Jillian wipes her hands on her apron before greeting Arkold when he comes through the door. After the hug, and removing the portly Jupani's overcoat, she asks, "How was your day dear?" The teenaged Jupani lad at the table looks up from his school studies, and wags his tail as he sees his father.

"Same old, same old," Arkold says, and presses his hands to his lower back. Since starting to work more and more behind a desk, he's been putting on weight, and he's starting to feel the strain. "The excitement never ends at the P.A. Why just today, a shipment of shikk'ahns got knocked loose and there were feathers everywhere while the Kavi tried to round them up."

Arkold's wife, a petite Jupani with gray and brown fur and dark hair, gives him a kiss on the cheek and says, "Well, at least you don't have to go chasing after them yourself anymore." From the table, Tobin barks a quick laugh. He has his father's blond hair, although without the hints of gray that have begun to appear in Arkold's.

Following his usual ritual, Arkold sits in one of the stuffed chairs and pulls his boots off so he can warm his feet by the fire and relax until supper is ready. It's meatloaf night, and the smells of Jillian's cooking added to the long day working for the Port Authority make him a bit drowsy. He startles from the edge of dozing off, and realizes something is wrong. Namely, that this isn't his life

Well, this wasn't what I was expecting. Incineration, an angry god, shaking Mave until she got a clue, eh, yes – but not this, Arkold considers, being careful not to show his alarm. Slowly, he reaches up and rubs his chin as he glances around the room. Wife, son, house … and little memory beyond that. "It's like a dream," he murmurs, not sure he wants to disbelieve it.

"Actually, it is a shadow," purrs a feline voice from the other overstuffed chair. A golden Gigi woman is lounging in it, dressed in ceremonial robes and wearing a fancy headdress with lots of colorful inlaid stones. Funny how she wasn't there when Arkold looked a moment ago.

Arkold's ears suddenly shoot up, even as he manages to keep the rest of his expression neutral. He eyes the woman, up and down, then decides he may regret any ogling as a thought pops up in his head. "Are you Nala, then?" he asks, carefully.

"More or less," the woman says, smiling. "Which is to say, no, I'm not. But you can call me that. The real Nala is alive somewhere, unaware of her own identity. I'm just her memories and her power."

"Oh," Arkold says uncertainly, unsure he caught what the woman said right. He mulls over it a moment, then asks, "Ah, how's that possible, then? An' does that have anythin' to do with this place? Don't get me wrong, I like it, but it's a bit disconcerting."

"Oh, this?" maybe-not-Nala says, waving a hand lazily. "How to explain it… hmm. Well, light casts a shadow, you see, and since My light is Life, the shadow it casts is a shadow of your life. This close to the Light, it is simply… sharper. This is what your life would be if you'd chosen differently in the past."

"How depressing," Arkold says with a grin. In all honesty, he doesn't find this life half-bad. Well, except for becoming portly and having a backache. "My mother always told me I made bad decisions, eh? I guess she was right." He casts another glance at his shadow-wife, then says, "I think I get it. So, eh, the Shadow – is that literally Your Shadow? Or ah, is the Shadow it's own, another side, in that life/death duality."

"There are many Shadows, is there one in particular you're asking about?" Nala asks. "I'm not a mind-reader, you know."

Arkold's ears flick. "I'm never quite sure what to make of a god, so I apologize if I make a mess of this, eh?" He winks, good-naturedly. "As for shadows, I mean the Shadow that haunts Sylvania. It's some sort of quasi-living force, and a weapon. It sounds similar to your Light, the sword I saw before, eh, this happened."

"Oh, is that old thing still around?" Nala asks, pulling her legs up so she can drape them over an armrest in that odd boneless way Khattas have. "That was my sister's pet project, before she found a greater source of power. Is it being a nuisance?"

The wolf shakes his head. "Not yet, but soon. A necromancer has located it. We, eh, I and the others – Tulani, Alptraum, Lilith and Raven – delayed him as best we could, but he won't be kept back forever. That's why we're here, in part: to get Your Light and use it against him, and further, for Sylvania. After that, we'd be returning it." Arkold tilts his head, still, after all these years, not sure how Khattas pose that way without getting a cramp. "Who's your sister? If I may ask."

"My, you seem to have a lot of plans for Me," the feline says, arching her eyebrows. "And my sister is Amena, although she doesn't really go by that name anymore, I've gathered. Always seeking a way to physical immortality, that girl. When she came across one of the Shadow Dragons held captive… well, she couldn't help but tinker with it."

"Plans for You? Uh, well, just your Light – the sword. Unless you ARE the sword, in which case, uh, hm." The wolf rubs his temple, trying to digest the talk of gods. Mages, he felt, were aggravatingly lost in mysticism – but gods are even worse. He's also suddenly glad Nala can't read his mind, especially considering other thoughts he had earlier. "Eh, right then. A few questions, one at a time: are you the sword-like structure we found in the Well of Souls?"

"More or less," Nala answers with another feline smirk.

"That complicates matters; I'll see we have more respect for the artifact." The wolf smiles a little. "Two: Amena, Inala, Nala, your other-Nala, and what … Sunala, right … you're all different people? Objects? Gods. Something?"

"I suppose I'm something of an archetype," Nala muses, swishing her tail to and fro. "Warm, nurturing giver of life, and cold, heartless consumer of it. Death feeds Life, so yes, I'm Death as well. I suppose I've been diversified over time."

"That sounds like a large burden on your shoulders. Plus, buried in this hole can't be exactly cheery. Those necromancers – I feel bad for 'em." The wolf's smile fades, but his tone sounds sympathetic. Here, in this den, he even manages to sound somewhat like the caring, if stern, father – if just for a moment. A breathes a sigh, perhaps feeling that moment a little too heavily. "Anyway, you incorporate the others? Or their conecepts? Eh, no matter. What's this about Shadow Dragons? Vorgul- … bah, I could never say his name half the time. Vorgy."

"That name doesn't sound familiar, but then, I never knew the names of the Shadow Dragons," Nala explains. "They came to this world thousands of years ago, along with their prisoners. The Dragons beat them in a war or something, and sentenced them to exile – that's probably where the popular meaning of the term comes from, you know. And they sent a few of their own to make sure the losers stayed exiled, I think. Some of the Shadow Dragons were killed, or contained, over time. Amena came across one that the Savanite Empire had captured, made some sort of pact with it, then did horrible things to it. She was good at doing horrible things to creatures."

Arkold goes "huh" at the history on the word Exile – that's going in his book for sure. "Amena, that's your sister? If you're life and death, then she is … Ah! Of course: unlife. Don't know why I didn't catch that sooner. Eh, so, the Shadow is what remains of one of these Exiled Shadow Dragons?"

"Yes," Nala says. "You aren't as thick as you look, you know? Amena was fascinated by immortality, and the Shadow Dragons are fey creatures and immortal by nature – but not with a truly physical form. She wanted to see if something immortal but not a spirit or an animal could be made undead. The results were interesting, if not very conclusive."

"Oh, I'm pretty thick – don't get me wrong." The Jupani pats his portly belly, strangely comforted by being an overweight wolf. It means he's been eating well, for one, and two he feels this place calms him. There's something eminently calming about being where he is right now, more comforting than his real experiences. He thinks, perhaps, that's why Nala's presence doesn't trouble him. Strange, he adds to that thought, that something like this would make all the difference. He's been away from too many homes for too long. "Interestin' is a good word for it; horrifying is another. I know that creature … object … undead … thing, has caused considerable havoc throughout time. Can we be rid of it? Can it even 'die'?"

"I haven't even figured out why they were called dragons," Nala says, giving a shrug. "If it is alive, then it can die. If it is not alive… well, then it becomes tricky. But Amena could control it, and control presumes she could punish it if she chose, so I'm certain it can at least be hurt."

"I suppose we'll come to that soon enough, then. Along those lines, can we use your power to-" The wolf suddenly shakes his head, suddenly realizing something. "No, wait: can we use your power? We came here expecting the Light to be something like, eh, a magic sword. Powerful, but not able to hold a conversation like, well, yourself. Seems you're alive, eh? So, this becomes about asking for help. We need your help. Do you want to 'elp us? Do you need help?"

"Oooo, a question with bones to it," Nala says, as she shifts into another uncomfortable-to-anyone-but-a-feline pose on the chair. "The short answer is: no. I cannot use My power because it is not My power, it is Nala's, and I am not Her, exactly. The artifact I inhabit is from the realm of the gods though, with some added decoration."

Arkold scratches his chin, again digesting the obscure answers of a maybe-god. "Do we need to find your other Nala, then? Or is the artifact enough to challenge something like the Shadow, if we must," the wolf inquires.

"The Light has been used directly against the Shadow in the past," Nala notes, and points out, "The results were rather messy. I suppose any sort of magic will be strengthened by the presence of the Light, but that goes for any magic, good or bad. The Shadow may draw strength from it as well, who knows?"

"We're not a group of mages, either. Could jus' be adding fuel to the fire, an' if we were to perish, the necromancer would have both Light and Shadow. Eh." The wolf tilts his head, working his jaw as he thinks. "Well," he begins after a moment, "no using the Light directly, then. Don't know if I'm qualified to even consider how to use, well, you. Eh. What of your Nala, then? The true Nala? What if we could find Her, and get you to Her? Could She make heads or tails of this problem?"

"Well, the true Nala could certainly use me to power her miracles, if she knew she was Nala," the feline says. "She hasn't done so in a long, long time now, though. After so many lives, her soul may have forgotten how to reach me."

"Can anyone else use you, then? Just for a moment? If we can't find a way to use your power, all we'll have is some moderately useful information to use against a mage with an army of corpses. Sylvania just doesn't 'ave a conventional army to oppose that, and though I have a high opinion of myself, I don't fancy my chances against him – 'specially if he has the Shadow," the wolf explains. "Do you 'ave any ideas?"

"Well, I have to wonder about your notion that this necromancer is going to control the Shadow," Nala says, while examining the claws of her right hand. "Only Amena was ever able to control it. Why does he want it?"

"Power, I think. Didn't ask him. Ol' Vorg used to sleep on it for some reason – think he absorbed power from it, somehow. Eh. Like I said, I'm no mage. In many ways I'm out of my league here. Think we all are, but we do our best." Arkold smiles again. "Either way, the Shadow will be around. If it destroys him, it'll still be there, even loose, if it can act on its own. Oh, eh, history tells of others using the Shadow, people with … what was it … " Arkold eyes the woman, and his brows raise. "A woman. A dark colored woman, like you."

"Well, that would have been Amena herself," Nala says. "Not in her original body, of course, but still her. Like Nala, she requires a host that is of her own bloodline, although she steals the body instead of being reborn into it."

"The necromancer, fortunately, doesn't 'ave a woman of that sort, as far as we know. He does 'ave a human woman, but from what you say, she won't cut it. Eh, not unless she's like Raven I suppose." Arkold scratches his nose. "Oh, Ravenia's a human, but not like any I've ever seen. She can, what's the word, 'channel' the dead."

"A medium," Nala says. "Perhaps you should keep her away from your villain, eh? But otherwise, why not simply shoot the necromancer in the head? Magic isn't what it used to be in days past, and without Amena's support a modern necromancer would not be unstoppable."

"Could it be that easy? See, we followed this map all the way 'ere. Dunklestein the fourth or so, warder of a Czar past, lead us 'ere. Tulani found it, I just followed along. Come to think of it, we always thought the Light would be the answer to our problems. The strength to turn the tide, eh? Not jus' against him, but somehow against everything that ails Sylvania. Our hope, I guess." Arkold works his jaw a moment, then shrugs, smiling again. "Hope's not what we expected, I'm sure. Not for me. Interesting, but I can't see how to use our discovery. Maybe we were never meant to. That bit about the dragon, though, that's useful."

"The Shadow Dragons had weaknesses, as even mere mortals were able to confine them," Nala notes. "The Shadow is itself confined already, in some way, for Amena to control it. As for using the Light, it is a fount of power for those who can harness it. I vaguely recall a man named Dunklestein. He used my Light to perform a very complicated spell on himself, I think."

"That'd be entrapping his soul within his skin, eh, map. He's still around – brought us here, in fact. We've been at it so long, I'm not even sure why we're here. But we're here, and Dunklestein brought us. I'd like to think it was more than coincidence. Let me think." The wolf taps the edge of his seat with a nail, brow narrowing, and after a moment he adds, "Meg – that was the name of the woman with Dack – said he wanted … " The man's eyes narrow more, until they snap wide, "A god! He wanted a god. Dagh. That's it, 'ad almost forgot – I must be gettin' old – but he wants to resurrect Dagh within 'imself, using the Shadow, and the Sarcophagus of Necropolis."

"Oh, that makes a bit more sense," Nala says, playing with a loose strand of her hair. "Dack… Dack… the family name was originally Dagh, I believe. Your necromancer is probably a direct descendant. And pulling in the soul of a god into a descendant's body is just what Amena used her sarcophagus for, although she never needed the Shadow for that part. So she goes by Necropolis now? At least Amenlichtli had the proper root word."

"I don't know what you mean, about Necropolis and Amenli … Amenlichti? … But, anyway, you think he can do it? Now I remember why we had to be here: a necromancer's one thing, an' a challenge enough with that army and power of his, but as a god?" The wolf shakes his head. "I only pretend to be a god, an' not of fightin'."

"Really? What are you the god of?" Nala asks, suddenly finding Arkold interesting…

Arkold grins at that, nodding his head towards his shadow-wife. "Let's say I 'ave a lot of experience, an' I'm surprised I only have one child. Hah, I may be gettin' older, but I'm not too old, not by far." He waggles his eyebrows, then gives the Goddess a once over again before shaking his head and looking her square in the eyes. "I should focus; this is important. Dack, eh?"

"Although… Dagh was a god of illusion and deception," Nala muses, chewing on the strand of hair now. "Not necromancy. You could never really trust him."

"We don't trust 'im. We just know 'is descendant – or someone pretending to be his descendant – is tryin' to resurrect him. We've lost control of the castle and thus the Shadow, so it's just a matter of time before he reaches that Altar and gives it a go. Assuming he's successful, we'd have what … a necromancer illusion god?" Arkold swivels his ears forward. "Eh, wait, do you know Dagh?"

"Well, I did meet him when Nala procured this crystal for the Light," the feline replies. "Met all the Olympians. Didn't want to hang out with them in their little clubhouse forever though, so I took the crystal and made my own version. Couldn't give up the flesh like them… I mean, a Goddess of Life and Death needs to live and die, not be some immortal spirit that can only leave her home when the weather is favorable."

Arkold blinks several times as he listens, then sits up a bit. "I never considered the lives of gods. Somehow it's both strange and, eh, a little familiar. Heh. Please forgive my blasphemy." The wolf smiles again. "So, you knew 'im. He's tricky. He's descendant is a necromancer. That's spirit work, there. Amena used the Altar to transfer bodies. Think he can make the Altar work?"

"If he can read Aeztepan, he might have a chance," Nala says. "Of course, he'd need to be deep, deep underground, or else perform his ritual on a Holy day, unless he had the Light with him. Sure you aren't really here to bring it to him? As I said… Dagh is tricky." She leans over to get a closer look at Arkold suddenly, and adds, "And you do smell like you've been in contact with him, somehow."

Arkold's hackles rise a bit as he leans back. "Eh, whut?"

The Gigi woman stands up now, and comes to Arkold's chair to loom over him. "Take off your shirt," she says.

Arkold eyes the woman suspiciously for a moment, then simply shrugs. "I never could resist a woman askin' that," he concedes. After a moment, he has his shirt off and he's looking down. "I'll have to remember to keep active," he says, upon seeing his belly.

Nala ignores Arkold's middle-aged spread, and instead reaches her hand inside the Jupani's chest, all the way up to the wrist. It feels… like someone has stuck their hand into his chest and is rummaging around…

"C-careful there, I need that stuff," Arkold insists as he otherwise holds very still. Never know what she might break, if he moves.

The goddess pulls her hand back out, clutched into a fist. A silver chain hangs from it, connected to a little silver ball with a serpent inscribed around it. "Do you recognize this?" she asks the wolf.

Arkold pats his chest, making sure he's intact, even as he leans forward to peer at the object. "Let me think – ah. It was that cursed artifact that no-good Khatta – no offence – sold me. Stopped the drug pains, but turned out to be a monster," he explains. "We destroyed the monster some time after."

"A merchant, you say?" Nala asks, before tossing the bauble into the fireplace. "What else did you get from this merchant?"

"Cursed canteen, and a fraction of the key to the lock on the Well of Souls. Come to think of it … Hey! He vanished, the bastard. You don't think he was … ?" Arkold raises a brow.

"One of the keys," Nala notes, and nods. "Anything else? Anything that might have seemed… fortuitously useful?"

"Besides those objects? They were cursed, but most were useful. Let me think, eh … Oh, right, the dragon-pendant. Turned Tulani in to some kind o' phantom dragon for a bit, we used that to defeat another sort of dragon – the last owner of the Altar," Arkold answers.

"The one that was keeping Dack from getting to it?" Nala asks pointedly.

"Uh, exactly," the wolf answers hesitantly.

The almost-goddess places her hands on Arkold's shoulders, and leans in a bit to smile at him. "Would you like some advice?" she asks, showing a bit of distracting cleavage.

"Eh," Arkold says, sounding a bit distracted.

"I strongly suggest you reexamine whatever it is you thought you were supposed to accomplish in coming here," Nala tells the wolf, although in a somewhat playful manner.

Arkold nods slowly, looking up now and then. "I'll be 'aving a talk with the others, when, eh, I get out of 'ere. Come to think of it, I figure the others are either starin' at my unconscious body now or in 'ere too. Mave was closer, eh? What happened to her, and … " Arkold's brow suddenly narrows, and he easily pulls his eyes off the goddess's other symbols of life to stare at her, "I need to talk to Tulani."

"They are on their way here," Nala says, canting her head slightly and causing her beads and other jewelry to rattle. "Mave was first to reach me, and she was… interesting. She might be able to use my power… and then again, she might not, as she is not exactly a priestess of Mine. Once I've talked to the others, you can all leave."

"I was wonderin' about her. Tried to pull her back, but somethin' hit me – then here. Really, I'm surprised you haven't smited me yet," Arkold admits. "And, I suppose Tulani is safe enough here than anywhere. I'll 'ave to wait."

Nala moves one hand to cup Arkold's chin, forcing his muzzle up a bit so he has to look her in the eyes. "Now, Arkold, do you really think I'm the sort of goddess who goes around smiting people?" she puts on a hurt expression.

"Uh, to be honest – I don't know you very well. I'm not a religious man, never 'ave been. Though, eh, hard to not believe with you right here, isn't it? Anyway: I just figured any right-minded god might take issue with me, s'what I mean." He blinks into Nala's eyes, then forces a smile. "I think you're alright."

Nala stands up straight, and crosses her arms against her chest. "Luckily for you, few gods are in their right minds. There's only one more thing I think I can give you some advice on, though."

"It's not my piety, is it? Because I'm feeling very uncertain about this whole talk, now that I think about it. Let me try it again: I like you, as far as I've seen. Actually, of the gods I've known, I'd 'ave to say your my favorite so far." The man grins awkwardly, then runs his hand back through his hair as he suspects he mangled that too. "Yes?"

"Wipe your chin, dear," Nala says, although her voice and form blur into those of Jillian, who is dabbing at Arkold's suddenly shirt-covered chest. "You've gone and dozed off and drooled on one of your good shirts again. Thank goodness you didn't drink any wine though, those stains are such a bother."

"Just dreamin' of another world. Right now though, c'mere, I'll tell you all about it upstairs. In it, I'm a bit of a rake," Arkold says, grinning. He reaches over to pinch his wife. Why not?

"What about the meatloaf?" Jillian asks, a bit surprised, but grinning all the same…