Among the many patrons of this bar tonight is an ink-feathered Korv, wasting away his wealth on foul concoctions that pass for liquor this side of town. Some hungry-looking Kavis eye him from a nearby table. A dagger flies by, imbeding itself in the wall. Nothing unusual tonight.

The sullen Korv sits at the bar, hunched over his third dirty glass of rotgut. The smile creases in the feathers around the corners of his beak indicate someone usually gregarious, but tonight Kensington merely ruminates over his booze. Thinking about his ship. Thinking about a cougaress he's unlikely to encounter again. Thinking about that bet he lost last night. (I'm tellin' ye, mate, it was a sure thing!) Every so often, he looks up to avoid a flying weapon or piece of furniture… otherwise, he's content to merely drink.

One of the three Kavis makes his way up to the Korv, a dangerous look in his eyes as he regards the bird – and quite obviously (to anyone with the experience to notice these things) regarding his weapons carefully.

Kensington turns his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. He peers at the weaselly fellow. "Eh? Whacha want, shorty? Can'tcha see I be (belch) busy?"

The Kavi, in an obviously practiced (but in need of more practice) pose, flicks out a chitin collapsing knife. "I think you need some help. That metal's making you heavy. You might fall over."

His two friends have disappeared from immediate sight … but probably aren't far away.

A few tables down … a snake and a wolf seem to be taking "casual" interest in the confrontation as well. The snake almost misses ducking a chair, and curses to himself at being distracted.

"Aye? Izzat so?" The Korv sneers, and loosens the saber on his far side from the kavi. "I been wearin' swords fer longer'n ye've been alive, I'll wager. And a lot longer'n ye'll be alive if ye keep botherin' me, boy. Shove off."

The Kavi snarls. "You making a crack about my AGE, old-timer? You MUST be from out of town. You don't talk age to a KAVI, worm-eater!"

The first grin that's crossed Kensington's beak in a while crosses it now. "That's right, ye dock-vermite," he rasps, turning on his stool to put his side to the bar. "And lessen ye clear off, th' worms'll be eatin' ye before I eat them." The Korv's gaze shifts around the bar for a few moments before he picks his drink up with his left wing, and lets his right settle casually onto one saber.

"No sense lettin' a drink I paid good money for get spilled," reasons the corsaire.

The Kavi's lower lip quivers a bit as he sees the saber … and he suddenly backs away …

Kensington's keen eyes manage to spot – just in the nick of time – a couple of quarrels headed his direction, from the upper balcony overlooking the main hall. The first is horribly aimed, spanging off of the Korv's glass. The other …

Ptank! A metallic flash intersects the second bolt, and with a few sparks, it wobbles off in a high arc, landing with a plunk in a water barrel. The Korv's saber-tip traces tiny figure-eights in the air while cheap ale drips from Kensington's left wing-claw. "Damn ye… I'm takin' that three shekels outta yer half-shekel hides!" With a squawk and a curse, the pirate lifts himself into the air.

At the sight of THAT stunt, the wolf and snake, quite impressed … seem to develop the urgent need to depart from this establishment, rather than waiting to see the outcome. They head for the door. The two Kavis in the balcony try to scurry away, though one is a bit too hasty in trying to extract his crossbow – He had turned it sideways to put it through the wooden rails of the balcony, and – pulling it back – he's stuck until he figures out to turn it again in the next split second or so.

A few "ladies of the night" shriek as they see the combatant headed up to their level. A skunk leaps into an open room, slamming the door behind her, but it pops off of the hinges, merely leaning in place. A Kujaku who's seen better days tries to make use of her wings, but only bumps against the far wall. A third – a Khatta – tries to get away, but not quickly enough to avoid being grabbed by the third Kavi, who roughly shoves his loaded crossbow against her ribs.

A shadow pulls away from the far end of this upper hallway, revealing itself to be a stag in a heavy cloak. He seems to be too far down to be directly involved, but was apparently hiding there for some time now.

The corsair swoops on the balcony, a swipe at the kavi's head being evaded as the target backpedals, abandoning his crossbow. Kensington lands quite squarely, and glares at the ferretoids with dark corvid eyes, assuming a defensive stance and barely noticing the Cervani. "Alright, bilge scum," rasps the corsaire. "Ye kin either fight me like an upstandin' sailor oughtta, or ye kin drop th' lady, tuck yer tails, and clear out. I be happy either way, and ye get to keep yer skins iffen ye let the Khatta go."

The Khatta lets out a squeak as the crossbow is nudged into her ribs again. "Drop the shiny cutters, and I don't do high-speed SURGERY on the lady, eh, birdie?" The other Kavi eyes his crossbow, but isn't brave enough to grab for it just yet.

The Korv laughs harshly. "In case it ne'er sank inta yer lil' boney 'eads, I be a pirate. I lived day ta day pillagin' ports wi' dozens o' wenches like 'er. 'Twould be a sad thing, aye, but after ye fired, ye wouldn't get two paces 'fore I clove ye in twain like a block o' firewood. So what's worth more t'ye? Th' girl, or yer own sorry skin?" Kensington sniffs. "I'll give ye… oh, ten seconds to make up yer mind. That's fair, aye?"

A flash of color gets Kensington's attention – Out of the corner of his eye, he spies the crossbow-less Kavi coming in, with another flickblade like the first one had. There's only a split second to react…

It all happens at once… the Korv bends his knees and pivots on his heel, and his blade passes through the kavi's knife wrist as if through air. Nothing too fancy… the paw just falls off. Before it hits the ground, the pirate has leapt straight upward, and with a whistling noise, the quarrel meant for him buries itself in the kavi. Kensington's about in mid-loop when reactions start surfacing.

The pawless Kavi shrieks, once at his hand, then again as he sprouts a quarrel. He stumbles against the railing … but this time, while it was sturdy enough when PULLING on it, it breaks free when it is PUSHED … and the hapless would-be mugger hurtles toward the lower floor. His knife is quickly snatched by the nearest pilferer. What happens to the Kavi himself can't be seen from here.

The Khatta, freed momentarily, gives her ex-captor a good hard kick in a soft place, then bolts for the end of the hall. The Kavi lets out a pained squeak, and fumbles to load another quarrel.

Kensington turns over in the air, and dives on the kavi… less than gracefully. Ceilings can be a nuisance sometimes! Fortunately, the Korv manages to change his dive into a somewhat clumsy landing near the kavi. With a few skips and a brief look of concern, he skids to a stop, and once assured of his balance, points his sword at the long-bodied cutpurse. "Alright, chum! 'Ave ye 'ad enough, or do I gotta take another paw? I could use a matched set."

The Kavi's bolt drops to the floor … and *he* bolts for the stairs! That just might be his answer.

Satisfied, the corsaire shakes a few beads of blood off his weapon, and sheathes it. "Bloody, no-account little noodle-rats," he mutters as he begins stalking back towards the main part of the bar.

"Very impressive," says the stag, still standing, though a bit further out of the shadows now.

"But one would expect no less from the Cutlass," the cloaked Cervani finishes.

Kensington stops dead in his tracks, turning to eye the stag. "Aye," he replies guardedly, sizing the cloaked stranger up. "The little begger should spread th' name around a lil', if 'twere some corners it didn't reach."

The stag says, "Well, perhaps. In any case, that's related to what I would like to discuss with you. That is, a few corners your name could do to reach, in the name of earning a few shekels."

The Korv folds his wings behind his back. "I'm listenin', Mr… ah… didn't catch yer name there, mate."

The stag smiles. "You didn't. For business purposes, you may call me Mister Cain."

Kensington nods his head curtly. "Mister Cain, then. Let's 'ave a seat, an' I'll hear ye out. Ain't like I be havin' much else ta do."

The stag follows Kensington, dodging the occasional projectile in as dignified a manner as possible.

After a little hunting, the Korv manages to turn up a relatively intact table consisting of a barrel and some planks hammered together and rounded off roughly. After casting his gaze around for the kavi that fell from the balcony, Kensington takes a seat on an empty keg, and gestures at a rare chair with an actual back. "So whatcha be needin'?"

The Cervani slides into his seat, and reaches into his cloak. He does not pull out a weapon, however, but instead a scrollcase, from which he extracts a map. He unrolls the map, weighing the edges down with a couple of spare broken daggers that he pulls from the wood of the barrel and lays down as paperweights. The map shows a region running from Nordika southward as far as Himar, with a solid line zig-zagging down from eastern Titania, to the Himaat, then a dotted line continuing on to the former location of Elamoore.

"This map," the Cervani says, "shows the speculated migration of a large clan of Titanians southward toward the destroyed Himar region. Our spies inform us that many Titanians believe there is some sort of paradise to be found there, where their machines of destruction will work perfectly, according to some revered 'prophet' of theirs."

Kensington raises the scruffy feathers over his eyes. "An' I'm the Kaiser." Still, the drifter looks over the map with interest, the areas catching his sky-faring instincts.

"Nonetheless," the Cervani says, "a large number of them have migrated southward – the Titanians may roam and fight on a whim, but this is something special. We fear that there might somehow be some truth to this claim, 'prophesy' or not. And lacking that, the mass migration of a vast number of Titanians and their war machines is no small matter. In short, we want to hire someone who can monitor this for us – The Titanians have passed into the Himaat, and we cannot use our usual agents at this point."

The Korv rubs the bottom of his beak thoughtfully, feeling at the scratches and nicks. "Hmm… 'ow do I stay in touch, then?"

The Cervani says, "We predict that the Titanians may pass these … " He points to several locations on the map, "… points. We will give you information on how you can leave word at checkpoints along the way, if there is anything to report. Otherwise, if there is something of monumental importance – such as any truth to the prophet's claims – then you can withdraw, as that would be enough to complete your mission. Of course, if the Titanians start heading back, or it is otherwise evident that they are headed nowhere," the Cervani shrugs, "then that is worth reporting as well, so that we do not waste any further resources."

"Sounds like it makes sense," reasons Kensington. "So what kinda resources're we talkin, bucko? A ship could be handy. An' what's innit fer me?"

The Cervani says, "Alas, I must confess that our resources are limited. There is a war going on. Once that is ended, we will be able to cover expenses more readily. However, in the meantime… " He digs out a pouch full of coins, and clinks them on the table.

If Kensington had external ear parts, they'd perk. He looks askance at Mister Cain before reaching out a wing-claw to peek into the pouch…

The Cervani says, "This assumes a standard rate of one copper a day for a person of your skills, plus expenses to be negotiated later … and a bonus dependant upon what you find. Here, you'll find all the paperwork with the particulars." He hands over another scroll-case, this one filled with notes and legalese.

( Paperwork… aye, if they're not from Rephidim, it's a safe bet this bloke's from Chronotopia all right. ) Still, the red tape doesn't bother Kensington in the face of new money to earn and new skies to travel. "Sounds right reasonable, Mister Cain," rasps the corsair, grinning broadly around his beak. "Since we're dealin' with Titanians, I'll be 'spectin' some pretty big bonuses, har, har. But if ye've gone t'all the trouble of trackin' the Cutlass to Darkside, I can't say nay. Ye've gotcherself a deal."

"Good," says the Cervani. "You may begin at once… "

A sand trireme sails across the waves, sending up clouds of fine grit behind it. Somewhere far ahead, as viewed through a spyglass, a great army of Titanians travels in similar fashion, through their own sandcraft kick up even larger clouds of sand … making the process of tracking them surprisingly easy during the daylight hours.

A crew of Khattas in loose white garb tends to the craft, rather than the Nohbakim that would normally be associated with a vehicle such as this. A female feline, her face covered in a veil, stands to the side of the Korv, watching the distant cloud. "Master, they are turning toward the Forbidden Zone! Do they not fear its curse?"

A Korv stands in the bow, his spyglass trained on the 'fleet' of Titanians in the distance. Baggy, brightly dyed cloth drapes over Kensington's usual airman's garb, reflecting sun away from his black feathers. The bird clacks his beak gamely. "Hah! Titanian's don't fear nothin' or no-one, girl! What they ain't strong enough to beat, they be too thick to be scairt of!" He collapses the spyglass with a clack. Exhilerated with the travel and wind in his plumage again, he hops down to the main section. "They got some religious nonsense what's makin' 'em do this too, an' Powers Thet Be are sumptin' what hold consid'rable sway o' th' simple folk."

The feline guide mews, "My father, may he smile down upon me from the Procession, saw to it that I received a Rephidim education, so I know of Forbidden Zones elsewhere … but this is one that is unsafe by ground OR air. If they go in there, they will most certainly be reduced to ashes, every last one! Many a misguided traveller has lost his life thusly over the years."

"Ashes, ye say?" The corsair ponders this little bit of information. "Well, I know I seen airships go in an' ne'er come back out. But I ne'er saw any trace o' them afterwards neither. How do ye know it burns ye right up?"

The guide grimaces. "You can see the explosion from quite some distance."

Kensington release a long, low whistle. "Tie me t'the mainmast an' call me waashu-bait. Well, iffen we see th' oafs go up like big greasy powderkegs, it makes me work all the easier, aye?" He laughs coarsely, then watches the swarm of triremes on the horizon. "Easiest sack o' coin I never earned. Har, har, har… "

"That's a very colorful expression, master," the feline says, adjusting her veil again. The Forbidden Zone looms ahead, a dark cloud in the middle of a cloudless sky. The sky grows darker, as if the sun were setting prematurely. Even this far from the Forbidden Zone, it somehow touches the land, making its presence quite well known. Ahead, the Titanians can be heard making a great ruckuss, as if they were looking forward to a great party, not certain annihilation. Ah well. That's a Titanian for you.

One of the crewmembers comes up to the Korv. "Sir? Ah … mebbe we hold back and watch from afar?"

Kensington pockets the spyglass, and gives the crewcat a nod. "Aye, iffen ye like, drop anchor… er… or whatever it is ye do on sand. Methinks I'm gonna ride the thermals, an' try for a closer look." He smiles suggestively at the female Khatta. "An' iffen I 'splode, well, don't cry for more'n a day or two, aye?"

The Khatta crew takes down the sails, and deploys sand-scoops. Ahead, the Titanians are still heading full-tilt into what appears to be a storm that has materialized out of a calm sky.

The corsair tosses some sun-cloth out of the way of his wings. "Iffen I can't get back 'fore yer supplies run out, head back when ye've only got enough t'make it home." With that command, Kensington beats his wings, and lifts himself skywards, trying to catch some warm air currents to rise with.

The dark avian's wings bear him swifty forward on favorable winds … but it does not take long before he is buffeted about. Points of light betray the location of the Titanians – otherwise, they would be lost in the darkness. Flashes of lightning arc through the clouds, and occasionally strike the ground, the thunderclaps making deafening crescendos that drown out any noise the Titanians could hope to make this far from their home.

Kensington attempts to maintain his position in a glide, squinting his eyes as the wind whips at his plumage and causes his sun-shield clothing to flail about. Grinding his beak, he thinks, "Alls I gotta do is watch 'em 'splode… not even Titanians kin live through summin what eats an airship… " Doubt lingers in Kensington's mind, however, as he does his best to stay in the air and keep his vigil.

Many long minutes pass. From time to time, the buffetting gets more fierce … lightning arcs across the sky, threatening to singe the avian's feathers … but no explosions. Not yet. Off that way, several pinpoints of light can be seen. The avian must have lost his bearings in the storm. They're still moving.

His sense of navigation skewed, the Korv begins descending in altitude. "Curse this great sandtrap," rasps the corsaire to himself. "These winds'll tear me wing from wing iffen the skyfire don't cook me first! Why aren't th' big lubbers goin' up?" Another close call with the lightning makes the fuzzier feathers on the back of the Cutlass' neck stand up. "Dunno iffen I can get out… I'm gonna 'ave to follow 'em… maybe on foot… "

Something solid slams into the Korv's chest … and after a few moments of sand blasting across his feathers, it's evident that the ground was a little closer than he'd calculated. Nothing broken, at least … and nobody to SEE.

"Ooof!" wheezes Kensington. He picks himself up, and tries to shield his eyes from the whirling sands. To jump into the air again would be folly… so the Korv begins hunting for any tracks not blasted away by the sand.

That, alas, proves to be a vain effort. However, through the sand, the Korv can catch glimpses of moving light … and they're coming in THIS direction. Perhaps the Titanians are lost, too?

The corsaire peers through the stinging sand at the approaching lights. "Garr… this could be trouble… but iffen I don't take a chance on fallin' in with 'em, I don't stand a squibbet's chance inna salt shaker… " He can barely hear his own muttering in the roar of the wind, but he stands fast in the path of the approaching lights.

Those lights are approaching FAST. They, after all, are using windsails, and there's plenty of wind to be had. The Korv, on the other wing, is stationary.

Kensington decides that, given the choice between getting blown around and getting run down, he'll take the former. "But keepin' an eye on these fellows is me only chance o' keepin' it together… " He struggles with the wind, staggering to one side to try to get out of the path of the oncoming 'fleet', and move with them when they pass.

The Korv's timing is impeccable … and as the triremes roar past (some sort of engines running, though for no good purpose other than to make noise, no doubt!) the bird catches the wind and keeps pace with the howling savages! They're barrelling through the storm at a breakneck pace, heedless to impending doom! Up ahead, there is a faint glow … and it's growing brighter!

The pirate struggles to keep his wings level. One wrong twist, and he could be sand-diving. Despite the heat and the sand, the glow ahead chills the pit of Kensington's stomach. "Well, iffen I gotta go, explodin's a flashy way ta do it," muses an oddly detached part of Kensington's mind. The 'fear' part replies with, "But I'd much rather 'ave a death by drink an' exhaustion in the company of … " The situation at hand (claw) doesn't allow him to complete his thought, however.

The light explodes! Or … that is … the storm abruptly vanishes, and along with it the severe gusts of wind. The sun is high in the sky, and the ground below is sandy desert. However, this patch of desert is surrounded by a black wall of storm … as if it were comprised of swirling liquids sealed off by glass.

Kensington flails his wings about in the sudden abscence of resistance! With a few awkward misnavigations, he buries his beak in a dune with a 'chuk!' sound.

Titanian triremes whisk past, the clouds of sand hiding the avian's presence from the distracted lupines. They hoot and holler, and wave their hammers at the ruins visible in the center of the clear area. An ancient tower, surrounded by a pile of rubble from its crumbling walls, thrusts upward into the sky, though only to a fraction of its original height, judging from the ruins.

The Titanians, however, seem not the least bit concerned, using the momentum of their triremes to ride on, aiming to hit the next black "wall" on the other side.

(Amazin'! So these storms 'ave eyes too!) The Korv doesn't pause to mull this interesting factoid over, however. Scrabbling to his feet and spitting sand, the Korv trails grit as he jumps up to plunge through the far wall with the rowdy Titanian caravan.

The Titanians close the gap with the black wall. They're ever so slightly losing speed, but provided the winds on the other side are just as fierce, they should be going at full throttle again. With the better view, the Korv can see that their triremes are laden with machines of wood, chitin and even bits of metal. In fact, their triremes look to be of Titanian origins as well, as if they were well prepared for this trek, and not merely accosting the first Nohbakims they found on the way to get a ride.

The corsair hazards a rough guess as the triremes and their distracted passengers slow down. "Hmm… thet might gimme a couple o' minutes t'look in th' tower o'er yonder… huh, might as well! Tain't like a man sees th' middle o' a Forbidden Zone e'ery day… " He changes course, making for a quick fly-over of the tower.

The tower, the top of it collapsed long ago, is open to the air. While the exterior is dull stone, the interior reflects brightly in the sunlight … a myriad of glinting lights that suggest that the interior might be lined wall to wall with crystal!

"By the Abu Dhabia northern jetstream," breathes Kensington, swooping in closer. "An entire tower, crusted with shinies t'make a Vartan drown innis own drool… " A moment's indecision, and irresponsibility gets the best of the corsaire. Unsheathing his saber, he dives down to try to pry free a sample. "Iffen it doesn't come off quick, I'll forget it an' race fer th' caravan… might cut it close, but a lil' frayin o' th' feathers never hurt."

The way into the broken tower is open and easy … and it takes but a moment for the Korv to sail past stonework that looks like it might be made of white marble with crystal veins running through it … to land on a raised dais of similar construction. Looking about, he can see that he is in an odd place indeed … for the chamber at the base of the tower is ringed with crystal arches. Each arch, save for one, is filled with a solid marble wall. The one remaining one has a window of solid crystal or glass or some other transparent material, through which can be seen the sands of the Himaat.

In the center of the chamber is a glowing orb that looks as if it might be as hot as Primus – the sun – itself. Hovering about the room are much smaller orbs of crystal and stone – Eleven of them, to be exact – radiating outward from the central orb. How they are suspended cannot be discerned.

Kensington looks around uncertainly, the dauntingly strange spheres and their mysterious floating making the bird's neck-feathers ruffle. "I don't be knowin' what this is," he rasps, almost entranced by the odd collection of spheres. "But it ain't sumptin' tae mess wit, I'll wager. Nothing to pry loose… bah, I'm wastin' time." The Korv tries to commit the scene to memory, to transfer to one of the papers in his scroll case when he gets the chance.

The clear archway showing the desert fades … becoming solid marble. At the same pace, the archway closest to the Korv lights up, the wall within it becoming as clear as crystal … but instead of desert beyond it, there is a vast expanse of ocean, underneath a cloudy sky.

The corsair's beak hangs open. One could almost imagine the creaking noise of a rusty hinge. "Nae… tisn't possible… " With a violent flapping of his wings, Kensington makes for the open portion of the tower, leaving a few black feathers in his wake. "If what I think's happened, then… nay, it couldn't 'ave… "

The sun still shines from above … and as Kensington breaks free from the tower, he can see the sands about him once again. He still has time to catch up with the caravan before it plunges into the black again.

An expression of relief passes across the pirate's face. "Iffen I ever get outta here, no-one'll believe what I saw… but it'll be worth sayin' anyway… " He turns over once in the air, then heads toward the caravan like a sable-feathered dart, looking for a good trireme candidate to hitch a ride on.

The candidate presents itself, and the Korv is able to snuggle himself into a good hiding spot … JUST as the full force of the storm hits him again, stronger than before, if possible! (Or he was just getting used to the calm.)

Kensington hangs on for dear life, to grind his beak, and as excruciating as it is, simply wait.

The ride is almost unbearable … but after several long and tense minutes … the caravan comes out of the storm again. The sky becomes light again, though it's within an hour or two of sunset. The Titanians let out a constant racket, making it quite clear that they're still intact, and haven't succumbed to any explosions. Nobody said anything about Titanians possessing any special resistance to magic – They've suffered as much from Bosch as anyone else. And the Korv himself didn't have any special protection. And that GUIDE seemed competent enough, as well as her crew.

Of course, that guide and her crew would presently be on the opposite side of this Forbidden Zone, no doubt believing Kensington to be dead or worse…

Kensington . o O ( I wouldn't believe I was alive neither, iffen I weren't here right now, in th' feathers. ) He watches for a chance to slip away, and take to the air overhead again.

The Titanians, still perhaps dazed at the trip (or their own self-induced mayhem) might be at their most distracted right now, before the trip gets boring again.

The privateer tries to bundle up his brighter clothes in a hope to blend with the dusk. He waits for his best oppourtunity… and flits away, quickly beating his wings to climb as quickly as possible.

The triremes shrink away, seeming mere toys in an endless sandbox now. There is no sign of the storm that was the Forbidden Zone … and in the distance can be seen a stationary trireme, its sails down, waiting on the other side of where the Zone should be.

"It's as if the storm were ne'er there," marvels Kensington. He lifts himself to a good altitude, then lets himself fall for a distance in an attempt to peer at the lone trireme through his borrowed spyglass.

There's a glint of light from the far trireme … reflected off of a glass lens. Then another glint. It would appear that the ship is signalling the Korv – that he's been spotted. (The Titanians, however, show no such clue, as they charge merrily along.)

Kensington glances at the Titanian caravan, then at the trireme that looks rather like the Khattas he hired. "Well… I don't think the over-muscled sand-lubbers're gonna vanish anytime soon… I'd best check wi' the Khattas." He collapses the spyglass and tucks it away, smoothing his drop into a weary glide toward the guide-craft.

As the Korv flies toward the craft … the air around him grows steadily darker. And darker. The clouds materialize as if from nowhere … It looks like that storm is brewing again!

"Rawk!" Kensington backpedals in the air! He'll be having none of THAT again!

A bit of frantic flapping, and the Korv is out of the maelstrom again. The air clears once more … and this time it's fair sailing … AROUND the Forbidden Zone.

After moving all the way around the phantom Phorbidden Zone, the Korv lands in the bow of the Khatta trireme. He stands silently, his feathers in disarray, sand blasted through them and powdering his clothes, and grit crunching along the edges of his beak. He looks them over grimly, having survived what no man should. After a moment of intense quiet, Kensington opens his beak to break the silence: "What in the name of DAGH'S DENTURES just HAPPENED?"