Chapter Three: The Last Dream of Mirza Horgul

Mordred creeps about 50' down the tunnel, listening. He can hear the general outline of the sung syllables: a sort of repetitive hum baba hum baba hum baba hum! hepa hepa hum baba bum bum bum!

That is, until he takes a bad step and rolls his ankle. The sound of his foot scraping the earth isn't loud, but it is a sound. The singing stops.

A high but male-sounding voice calls down the tunnel. "Hello? Who is there?"

"Hello? Hello?"

A figure jogs down the tunnel, into the range of Mordred's darkvision.

It's a man, middle-aged and of average height, balding and somewhat portly. He is wearing only a loincloth.

The almost-naked man glances at the rat, but keeps coming. "Hello? It is only I. Ah." He waves at Mordred and company. "Good day to you all! May I inquire as to your business in the Ways this day?"

The man cocks his head as he listens to Leth. "A lost friend, well, that is troubling. It is not difficult to become lost in the Ways, that much is certain, and I'm afraid it's become more dangerous down here of late -- some infernal construct has gotten loose in the tunnels and inflicted many a casualty on the Royal Guard, and in the confusion the neighboring goblinfolk have become quite opportunistic! If I should happen to come across a lost soul, what message would you have me deliver to her?"

Felor draws on his body of knowledge of religious practices, comes up with a big ol' goose egg.

"Of course, of course," the man answers Mordred. "We have not made introductions. Forgive me. I am Everil, fifteenth King of the Ways."

Putting aside the fact that he's wandering down a dark tunnel half-naked, Everil doesn't present as delusional. Zangua doesn't see anyone else behind him.

Everil smiles. "The nature of the Ways? Such a question as I ask myself every day, every night. And who am I to answer it? The Ways are naught but empty spaces in the darkness, in the earth, from the great hollows made by the Borer of Old to the vines of the kings who came before me. Its nature is only that of those who inhabit it, even if only for a little time. What is the nature of the Ways, you ask? I ask you in turn: what is your nature?" He pauses for a moment, then waves off his own question with a chuckle. "You don't have to answer that, of course. Your concern is for your missing friend, I understand. Again, nothing would please me more than to deliver a message of good hope to her if her path and mine should cross. May I ask, what is her name?"

"Zora Kells," Everil repeats. He looks carefully at the picture, and at the cloak. He runs the hem between his fingers and looks Mordred in the eyes for a long beat.

"My friend, there are few values we hold as dear in the Ways as discretion. People come here to hide, and we do not give them away to their pursuers. You understand me? But discretion...is a privilege reserved for the living." He sighs. "The man Kligson is dead. One of my people found him a few days ago, in the passage from the Well of Johasedar, cut down by the construct I spoke of. Do you know of it? One of my guard survived an encounter with the thing yesterday. It calls itself 'the Implacable.' And it was not far from here where it was last seen. Now, as to your friend -- you and your party are welcome here, but I know you not. I cannot yet trust your intentions. Should I see this...Zora Kells...I would convey a message to her from you. Do you understand me?" He smiles. "Now, if you only want to go on ahead to Hazard, I can help you with that. I may even be able to procure you a guide."

Everil nods slowly. "Very good. If you would follow me, I will see about finding a guide for you." He turns sideways and tilts his head down the north end of the tunnel.