It had been several weeks since Mage Qing had been delivered the request. His services were sought by the most unlikely of customers, for it was by the request of the Celestial Order that he journey to Chronotopia and assist with their investigation into the town known as Berghang. Explained only briefly was that Berghang had been a growing trade city, much like Gutenberg during its humble beginnings, but was destroyed before the war between Rephidim and the Nagai/Babel Coalition. The survivors reported that the city had been overwhelmed by magic and destroyed in a great fire set by the fleeing citizens as they crowded onto airships to escape.

Now, after a delayed arrival at Gutenberg, Mage Qing has been flown to a sheltered point upstream. From there he has embarked upon a small craft that has taken him downstream to where the docks of Berghang lay. During this short journey, he was informed that the rest of the investigation team had proceeded in without him when it was believed he would not arrive – and that should he arrive after all, he is instructed to meet them at the town square before nightfall.

His bag now unloaded and set upon the rickety dock, Mage Qing finds himself with those who had either remained behind or arrived with him on the boat at the base of a canyon shrouded in mists. One of these is a Cervani monk of the Celestial Order that had been assigned to secure the docks while the boat returned, and to check to see if Mage Qing had arrived. The monk points far above into the mists. "That's where they went, Mage Qing. Into that mist … It can't be natural, I tell you," he tells Qing in disgust.

"Don't like it, don't like it one bit," mutters Gus, the captain of the small craft that brought Qing here.

The witchdoctor is in a poorer mood than usual, and just gives the boatman a curt nod before eyeing the monk around the sides of his glasses. Barely any of his considerable neck can be seen behind the thick collar of his heavy wool robes, a slightly off-white with the symbol of spirit on the back. The rest of his length is wrapped with woolen cloth bundled to his body with cords, keeping the cold-blooded mage from going into torpor in the cold. He moves a short distance towards the mists with a small amount of difficulty, studying them. "Unnatural, you say? This is how all travelers reach the town?"

The low ranking Warder shakes his head and turns to face the Spirit Mage. "The city used to be reachable by airship, in fact, it was growing into a promising trade city. But, well, during the evacuation the docks were destroyed in fires set by the fleeing villagers, and no one wants to bring a airship so close to … to that," answers the monk, his last word punctuated by another strong point of the finger toward the city.

As if in response to the Warder's words, Qing feels a tingle: a feeling that seems to grow in intensity, a feeling of active magic, and a strong sense at that. The traces of magic like a chill wind blow from far above, and Qing gets the feeling it will only get stronger as he nears the city.

Qing pushes his glasses back up his nose. "Well. If it were natural, I suppose I wouldn't have been brought here." He begins slithering towards the mists, one of his many arms withdrawing from his robes to hold a small crystal lens draped with cobweb up before his face. He mutters as he moves along, almost distractedly.

After a few seconds of casting, the mage's spell to Detect Spirits completes, though as far as the mage can tell, nothing new can be seen – just the wood of the docks, those two with him, and the stairs that extend upward toward the city.

Qing pauses in his muttering to glance over his shoulder, peering at the Warder through his lens, a hint of a red dot behind the crystal. "Are you to accompany me, Warder?"

"If you prefer, Mage Qing. Also, before I forget, I was assigned to give you the details of your mission here. Warder von Hagard was to do so, but being as we did not think you would arrive before nightfall, he proceeded with the rest of his party." The Cervani in robes reaches into a deep pocket and removes a scroll wrapped in another piece of parchment. This he offers to Qing. "We apologize for the rush, but it has been reported that the city is more active with the accursed dead at night, and Mage Irvonavitch insisted they begin."

Looking up from where he had arranged himself comfortably on his boat, the ship's captain peers at the Warder from under his hooded parka. "Respectin' you both sirs, but if you both be goin' up there, I'll be goin' down there." He nods down the river the way the boat had come.

The witchdoctor's tongue darts out once at the scroll. He extends a hand to accept it. "Precious little good you'd do just sitting at the docks. Tell me your name, and come along, then. I've lost enough time to the whimsies of fate without wasting it myself." He nods again at the captain, in dismissal this time, and continues up through the mists, returning to his muttering. The cobweb-draped lens remains held up before him, while the pair of arms below that unroll the scroll and parchment to peruse as he slithers along. A trio of glowing spheres, faint blue, trail after him as he moves.

With a resolute nod the Warder lifts up his staff and lays it on his shoulder. He gives a nod to the boatman and gestures downstream. "When it's dawn again, I'll expect your return. Give word to the others that I will accompany Mage Qing and will be leaving the docks," he tells him. And with that, he walks after Qing.

It's a somewhat slow going. The mage seems content to bide his time, moving along at a leisurely pace, scanning his surroundings intently, and hazarding a glance down at the scroll in his second set of hands every so often as he goes.

The letter is penned in a skilled hand – a sign of proper education – but a careful eye would notice smudges and the occasional jerk of the pen that suggests it was written hastily. "Mage Qing," it begins, "it is my hope that you have arrived safely. Unfortunately due to the possibility that you may not arrive at all, I have decided to, at the suggestion of Mage Irvonavitch of the Sphere of Spirit, proceed with our investigation. My sources inform me that the city contains active magic of an unknown source, and attempts to ward it at range have all failed. I am also informed that this activity becomes much greater at night and all due caution should be taken to ensure you meet us at the town square before nightfall should you choose to proceed. I look forward to seeing you, and may the Great Gear keep you safe from what evil may lurk here." It is signed by Warder Fenin von Hagard. Wrapped around it is a sketched map of the city.

As the two arrive at the stairway into the mists, Mage Qing can suddenly feel a much stronger indication of magic. Like walking past curtains into a room filled with incense, the air carries the taint of magic. It is much stronger now, like a buzzing on the brain. By the sudden unnerved look on the Warder's face, it would seem that he feels it, too.

Qing rolls the scroll back up, and tucks it safely away in his robes as he moves along. He ceases chanting for the time being. "Hmm. Has either Mage Irvonavitch or Warder von Hagard been able to detail any of the things that've been encountered in the town after nightfall?"

The Rokuga outlines a fairly direct course to the inn for himself on the map, and adjusts his direction to follow it.

Reaching up and running a hand through his headfur, the Warder inclines his head. "It was reported that the dead had risen to assault the town, and that … a similar event occurs every night. And, you can hear them, sir. Every so often you can. I was sitting here for an hour and … and, well, let's go," he answers.

The course outlined points to one way to go from here, and that's up the stairs and to the top of the docks. It isn't shown just how high Berghang is above the mist, but given the height of the canyon elsewhere on the trip it's at least ten to twenty minutes of walking up stairs – or slithering, as the case may be.

Qing keeps moving along, folding his parchment-holding hands safely away in his robes. His now-chilled lens arm passes the crystal to its counterpart, and the muttering continues, every so often punctuated by a hiss as his tongue flicks out.

As the duo climb into the stairs into the mist, the Warder nods down to the waters below. "The docks collapsed, so docking an airship in the city wouldn't be possible anyway. You can still see the ruins in the water," he informs the mage. Down below you can indeed see pieces of wood, rotted bits of dock, and even what looks like the remains of an airship sail barely sticking out of the water.

"What caused the collapse?" asks the mage. "It seems an odd coincidence with the nighttime problems afoot."

The mists swirl and shift about in the cold wind that blows through the canyon. As the two proceed, they can make out features in the distance - bits of solidity that seem to flicker in the distance before being eaten up again by the mists. "The fire, I'd imagine. Not all of the airships were able to leave, and as you can guess, the only people who actually saw the town fall apart completely were those who, the Great Gear have mercy on them, did not survive," he explains, sadness carrying in his voice as his words echo quietly.

"The town is evacuated, then?" Qing murmurs. He looks over the tops of his glasses at the flickering in the distance, raising his crystal lens up again to peer at them.

"Yes, as far as we are aware. However, there may be survivors … but I could not think what condition they would be in after so long in this place," answers the Warder. Past the crystal lens and into the mist Qing can make out … shapes. Long darkened shapes that extend from the side of the cliff off into the open air. And as he concentrates, that uneasy feeling of growing magic seems to build, growing step by step. By his learning he might attach such levels of magic to a ritual being performed, or perhaps, a Forbidden Zone.

Qing flicks his tongue twice, lowering his glasses slightly. He pockets his lens as useless. and continues to approach, craning his neck to try to make out the forms in the haze.

As the Mage continues up the stairs the forms, now close, resolve themselves: airship docks, full, and undamaged in the slightest. "By the Great Gear! The docks are … are intact!" exclaims the Warder, pointing at them in disbelief. Even an airship is anchored on the highest docking port, though Qing is still too far down to make out what sort and what name it carries.

"Hmph." The Rokuga stops moving forward, drawing his coils around him, his brows lowering slightly. "An entire dockyard, miraculously rebuilt in one night, with no living citizens in the town. They teach you basic observation in your Order, don't they? Mystic senses cannot cover everything, young man. Be on your guard. Is there no other path into town?"

"I am just … surprised. I had no idea the mists concealed so much. I was quite expecting a ruin … " The Warder cocks his head to the side and tries to examine the distant docks a bit closer. "No other path. The Neuanschaffung Bridge was destroyed to prevent anything in the city from easily escaping by land."

Qing's tongue darts out again. This time, it waves a second or two, almost languidly, before retracting. "Rot is thick in the air. I know that taste well, even over the chemicals I employ. Perhaps a look from afar before we actually venture through."

"What do you have in mind, Mage Qing?" inquires the Warder.

By way of answer, the serpent begins murmuring unintelligibly. After a few short minutes, a small, faint apparition materializes. It resembles nothing so much as a small ghostly eyeball suspended between bat wings. After it gets about as solid as it can, it flaps its wings twice, and begins gliding towards what docks are intact.

Time passes, and while waiting, the Warder glances nervously about. His nervousness might hint at inexperience, and Qing knows that he is but a low level warder. "Over one hundred people died here, you know … one hundred people," he murmurs.

As the Warder finishes speaking, a small moving object can be made out in the distance, and by the way it steadily grows in size, it seems to be moving quite quickly this way.

Qing inclines his head slightly. "When the docks crashed in?"

"When … " the Cervani watches the approaching object, "… the undead attacked the village, in the chaos … I was told it was a terrible sight. People fleeing for their lives, men gathering arms to try and hold off the dead … dead men rising to assault the living. People trampled underfoot. I can't imagine it," he replies solemnly.

The distant object grows nearer, and it can now be made out for what it is: Mage Qing's spirit scout madly flapping its wings. It continues on its course toward the two at a quick rate.

Qing starts to hiss, "It's not an undocumented occurance," but stops as he sees his scout returning, and resumes muttering to impose his will on it again, watching the timbers of the dock ahead.

What results from the act of will is resistance – as if something is fighting against Mage Qing's intent, and forcing the spirit onwards. Though the approaching emanation seems to stop and hesitate, Qing can feel a definite reaction when he manages to force it to slow, a strong and intent counter-will pushing it forward – one the Mage may not be certain he can counter.

The Rokuga's eyeridges crease, and lower a little bit as the witchdoctor dips his head. Crimson eyes stare at the approaching apparition, and one pallid arm extends from Qing's robes, aiming in the general direction of the approaching spirit, but not pointing directly just yet. "Disperse," he murmurs softly. There's a linger to the "s" on the end, as if he expects to have to repeat himself.

The emanation stumbles, and for a moment its wings cease to flap. As if struck dead, it falls from the sky, but does not disperse as it should. It simply falls out of sight, plummeting to the waters below and is gone.

Seemingly picking up on Mage Qing's agitation the Warder had prepared his holy book and had been searching through the pages as Qing acted. When he looks up as if ready and the scout is gone, he raises an eyebrow and just shakes his head uncertainly.

"Most disturbing," hisses Qing, still in his normal monotone. He withdraws his arm. "Something wrested control of my spirit scout away from me while it was out of my sight. I ought to share this with your superior, if we can make it to him. We'll have to risk passing through the docks. Have a care to avoid crossing wood if you can help it, and keep on eye on the docks above, lest any of it come down on us."

With that, the mage grimly gathers his robes around him, and begins slithering forward. He's now tightly bundled up save one hand, which peeks out from the cloth in a fist. As he moves, Qing whispers under his breath, almost inaudible.

"Y-yes, Mage Qing," answers Jenekin. He quickly secures his holy book and readies his staff before walking off after the mage again. As they ascend the stairs, the docks become much more easy to see. One dock in particular is but a short distance away from the pair and as was seen from afar, it appears quite intact. The wood is clean and without any sign of rot. The spikes that secure it are much the same. Not so much as a speck of dust or a footprint can be made out on its surface. The howling of the wind through the canyon is the only sound that stirs the eerie quiet.

Qing eyes the immaculate dock suspiciously, but his whispering continues, as if he were distractedly trying to remember a name. His fist remains tightly clenched, almost numbing itself, and he continues up the stairs, skirting the strangely secure-looking structures.

When foot or scale meet the strangely clean surfaces of wood and stone, the two find them to be quite solid. In fact, they appear as solid as the stone stairway that extends upward. And as they climb further, Qing can begin to make out a edge, an end to the cliff wall that before seemed to extend forever into the swirling cold mists. Further down from that crest on what appears to be the main docking port is a ship, black lettering scrawled on the side and dark sails shifting in the wind. Jenekin eyes this, squinting as if to make out the words on its side.

The witchdoctor ascends towards the upper edge, watching the ship carefully. He too tries to make out what the lettering on the side might be.

Finally Mage Qing and Warder Jenekin reach the top of the stairway which joins with the vast docking platform. Like those below it, this one too is clean. However at this altitude the wind does not seem to pass, for there is no longer any gust despite the ever present sound of wailing that accompanies strong wind. On the opposite ends, away from the ship are a number of buildings, warehouses and small shops that would cater to an active port. They, too, show no signs of wear.

The lettering on the side of the ship is difficult to make out. The mists are still present and seem to defy any attempt at reading the name of the vessel from a distance. One can however tell the letters are quite likely written in Bosch.

"Not even singe on a rooftop … The docks are intact, and the warehouses seem to be as well," mentions the Warder as joins Mage Qing on the topmost dock. "As if nothing happened at all."

Qing finally stops whispering, and opens his fist.

As the spell is completed and sent to affect the mists and a piece of the dock beyond, something happens. The area of effect shifts in form, and the wood appears to age rapidly. The mist pulls away from the location, creating what could appear to be a pocket out of time: an area of rapid age and rot without mist to conceal it. A few seconds later the mist rushes back as if in response to a vacuum, and the wood returns to its previous state.

"That," murmurs Qing, "is what happened."

"By the Great Gear," whispers Jenekin as he catches what has become of that spot of wood. He nods a few times to Qing, mouth parted as if uncertain what to say, and then he just shakes his head as if to clear an unpleasant thought. "I … I think I can make out the name of that vessel, but I'll need to get closer."

The pale reptile nods. "I will watch for anything approaching you, but beware. Step lightly, and if anything presents an obstacle, return to me. All of this will be easier with your brethren at our backs, and meeting them is our primary concern." He clenches his fist again, and begins preparing another small "spirit purge".

The Warder nods in understanding and then begins off toward the vessel. At first he extends one foot carefully out and presses it against the wood. Seeing it does not snap and collapse beneath him, he applies more pressure until. Satisfied, he takes another step and begins carefully off toward the vessel. "The wood appears quite solid," he can be heard to shout back to the mage.

Qing doesn't look convinced. "You're being forced to venture too far. Return, the ship's name isn't so important we can risk you succumbing to a trap. We shouldn't spend any more time out here than necessary."

"Wait, I can make it out! Bek- … Bekla-," responds Jenekin. He kneels down slightly and peers at it. "Just a moment, if you will, Mage Qing?"

"Return," hisses Qing. "Now."

"Ah! I have it! It is Beklagen! I shall return at once, Mage Qing," reports Warder Jenekin triumphantly. He stands and at once raises a hand to his chin and rubs it, his brow creasing as if suddenly bothered by something. "Beklagen … ? It means 'deplore' … or perhaps a better translation to Standard would be … Mourning?"

The witchdoctor nods. "Very good, Jenekin," he hisses. "We will bear that in mind. Now, for the last time, come along."

With the revelation, Mage Qing is chilled, as if struck by a frozen wind. But there is no wind. His robes do not stir. But the chill is there, and it is deep, to the bone.

( Mourning, ) ponders Qing, drawing his robes closer around him, and his exposed fist tightens. ( What is this I feel? Something wicked. )

"Run for your lives!" screams an unfamiliar male voice from beyond the warehouses. Another sound, a screaming woman. And then another – screaming and crying children. The sounds echo from within the city, and the area seems to flicker with a reddish glow.

"Jenekin," hisses Qing. His voice doesn't seem to get louder so much as he projects it. "Hurry." He turns away from the dock to stare in the direction of the voices … and silently cursing himself for a fool, begins slithering towards them as quickly as his coils will carry him, whispering again.

Jenekin seems to need no nudging to get him to move faster. With the terrible cries, he abandons any attempt at a careful retreat, and simply runs straight back to the Spirit Mage's side. "What is it?! Mage Qing, what is that sound?" he asks quickly.

The voices increase: men shouting orders and battle commands, the screaming of people one can only imagine as being struck down. Women and children screaming and … footsteps. A great deal of them, and they are getting louder. In the distance toward the city a red flicker can be seen on the tops of the buildings.

Qing streams towards them as best he can, trying to get a closer look.

When Qing slithers closer he can make out the main street beyond the support buildings for the docks. Far down the street is a black mass dotted by red burning fires. The mass shifts as it approaches and the sound of walking turns into a thundering run, the sound of so many running with great haste. These horrible steps are only made worse by the sounds of a disaster somewhere beyond them. Men, women and children fleeing or fighting. And an eerie wailing that prevails over them all. Whatever it is, it is coming this way.

Jenekin stumbles up behind the Mage and quickly fumbles for his holy book, hand shaking. "It, it is coming … right for us!" he cries, fear in his voice.

Qing's upper arms clasp in front of him, and from beneath his robes, his remaining four unfold, each hand clutching a piece of chalk. "Stay as close to me as possible, Warder." he murmurs, and his hands busy themselves with a quick, simple chalk circle around his coils.

Again, Jenekin doesn't seem to need the direction. He himself mirrors Qing and has opened his holy book to what seems to be the page he was looking for. He kneels down within the circle and begins to pray. "Great Gear, bring us from this chaos into order. As a machine well built, so is our stability," he chants, the warding becoming something of a mantra as he repeats key phrases.

The swarming mass can now be made out as a human wall, a mass of desperate, terrified people running from whatever horror is behind them. Some of the men – either soldiers or workers, are setting fire to to the buildings as they go. "Stop the undead!" "There aren't enough airships!" "Where, where is my son?!" And behind them a deafening roar makes itself known – as the wall of people approaches, so too does a towering wall of flame that follows them through the city. Buildings pass under it and burn to a cinder. The combined noise is deafening.

The chaos rushes ever forward, and finally in the face of it all, Qing completes his magic circle. The ground beneath him darkens with a tint of rot and age. Jenekin continues his warding, repeating variations on the "order out of chaos" mantra he had begun. Now, the people and the fire are so very close. The flames rise far into the sky, and the expressions on the people are as stark and severe as they are utterly terrified. And there are so many of them, as if the mass has no end to it at all, and surely the town could not have had this many people.

Brilliant amethyst lines flare up from chalk on the street, but Qing doesn't stop. "Hold the circle," he tells the Warder, then clasps his hands together. "Great Serpent, I call upon thee, draw unto thyself the intangible taint, and cast it out unto the oblivion brought by your fangs." The pieces of chalk scattered, all six of the Rokuga's hands come together in one loud clap.

In a flash the form of a golden serpent strikes forward, maw open and apparently real to the eye. The moment it strikes the crowd the people tumble, fall, and crumble to dust that never strikes the earth. This continues, like a scythe passing through wheat, through the flames and beyond, creating a gaping hole in the onslaught that does not fill in again. No fire, no people, no mists. Seconds later the mass washes around the two, a jarring and terrible mix of sounds. As it rages on Mage Qing can make out a difference beyond the flames. It is dark beyond them.

"Come, Jenekin, before the vacuum is filled," hisses Qing, snatching up his chalk. He lunges after the shock wave he's created, his black bowl hat jostling about on his head

The Warder breaks his chanting, blinks for a moment as if snapping out of a trance and offers a final prayer in finishing, then dashes forward after Mage Qing. Their flight through the tunnel is undisturbed; even as people dash past them and over each other, never do they step onto the wake of Qing's dispel. Even the fire works its way around the path. Once beyond the wall of flame, they arrive at a very quiet, very burnt, ruin of a town. The two notice that unlike where they were, there is no sunlight passing through the mists here, though there is light in the sky still.

Qing surveys the damage, his expression unreadable. "I can only hope your comrades are all right. Let's hurry to where we agreed to meet before something else happens. I haven't much to defend us with anymore."

The Warder pauses, bending over slightly and panting to catch his breath. "I … I agree. But look … " He points back down the tunnel created by Mage Qing's spell, and beyond the flames which continue to burn and the people now cramming themselves onto the dock and the ship beyond, it is light out. "It is about … about six now. The sun would have set past the mountains around this time."

"All the more reason to seek strength in numbers, Jenekin," replies Qing, a little winded himself. "We must hurry. If we can expect that kind of manifestation during the early evening, we don't want to face what night might hold."

Even as Jenekin nods and stands himself up, the sound of wood snapping and burning can be heard behind them. The flame reaches the dock, and the airship is engulfed with it, plumeting below, and the docks give way with it. There is, however, no splash from the mass hitting the water. The fire runs to the end of the dock and is gone without a trace. And now, it is silent. And the city is covered in shadow, burned as it should be.

The reptile watches what little light remains dwindling, and shakes his head. Without another word, he reorients himself on his path, and presses on, one hand beckoning the young Warder along.