apologize, I...
forget myself sometimes."

Falaine contemplates that, her eyes on the stage. "Once upon a time," she muses, glancing over
sidelong, "I wanted to be a soldier. I would tell everyone that I was terribly excited to join the
New Celest military, but only as a stablehand, because surely I could not swing a sword to any
skill. In four years, I was a lieutenant. " She smiles softly. "You will be a wonderful priestess.
Don't count yourself out as a writer. You have passion and faith, enthusiasm and appreciation for
stories, Yuleshka. I'd bet you consume them as more eagerly than you do your desserts. Now.. shall
we watch?"

Turning and offering a gauntleted hand, Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity says, "I am Falaine,
of the Sanctifiers. You can call me Fal."

The kind words from Falaine are listened to by Yuleshka the Acolyte with great attention, nodding.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Fal," she answers warmly, sincerely.

Avaris lifts a huge hand to gently wave Yuleshka the Acolyte's apologies away. "You
need not apologise. You did not expect to find us here." Bowing at the waist while seated, he says,
"I am Avaris. I, ah...Do not possess a shortened manner with which to refer to myself, apologies.
But yes, let us begin. Would you like to start it, Falaine?"

Falaine nods to you, running a finger down the playbill with a whisper of metal on paper.

You think to yourself: "She is good with children, as I expected. A fine person, indeed."

There is a shimmering flicker in the air above a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold, as it
readies itself to replay a recorded performance of 'The Spy Who Loved the Sea'.

"Avaris," Yuleshka the Acolyte repeats. "A pleasure to meet you."

The curtains part on an exquisite pine stage, heralding the start of the performance of 'The Spy Who
Loved the Sea'.

The curtains part with a silken rustle to reveal an elegant office overlooking the harbour to Inner
Sea, with a small plaque on the wall that reads "Office of the Minister of Security." A massive
moonhart desk stands in the centre, with a plush velvet chair behind it and a narrow bench in front,
currently occupied by a slender male mugwump.

Yuleshka the Acolyte looks at the stage expectantly, taking note of every detail of the office.

Phelosh Mellulog stands just behind the bench, pacing nervously back and forth and biting his lip in
visible agitation. Every now and then, his supple, calloused fingers stray to the thin chain around
his neck, touching the golden pearl etched with a trident and an angelfish as if seeking reassurance
or good luck.

As the sound of footsteps echoes behind the door to the office, Phelosh winces slightly and turns
toward the window to gaze reverently at the calm sea outside.

Phelosh Mellulog's hand closes tightly around the pearl at his neck as his lips shape a whispered,
devout prayer. "Merciful Carakhan, Sculptor of the Waves, please wash away my fear!"

The door to the office opens, and a petite imperial merian strides gracefully inside with a swirl of
navy-blue robes, her head held regally high and her eyes coolly taking in her surroundings with a
glance.

"Sit," Minister Serelynth Serole says sharply, gesturing to the bench in front of the desk and
seating herself in her chair. With slow, measured movements, she steeples her fingers upon the desk
and fixes her eyes upon Phelosh Mellulog.

Phelosh Mellulog hastily returns to the bench and holds out his hands pleadingly toward her. "Lady
Minister," he begins apprehensively, "please, I-I never meant for my plays to cause offence, I
promise, it was just-".

The distant, soft chiming of a bell echoes across the city, its beatific ring piercing the night
with a welcoming, warming voice.

Holding up one hand to forestall him, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "Phelosh Mellulog. Do you know
why you are here today?"

Avaris's antennae track the motions of those on the stage as he rests his chin atop
the conjoined arch of his fingers, watching with great interest.

Phelosh Mellulog swallows, involuntarily flicking his long tongue against the corner of his mouth
and wetting his lips with it. "Yes. It's because of my last play, isn't it?"

Taking a deep breath, Phelosh Mellulog says, "It was called "The Weight of a Vote," and it was a
story--a completely fictional story, I'd like to emphasise--about an entirely fictitious election to
raise a new Vernal Ascendant in New Celest, in which I may possibly have depicted large flocks of
previously slumbering citizens suddenly awakening to cast their votes in the election for a
particular candidate in an extremely suspicious manner, before promptly returning to slumber
afterward."

His voice strengthening, Phelosh Mellulog says, "But--and I can't emphasise this enough--it was just
a play! It was just a story. I wrote it to be thought-provoking for politically minded viewers, to
remind them about the flaws inherent in the election system! That's not a bad thing, is it?"

Falaine leans forward, taking in the well-developed set of the stage and the detail of the costumes,
nodding in approval.

As the sun passes below the horizon's edge, Mother Night unveils her terrible, shadowy beauty,
spreading darkness across the land.

Phelosh Mellulog says, "Surely it's not enough to be considered a security risk or to be dragged off
to prison...is it?"

Minister Serelynth Serole waits patiently throughout Phelosh's diatribe, never blinking or faltering
in her stern frown. Finally, once his voice trails off, she responds crisply, "No, it is not. And
you are right, that is one of several reasons why you are here. What are the other reasons, you
might ask?"

Raising her right hand, Minister Serelynth Serole begins ticking off her fingers while still
speaking in a cold, calculated voice. "There was the play you wrote about a Ministry appointment
that was motivated by nepotism and self-interest and how the city credits were almost depleted as a
result. There was the one about a family that constantly sought to adopt newcomers without regard
for their behaviour or wishes, simply to expand its own numbers, which many saw as a thinly veiled
portrayal of a very prominent family in the Basin of Life."

Minister Serelynth Serole says, "And then there was the play where you played a buffoonish Prince
who boasted that he was the pinnacle of greatness but who, in reality, could barely defend himself
in a fight, write or speak in complete sentences, carry out his administrative duties, or cooperate
peaceably with allies or citizens."

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
This elegant, high-ceilinged office is dominated by a massive desk of pale moonhart wood whose every
surface is piled high with papers, scrolls, books, strongboxes, and coffers. The chair behind the
desk is deeply cushioned with plush sapphire-blue velvet and ergonomically sculpted for comfort,
while the bench in front of the desk is thinly padded and a shade too narrow for comfort. The marble
floor is intricately laid with a pattern of white and blue coral tiles, echoing the narrow bars of
ocean-blue stained glass forming stripes across the clear windows that overlook the harbour to the
Inner Sea. A small silver plaque on the wall reads, "Office of the Minister of Security."
The following roles are being performed (STAGE LOOK <role> to examine them):
  Serelynth           : Minister Serelynth Serole                by Niralahi
  Phelosh             : Phelosh Mellulog                         by Farvu

"Four plays, four extremely controversial criticisms of New Celest's leaders, government, and
reputation." Minister Serelynth Serole's voice, if anything, grows frostier and sharper still.
"Furthermore, all four plays won theatrical prestige, which means that anyone who visits the
Vesteran World Stage can view your every tiny quibble and thundering denunciation about New Celest."

Letting out a brief sigh, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "Perhaps you can see why you, Phelosh
Mellulog, might be viewed by the Star Council and the Basin at large as a natural-born troublemaker,
a malcontent, hypercritical, irresponsible, a dangerous security risk, and utterly disloyal to New
Celest?"

Phelosh Mellulog gulps audibly and begins to nod his head. In mid-nod, however, he catches himself
and vigorously shakes his head instead, rising from his seat on the bench in his fervor.

Phelosh Mellulog says, "Minister, with all due respect, I completely disagree. I'm not a danger or a
security risk to the city at all, and I never will be. I love New Celest! I'd never dream of
betraying the city or the Light, and I'd give up my life in a heartbeat to protect our people."

The beacons atop the city towers briefly throb with a pure white light, casting their lambency upon
the dark streets beneath.

You think to yourself: "Four very valid criticisms, if the issues are true, and a clever way to draw
public attention to them."

Phelosh Mellulog makes a sweeping gesture with his arms, almost upsetting a pile of papers on
Minister Serelynth Serole's desk. "When I write, I'm not just trying to be a gadfly or a
reactionary. I point out the problems and disadvantages of our city so that we can fix them and
improve upon them! I want people to walk away from my plays thinking about how justice should look,
how leaders should behave."

Yuleshka the Acolyte watches enraptured, with the sheer joy of someone delighted to share their own
pursuits with others.

Sinking back onto the bench, Phelosh Mellulog says, "I write, act, and sing so that I can help New
Celest, not harm it. You've got to believe me, Minister. I've always been loyal to New Celest, and I
always will be."

Minister Serelynth Serole meets his gaze evenly and replies in a firm voice, "I believe you,
Phelosh."

Falaine nods her head slightly to the words of the mugwump, a thoughtful and alert light in her
eyes.

Incredulously, Phelosh Mellulog says, "You do?"

Minister Serelynth Serole folds her arms across her chest and leans back in her chair, the corners
of her lips curving very slightly in what might almost be a smile. "Phelosh, it doesn't take an
expert in theatre to notice the deeply idealistic streak in your writing. In all your plays, you cry
for change, but the change that you clearly want to effect is the sort of constructive, positive,
and compassionate change that helps your fellow citizens grow and learn."

Her smile deepening, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "Furthermore, your parodies and satires of
Celestian individuals and events are perceptive and affectionate, even if they are exaggerated. Your
depictions have no malice in them, only a clear and attentive understanding of the subject, which
means that you know exactly what their flaws and weaknesses are."

A sense of longing fills the air, accentuated by the lapping of the ocean waves upon the distant
walls of the city.

Avaris nods along as Phelosh speaks, one of his lower, free hands rising to
absently fiddle with the thick ruff that rings his throat. Several of the eyes that glow within his
folded wings keep watch on both Yuleshka the Acolyte and the entrance, though he seems otherwise
relaxed.

Across the heavens, the stars and moon challenge night's dark reign, revealing familiar
constellations that tell the tales of myth and legend.

Almost like an afterthought, Minister Serelynth Serole adds, "I am also quite familiar with your
civic records, Phelosh, which have shown you to be a model citizen otherwise. You're invaluable in
village revolts, you help answer fellow citizens' questions, and your devotion to Lady Carakhan, one
of our divine patrons, is remarkable." She gives a brief nod toward the golden pearl on the thin
chain around Phelosh's neck.

Falaine looks nearly as surprised as Phelosh, though she murmurs a soft, wordless approval of the
turn of events.

Minister Serelynth Serole continues on smoothly, seemingly oblivious to Phleosh Mellulog's slowly
dropping jaw, "I myself quite enjoy your plays. I find them witty and clever, and your acting in
them is superb. Although..."

In a dazed voice, Phelosh Mellulog says, "Although?"

You think to yourself: "Ah, excellent. I had thought this Minister to be perceptive."

A hint of amusement entering her voice, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "I do think the character of
Minister Nyrenelenth Nerale was a bit unlikely, don't you agree? Surely it's impossible for her to
have never laughed even once in her life. And who ever heard of a woman that tiny, no bigger than a
child, making scores of grown men quake in their boots with terror?"

Falaine covers a grin with her plated hand.

Phelosh Mellulog glances surreptitiously down at his tight-clenched hands still trembling with
anxiety and folds his lips tightly to keep from saying a word.

Leaning forward, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "Of course, not everyone may see the situation as I
do. Many people, both within the city and elsewhere, genuinely believe that you are exactly
everything that I said earlier. And because of that, Phelosh Mellulog, I wish to offer you a job."

Avaris's eyes glimmer with brilliant points of light as a soft, vibrating hum of
amusement shivers from him.

His eyes widening, Phelosh Mellulog says, "A job? What do you mean, Minister?"

Distant cat calls echo through the city as toms make their rounds through the streets.

Minister Serelynth Serole pauses for a moment and gives Phelosh Mellulog a long, searching look. "I
believe that you could be a significant security asset to the city, rather than a security risk. I
want you to serve the Ministry of Security and act as our undercover agent in the city of Magnagora,
posing as a disaffected actor who was ostracized, possibly even ousted by his narrow-minded former
city because of his subversive opinions and revolutionary plays."

Phelosh Mellulog gapes for a moment in silence and then attempts to give a weak laugh that sounds
completely unconvincing. "Minister, you must be joking with me. There's no way you could be serious
right now."

Minister Serelynth Serole says, "I am being completely serious--and honest--with you, Phleosh. I
choose to believe in your loyalty, as well as your unique talents. Do you accept the mission?"

Murmuring, Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity says, "Who better than an actor to be a spy.."

Struck speechless, Phelosh Mellulog opens and closes his mouth wordlessly several times, before
finally blurting out, "Wait-wait a moment. What could I possibly do for you that any of your other
secret agents or spies or investigators or whatever can't do already?"

Minister Serelynth Serole says, "What you offer--which few other Ministry aides and agents can match
--are your impressive acting skills, as well as your dubious reputation as a well-known critic and
detractor of New Celest. I have heard rumours that the Minister of Cultural Affairs in Magnagora is
quite an admirer of your plays, in fact. I have no doubt that the Magnagorans would believe you,
even embrace you, if you arrived on their doorstep claiming you were wronged and seeking acceptance
along with a bit of vengeance."

Avaris's ridged jaw tilts at a steep angle at this turn of events, uttering a
murmur of agreement at Falaine's observation.

Holding her gaze, Phelosh Mellulog rises shakily to his feet and breathes deeply, his expressive
features visibly troubled. However, his voice is steady as he asks, "What would you want me to do in
Magnagora?"

Pursing her lips with a somber expression, Minister Serelynth Serole begins sorting through the
paperwork on her desk until she finds a particular folder stamped in red with the seal of the
Ministry, which she discreetly hands to Phelosh Mellulog.

A warm, salty breeze washes in from the nearby Inner Sea.

Minister Serelynth Serole says, "You will find most of the specifics in that folder. After you are
finished reading it, please destroy it or give it to an aide of my ministry to be destroyed."

You think to yourself: "A very fine ploy. It will be difficult for him, though, living in that
cesspit of corruption, and pretending to enjoy it. Fortitude, Phelosh. Fortitude."

Clearing her throat, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "I believe I can summarise your essential
mission as this: Since the 25th of Kiani, 472 CE, the entire Basin of Life has learned of the
existence of a magical shield belonging to Magnagora with the destructive power to level towers and
destroy entire hosts of angels, colourfully known as the Bulwark of the Damned. As you can imagine,
the secrets behind how this Bulwark was created and how it might be disabled would be inestimably
valuable to the city of New Celest and closely guarded by the Magnagorans."

A sense of longing fills the air, accentuated by the lapping of the ocean waves upon the distant
walls of the city.

Minister Serelynth Serole says, "As a matter of fact, we heard that even ordinary Magnagorans were
not allowed to hear or learn anything about the Bulwark. Only their ruling council and ministers
were even allowed to understand the secrets of the Bulwark of the Damned. Thus, anyone who wishes to
learn more about this powerful shield would have to be..."

A warm, salty breeze washes in from the nearby Inner Sea.

Completing her sentence in a voice gone dry, Phelosh Mellulog says, "A noble or a friend of the
nobles."

You think to yourself: "Ah, close to one of the Ministers, or become one themselves. Intriguing."

Acknowledging the point with a grave nod of her head, Minister Serelynth Serole gives a long, rueful
sigh. "Yes. The security surrounding the events surrounding the Bulwark of the Damned is
considerable, far more than any skulking spy could possibly penetrate. This is why we need an agent
who can infiltrate the society of Magnagora instead and report back to us with any information they
can possibly find that might affect the safety and well-being of New Celest."

A sense of longing fills the air, accentuated by the lapping of the ocean waves upon the distant
walls of the city.

Minister Serelynth Serole's gaze turns sympathetic as she pauses and then candidly admits, "What I'm
asking from you will take extraordinary courage, determination, and skill with deception, disguise,
and dissembling. But if you succeed, we can learn so much about this terrible power protecting their
city and avert another disaster caused by the waves of damned souls unleashed by the Bulwark."

The pointed fingers of Avaris's lower left hand tap thoughtfully upon the broad,
curving plating of his thigh.

"I...I see," Phelosh Mellulog murmurs, quietly absorbing her words with a troubled expression on his
face. He takes a moment to clear his throat, his voice growing contemplative and taking on a
speculative note as he muses, "It would take a tremendous actor to put on such a show and fool so
many people. Indeed, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime for any actor, even for me."

Looking up solemnly at Phelosh, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "Will you accept the mission?"

Phelosh Mellulog's hands unconsciously seek the pearl hanging from the chain around his neck,
touching it again as if to seek reassurance or perhaps courage. Several expressions flicker and
waver across his face, ranging from uncertainty to stark fear to resolve and, finally, a surprising
hint of a smile.

You think to yourself: "Of course he will."

With a faint, dry chuckle, Phelosh Mellulog says, "May Lady Carakhan give me strength."

Phelosh Mellulog says, "I accept, as a natural-born troublemaker, a malcontent, hypercritical,
irresponsible, and a dangerous security risk who is utterly disloyal to New Celest."

At his words, Minister Serelynth Serole's expression brightens, and she extends her hand out to him,
which he hesitantly shakes. "Excellent. Welcome to government service, Phelosh Mellulog! We shall do
everything in our power to help you as much as we can."

Speaking under his breath in a low, incredulous murmur, Phelosh Mellulog says, "I can't believe I'm
doing this."

Falaine chuckles softly, resting an elbow atop one knee.

Minister Serelynth Serole says, "What was that?"

Raising his voice, Phelosh Mellulog says, "I can't begin doing this without a lot more information,
Minister. I'll need all the details that you have on the backstory you've created for the character
I'll be playing, and your Ministry will have to start spreading rumors about my disgrace and
decision to leave Celest for Magnagora as soon as possible. We need to make sure it all happens as
naturally and plausibly as possible."

Her lips noticeably twitching in response, Minister Serelynth Serole turns her face away toward her
paperwork. "Very well. The perils of turning an artist into a spy, I suppose."

Her tone turning businesslike again, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "Rumours are already being
spread by our other agents, but we will escalate those efforts in order to make your supposed
defection even more believable. As for the rest, we'll work on preparing you for your departure and
entrance into Magnagora, including adding a special note to your citizenship status to reflect the
needs of your mission by allowing you to quit New Celest and later rejoin without any issues."

Avaris murmurs, softly so as to not override the play's words, "A sharp mind,
indeed."

"We expect that you will remain in Magnagora no longer than four months, unless unusual
circumstances arise. By then, I imagine that world events would have escalated to the point that no
single person could possibly stop them..." Minister Serelynth Serole pauses and then adds, "And that
any sane person, even a gifted actor like yourself, would go mad if they had to stay any longer in
that pestilent Nil-hole of a city."

Falaine leans over and whispers to Yuleshka the Acolyte, "I can see why this is a favorite."

Minister Serelynth Serole says, "It will take two months to lay the groundwork and finish all the
preparations necessary for your mission. Do you believe that you will be ready by then?"

His face paling somewhat at the prospect, Phelosh Mellulog gulps and touches the pearl at his neck
again like a talisman. "Yes. I...I'll be ready."

With a slow, understanding nod, Minister Serelynth Serole says, "Thank you, Phelosh. You may leave
and begin your own preparations, if you wish."

Responding with a wordless nod of his own, Phelosh Mellulog begins to turn around on his heel. In
mid-turn, however, he stops, as if remembering himself, and executes a deep, elegant bow in Minister
Serelynth Serole's direction.

Phelosh Mellulog then quietly turns away and opens the door, leaving the office of the Minister of
Security with slow, faltering steps amidst the rising sounds of rustling paperwork and scratching
pens dictating his fate.

You think to yourself: "I think they could grow to like one another very much."

Yuleshka the Acolyte beams from ear-to-ear at Falaine.

As the door clicks shut behind him, the stage darkens and the curtains fall, shrouding the office of
the Celestian Ministry of Security from view.

After a few moments, the curtains rise again to show a quiet street winding through New Celest,
illuminated by the pale light of dawn. Shimmering veils of mist hang in the air, drifting from a
small coral shrine sitting beside the gravel road.

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Ornate fountains carved from opalescent mother-of-pearl stand on either side of this city road
passing through the heart of New Celest, the surface of which is covered with a pleasantly thick,
comfortable layer of fine gravel in a rainbow of soft pastel hues. A grand archway of blue coral
stretches high above, flowing with a waterfall of cool, glittering water. The massive, heavily
reinforced city walls that surround New Celest are in view, as well as the gatehouse and tower that
overlook the entrance into the city. Shimmering mist hangs in the air, drifting away from a shrine
sitting beside the road, while shallow blue water floods the surroundings.
The following props can be seen (STAGE LOOK <prop> to examine them):
  Shrine              : This shrine is constructed from pale-red coral into a be

Phelosh Mellulog kneels contemplatively beside the shrine, his head bowed and his lips moving in
whispered prayers. After a moment, he withdraws a small marble figurine from his coat pocket and
lays it within the shrine's sacred grotto.

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Phelosh Mellulog
Portrayed by Farvu
Costume: This male mugwump stands tall and slender with a dapper, upright bearing, his ink-stained,
callus-tipped hands constantly in motion as he gestures and moves about. A richly ruffled white
linen shirt sets off the deep sea-green of his slick, glistening skin, while tight-fitting breeches
and high leather boots encase his long legs. Showing signs of human ancestry, his round, faintly
protuberant ink-black eyes are offset by a short, flat nose, high cheekbones, and a wide, thin-
lipped mouth. A leather case for holding a lyre is strapped at his back, with pockets to hold sheafs
of sheet music and play scripts. Around his neck hangs a thin gold chain adorned with a single
pearl, engraved with exquisitely detailed sigils of an angelfish and a trident.

In an instant, waves rise forth from the pool at the bottom of the sacred grotto to claim the
offering. As the cleansing waters subside, the carved figurine disintegrates into golden motes of
essence that swirl brightly and then wink out of existence.

Falaine hums appreciatively at the set change, studying the Celestian scenery.

Keeping his head bowed low, Phelosh Mellulog says, "Lady Carakhan, please accept my humble offering
once more as a token of my continued devotion. It may be many months before I may be able to pray or
make another offering to You, so I can only hope that You will still keep me in Your thoughts until
then."

In a soft murmur, Phelosh Mellulog says, "May Your works continue to inspire and strengthen me with
their beauty. May You keep me sheltered within Your waves, Lady Sculptor."

With a long sigh, Phelosh Mellulog slowly straightens and climbs to his feet, shouldering his pack
and turning around, although not without a few backward glances toward the coral shrine as he
strides off.

You think to yourself: "Ah, Phelosh. Your piety does you credit, brave soul."

Phelosh Mellulog walks to the New Celest post office, where he quickly sits down and writes two
separate letters, one of which he dispatches to Minister Serelynth Serole. After signing and rolling
up the second letter, he hesitates a moment before giving it to the postal worker for mailing. "For
the Minister of Cultural Affairs in Magnagora," he tells the postal worker.


Phelosh Mellulog continues onward to the city gates, where he briefly pauses to pat himself down and
check his pockets and pack. "Leave no traces of New Celest on you," he recites to himself like a
mantra. "No traces of New Celest on you." His last-minute search turns up an embroidered
handkerchief in one pocket and an old letter bearing the city's letterhead at the bottom of his
pack. When his fingers brush the golden pearl hanging from his neck, though, he pauses.

"No," Phelosh Mellulog whispers, softly but firmly. "Not this. I can't leave this behind." Wincing
and looking about himself once or twice, he gently and reverently slides off the chain, coils it in
his hand, and tucks it discreetly into a tiny pocket sewn within his shirt sleeve.

Leaning forward, there is a subtle intensity to Avaris's regard as he stares at the
golden pearl, fingers tightening.

With this last precaution taken, Phelosh Mellulog takes a long deep breath as he looks up at the
gates of New Celest and takes a single step outside.

The day shifts gradually from morning to afternoon as Phelosh Mellulog slowly but steadily trudges
along the broad highway from New Celest to Magnagora. The landscape around him shifts from the
coastline of the Inner Sea to grassy hills and mountains, then to gloomy forests and finally to an
arid, barren wasteland as the sun begins setting over the Sea of Despair to the west.

As the landscape gradually changes, so does Phelosh Mellulog's demeanor, gait, and voice, adjusting
by fractional degrees into a persona that appears more jaunty, audacious, and jaded. He disarranges
his clothing to look artfully tousled; flexes his brow, cheeks, and lips up and down while
practising various rakishly debonair expressions; and hums in high and low tones until he arrives at
a deeper, more careless-sounding baritone than his usual warm tenor.

Eventually, the metallic spires of Magnagora become visible in the distance, stabbing upward at the
sky through a thick black fog that seems to hang stationary over the city. On either side of the
massive city gates, the gate towers stand like broken teeth pockmarked and pitted by ancient battles
and atmospheric chemical pollution.

You think to yourself: An odd mixture of emotion, sympathy and appreciation for the Devotion shown,
yet..."The talismans of your faith do not define it, Phelosh. She would understand if you had to
ensure your safety by leaving it behind. This is a grave risk."

Just within the gates stands a plump, black-haired viscanti woman gowned in carnelian-red satin,
with a massive iron corset jutting prominently beneath. When she catches sight of Phelosh Mellulog,
she demurely lowers her lashes and sweeps into a curtsey so low that her nose seems in danger of
bumping into the ground.

In a surprised and impressed whisper, Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity says, "What an actor!"

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Within the city of Magnagora, this cobbled street leads past market stalls, residential homes, and
sprawling businesses, all of which are darkened with an ever-deepening layer of soot and ash. A gas
lamp atop a tall, ornately gilded iron post casts pale, ghostly light along the street, brightening
its immediate surroundings but accentuating the shadows beyond. Occasionally, a snivelling beggar or
gutter mutt passes by, often wearing identically weary, miserable expressions and uttering similar
hungry, desperate whimpers.
The following props can be seen (STAGE LOOK <prop> to examine them):
  Gaslamp             : This ornately gilded iron post is adorned with the spher
The following roles are being performed (STAGE LOOK <role> to examine them):
  Phelosh             : Phelosh Mellulog                         by Farvu

Phelosh Mellulog blinks incredulously as he looks upon the city of Magnagora and the viscanti woman
awaiting him, but reflexively composes himself into the character of a disaffected ex-Celestian
thespian ousted for his brilliance. Almost instantaneously he turns the incredulous blink into an
awed, breathless reaction full of eagerness rather than distaste.

"And brave," Yuleshka the Acolyte asserts, nodding in vigorous agreement.

Composing his face into a smile of genuine pleasure, Phelosh Mellulog says, "What a joy to be here!
And what a pleasure to see you. Minister Azyaiya y'Cafici, I presume?"

With a high, trilling laugh, Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister says, "Indeed, you may presume. And
of course, you must be the famous Phelosh Mellulog. Please, I would be delighted if you called me
Azyaiya."

Fanning herself languorously with one hand, Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister produces the letter
that Phelosh Mellulog had written earlier that morning in the other hand. "I was rhapsodically
jubilant, though not terribly thunderstruck, I must say, to apprehend your application to
metamorphose into a citizen of the resplendent Engine of Transformation. For a considerable duration
of time, my fellow Magnagorans and I had apperceived many deplorable rumours about the scandal that
you had precipitated in New Celest heretofore in these preceding months."

"And brave," Falaine agrees firmly, taking in each scene change with fascination.

Antennae curling backwards in instinctive disgust at the sight of Magnagora, Avaris
nonetheless utters an agreeable noise, remarking quietly, "Devoted."

Phelosh Mellulog's brow wrinkles bemusedly despite himself before he nods affirmatively. "Yes
indeed, Minister Azyaiya y'Caf...no, I mean, Azyaiya...bah, you must forgive me. I'm not accustomed
to being on such familiar terms with a lady as charming and beautiful as yourself."

As Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister flutters and blushes at the compliment, Phelosh Mellulog meets
her eyes with warm sincerity and continues, "I must beg your indulgence in permitting me to continue
calling you Minister Azyaiya for now, I'm afraid. Until such time..." He pauses significantly and
lowers his gaze for a moment. "Until such time as we become closer friends someday, perhaps."

Falaine nods minutely in your direction, agreeing.

Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister breaks out into another trilling, breathless laugh and playfully
swats Phelosh Mellulog's arm with her lace fan. "Oh, you flatterer, you! If I had envisioned that
you were such a mellifluous poet offstage as well as onstage, I would have endeavoured to acquaint
myself with you sooner!"

With no small amount of distaste, Avaris mutters, "Grandiloquent wretch."

"But alas, before we are at unobstructed liberty to dialogue regarding such congenial diversions as
poetry and theatre, we must proceed first with business," Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister laments
with a girlish pout and a disconsolate flutter of her fan. "Of course, after the abhorrent
malfeasance to which New Celest has subjected you for merely satirising them in your art, no one
could possibly reprehend you for forsaking your city and scrutinising new potentialities for
citizenship elsewhere. However, I must inquire, as a matter of correctness, if nothing else: What
motivated you to choose Magnagora as your new domicile?"

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Within the city of Magnagora, this cobbled street leads past market stalls, residential homes, and
sprawling businesses, all of which are darkened with an ever-deepening layer of soot and ash. A gas
lamp atop a tall, ornately gilded iron post casts pale, ghostly light along the street, brightening
its immediate surroundings but accentuating the shadows beyond. Occasionally, a snivelling beggar or
gutter mutt passes by, often wearing identically weary, miserable expressions and uttering similar
hungry, desperate whimpers.
The following props can be seen (STAGE LOOK <prop> to examine them):
  Gaslamp             : This ornately gilded iron post is adorned with the spher
The following roles are being performed (STAGE LOOK <role> to examine them):
  Phelosh             : Phelosh Mellulog                         by Farvu
  Azyaiya             : Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister       by Niralahi

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister
Portrayed by Niralahi
Costume: Plump, voluptuous curves characterise the figure of this fiendish viscanti woman,
constrained into a rounded hourglass shape by a massive iron corset jutting visibly underneath her
brilliant carnelian-red satin gown. Her milky-white skin reflects the light in opalescent, oil-slick
brushstrokes, contrasting with her luxurious blue-black hair coiffed into a thick, heavy braid.
Long, tapering horns sprout from her brow and curl back upon themselves in elegant crimson coils.
Dark, manicured eyebrows arch high above brown eyes elaborately rimmed with smoky kohl. She smiles
often with lips painted a deep blood-red, matching the colour of the lacquer coating the long, razor-
sharp nails on her pale, fleshy hands. In one hand, she carries a wide black lace fan that she
frequently uses to gesture or waft about.

Phelosh Mellulog allows his warm, faintly flirtatious smile to drop as he gives an earnest nod and
clenches his fists at his sides. "After being rebuked, censured, disowned, disfavoured, and utterly
humiliated by everyone in New Celest for my plays, at first I grieved. Then I attempted to placate
and appease them, only to be rebuffed and disfavoured even more."

Falaine glances over and raises a mild brow at you. "Language."

Surreptitiously watching Azyaiya y'Cafici's face to gauge her reaction, Phelosh Mellulog continues
in an impassioned tone, "Finally, I decided to give in to my anger. I chose to fight back. I
resolved to oppose them not only with words, but also with actions and with arms."

Visibly moved by Phelosh Mellulog's words, Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister grimaces with
sympathetic disgust and twists her features in an expression of scornful contempt at his
descriptions of New Celest, before listening to his words of resolve with eyes wide and lips parted
in rapt attention.

"So, I chose to leave, and to make a new home in the one city that has always thwarted the
Celestians and warred against them," Phelosh Mellulog concludes harshly, "so that I too can make war
upon them and make them suffer for what they did to me."

Falaine grins to herself, betraying the correction as the jest it was.

Phelosh Mellulog pauses a moment, his slender chest rising and falling rapidly as if with
unrestrained emotion, before at last appearing to regain his self-possession.

"So, that is why I am here," Phelosh Mellulog declares. Taking a deep breath, he offers a wry smile
to Azyaiya y'Cafici and bows slightly at the waist. "Although the reputation of Magnagora as a rich
artistic and cultural centre of its own hardly hurts, either."

Reaching once more for the playbill, Yuleshka the Acolyte points at the line denoting Azyaiya
y'Cafici, murmuring, "The actress playing the viscanti is the playwright -- in fact, she plays many
of the roles." She briefly watches the exchange between Falaine and you, but upon discovering it to
be benign, retains her effervescent smile.

Very nearly breaking into applause, Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister flashes a joyous smile at
Phelosh Mellulog and lets out a long, satisfied sigh. "Indeed, indeed. Well, I am thoroughly
convinced of your sincerity, Lord Phelosh, and thoroughly impressed by your fervour. In a word, you
have won me over completely, and were it up to my adjudication, I would enthusiastically induct you
into the ranks of Magnagoran citizens this very minute. There is no doubt in my mind that your voice
and your talents would symphonise most melodiously here and further aggrandise our stupendous Engine
of Transformation."

The tip of Avaris's lower left antennae bends towards Falaine as several of his
wing-eyes glance askance at her, before refocusing upon the play.

"Unfortunately, to my great woe," Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister intones with ponderous
overtones, "that decision is not solely up to me. Your application for citizenship will have to be
considered at the highest levels, for there are those who will conjecture you to be an extremely
controversial candidate, simply because you were so recently a loyal Celestian, for all that they
maltreated you so dreadfully and drove you away. The process, I fear, may take several months, and
there may not be much that you can do but wait until it is done."

Phelosh Mellulog says, "Ah, I feared as much, Minister Azyaiya. If you promise to do your best on my
behalf, then I will promise to cooperate as much as I can and spend my time productively by learning
as much as I can about what I hope shall become my new home."

Leaning his head towards Yuleshka the Acolyte, Avaris asks, sincere curiosity
bright in his hushed voice, "She is very skilled, to play so many roles, and so well. Have you seen
many of her productions?"



The sky lightens and stars fade as Father Sun approaches the horizon in his neverending quest to
capture Mother Night.

Streaks of violet light snake across the morning sky, colouring it a deep purple.

"Oh, but of course! I shall do everything that I can for your sake, Lord Phelosh!" Azyaiya y'Cafici,
Macabre Minister exclaims, clapping her plump hands together. "I promise I shall not scruple at
anything, even poisoning someone's tea, to bring you into the fold." Oblivious to the look of horror
that briefly flickers across Phelosh Mellulog's eyes, she adds blithely, "Until then, have you
established any arrangements for lodgings? I do believe my family's estate may be in possession of
an unclaimed guest room..."

A shade hastily, Phelosh Mellulog says, "No, no, that won't be necessary. I've already reserved a
room at the...Wailing Woman Inn, I believe it's called? I'll be happy to stay there until the
citizenship procedures wrap up."

Tapping a finger to her chin in thought, Yuleshka the Acolyte says with a soft sigh, "I think it is
her only one, to my knowing."

"Ah, wonderful!" Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister purrs, laying her hand on Phelosh Mellulog's arm
and smiling up at him. "Alas, normally I would be delighted to escort you there myself, since you
are new to the city and its topography is certain to be enigmatic and recondite for you, but
regretfully other duties beckon me at this time However, I'm sure that my most trusted aide, Iskogu,
will be more than happy to guide you. Iskogu!" she calls, clapping her hands sharply.

Taking her own playbill into her hands for study, Falaine raises her brow anew. "Such varied roles,
and all done so convincingly. It is a shame if this is her only one."

Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister says, "Iskogu, be a dear and show this kind gentleman, Lord
Phelosh Mellulog to his lodgings at the Wailing Woman Inn, would you, please? And please accommodate
any questions or requests he might have!"

"Adieu, my darlings!" Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister trills cheerily, waving goodbye and
performing another deep, floor-sweeping curtsey threatens to coat the hems of her gown with the ever-
present soot and ash endemic to the streets of Magnagora, before sashaying away out of view.

There is a faint tremor in the air and a shifting of the shadows behind Phelosh Mellulog, and then
suddenly a grey-cloaked illithoid with a jakari chain wrapped around his fist steps into view from
what had hitherto appeared to be a dark and empty street corner.

Yuleshka the Acolyte wipes her skirt reflexively, as if trying to rid herself of the ash and dust
scattered on the stage.

Bloodletter Iskogu opens his mouth to reveal the rows of spiny, razor-sharp teeth glinting within as
he performs a low bow, the branching purple veins in his ashen skin pulsating with an eerie, erratic
rhythm.

Bloodletter Iskogu turns to give Phelosh Mellulog a cold stare, the purplish veins upon his forehead
visibly throbbing and his beady red eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Phelosh Mellulog barely manages to repress a shudder as he meets Bloodletter Iskogu's chillingly
predatory gaze, but keeps his voice steady as he asks, "Shall we head toward the Wailing Woman Inn
now?"

Distaste flickers over Falaine's face at the grotesque grin.

Instead of answering, Bloodletter Iskogu takes a single stride toward Phelosh Mellulog and flicks
aside the front of his cloak, revealing a thin, shirtless chest with a fleshy maw on his sternum. As
Phelosh gapes in frozen fear, an inner worm snakes out of his sternum toward the mugwump and twists
this way and that, tasting the psionic emanations around him.

Finally, the inner worm retracts into Bloodletter Iskogu's sternum again with a muffled hissing
noise, causing Phelosh Mellulog to slump in visible relief.

Bloodletter Iskogu says, "I sense deceit from you. Deceit, and fear, and treachery."

Gathering himself and wiping the fear from his face, Phelosh Mellulog straightens haughtily in a
show of righteous indignation. "Well, of course I'm a little afraid! This is the first time I've
ever seen an illithoid in my life, let alone an illithoid openly using that...that inner
worm...thing."

Avaris's dips his chin in a slight nod, tone contemplative as he offers, "There is
something to be said for instilling a singular work with such a degree of passion and skill, rather
than producing many that are of low effort and quality." At the appearance of the illithoid, his
fingers curl slowly into fists, a minuscule flicker of red passing through his markings.

Despite having seen the performance many a time, Yuleshka the Acolyte flinches at the illithoid's
approach, unconsciously sitting closer to Falaine as she does so.

Phelosh Mellulog says, "As for the deceit, well, I'm an actor. Acting on a stage is basically lying
to entertain an audience, so when I'm onstage I'm practically obligated to deceive people. I don't
know what you mean about the treachery, but maybe you're sensing how I feel about New Celest
betraying my trust and humiliating me into leaving."

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Bloodletter Iskogu
Portrayed by Niralahi
Costume: This small, lithe illithoid man is draped in a loose, floor-length cloak that flares
noiselessly behind him as he moves, occasionally revealing glimpses of well-worn leather trousers
underneath. Fashioned from dark grey leather, the cloak almost perfectly blends into the dull, murky
grey of his skin, shot through with thick bluish-purple veins and stretched tight over his sunken
cheeks and bony eye sockets. His beady red eyes constantly monitor his surroundings with an
alertness bordering on paranoia, and his mouth is often twisted into a fanged rictus resembling a
snarl. An iron jakari chain is tightly wound in coils around one leather-gloved hand.

"Maybe," Bloodletter Iskogu concedes. "But maybe not. I can sense that your words do not match your
psionic patterns. And therefore you cannot be trusted."

With an indifferent stare, Phelosh Mellulog shrugs nonchalantly as he slowly blinks one eye and then
the other. "Well, if you don't trust me, shouldn't you be telling Minister Azyaiya instead of me?
And until you do, shouldn't you be showing me to the inn like she said?"

Bloodletter Iskogu bares his razor-sharp teeth again in a rictus of a smile and gives an ironic
little bow. "Of course," he hisses, flourishing his arm. "Right this way...sir."

A choking billow of dismal brownish haze drifts across the stage as Phelosh Mellulog and Bloodletter
Iskogu walk down the street, keeping a distrustful distance between them as they disappear from view
into the evening darkness descending across Magnagora.

Studying the creature with narrowed eyes, Falaine shifts a bit closer, one of the arms she leans on
now somewhere behind the young acolyte in an unconsciously protective gesture.

When the choking brown haze finally dissipates, the urban landscape of the Magnagoran street has
been replaced with the more tranquil scene of a small, comfortable room inside the Wailing Woman
Inn. Furnished with a narrow bed and a table with an oval mirror above it, the room appears well
cared for but hardly lived in.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Phelosh Mellulog has leaned forward and buried his head in his
hands, as if attempting to block out the sight and sound of the world around him. After a moment, a
faint groan issues from him, followed by a series of shudders that ripple through his body in quick
succession.

Muffled by his hands, Phelosh Mellulog says, "I shouldn't be here. I really should not be here. I
should never have come here in the first place. Why did I agree to come here?"

A low sound of pure disgust vibrates forth from Avaris's chest as he leans back in
an unconscious effort to avoid the grotesque haze.

Phelosh Mellulog slowly pulls his hands away from his face, revealing an expression of exhausted
misery in his dull eyes and downturned mouth. Tiredly rubbing his forehead, he mumbles softly, "It's
been three months, but it feels like an eternity. I wish I could go home."

Phelosh Mellulog takes a deep breath and looks as though he immediately regrets it, wrinkling his
nose in disgust and making a face. "I hate it here so much. I hate everything about it here: the
place, the people, the food, even the smells. Every breath of air I take feels toxic and filthy. And
the parties they take me to, the rituals, the hovels, the poor mutts on the streets..."

With a long sigh, Phelosh Mellulog says, "It's been all I could do to avoid becoming a citizen of
this accursed city while I try to ferret out information about the Bulwark of the Damned! To dodge
interviews from the ruling council and the Ministry of Education and find reasons not to sign any of
their forms, all while that silly Azyaiya woman exerts her influence to "help" me..."

Pushing himself off the bed, Phelosh Mellulog takes a kneeling position on the floor and fishes out
from within a tiny pocket inside his sleeve a familiar chain hung with a golden pearl, engraved with
the symbols of a trident and an angelfish. He reverently cradles the pearl in uplifted hands and
closes his eyes.

Falaine nods in silent sympathy to the actor's words, though she looks thoughtful. "And yet, he will
stay.." she guesses, a hint of a smile touching her lips.

Phelosh Mellulog says, "I call to You, Lady Carakhan, Sculptor of the Waves, from this place of
iniquity and horror, to wash me pure with Your waters. Mistress of the waves, the tides, and the
abyssal deeps, hear now my prayer and grant me Your blessing. Praise be to You, now and always."

The faintest of breezes sweeps through the room, lightly rustling the drapes on the small window and
bringing with it the subtlest salt tang of the sea that freshens the air and enlivens the senses
with the scents of brine and seaweed.

Evidently thoroughly invested in the story, Avaris lifts his hand up to squeeze it
into a fist in a gesture of encouragement, whispering, "Fortitude, Phelosh."

Phelosh Mellulog's eyes brighten with a glimmer of unexpected hope, a glimmer that does not fade
even after the breeze has passed by and the tang of the sea has faded away into memory.

In a hushed gasp, Phelosh Mellulog says, "Lady Carakhan?"

A sudden smile breaking across his face like dawn over the ocean, Phelosh Mellulog tucks the pearl
on its chain into its accustomed concealed pocket and leaps to his feet with newfound energy,
striding up to the mirror with renewed purpose and smoothing the ruffles on his shirt.

Flicking his long tongue out of his mouth and licking the corners of his lips, Phelosh Mellulog
examines his reflection and murmurs to himself like a mantra, "It'll be all right. All you have to
do is stay in character. You're an angry former citizen of New Celest, a bard and playwright who
desires nothing more than to sing and orate about the deaths of all Celestians, willing ally of
Magnagora and its agenda. Just remember that and stay in character."

A group of iridescent bubbles silently floats past on a sea breeze.

You think to yourself: "Ah. I know that feeling well, Phelosh."

A series of knocks sounds at the door, and Phelosh Mellulog freezes in place for a moment, before
relaxing and pasting on a delighted smile. "Minister Azyaiya, is that you?" he calls out loudly.

A touch of fervency lights Falaine's eyes at the sign of Presence, depicted and fictional though it
may be. She silently cheers the mugwump on.

From the other sound of the door, Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister's voice rings out in a breathy,
tremulous soprano. "But of course, Lord Phelosh! The commencement of the tea party at the city
gardens is nigh! And really, how many times must I tell you to call me Azyaiya?"


Phelosh Mellulog straightens the collar of his shirt and walks over to open the door, swinging it
wide and bowing low with an elegant flourish. "At least one more time, Minister Azyaiya. At least
one more time."

"Oh, what an incorrigible gentleman you are!" Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister giggles, a splotchy
blush blossoming across her opalescent complexion. She brushes her cheek self-consciously with well-
manicured, razor-like nails of blood-red, her brown eyes dancing with captivation.

Her painstakingly plucked brows drawing together in amusement, Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister
exclaims ebulliently, "But we mustn't dally here, or we'll be late for the tea party!" With great
familiarity, she links her arm through Phelosh's and all but hauls him through the door into the
cobbled streets of Magnagora in her urgency.



You think to yourself: Revulsion, sickly and potent. "Ugh. Vile creature."

In passing, as they both hasten along the streets past hunched beggars, bony gutter mutts, and
masked viscanti nobles, Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister remarks, "Oh, Lord Phelosh, did you hear
that the forms for your military background went missing yet again? It must be the fourth or fifth
time that some part of your citizenship application was stolen or lost! It's enough for me to
postulate some degree of subversiveness or sabotage! Isn't it dreadful?"

Sunlight billows across the realm, revealing the full glory of the majestic sun's luminous presence
as he climbs higher into the sky.

Phelosh Mellulog arranges his features into a proper expression of dismay and disappointment, though
a flicker of relief passes briefly through his eyes. "Really? Again? How much longer will this
process have to take, I wonder? But ah, here we are at the gardens!"

Secluded from the street, a neatly manicured and cultivated garden spreads out before them, already
filled with laughing and chattering Magnagorans mingling together and admiring the white amaranth
blossoms. Several citizens look up at their arrival and gaily greet both Azyaiya y'Cafici and
Phelosh Mellulog, beckoning them to join the party.

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
A short distance from the street, this garden features heavily manicured plots of grass and flowers
that appear particularly striking and improbable within the harsh, smog-ridden urban ambience of
Magnagora. Tiny bone-white amaranth blossoms flourish amidst the dark green foliage, emitting with a
pallid, corpse-like glow and perfuming the air with a sickly-sweet fragrance. Tables laid with cakes
and tea cups have been set up throughout the garden, which is alive with activity as dozens of
Magnagorans mingle, wander, chatter, laugh, and gather together in small, conspiratorial knots.
The following props can be seen (STAGE LOOK <prop> to examine them):
  Crowd               : A small crowd of Magnagoran citizens mills around the ga
The following roles are being performed (STAGE LOOK <role> to examine them):
  Phelosh             : Phelosh Mellulog                         by Farvu
  Azyaiya             : Azyaiya y'Cafici, Macabre Minister       by Niralahi

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
A small crowd of Magnagoran citizens mills around the garden, dressed festively in colourful silks
that swish softly as they meander about. Seemingly out of whimsy, some of the viscanti attendees
chose to obscure their features with elaborate masks that reveal only their glittering eyes. The
sounds of laughter, gossip, murmurous rumour-mongering, and flirtation fill the air above the
clinking of tea cups and plates.

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Phelosh Mellulog
Portrayed by Farvu
Costume: This male mugwump stands tall and slender with a dapper, upright bearing, his ink-stained,
callus-tipped hands constantly in motion as he gestures and moves about. A richly ruffled white
linen shirt sets off the deep sea-green of his slick, glistening skin, while tight-fitting breeches
and high leather boots encase his long legs. A nigh-imperceptible bulge on one sleeve of his shirt
indicates the possible presence of a hidden object within, though the object in question must be
extremely small and compact indeed. Showing signs of human ancestry, his round, faintly protuberant
ink-black eyes are offset by a short, flat nose, high cheekbones, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. A
leather case for holding a lyre is strapped at his back, with pockets to hold sheafs of sheet music
and play scripts.

Squaring his shoulders, Phelosh Mellulog strides forward into the thick of the tea party, where he
is quickly surrounded by curiosity seekers and admirers full of questions and gossip. "Will you sing
for us?" "Are you writing another play?" "How goes the citizenship process?" several voices ask him
in chorus.

Phelosh Mellulog answers or fends off every question with as much grace and aplomb as he can muster,
never showing a sign of strain or impatience. He begins engaging different groups and individuals
alike in convivial conversation, gossiping, making contacts, encouraging, admiring, and, above all,
listening alertly as his interlocutors hold court.

When a chatty party-goer idly asks how Phelosh Mellulog has been spending his days, he mentions
spending time in the city library and shows an interest in Magnagoran history, guiding the
conversation toward the recent past.

Avaris murmurs, sympathy softening his words further still,"Once more into the
fray."

In Phelosh Mellulog's midst, the conversations gradually shift to recounting and reminiscing about
the dramatic fall of Magnagora's former guilds and the establishment of new guilds, which he
encourages with gentle nudges and comments: "Do tell me more! Where might I read more about these
things? I do enjoy firsthand accounts of great historical events."

"A different sort of warfare, to be certain," Yuleshka the Acolyte agrees with a bob of her head.

"I was there the night that the towers fell and we fought the Cogs in the Smog..." "A host of angels
descended on the city and slew the Necromentate!" "Damned souls flew free from the Necropolis..."
"Cracks in the ground, did you say?"

"We uncovered the foundations of an ancient project..." "Dark rituals..." "A dire price to pay..."
"...records kept in the office of the history professor at the College of Necromantic & Tainted
Research..."

Softly, Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity says, "And a skilled fighter he is indeed.."

Upon hearing the last statement, Phelosh Mellulog lets out a long breath and falls still, his eyes
widening very slightly and a glimmer of hope flashing across his eyes.

The sharp point of Avaris's gleaming chin dips into the froth of his mane as he
nods at Yuleshka the Acolyte's words. "Yet just as vital, and harrowing, in its way."

Politely excusing himself from his current conversation, Phelosh Mellulog makes his way
unobtrusively to the edges of the garden, pauses to take stock of his surroundings, and then
furtively sneaks away from the party.

"History professor at the College. I think I remember where their office is," Phelosh Mellulog
whispers to himself as he steals out of the garden party and moves quietly but briskly along the
street, trying to contain his excitement and avoid drawing attention to himself.

Unbeknownst to Phelosh Mellulog, however, Bloodletter Iskogu had been skulking in the shadows just
outside the garden. Scouting the area with suspicious red eyes, he quickly spots the mugwump
surreptitiously stealing away and emits a frightening, ravenous-sounding hiss.

The distant, soft chiming of a bell echoes across the city, its beatific ring piercing the night
with a welcoming, warming voice.

Moving far more skilfully than the mugwump, Bloodletter Iskogu stealthily shadows him through the
city's streets toward the College. "What is he doing now?" he whispers sibilantly to himself,
effortlessly tracking Phelosh Mellulog's progress. "I knew he could not be trusted."

Bloodletter Iskogu skitters silently from gas lamp to gas lamp until he sees Phelosh Mellulog
abruptly duck into a narrow alley. Turning the corner himself, Iskogu comes face to face with the
massive stone edifice of the College of Tainted & Necromantic Research just as Phelosh discreetly
follows a student through the front gates and into the building.

Unexpectedly, Yuleshka the Acolyte squeezes Falaine's hand in hers, tensing ever so slightly.

Falaine's eyes narrow at the illithoid, her fingers flexing as it itching to grasp the hilt of her
sword.

Lithely leaping into a handspring, Bloodletter Iskogu vaults over the front gates and scales the
walls with a spider's agility until he reaches the rooftop of the College, ignoring the stunned
gazes of students around him. He balances on the rooftop edges and peers into windows until at last
he spots Phelosh Mellulog inside an empty office, pulling a desk drawer open.

As Bloodletter Iskogu hangs outside the window, Phelosh Mellulog rifles through folders and binders
until he finds a particular set of documents that makes his ink-black eyes widen triumphantly. In
only a few moments, the mugwump reads through vast swaths of information, his tongue flicking toward
the pages as if to capture and devour every word.

In a manner that seems more reflexive than intentional, Avaris reacts to the hiss
with a resonant, vibrating thrumming that shivers in the air about him, both sweet and dreadful in
its inherent threat.

Phelosh Mellulog says, "This is it! Eyewitness accounts of how they raised the Bulwark of the
Damned! Surely this will be enough to help Minister Serelynth."

Gently, eyes still on the stage intently, Falaine pats Yuleshka the Acolyte's hand reassuringly with
her other one.

Phelosh Mellulog drops the papers back into the drawer and falls to his knees, pressing his hands
together in prayer and raising his voice in a soft song.

An exquisite chorus of melodies wavers lightly in the air, accompanied by the rich, vibrant notes of
a violin.

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "This day I offer my praise to You, Lady Carakhan, as Your waves carry me to
victory at last. I thank You for Your mercy and benevolence. With love and devotion I praise and
honour You, forever and always."

Overcome with rage and hatred, Bloodletter Iskogu reacts by flinging one end of his jakari chain
right through the office's window directly at Phelosh Mellulog. The window shatters with a
spectacular shower of broken glass, and the startled mugwump has just enough time to look up before
the barbs on the chain hook deeply into his clothing and skin.

Snarling with satisfaction as his chain tightens about his prey, Bloodletter Iskogu swiftly leaps
off the roof and lands on the ground in a spinning crouch, while wrenching powerfully on his end of
the jakari chain.

Yuleshka the Acolyte's fingers tighten in Falaine's grip -- knowing the ending of the story, it
seems, does not take away the power of its journey, at least for this krokani child.

Phelosh Mellulog lets out a scream of pain and terror as, snarled within the illithoid's remorseless
chain, he is yanked bodily through the smashed window and crashes to the ground amidst a flurry of
glassy splinters at a livid Bloodletter Iskogu's feet.

"I knew you could not be trusted," Bloodletter Iskogu hisses furiously, the veins beneath his skin
throbbing a vivid purple and his eyes blazing ruby-red. "I knew Minister Azyaiya was wrong to help
you. I knew all along that you were up to no good, no matter what you said or how much you smiled at
everyone."

Writhing in his chains and trying to pull away, Phelosh Mellulog gasps frantically, "Iskogu, look, I
don't know what you saw, but it isn't what you think! There's a perfectly good explanation for
everything, if you'd just let me out of this chain!"

Inexplicably, a cohesive bubble of water meanders by, small floating drips trailing after it.

Jerking upright and leaning forward, Falaine's brow is tightly furrowed, fully engrossed in the
story as she protectively keeps her hand atop Yuleshka the Acolyte's.

"You. Are. A. Spy," Bloodletter Iskogu intones harshly, each word punctuated by the gnashing of
spiny, razor-sharp teeth. "You were stealing secrets from Magnagora. That's what I saw. And nothing
you say could convince me otherwise, you treacherous scum."

Bloodletter Iskogu expertly trusses Phelosh Mellulog's body in more lengths of jakari chain and
grins mirthlessly to hear the mugwump cry out in agony as more barbs slice into his skin. Then he
turns on his heel and strides confidently away from the College, dragging Phelosh behind him.

The stage darkens to blackness amidst the sounds of chains clinking, footsteps thudding away into
the distance, and the quiet moans of anguish from the Phelosh Mellulog as his chain-entangled body
thumps and rolls hopelessly after his captor toward what will surely be an unpleasant fate.

In time, these sounds fade gradually into silence, leaving the stage momentarily in complete
stillness--a stillness that is abruptly broken by the sound of a powerful, resounding punch and an
agonised groan, followed by the hiss of an indrawn breath and, incongruously enough, the sound of a
hoarse but still melodic voice singing a hymn.

Pale-grey rays of pre-dawn light slowly brighten the stage, revealing a public square in Magnagora
where the ensnared Phelosh Mellulog has been lashed to a gas lamp. Even in the dim illumination, his
face and body are quite visibly mangled with bruises, lacerations, and other painful-looking wounds.

The sun reaches the zenith of the firmament, pausing in his quest to allow the land to bask in his
shining golden rays.

A number of the eyes watching Yuleshka the Acolyte soften to a warmer hue of white
as they witness the quiet interaction of comfort needed and comfort given, Avaris a glimmer of a
scintillating smile suffusing the blue of his natural eyes, at odds with the intensity of the
display on stage. The violence elicits only a very slight, sorrowful shake of his head.

Despite his wounds, some of which still bleed continuously down the side of his face and arms,
Phelosh Mellulog's expression remains peculiarly serene, even beatific, his eyes closed and his
mouth open to sing.

The sound of clashing swords strikes the air as Defenders of the Light spar nearby.

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "Though hardships buffet me like a storm, though my sorrows like ocean
billows roll..."

Falaine lets out a soft hiss of displeasure at the scene, but remains transfixed.

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "My Lady's waves guide my heart safe to shore and protect the ship that is
my soul."

Soft sparkles glint faintly in the air as he sings the simple, sweet refrain in a still-strong,
sonorous tenor, his fingers reflexively moving as if to deftly pluck the strings of a lyre.

Bloodletter Iskogu gives a low, furious hiss and the sternal mouth on his chest stretches outward
menacingly as he draws his fist back for another punch. "Stop. Singing. Your. Nil-damned. Hymns!
Tell me what I want to know!"

Phelosh Mellulog gasps and coughs as the punch lands against his jaw, spewing up a mouthful of blood
and spitting out a tooth. Hanging loosely in his bonds, he breathes hard for a moment and then
wheezes, "The average aerial speed of a laden postal pelican is about six metres per second, given a
letter weight of one kilogram or less. There, now you know."

Gnashing his fangs in frustration, Bloodletter Iskogu pulls a wicked, claw-like blade from a side
sheath and points it at Phelosh Mellulog, only to pause suddenly and cock his head in puzzlement.
"Really? How do you even know that?"

Phelosh Mellulog winks knowingly in response, only to burst into a scream when the annoyed illithoid
sinks the claw-like blade into his shoulder. "Sweet Celestia, why does that hurt so much! Please,
please stop. Please make it stop..."

In a poisonously sweet tone, Bloodletter Iskogu says, "You know how you can make it stop, you spying
scum. What documents did you steal? Where are you hiding them?"

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "Though the reefs of calamity lurk beneath, though we sail through winds we
cannot control, my Lady's waters still carry me far and cradle the ship that is my soul."

Ignoring the outburst of song, Bloodletter Iskogu hisses, "All I found when I searched your body--
-and believe me when I say I searched it thoroughly---was this. Was it important to you, perhaps?"
He holds up a golden pearl dangling from a thin chain, its shimmering nacreous surface seeming even
brighter against his ashen-grey skin.

Phelosh Mellulog's eyes widen and a broken, horrified moan escapes his lips as Bloodletter Iskogu
mimes dropping the pearl down a sewer grate. Bowing his head, he whispers, "I didn't steal anything.
I speed-read the documents I needed and committed them all to memory. They're all in my head, and
you won't be able to get them out without killing me outright."

Looking vexed but also vaguely impressed, Bloodletter Iskogu says, "You memorised them all? But you
only looked at the documents for a few minutes!"

Phelosh Mellulog rears his head back up and manages, despite everything, to arch his eyebrow in a
look of arrogant hauteur. "I've been an actor for fifteen years, Iskogu, and I was good enough to
fool everyone in Magnagora that didn't have a disgusting chest worm sniffing my thoughts. I've had
to memorise entire plays, books, and operas in an hour and perform them that very night! I'm not
some amateur that needs to write notes or scribble things on my hand. Those few documents were
nothing, nothing at all."

Phelosh Mellulog says, "Now, considering you don't seem to be getting anywhere with your questions,
let me ask one of my own: Why were you sending out all those bats earlier? What was that for?"

Bloodletter Iskogu's immediate response is to stab the mugwump's other shoulder with his knife,
eliciting a shrill whimper from Phelosh Mellulog as a trickle of blood pours down his arm. His
second response is to sigh, "Criminals like you shouldn't ask questions. You don't even deserve to
hear me sing a hymn to Nifilhema or the like. But if you really must know..."

Bloodletter Iskogu says, "I sent the bats with letters to the Iron Council, telling them what I
found out about you. Now it is up to them to decide on your execution."

Sagging despondently in his bonds, Phelosh Mellulog says, "So...all this since then was just you
passing the time until you heard back?"

"Well, I did wish to know what information you were specifically hoping to bring back to your
masters in New Celest," Bloodletter Iskogu admits. "But yes, it was also so that I could enjoy
myself. And I have." He pauses briefly to twist the blade still lodged in Phelosh Mellulog's
shoulder and chuckles heartily to himself at the sound of the resulting shriek. "Very much so."

Just then, a group of officers from the Magnagoran constabulary march into view together, formally
clad in midnight-blue uniforms and ostentatiously equipped with manacles, shackles, and restraining
poles. The lead constable nods greetings to Bloodletter Iskogu and flourishes an official order of
execution, stamped and sealed by the Iron Council.

Bloodletter Iskogu turns to examine the order of execution and gives a sigh, while his sternal mouth
idly extends toward the constables. "Very well. It seems my fun is over, and so is your life, spy
scum," he announces, pulling his blade out of Phelosh Mellulog's shoulder and stalking off. "I'll
enjoy watching your head roll."

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Within the city of Magnagora, this cobbled street leads past market stalls, residential homes, and
sprawling businesses, all of which are darkened with an ever-deepening layer of soot and ash. A gas
lamp atop a tall, ornately gilded iron post casts pale, ghostly light along the street, brightening
its immediate surroundings but accentuating the shadows beyond. Occasionally, a snivelling beggar or
gutter mutt passes by, often wearing identically weary, miserable expressions and uttering similar
hungry, desperate whimpers.
The following props can be seen (STAGE LOOK <prop> to examine them):
  Gaslamp             : This ornately gilded iron post is adorned with the spher
The following roles are being performed (STAGE LOOK <role> to examine them):
  Phelosh             : Phelosh Mellulog                         by Farvu
  Iskogu              : Bloodletter Iskogu                       by Niralahi

Falaine growls at the torture, her free hand moving upward as if to cover Yuleshka the Acolyte's
eyes before deliberately stopping herself.

Stricken with shock, Phelosh Mellulog slumps bonelessly as the constables impassively unwrap the
jakari chain around him, fasten manacles to his wrists and ankles, and clasp a metal band around his
neck, attached by long silken ropes to the restraining poles held by each constable.

A city constable says, "Good morning, sir. Don't you worry, you're in good hands. Please stand up,
and we'll be on our way to the gallows."

Phelosh Mellulog turns a wretched stare at the city constable. "I really wasn't expecting to die,"
he mumbles. Then a sudden look of panic crosses his face. "That nasty little worm-chested thief! He
walked off with my pearl! My pearl!"

As Phelosh Mellulog begins to thrash futilely in his manacles, a city constable simply shakes his
head and motions the other constables forward. "Me, if I knew I was being beheaded in half an hour,
I'd be thinking about my last breakfast, maybe drafting out some fine last words. Not flailing about
like this lad, screaming my head off about some jewel thief or the like."

Clearly troubled by the scene, Yuleshka the Acolyte nonethless turns to Falaine and whispers,
"Still. We must have faith."

Lifting his face and raising his voice to the heavens, Phelosh Mellulog says, "Lady Carakhan!
Please! I have not forsaken You! I beg You, please do not forget me!"

You think to yourself: "The pearl is just a symbol, Phelosh. She is with you, regardless."

Heedless of his increasingly despondent pleas, a city constable and his cohorts stolidly lift the
mugwump to his feet and stolidly march him onward by means of the restraining roles and poles
through the streets, unmoved by the occasional outcry of a Magnagoran citizen who recognises Phelosh
and reacts with disbelief, betrayal, or both.

With a grunt of "Hold him steady, mates!", a city constable leads Phelosh Mellulog toward the Bridge
of Torment, a structure so horrific that even the mugwump falls silent as he unwillingly approaches
it.

Falaine nods, though still glaring fiercely at the constables. "Faith and hope," she murmurs in
reply. "And fortitude. Always."

Arching over the harbour to the Sea of Despair, the Bridge of Torment forms a long expanse wrought
from the pale bodies of the dead and dying, the latter of which still occasionally writhe and twitch
in anguish, particularly as the group of constables and their prisoner start walking across.

By now, however, dawn has begun breaking over the horizon, which now glows radiantly with burnished
shades of orange and red while the feathery clouds streaking the sky are tinted a soft, misty
violet, while the normally oily, viscous waters now glimmer as though overlaid with a net of gold.

Continuing the hunt for his dark mate, Father Sun presses forward in his journey, lowering himself
in the sky yet still casting even, full light upon the land.

Tears slowly fill Phelosh Mellulog's eyes and a soft, rapturous smile curves his lips as he gazes
with awestruck wonder at the beauty of the sea, deeply moved by the sight. "If I have to die today,"
he whispers, "at least the last thing I see will be this beautiful sight."

To the surprise of the constables around him, Phelosh Mellulog clears his throat and bursts once
more into heartfelt song with his gaze fixed upon the sea, his voice no longer feeble and hoarse
from pleading and screaming but now pure, resonant, vibrant, and soaring from crystalline tenor
notes to a mellow, thrilling baritone.

The four antennae that typically shift and flow with some degree of animation atop
Avaris's heads are still, drooping aside as he watches the harrowing trials of Phelosh with sorrow
dimming the hue of his eyes. In a whisper, he echoes, "Always."

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "How wondrous You are, Lady Sculptor, You who shaped each wave in perfect
symmetry, You who painted the fishes and corals until the jewels of the earth envy them their
colours. How wondrous You are, shining and radiant in sparkling foam and shimmering pearl."

A deeply harmonic mantra fills the air as monks chant reverentially close-by.

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "Praise be to You, Lady Carakhan, who brought light to the shining shallows
of the sea, who wrought the wonders of the deeps, whose waves rise and flow from tempest to
tranquility. Praise be to You from all the creatures that move upon the earth and within the sea."

You examine a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold and see:
Composed almost entirely of the bodies of the dead and dying, this bridge arches high over the
harbour leading out to the Sea of Despair. Thick black cords secure the bodies together, allowing
the bridge to hold its shape, and jagged stitches crisscross the mouths of each body to keep them
shut. Some of the still-living bodies twitch and spasm occasionally, especially if anyone approaches
or walks over the bridge, giving this structure an unsettlingly dynamic feel. Pillars of piled bones
and interwoven corpses anchor each end of the bridge, holding it steady over the murky, polluted
waters that ebb and rise below.
The following roles are being performed (STAGE LOOK <role> to examine them):
  Phelosh             : Phelosh Mellulog                         by Farvu
  Constable           : a city constable                         by Niralahi

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "Save me, Lady Sculptor, for all Your waves and billows have swept over me.
I have sunk into the fathomless depths where there is no light to see by; I have foundered in deep
waters where the flood will drown me."

Phelosh Mellulog sings, "Lady Carakhan, who stills the raging of the sea, who wields the trident to
protect and purify, hear my song and save me from iniquity, so that I shall perish not. Let me
rejoice always in the beauty of Your works; let me sing of You forever from the shores of the sea."

A sudden gust of wind blows across the Bridge of Torment, causing the rickety structure to sway
dangerously from side to side and bringing a scent of salt-tinged freshness and cleanliness that
cuts through the foul, reeking stench of dead fish and rotting seaweed hanging over the harbour.

A city constable says, "Bloody Nil, what was that?"

Phelosh Mellulog holds his breath as he waits for more, looking from side by side as he and the
constables regain their balance and slowly walk further along the Bridge. "Lady Carakhan?" he
whispers hopefully.

Falaine sits up, her eyes flashing brightly as she whispers to herself, "Yesss...."

Nothing else happens, however, and the wind dies down to apparent stillness, prompting Phelosh
Mellulog to hang his head forlornly as he and his retinue of constables reach the apex of the
bridge.

"This way, please, sir," a city constable sternly admonishes the mugwump. "Some of us have to get on
with our lives, you know!"

Yuleshka the Acolyte leans forward, her single eye shining with anticipation.

Out of nowhere, the waters in the harbour swell upward at an alarming rate and an immense wave rises
out of the sea. Unlike the oily, polluted waters of the Sea of Despair, the waters of this wave
shimmer a luminous, crystal-clear blue flecked with golden pinpoints of light and fill the foul,
malodorous air with the clean, bracing scent of brine, salt, and algae.

With a grim satisfaction in his layered voice, Avaris intones, "A reckoning."

Topped with sparkling white foam, the wave surges toward the Bridge of Torment, mounting in size and
gathering speed until it rears up ten times as tall as an adult igasho as it approaches the shore.
Curiously, the huge, cresting wave appears to halt in place at the moment when it reaches the
critical height before breaking, as though restrained by an unseen hand.

Then, the wave crashes down upon the Bridge of Torment in a thunderous, raging torrent of swift
-moving water that almost drowns out the half-ecstatic, half-terrified cry from Phelosh Mellulog as
well as the terrified screams of the constables as the restraining poles are swiftly ripped out of
their bloody palms.

Almost immediately, another towering wave gushes over the harbour in a violent deluge, followed by
another wave even larger than the last. The onslaught submerges the constables, who sink beneath the
water's surface with hardly a struggle, and the very bridge threatens to tip over to one side as the
huge waves collide repeatedly against it.



Phelosh Mellulog barely has time to react before the roaring waves gush toward him and bodily hoist
his body over the railing of the bridge. He lands with a resounding splash into the churning waters
and quickly sinks below the surface, weighed down by his manacles and chains.

Falaine slams the gauntleted fist not holding the small hand down onto her knee in a clash of metal.
"Yes!" she exclaims, grinning.

Below the surface of the water, shifting sands and rocks from the ocean floor stir up around him,
while swirling currents immediately tug Phelosh this way and that, carrying his unresisting body
along a swiftly-flowing undertow that sweeps him away from the harbour with irresistible force.

With astounding accuracy, four large, sharp-edged rocks come hurtling toward him and perfectly snap
the chains connecting the manacles around his ankles and wrists. More rocks slice and tear through
the silken cords attached to the band around his neck, freeing him from the last of his bonds.

Phelosh Mellulog lets out a sigh of relief that emerges as a stream of bubbles rising from his mouth
through the water as he gratefully tests his limbs and begins kicking out his legs in a smooth
swimming stroke.

Satisfaction at having both witnessed the triumph of Phelosh, and witnessing it in such enthusiastic
company, both reflect in Yuleshka the Acolyte's joyous gaze as she watches the play unfold.

Phelosh Mellulog propels himself through the increasingly calm, gentle currents, occasionally diving
deep or spinning through the water in a spiralling corkscrew motion simply for the joy of swimming
freely, before he finally reaches a region of almost motionless water and pops his head up above the
surface.

Before him lie the glorious white-and-gold beaches of the Isle of Light, beckoning him back into the
safety and sanctity of the Inner Sea.

Shifting his head a few degrees towards Falaine, Avaris's eyes glitter with a quiet
smile.

Phelosh Mellulog wearily swims through the shallows and wades ashore along the edge of the beach,
his clothing torn and sodden as it clings to his limbs. He smiles brilliantly as he finally stands
on dry land and breathes in huge lungfuls of fresh, clean air, looking content for the first time
since he departed from New Celest.

Clasping his hands in heartfelt prayer, Phelosh Mellulog says, "Thank You for saving me, Lady
Carakhan. Thank You for bringing me home."

Something small and round rolls along the sand and bumps against his foot as he stands there in
contemplation. Bending over to look, Phelosh lets out a soft gasp and cradles it reverently in his
hand: a smooth, flawless golden pearl, freshly washed ashore and still shining with droplets of
water, like a special gift from the sea.

The curtains draw to a close on an exquisite pine stage, signaling the conclusion of the performance
of 'The Spy Who Loved the Sea'.

The air above a pearlescent seashell stage gilded in gold flickers one last time and clears, as the
recorded performance of 'The Spy Who Loved the Sea' concludes.

Shadows grow longer in anticipation for the return of their dark mistress as Father Sun's chase
brings him closer to the world's edge.

The heavens alight with a rich purple glow as dusk begins to settle in, preparing the First World
for the coming night.

Yuleshka the Acolyte applauds breathlessly, letting out a relieved sigh at the satisfying
conclusion, even though it is one she has surely memorized from much revisitation.

Falaine is still for a long moment, then exhales, shaking her head. "You're right," she says
definitively to Yuleshka the Acolyte. "That is firmly a favorite, and with a great many lessons to
learn from it. And so very gorgeously done."

Avaris sits up straight at the appearance of the pearl, a sound of delight
reverberating from the huge kephera. As the play concludes, he brings both pairs of his hands
together in delighted, enthusiastic applause. "Ah! That was the most wonderful play I have ever
seen!" Turning excitedly to Yuleshka the Acolyte, he praises, "You have excellent taste, young
Yuleshka! Thank you, ever so much."

A gentle pink blush suffusing her cheeks, Yuleshka the Acolyte admits, "I am so glad you enjoyed it!
It is likely to be so beautiful, of course, when it is written and performed by such a devout member
of the Sculptor's order."

A quiet kitten's mew sounds out nearby.

Yuleshka the Acolyte says, "I am certain Her artistry inspires Her faithful to hone their own
talents."

Falaine nods firmly. "I can only wish for my hands to be a fraction as talented as one of Hers," she
says with a smile.

As the sun passes below the horizon's edge, Mother Night unveils her terrible, shadowy beauty,
spreading darkness across the land.

Avaris's chin bobs up and down in a series of agreeable nods. "Just so. It is
marvelous, truly." Tilting his head curiously at Yuleshka the Acolyte, he asks, "Have you ever tried
to write a play, or act?"

Yuleshka the Acolyte shakes her head, saying only, "Only sermons. I have, ah, two I am attempting at
present. One for the Saint of the Dawn's Promise" -- here the pride in the saint of her own heritage
is unmistakeable -- "and of course one for Saint Hamos, the Dragonslayer. It is important to
immortalize, I think, their noble service to the Light."

Falaine nods firmly, a rather proud smile for the young acolyte finding its way to her face. "It is
important, yes. And I eagerly await both your sermons, which I will surely look out for, and your
work on the stage... for I am confident you will find your way on to it."

Not in the least disappointed, Avaris rests the flat of his palms once more upon
his knees, stating, "I would very much like to hear these sermons when they are complete. I have a
feeling that you will weave them into wonderful experiences." Pausing, with a faintly guilty glance
at Falaine, he confides in Yuleshka the Acolyte, voice lowering a touch, "I confess, I do not know a
great deal about the Saints."

The slightest wisps of translucent cloud disturb the clear skies overhead.

Across the heavens, the stars and moon challenge night's dark reign, revealing familiar
constellations that tell the tales of myth and legend.

"The altar may be more than enough of a stage for me," Yuleshka the Acolyte says with an abashed
laugh. At your words, however, her gaze sharpens with agreement, a quiet intellect fiercely
glittering in her eye. "I have heard many say such about the Celestial Saints. It is a pity, for
their tales are worth telling and re-telling. Young Saint Gathlyn's trust in Lady Raziela. Saint
Loathys and her devotion to Methrenton. There is so much to learn from their faith, piety and
courage."

Yuleshka the Acolyte says, "We are truly blessed, to have the Supernals watching over us in the
Light."

The pulsing beam from New Celest's lighthouse surges brilliantly, a shining beacon of hope that cuts
through the night sky across the entirety of the Basin of Life.

Listening to Yuleshka the Acolyte with the very same respectful gravitas that he
previously afforded Falaine, Avaris rests the flared edge of his jaw atop the spiked knuckles of his
upper right hand, gaze intent. "You are correct. I shall make efforts to rectify this." At the
mention of the Supernals, the faint rasp of chitin rubbing against itself whispers from where his
sharp jaw sits atop the gold of his hand as he nods. "We are most blessed, indeed. Since your first
recommendations was so fine, where would you suggest going to learn more of the Saints?"

Falaine dips her chin in acknowledgement of Yuleshka the Acolyte's point, offering, "That same
passion that would make you a stellar actor will surely draw renewed interest to the stories and
lessons of the Saints and Supernals." She glances over at you, then back to the acolyte, something
thoughtful finding its way into her eyes.

Yuleshka the Acolyte taps her chin, thinking. "There is a song the children of the Dragon's Grave
district often sing of the saints. It is where many of us begin as youth, even during my time in
Saint Gathlyn's Orphanage. One of the children may offer to sing it for you." Counting on her
fingers, "There is of course Zeasha, the hymnist dedicated to the Sanctifiers -- she is always
pleased to discuss her patron, Saint Loathys. Though there is a shrine dedicated to the Saint, I am
told, not far from the roads of the Southern Mountains. I believe the Lady Auriella knows of the
devotion required there, should you find yourself at a loss of what to do."

You think to yourself: Each point is filed away with meticulous care, bright and gleaming with
interest.

Furrowing her brow, as if more unsure of this next recommendation, Yuleshka the Acolyte says, "I
have never seen it, but am told there are mausoleums within the nearby cemetary of Oleanvir, and one
is in memorial to young Saint Gathlyn. I wonder if you would learn anything there. I believe, um,
Alexei is the person to speak with?" She trails off, uncertain, before saying, "And of course, you
may sometimes find more in the library, or the stage!"

Avaris nods along with each count of Yuleshka the Acolyte's fingers, his vast chest
rising and falling with a steady rhythm as he absorbs the information. Once it is clear that
Yuleshka the Acolyte is finished, his chin stabs down in a decisive nod, the chorus of his voice
warm, his words firm. "That is excellent advice, Yuleshka, and I thank you deeply for it. I will
endeavour to learn what I can, and ensure that others do so as well. It will not do for the Saints
to be neglected so."

Removing a pad from her belt and jotting notes at several points, Falaine nods and listens closely.
"I did not know about most of those, and will certainly seek them out. Thank you, Yuleshka, for
these and the play, as well as the pleasure of meeting you." She tucks the notes away and smiles,
absently adjusting a piece of hair fallen from her severe braid back behind an ear fin.

A hand tentatively playing with one of her braids, Yuleshka the Acolyte smiles before falling into a
low curtsey. "It would not do for one in training to be a priestess to not know where to begin
research of the saints," she says.

The gentle lapping of the Inner Sea colliding with the city walls washes over the streets,
accompanied by a whip of salty air.

The gentle light of the Pool of Stars suffuses the night sky with streaks of white.

One of the larger, more prominent eye-markings adorning Avaris's wings travels
curiously from Falaine's braid, to the one that Yuleshka the Acolyte toys with, the symmetry
eliciting a gentle, sparkling wave of light in the kephera's sevenfold gaze. "Ah. The young are
often hungry. Would you like something to eat, Yuleshka, or to drink?"

Voice resonating with choral harmonics, you say, "Eat, pardon."

Polite and profusely apologetic, Yuleshka the Acolyte says, "Oh, no thank you. I fear I have already
taken up much of your time! I interrupted, after all."

"This was a very enjoyable time," Yuleshka the Acolyte says though, earnest and genuine in her
gratitude. "There is nothing I love more than sharing in tales of the Light with others of New
Celest."

Once again lifting a long, plated hand to wave Yuleshka the Acolyte's apologies
away, Avaris states, in a voice that is at once kind and utterly immovable, "You have been a
blessing to us both on this day, Yuleshka. Thank /you/. You are free, I feel, to spend as much time
with either of us, whenever you wish." Bending at the waist in a deep, seated bow, he continues, "I
appreciate your guidance, and your Wisdom. Thank you."

Falaine stands, bowing at the waist, and smiles warmly at Yuleshka the Acolyte. "Thank you for the
pleasure of your company. Please, feel free to send more recommendations. And I..." she pauses.

Muttering, Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity says, "..I might try my own hand."

Avaris's leftmost antenna flicks to Falaine in surprise, though he makes no
comment.

Yuleshka the Acolyte pauses, a sudden late thought coming to mind as she releases a soft "oh" of
belated realization. "Of course, how could I forget? The Archons hold many relics of the Saint of
Dawn's Promise as well. I believe Yanitone knows well of him. And the Magisterium likewise with
tales of Javile and Saint Tresalyne!"

You think to yourself: "I think an avenue for her to pour her good heart into comfortably would be
wonderful."

Fervently, Yuleshka the Acolyte says to Falaine, "If you do, please let me know! I would love to see
any new works."

With a smile, Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity says, "I will write you. Though..."

Slakened Falaine, Novitiate of Purity says, "I am unsure where to send it."

Avaris dips his head in a serious nod, the sharp tip of his index finger tapping
once upon his thigh. "We shall visit as best we are able, thank you, Yuleshka. You are a trove of
knowledge, truly."

Yuleshka the Acolyte says, "My study keeps me often in the city's cathedral."

Yuleshka the Acolyte says, "I am sometimes lost to my own meditations, but, I do try to keep abreast
of what is happening in the city. So I will endeavor to pay attention to any discussion of
premieres, or debuts."

Falaine nods and smiles. "Very well then, Yuleshka." Her eyes find your, and she says deliberately,
"We have much to dwell on, now, it seems."

Yuleshka the Acolyte's mouth turns up as her face breaks into a smile.

Avaris's upper right antenna twitches at Falaine's words, though he blithely pays
it no obvious attention, instead nodding courteously to Yuleshka the Acolyte. "It has been a true
joy spending time with you, Yuleshka. I wish you the very best with your studies, and your sermons."

Curtseying once more as she smiles in apprecation, Yuleshka the Acolyte grabs the hem of her skirt
to depart before pausing, looking over her shoulder. "If you liked the play," she comments, "maybe
you should send a letter telling them thank you! I am sure it would make their day." With a final
radiant smile, she waves farewell.

Yuleshka slips out to the north as quietly as she can.

Watching the young woman depart, Avaris finally turns to Falaine, a soft, richly
harmonious laugh emanating from his chest. "That is one of the most delightful youths I have ever
had the fortune to encounter."

Falaine nods, her face once more neutral and composed, though a fond twinkle remains in her eyes.
"She is a treasure," the merian agrees. Turning her eyes to the playbill, she hums for a
contemplative moment. "Niralahi... hm. Does she wake..? No matter. I will write all the same, I
think."

Rising to his feet in a graceful, stately fashion, Avaris steps over to study the
playbill in turn, hands seeking one another beneath the cloak of his folded wings. "The intent will
matter most, I believe. I admit, that play was inspiring, in more ways than one. I feel as if even I
might attempt to pen a play of some kind." Tilting his head in a curious manner towards Falaine, he
inquires, "Do you think you will write one relating to your Lady?"

Falaine brightens slightly at that, broad shoulders rolling back as she straightens. "You think you
might? I admit that it would be a fine thing to have someone to talk to about it, should I do it as
well." The question halts her for a moment, but she finally nods, slowly. "In time... perhaps.
Though I find the thought of making plays of the Divines a difficult one. What if They take offense
to a line of script that was not what they said?" She shakes her head. "Perhaps, though.. from the
viewpoint of one of Her followers during a happening.." she says, speculation mulling in her eyes.

Avaris lifts his hands free to gesture fervently towards Falaine, long fingers
splaying wide as he says, words ringing with relief, "Yes! Precisely! That is exactly why I am
struggling with the song for the Lady Empyreal. How am I to know if I will cause offense? It is
maddening." The aureate, natural breastplate of his broad chest dips as he exhales a faintly
frustrated sigh, lifting a hand to coil a thick tuft of pristine white fluff about the digit. "That
is a fine way to dodge the issue, I think, yes. Consider the play we bore witness to - The Lady
Carakhan did not need to speak, but Her follower conveyed much about Her, regardless."

Setting her hand to rest atop one of the hilts of the smaller longswords on her weaponbelt, Falaine
nods pensively, one ear flashing coral as it flutters to catch the sound of a nearby kitten in the
quiet left behind after the performance. "She did not need to, no, and I think that is likely the
best way to approach it. Unless using words you yourself heard, with permission," she muses, then
shrugs a shoulder and smiles. "Still, also as seen, there is a great deal of room there to convey a
message and story."

Still tugging and twisting absently at the thick coil of glistening white fluff,
Avaris dips his head in a faintly distracted nod. "Indeed. Ah. I should return to my meditations for
a time, I think. I have much to consider." Lowering his hand, he inclines his head to Falaine
politely. "Thank you for the company. Light's blessings upon you, Slakened."

Falaine salutes crisply, returning to a more formal and customary demeanor. "Rest well, and go with
the Light, Avower."