It is unclear how much time has passed. Envoy normally needs but to sleep only a few hours at most per day, but her latest adventure started with a bout of oversleeping. Who can tell how many hours have passed between each need to stop for rest, how many hours she spent in restless slumber, and how many more hours were spent setting that schedule off, as she struggled on to find a better place to rest, in the face of numerous challenges to her safety to be found in the hazardous Undercity?

Envoy's body is exhausted. She hasn't seen sunlight in quite some time. Her robes are still a fair sight better than the rags that she has seen most of the Undercity's inhabitants adorned in, but they are badly in need of cleaning and mending, or perhaps simple replacement: a camouflage pattern of filth spots it, marked by tears suffered from numerous challenges to Envoy's right to keep on breathing, and caked in patches with Envoy's own blood.

It's not that every single Babelite that Envoy has encountered has sought to kill her. Hardly. It's just that those who are not predator are more likely prey, and they're more likely to simply keep well clear of the unknown – and more oft than not unwilling to raise a finger to assist a total stranger.

Fortunately for Envoy, as un-dramatic as it may seem after the first demonstration, her two-voiced screech has gotten considerable mileage in distracting would-be attackers long enough for her to get a good running start, or a preemptive strike, and most of them haven't the wherewithal to pursue Envoy once she puts up any serious resistance, aiming to find easier prey. Given the anti-social nature of most of the inhabitants here, news does not travel quickly, so the same trick does work twice.

Alas, Envoy's use of her wings has failed to improve. Considering the abuse she's suffered, and the prolonged denial of sunlight, perhaps it simply can't be helped.

For what it's worth, for the entirety of today (if, indeed, the span of time between now and her last nap could actually be called a "day") Envoy has not run into any scavengers mistaking her sleeping form for food, brigands thinking her easy pickings, or Yodhgorphat "Purgists".

(As Envoy's bad luck would have it, during at least one part of Envoy's travels, she's found that her current "sector" has been designated as in need of "cleansing" by the Temple of Gorphat. On the upside, at least the raging flames provided some light, but the smoke made breathing difficult. It remains to be seen whether she's managed to get out of that "sector" yet.)

At present, yet again Envoy's upward progress was blocked off by a staircase that had been simply sealed off.

This required some discouraging back-tracking down to an open window, where a wide buttress offered a promise of horizontal as well as vertical progress. (Ah, for a compass!)

The buttress merged with another, and it was fairly awkward (not to mention dangerous) to climb around vertical supports to get onto another horizontal brace, without slipping and falling. (Her wings might present a parachute, but her candles would no doubt be blown out, and there would be the risk of hitting something – and hard – in addition to the disappointment of losing several stories of progress.)

Sadly, the walkway sloped back down again, but there were a few pinpricks of light that seemed more interesting than the unbroken darkness. At the present, Envoy has but her tattered robes (no shoes), an honest-to-goodness candle holder with a solid grip (which doubles quite nicely as a bludgeon), a bundle of candles of various lengths carefully wrapped in a makeshift pouch of rags, another makeshift pouch full of "rations" (of the multipodal variety) and a curved shell piece that works awkwardly as a shutter for the candle – to protect against rare gusts of wind, mostly – or else as a bowl or cup on the occasion that drinkable water is found.

As she rounds a column support, almost losing her candle at one point, she finds that she has entered a new place:

Envoy makes her way carefully into the marketplace, such as it is, and tries to eavesdrop on bartering sessions to find out just how it's done here.

"I swear! This ale isn't the least bit watered down. Brewed from genuine gungis stalks." "It isn't how much it's watered down that I'm concerned about. It's the smell! I wager you simply relieved – " "Now sir! I am aghast at such an accusation!" "I'll give you no more than three chuggers for it. Maybe I can fool some poor sap who's lost his sense of smell… "

The Aeolun moves on. She's not sure what a "chugger" is, but isn't interested in ale anyway. She tries to locate a booth selling maps… or any other information on how to get out of the Undercity.

Fortunately, given the poor lighting and Envoy's generally filthy state, she doesn't actually attract all that much attention. To the casual observer relying upon Eeee acoustics, she fits roughly the profile of yet another nondescript Eeee. (Sonar is not, after all, that finely detailed. She has two legs, two arms, a head, ears, and wings. That's well and good enough with this much clutter.)

So far, she hasn't found anyone selling maps. Most of them sell assorted junk, without any particular specialty. Some sell mushrooms, some sell various things made from mushrooms, and a great many sell varieties of bugs, live or dead. (A quick perusal seems to suggest that living bugs are more valuable than dead ones, as moving about attests to their freshness and relative health.)

Envoy compares her own cache of crawlies to those being sold, to see they're worth trading, should she find anything worth getting. She considers getting more appropriate clothing, the better to blend in and disguise herself with.

It looks as if, alas, several of Envoy's crawlies have escaped. (That might explain the itchy sensation on her leg.) The remaining ones are, however, reasonably healthy-looking and intact, and even possessed of interesting red-and-black stripe patterns. Alas, Envoy does not know the finer points of identifying bug varieties found in the Babelite Undercity, but they don't seem to sport any obvious mutations at the very least. (Mutation is always a possibility on the surface, after all.)

Given their overall quality, Envoy might be able to trade them for something. Her own robes might well have trading value. Cleanliness, while no doubt a selling point, does not seem to be an overriding necessity down here, but the relative durability of the fabric is probably an asset.

Looking around for a clothing – or the equivalent – merchant, Envoy decides she'll need something better to carry her supplies in as well. Hopefully, she'll be able to trade her existing robes for plenty of local attire. While she searches, she also keeps her ears perked for any news or gossip of what's going on up above, if only to find out that there is some way for information to travel between the two halves of the city.

Anything approaching "news" is highly localized … and, indeed, it seems as if the average Eeee couldn't really give a care as to what his neighbor is doing down here (so long as it doesn't impact himself, of course). Asking too many questions, after all, isn't prudent – Such innocent questions as "What may I call you?" or "Where am I?" or "Do you know where I can find some water?" had prompted some otherwise seemingly harmless locals to lash out at Envoy during her trek. At the moment, however, it doesn't look like any are sizing her up.

At what might be charitably called a tent (more like, drapes of tarp hanging off of some poles and some stonework), it looks as if someone is perched upon several piles of fabric, which either might be for trade, or else might simply be seating. In any case, there are no other obvious wares, so perhaps this is simply the "merchant's" way of making certain his (or her? Hard to tell) wares don't wander off.

Envoy pauses to look over what's on display, then asks, "Do you sell clothing, or just raw material?"

The bat laughs, showing a mouth almost free of sign of teeth. In a raspy voice that still gives no clue as to the bat's gender, but attests to poor health for certain, the "merchant" squeaks, "Clothes, cloths, rags a'plenty. Discarded from the finest towers o' Babel! I'll give you your pick of the pile, and anything crawling on it is yours free for the bargain!"

"You take cloth in trade too?" the Aeolun asks, and brings a cleaner bit of her amber robe close to the candlelight.

A couple of fleshy folds rise, revealing that the bat has, in fact, a pair of eyes. While one of them is cloudy from a cataract, the other one still gleams in the faint light cast from a burning pot of refuse that provides scant heat in the corner. "Ohhhhh. Who'd you kill for that?" Abruptly, the bat resumes a more sour expression. "Eh, all those blood stains! Hardly worth anything. You're better off walking about raw. But I'll take it out of your hands. Properly folded, could add another inch to my pile."

Time to barter, Envoy thinks. "Blood is good for grubs. Genuine mage robes, good quality. Trade you for six times equivalent size of your merchandise. Bargain."

The bat's eyes vanish in a crush of brows. "Nnnnnn. Same for same. I'm doing you a favor."

"A merchant that shows this will draw more customers," Envoy counters. "Pay for itself in no time. I'll let it go for four times same."

The bat chews on its lip, the one good eye opening up to regard Envoy's robe with thinly veiled avarice. "Twice, and not a shred more. I'm only humoring you, since this is the first you've visited my tent. These cloths could be traded for food, you know. You're starving my little batlings, all seven of them. But I have a good heart – too good, I wager. Pity, yes, pity I have that you be forced to kill for a scrap to wear. Twice itself."

"Three times, and I'll add this," Envoy says, and holds out her biggest bug.

The bat's eye goes a little wider, scarcely an eye-blink has passed before the bat squeaks loudly, "Done!" and reaches out for the bug.

The bug writhes impotently in Envoy's hand, protesting in a grinding chitter.

Envoy hands over the bug, and goes to look inside the tent. "I'll change in here if that's alright, once I've picked out what I want." She looks for garments that will cover or hide as much as possible, such as dresses or cloaks, as well as some smaller rags that can serve as bags and foot wrappings.

Upon a more close inspection, the "tent" is pretty much just a shelter to keep things from landing on the bat. (It's a very useful thing, since "things" do on occasion fall from far above.) The nearest possible place that might offer the slightest bit of privacy would be what looks like a partially collapsed room nearby, the entrance partially blocked by a pile of rubble, through which a narrow crack offers some entrance. But there's no telling whether this bat claims that as part of its "property" or not. The bat merchant grabs the bug, looking it over and sniffing at it, and breaking off one of its legs and tasting it tentatively. Between crunches, the bat says, "Fine, fine." The bat is now off the pile, giving Envoy greater freedom to poke around. It looks like quite an assortment, all of it more or less filthy, but mostly intact.

Envoy rummages through the pile, hoping to find an intact cloak, but also setting aside pieces that could serve to wrap her arms and legs as well. As for privacy … well, it's dark, and she still has her undergarments, so the tent should suffice.

For what it's worth, the bat doesn't seem to care the least whether Envoy disrobes here or in plain view. Babelites aren't quite as concerned about such things as they might be in, say, Rephidim or most of the Nordikan nations. Envoy manages to claim a cloak and some suitable wrappings that are less filthy than the norm. Actually, most of the more buried pieces aren't nearly so filthy. It just seems that the bat stays on the pile all day, and even eats there, so those pieces on top tend to get rained on with the mess of careless dining. Most of these pieces have probably just been discarded by careless surface-dwellers who use the drop-offs as a means of disposal.

Among the more promising prospects are a head-wrap (with ear-holes), a thick scarf, a dress (no belt, but some scrap could be used as a sash), some very baggy trousers (with no hole for a tail, since most Eeee have none), and a sleeveless tunic that secures around the neck and leaves the back open.

Oh yes, and there's a single glove, about one size too large, and with a hole worn in the thumb and index finger.

Once she's suitably bundled up in the remnants, and has reinforced her supply sacks with some rags, Envoy hands over the mage's robe she was given at the Babel Guild Hall. "Do you know what's behind this rubble back here?" She adjusts the cloak to cover her wings and exposed back as best as possible, and wraps some extra rags around her left forearm just behind the glove, to serve as a makeshift shield against the poor weapons she's encountered so far. Most of the rest fits well enough, or else serves to obscure her form in bagginess.

The bat looks to Envoy. "Unh? Just an old shrine. An old priest and his wife and cub shelter in there. Or we call him a priest. New to our little world, heh." The bat wrings the robe and sniffs at it, and chuckles, quite pleased at the bargain.

"It doesn't seem all that little to me," Envoy admits, and looks back at the shrine. "Which Goddess does he serve?"

The bat shrugs. "Feh. Who's to say? Why proclaim your devotion too loudly to one, and anger the rest, eh? He can't be that good of a priest to be stuck with us down here, ha? Maybe his deity is out of favor, and he's here to save his hide."

"Is there another way into his shrine?" Envoy asks, curious now. "A little divine influence couldn't hurt, down here."

The bat laughs. "Another way in? Not that I would know. He's not in there just now, if that's what you're wondering. But he doesn't keep anything in there worth taking, if you're wondering that, too."

Envoy sits on the ground outside the tent. "Perhaps I'll wait then, and see if I can collect a few more bugs. I don't suppose people around here like to listen to songs?"

"Songs?" the bat squeaks querulously. "Heh. In a crowd, it can't be that you'd have a song that would please everyone in earshot … and those that didn't like it would doubtless try to silence you. Music is for those who want to live short lives."

"In any case," the bat says, making shooing motions. "Not inside my tent, you don't wait! A good bug and a filthy robe do not make you a new tenant! Off with you! You'll scare off my customers!"

Blinking at this, Envoy gets up and goes to explore the rest of the marketplace.

True, Envoy hasn't heard any music that she can recall, save for that inside the temple of Diphath, and she certainly doesn't hear any here above the chorus of squeaks and squabbling. The bat merchant goes back to sitting on his or her pile of cloths, now a little shorter, and bites pieces off of the squirming bug, which wiggles its legs and chitters in protest at being dismembered, as large globs of perfectly good goo slide down the bat's chin and onto the pile of fabric.

At one tent, there are especially large bug shells. At another, there's partially eaten food that smells of spices probably not available down here. At yet another, there are some broken chitin and wooden weapons, and a few large bones and bug parts that might be serviceable as bludgeons with a little more reach than Envoy's candlestick.

Tugging the head-cover forward to try and shadow her muzzle more, the Aeolun circulates among the booths. Mostly she listens though, and keeps her hands on her supply bags to avoid losing them to casual thieves.

A small bat flits past, making a pathetic attempt at bumping into Envoy, "Oh! So sorry!" and reaching toward her pouch holding her remaining supply of bugs.

Envoy yanks the bag back away from the … child? "More sorry than you think if you try to rob me," she warns.

The bat makes a squeak of alarm that sounds like a rude word that children generally shouldn't know, but relents, flying off. However, Envoy feels a faint whisper of a tug on her other side at the same instant.

Alarmed, Envoy turns to see if someone is trying to rob her while the child was distracting her.

Envoy turns around just in time to see two small bats flapping away, one of them carrying a couple of candles that were formerly in Envoy's possession, and squeaking triumphantly.

Frowning, Envoy runs after the two, but gives up the chase after a short distance. She can't fly after them. Instead, she secures her supplies to the inside of her tunic, giving her a slightly pregnant look. But at least the robbers will have to come at her from the front. The lost candles were probably worth a decent weapon, too.

As Envoy turns about, she spies a pair of bats alighting near the rubble, beside the "clothes merchant's" tent. A male, a female … and harder to see, a very young bat, no older than six, no younger than four. The male looks warily about, and casts a warning glance over at the "clothes-merchant", as he ushers the child and female into the cracked opening.

Almost escaping Envoy's notice, in her peripheral vision in the other direction, a male bat – no nicer looking than the usual crowd, but no more predatory, either – alights upon a stony perch, and regards Envoy with obvious scrutiny.

The Exile makes her way back towards the entrance to the shrine, and stops there, realizing she's never learned how to approach a priest. After a moment though, she says, "Hello?" into the opening. She tries to watch the perched Eeee out of the corner of her eye, wondering why it would be paying any attention to her now that she's a bit more nondescript.

It could be the father of those two pickpockets, she thinks, coming to see if there're more candles to be had.

While Envoy is looking away, she's totally caught off guard as a hand reaches out and grabs her about the nape and roughly yanks her partly through the crack. Inside, it is pitch black, but she can feel a cold chitin blade pressed against her throat. "This place is occupied," comes a low hiss, close to her right ear.

Envoy tries not to panic, and whispers, "I know, that's why I said hello. I was told that a priest lived here, and wondered which deity he served."

A pause, and then the pressure of the knife lightens, though she feels that she is being pulled into the crack further.

Once Envoy is inside, her captor hisses to an unseen occupant, "The candles – " There is a scraping noise, and then there is a glimmer of light at the end of a short wooden rod held by the female bat, who, though her cloak is marked with many spatters of grime, has clothes underneath that look considerably more tidy and carefully patched. She lights several candles, and in their illumination, Envoy can take in her surroundings…

A middle-aged bat holds a knife at Envoy's throat, and she can tell from his forearms that he has more muscle-tone than the average bat – not a hard laborer, per se, but still seeing more work than a priest would normally be expected to perform. The female is much younger than he, perhaps even young enough to be his daughter, though not necessarily so. The youngest bat is a little boy, and at first glance, he is not easily placed as the child of either the young woman or the man.

Envoy ponders the decor. The location would suggest Sunala worshippers … but why have a statue of Inala then? "Errm," she says. "If I'm interrupting, I could come back later. I'm just looking for a bit of … advice."

The male bat's eyes narrow. "Who are you? I don't recognize your kind."

Blinking, Envoy explains, "I'm an Exile. I guess my disguise isn't very effective up close. Is that … alright?"

"Exile," the priest hisses. "Exiles are bad omens. Always. Now that I have imparted that wisdom upon you, what advice is it that you seek, or is that enough to satisfy you and send you quietly on your way?"

"I was wondering which goddess you worshipped," Envoy says carefully. "And if you could point me in the direction of her mountain … or else to some route higher up in the city."

The bat's eyes narrow. "Any fool can point upward. And as for your first question, I revere the Two foremost, though I give due respect to any deity I come across."

Envoy guesses, "Sunala and Inala?" She wonders if she should mention being an Avatar.

"Those are the names given to them by those on the surface," the bat says, his knife hand falling away from Envoy, though it may well be because he has momentarily been distracted, at the opportunity to speak of religious things – Quite probably the average Undercity dweller isn't so interested in those matters, if Sunala and Inala cannot provide bugs and water.

"I take it you worship them in their more … fundamental aspects then?" Envoy asks, thinking back to the creation myths. "Could you point me in the direction of their mounts from here? I'm a pilgrim of sorts, but I got sidetracked along the way."

The bat seems about to respond to Envoy's first comment, but at her question, he just points upward. "Fly up to the towers, and you will see them clearly enough. As it is, you are not far from the Pit, if you continue eastward." For what it is worth, the direction he points now does tell Envoy something she did not know before. Provided he is not simply lying to her, she now knows the compass directions – something she lost track of long before.

"I'm afraid my wings aren't working at the moment," Envoy admits. "A punishment from Inala, for defying Her. Can you suggest a way to get back in Her better graces… or at least if there are any clear passages leading to the higher areas I might be able to use?"

"If you have an offering for Her shrine," the Eeee priest offers, "She might lessen Her ire against you. But mind you, bugs and trinkets are of no use here. And in this shrine, She is known as Rinala, for this tomb was built in a much earlier age, when the tops of the towers were not far above here, and once this place was in the bowels of a noble house, where they kept their honored dead. Those dead have long since passed to dust, but that makes this none the less hallowed to the Kindly Ones."

"Life," Envoy whispers. "What sort of offering would be appropriate?"

The priest says, "I would suggest a candle, if you hadn't lost yours to those scoundrels. They are not easily come by down this far."

Envoy blinks. "How did you know I'd been robbed?" she asks, while also calculating how much candlelight time she has left with her remaining supply, and whether she should risk offering one up. The current Inala isn't likely to care anyway, especially when referred to as Rinala.

At the rate she's been burning them, not counting losses to hoodlums, they might give her a day or two of light. It's hard to tell, really, as she's not had much gauge of the passage of time down here. The bat frowns. "It was obvious enough, what with those two flying off from you with candles. I doubt they would have come up to you with them."

"I don't think I can afford such an offering now," Envoy says. "But I thank you for the directions you have given me." She hopes they'll let her go without insisting on an offering now.

The bat seems to be scrutinizing Envoy. "Then you are a pilgrim?" he asks, querulously.

"I am trying to reach the Temple of Barada," Envoy admits, "but my progress so far seems to have been rather erratic."

The bat works his mouth. "If it is true you go there, might you bear a scroll to the sisters there? One sealed with a curse, if any but one of the Yodh should break it."

Envoy blinks. "So long as you have other copies, yes I will carry it. I can't guarantee that I will make it to them though, for there are those up above that would rather I didn't."

The bat sucks in his breath. "Very well then. I can offer you hospitality, seeing as you are a pilgrim, to rest here while I inscribe the scroll, and curse its seal."

"I … I thank you for that," Envoy says, genuinely surprised, and begins to relax a little. "Does it matter which of the Yodh receive it? The Yodhblakat may be looking for me, so they would take the scroll if they found me. And do you know anything of the Eeee that seemed to be watching me when you brought me inside?"

"If there were Eeee watching you, it was because you were robbed, and you did not break any bones of the offender, or even fly after. It makes you an easy mark," the priest says. He moves toward a slab that has been turned into a desk of sorts, and pulls out a loose stone, from which he retrieves a roll of parchment frayed around the edges, and an inkwell. "If you would please, the Yodhbarada would be the most deserving of this message. But what the Yodhblakat take, it is hard to take back. You cannot be blamed for that."

Envoy nods. "The Yodhbarada are the only ones I feel safe turning to at this time. Well, not safe, exactly, but they should be able to use what I know best."

The bat nods, setting out the parchment, and pulling out a feather, carefully cutting a nib with his knife, then dipping it in ink. "Matra," he says, and the female inclines her head, then turns to Envoy. "You may have this place," she says, indicating a large, intact slab of stone. "We have no hospitality to offer save for the shelter of this shrine."

"Shelter is something I haven't had since I was chased down here," Envoy says, smiling. "I'm very, very grateful for this." She sits up on the slab, crossing her legs under her in her favored resting position.

The male bat, not even looking at Envoy, just grunts quietly, and begins writing on the parchment, his body obscuring any view of what he transcribes.

Envoy can't help but wonder about the message. It could have been centuries since the Temples last knew of this once-private shrine, after all.

Without the rush of adrenaline from new threats to keep her active, Envoy feels fatigue sweeping over her, lulling her away from the waking world. There's nothing about the smell here that suggests foul play … just genuine weariness, and the likelihood that for all the time that has passed, she might not have even been able to get her normal minimum of sleep in one setting, for all the interruptions she's had.

Envoy closes her eyes and gives in to the exhaustion, feeling secure for a change. The priest is obviously capable of defending his home, even when he's not in it, apparently.

Envoy descends into a mix of very troubled dreams. They all share in common, however, a recurrent theme … a collection of vignettes, whereby she experiences a slice of life through the eyes of total strangers … and all of these stories conclude with the dropping of the "boomer" on Babel. Some of these dreams strike her with an uncomfortable sense of familiarity. As if she's been there before … as if she might even know some of these people. As they are, however, dreams, they don't mesh perfectly with her legendary photographic memory, and the connections don't automatically spring to mind. Not all of them, anyway …

The Aeolun comes awake with a jerk, as if fighting against sleep. Once her eyes open, she looks around in momentary confusion, as if surprised to be in her own body.

Hazy realization comes to her that this time, yes, she's Envoy again. At the fringes of her awareness, she hears an imagined (?) jingle of a chain and departing boot-steps, perhaps another little dream vignette that has eluded her. But she finds that she is where she was resting, on the slab, in the little shrine. Her timing is impeccable, as the priest finishes up the scroll with a few well-placed marks, and though Envoy hasn't enough of a glimpse to make out anything other than "Malthazareh" on it, she can tell that the handwriting is very precise and refined. The bat blows on the ink, waves the parchment a couple of times, then rolls it up, and brings over a candle to drop a puddle of wax onto the break.

On another slab, the female bat sits, back against the wall, gently stroking the head-hair of the little boy bat who dozes in her lap.

"Matra," Envoy mutters, watching the female and the child. "Matra … you weren't a maid, were you? Before the boomer?" she quietly asks her.

The female bat's ears blanch and retract, and she reflexively clutches the child in her lap closer to her, tightly enough that he dizzily stirs from his slumber with a confused squeak. The priest turns about, scroll in hand, leaving the quill upon the stone "desk".

Envoy babbles on, "Captain Karada had a maid named Matra, and a son. He knew … it was allowed to happen … the mages knew too, they tried to control it I think."

The scroll falls from the priest's hand, and in a flash, a dagger has taken its place!

"Matra – take the boy!" the priest commands, as he lunges toward Envoy!

Noticing none of this, Envoy rubs a spot beneath her horn. "They knew … they knew … they thought they could control where the swap would be."

Pain lances through Envoy's body, as the dagger plunges through her torso.

Envoy arches back and screams! "No!"