Another day, another shekel working at the docks, and Lochinvar has finally finished his shift, and is off to the tavern to spend a bit of his pay on a well-earned drink, kick back, and cool his heels (and wings). With any luck, there might even be some decent music tonight, if a bard happens to pass this way. At the bar, the barkeep – a Gallah with a bit of Doberman in his markings – habitually polishes mugs and glasses, while an assortment of dock-workers line up for their drinks. There are a few vaguely familiar faces in here, but none of Lochinvar's buddies have shown up just yet. Nonetheless, just about every Vartan in the room scrawks a greeting to him as he enters.

Lochinvar's favorite table hasn't been claimed yet, and he gets himself comfortably settled in, when an Eeee waitress ambles by, balancing a tray in each hand. She stops by Lochinvar's table, carefully setting down her trays, then pulling a mug off and sitting it in front of the winged Hekoye.

She's new, it seems, and pretty, though Lochinvar's seen prettier. It could be the way she has her head-hair tied back in a braid, making her look a bit older than she probably is. Some dyed marks in her facial fur give her an exotic look, despite her drab barmaid's outfit and the vain attempt of a corset to try to flatter her typically Eeee figure.

Regardless, she gives the half-Vartan a pleasant enough smile, explaining, "Your favorite drink. Courtesy of the fellows over there." She moves aside so Lochinvar can see a cluster of dock-workers seated under the ring-shaped candle chandelier in the center of the main room – nobody Lochinvar knows personally, though he's seen most of them around. A coyote – that is, a full-blood, wingless Hekoye – raises his foamy mug in one hat, and touches the brim of his felt hat in silent greeting, as the waitress picks her trays up again. "I have a few more tables before I can come back to see what you want, but if you need anything, just holler." She swivels her ears. "I've got good hearing." She ends with a wink, as she bustles on to the next table.

Smiling politely, Lochinvar nods and replies just before she moves on, "I'll bear that in mind." He waits until she's dealing with customers at another table, before glancing over at the fellows that bought him his drink. He takes a swig of it, then after a moment's pause decides to wander over to them to thank them.

Before Lochinvar gets up two steps from his chair, something registers as wrong in his head. Or, more accurately, his palette … and his sinuses. There's a strange tang to the ale … and then he starts to feel a burning sensation in his throat. It's as if he swallowed ale laden with a dose of kyootcumber sap mixed in. It didn't initially register as "spicy" – but now it most certainly does, as a most disagreeable sort of delayed effect.

Lochinvar puts a hand to his throat, rubbing it slightly and starts towards the bar, looking for something soothing to drink to stop the burning.

The effect gets worse. But what adds to the insult is that Lochinvar's sinuses seem to be going into overtime. The result is fairly embarrassing, as he could use not only a drink right now, but a handkerchief. Maybe two of them. He can hear guffaws of laughter from the table he was headed toward just a moment ago.

At the bar, a couple of the patrons, seeing Lochinvar's state of distress, shuffle to get out of his way, giving him looks of alarm in the process. He must look pretty bad right now.

Still struggling towards the bar, the winged Hekoye does his best to ignore those laughing at him. He scans the bar for any kind of napkin.

No, this isn't the sort of bar that conveniently leaves out disposable napkins for guests. It's just a tavern, after all, not a restaurant. There is, however, a spare apron hanging on a hook within reach, though there's no supposing that the bartender would approve.

Lochinvar's nose, unfortunately, is almost streaming now. Though he realizes that it's impolite, he grabs the apron.

There's a predictable shout from the bartender – "HEY!" and the laughs become even more loud. Still, it's a desperate situation. Lochinvar ends up almost choking as he breaks into a horrible hacking and sneezing fit, and it feels like he's got fire running not only through his throat, but his nostrils and even places he didn't know he could feel pain in, in his head. The waitress flutters her hands to her face. "Oh dear. This is no good!" The fellows at the table are clapping each other on the back, and one of them points at Lochinvar, and can be heard to say, "What a sucker!"

The Vartan/Hekoye gives the bartender an apologetic look, holding the apron up to his muzzle. "You have … any milk?" he asks, needing something to soothe the fire in his throat.

The barkeep just simmers, while the waitress goes to the icebox and pulls out a glass jug, and pours Lochinvar a cup. "Lookee!" one of the antagonists says. "He drinks milk! Guess ale is too strong for him, eh?"

Lochinvar continues to ignore them for the moment, gulping the milk down since he's being bothered more by his throat than those workers right now.

The milk does wonders. Lochinvar still has some residual effects – rather inevitable, really – but the sensations drop to a dull ache, rather than a searing burn. Much better.

The winged coyote pants slightly, trying to get his breath a little, still padding at his nose slightly.

The full-blood Hekoye at the table chuckles to his comrades. "See? He's no Vartan."

Lochinvar turns to look at them again, his expression becoming a glare at them. He briefly turns to look at the bartender. "I'll return this to you later – washed," he says, then starts over towards the table in the center again.

The men at the table turn to look at Lochinvar. Seeing his expression, some of them straighten up a bit, puff up chest-fluff, or otherwise show that they think they're hot stuff and not about to be intimidated by a Hekoye-Vartan with sinus trouble.

Stepping up to the table, Lochinvar addresses them, "I feel that I should… thank you for the drink."

The Hekoye at the table seems to be the only one inclined to actually respond to him. "Hey, pleasure's all ours." Aside from the Hekoye, the others at the table are canines and lupines – no Vartans, for certain.

Lochinvar eyes them, sizing them up almost. Since he doesn't think he could come off well in fighting them, he tries to put on a better face for dealing with them. "The spice in it caught me slightly off guard though," he says.

This prompts chuckles from those at the table. "Caught him off guard!" one says, ribbing the other. "Heh." "Imagine that!" "Nyuck!"

"I said only slightly," urges the Hekoye/Vartan.

"Slightly," echoes a floppy-eared Gallah at the table. "Haw!"

Lochinvar ignores the jibes. "To what did I owe the honor of your drink, might I ask?"

The Hekoye at the table looks directly at Lochinvar, all mirth vanishing from his face. The others near him sober up as they notice the transformation of his expression. In a level tone, the Hekoye says, "S'what you get for pretending to be a Vartan. It's bad enough you're a half-breed. But you have to dump the Hekoye half, huh? You're an embarrassment, kid."

"Sorry, I think that you're confused," replies Lochinvar, having heard such things said to him during his childhood. "I'm a Vartan. Always have been, as my parents before me."

The Hekoye at the table sneers. "Where's your beak, Vartan?"

Lochinvar puts a hand slightly to his muzzle. "I … it's a birth defect," he replies after a moment.

The Hekoye snarls at this. "What … are you saying this is a defect?" He points at his own muzzle. The others at the table seem torn between taking offense, or taking this as a joke to guffaw along with.

Shaking his head, the half-Vartan replies, "Of course not – you are Hekoye. Your mouth should be like that."

The Hekoye sits back. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm Hekoye. And you … " He shakes his head. "… haven't got it all together upstairs. Wasting my time on the likes of you." He slaps some shekels down on the table, takes a swig from his mug, then gets up from the table.

Lochinvar blinks slightly at the Hekoye, and offers as his reply, "My peers regard me as quite intelligent, as far as 'having it all together'."

There are a few mutters, a few whispered curses and coughs, and the group quickly breaks up, finishing up their drinks, slapping down their tips, and getting up from the table. The Hekoye just casts Lochinvar a look of … disbelief, as he shakes his head and walks on out, followed by his tag-alongs.

The bat waitress touches Lochinvar on the shoulder. "Are … are you just going to let them do that to you?"

Slumping his shoulders a little, Lochinvar sighs and looks back to the waitress. "It's okay," he replies. "I've been used to it all my life. Fortunately, enough people respect me for who I am, not what."

The bat waitress blinks at Lochinvar, then says, "You … Tell me, at the very least, you even realize you've just been insulted!"

Lochinvar says, "By people who just don't understand. Without understanding, an insult is just words."

The bat stares at the Vartan-Hekoye incredulously. In the background, it seems that everyone, everything has frozen. Even the Hekoye and his comrades heading out the door.

Somehow … this in and of itself doesn't seem greatly out of place … as if Lochinvar's mind is inclined to just take this in stride. Like things happen this way all the time.

The bat glowers at Lochinvar. "So you're just going to let them make a fool of you, insult your parentage, question your intelligence, and play a cruel prank on you … and let them walk out?"

"Yes," the winged coyote says, nodding. "As I said, they don't understand, and violence or retaliation is never a good teacher."

"Who said anything about teaching?" the bat says, her voice tightening. "How about revenge? Payback? Honor? If you let them push you around, someone else will! You'll become a laughing-stock!"

Lochinvar retorts back, "I've dealt with people saying that to me ever since I could walk and talk. I still have my honor and have not become a laughing stock."

The bat throws up her hands in frustration. "I … but … OHHHH!" she fumes. "Tell me … WHAT would be enough to make you want to get even?"

Lochinvar shakes his head a little. "I don't want to get even. All they did to me was say things they didn't understand, and spike my ale," he says, then grins a little at the Eeee waitress. "But then, you're new here. Us dockworkers sometimes have strange ways of getting a laugh. So, it may have been me today, tomorrow it'll be someone else."

"You aren't listening to me," the waitress says, obviously flustered. "Let's say things happened differently. Maybe they were a bit more mean. What would be too much? How far would they have to go to set you off?"

The half-Vartan gives the bat a bit of a strange look. "Why?"

"Just… " The bat sputters. "I need to know. As … as a friend!"

Oh yes. Now the half-Vartan suddenly remembers. This is the waitress who always serves him. She's very nice. Always likes to listen to him, laughs at his jokes, never does anything the least bit contrary toward him …

… not that, for the life of him, he can specifically remember what jokes she laughed at, just how he came to think she was nice, or anything like that. Curious, really, but only if one were to focus on such discrepancies.

Lochinvar smiles at the waitress, feeling slightly more comfortable. "Those fellows, they weren't Vartans anyway. So, why should I care what they think? But it's my fellow Vartans I'm proving myself to. I know I'm one, but sometimes they feel I'm not … so I show them I can do as much, even more, than they."

The waitress waves her hand, looking annoyed at first, though she tries to adopt a more friendly demeanor quickly, "Ah … I know, I know … What I mean is … Oh, don't you ever lose your cool? Let's say one of them … ah … put a tack in your chair. Or maybe he just hauled off and punched you in the gut. What would cross the line for you, so you'd feel obliged to get him back?"

Raising his hand to rub the underside of his muzzle in thought, Lochinvar hrms. "Well, certainly if someone felt that they wanted a bit of a brawl, I'd willingly oblige," he says, grinning a bit, having gotten into plenty of bar brawls in the past.

"But … you make it sound like a sport," the bat says. "That doesn't sound like getting even."

"Maybe," he replies, "but you certainly have to get back there what they give you in those situations."

The bat just gives Lochinvar this look. Funny. If he didn't recall what a nice, friendly person she was, he could be certain she was glaring daggers at him.

After staring at Lochinvar for a long, quiet moment, and getting no response from him, the bat lets out a long breath, and with that breath, it seems like she's somehow … letting go of something.

Lochinvar is filled with a strange sense of deja vu, all of a sudden … a sense that he has been here before. And then, memories flood him. He's not still a dock-worker. He's a Temple Ranger. And he has, over the past few … nights? … been subjected to dream after dream, an endless montage of nightmarish depictions of actual conflicts in his own life, in which he has been goaded into combat, or else he simply refused to be moved, and the dream was ended abruptly.

And, Lochinvar can't help but realize, suddenly, he's in the middle of a dream right now. That would explain, no doubt, all the people who are standing around, frozen in place, like statues. Strange that this didn't occur to him before as being out of place. But then … that's a dream for you.

Lochinvar looks around at the people frozen in place about him, then looks back at the Eeee waitress. "What is this?" he asks of her. "I've seen you before. You're no tavern maid. Who are you?"

"I am Rephath," the bat says, cool and level, seeming far more collected and a great deal less friendly than how she came across just a moment ago. Something about her stance and bearing makes her seem … lethal … even in a barmaid's dress. "Translated into your tongue, that would be 'Vengeance'. And I am at a loss as to why you should choose my path. What happened to the avenger who slew the Shadow-Dragon for betraying him and his friends? Does this man only appear once in a Hunter's Knife? Or are you a changeling that has taken his place? What manner of man are you?"

"I know nothing of this 'path' you speak of," replies the winged Hekoye. "And I am still that person, but I know when is enough to take such action, and I will not take such actions lightly."

"Or," hisses the bat, "you simply haven't much spine, save to finally deal retribution upon your enemies once they've slaughtered everyone you cared about, and laid waste to everything you held dear. It's vengeance then, yes, but vengeance taken far too late to be savored with much satisfaction."

"Why should satisfaction come from vengeance?" asks the winged Hekoye. "It's nothing to be proud of."

"And letting people kick you around is?" the bat says, sounding disgusted and incredulous, then she takes a breath and adopts a "cool and collected" demeanor, though anger can be sensed boiling just under the facade. "Don't consider it in terms of pride then. Consider the role you put yourself in. In this world, you can be the one who pushes … or you can be pushed." And with that, she gestures with one hand, almost casually, if not for the wrathful expression that contorts her face as she does so. The winged Hekoye feels a heavy weight slam into his midsection, and before he even realizes what is happening, he is knocked off his feet, and sails through the air – knocking over a couple of the frozen patrons along the way as if they were mannequins. He slams, wings first, into the far wall, then slides down to collapse, hard, on the floor. His body aches.

Lochinvar pushes himself to his feet, making use of nearby furniture to help himself up, breathing heavily. "So … that's it?" he asks. "You don't get whatever it is from me you want, and that's your answer? Who are you to tell me how I should live my life, what decisions I should make?"

The bat focuses Lochinvar with a baleful, simmering glare … then closes her eyes tightly, drawing a long breath through her nostrils. When her eyes snap open again, it's as if she's undergone a transformation of sorts – at least in her disposition. "Life is full of people who will tell you how to live, Lochinvar Arques," she says, coolly, as she strides across the room, then calmly reaches out and helps him the rest of the way to his feet. She's quite strong, but her touch seems almost … gentle. She stands behind him, and grasps his shoulders, rubbing the pain out of them. In a matter of moments, the ache is totally gone, hardly even a memory. "If you do not act, then others will. If you allow yourself to be pushed, then you will be pushed. When you allow enemies to prey upon you, they will taste your blood, and see that it is good, and that they will lose none of their own taking it from you."

"They will come again," she says, soft and taking the demeanor of a patient teacher, "like blood-flies upon a wounded Bromthen forest-hog. They will rob you of all you have, if you do not show them that to take it will cost them a terrible price." She runs a finger down the back of Lochinvar's neck. "There. All better."

Lochinvar finds it easier to stand now, and does so, turning around to look at the bat. "I never said that I would not act," he tells her. "Should the need for it arise, I will, but I will be the one to make that decision in my best judgement. Why should I tell you what would 'push me over the edge'?"

The bat's eyes narrow, with a hint of anger to them, but more than a little hint of fatigue. She leans against the half-Vartan's chest. "I think you do not understand what is at stake. No, of course you don't. Curse these puzzles and tests. I have no patience for them. I need a champion. And whatever fate is above the gods and goddesses has chosen you as that champion. You're all I have." She pulls away, looking him intently in the eyes. "You will see my grief and anguish. You will know the weeping of Babel for the wound that has been struck against it. Rephidim claims innocence, yet it shows no remorse. The souls of the dead cry out for vengeance, and I will give it to them. I offer you a chance to be part of this – an instrument of vengeance … of justice … rather than being counted with those that have wronged my people. Know our grief. Then, perhaps, your heart will be moved. If not … then I am surely as doomed as my poor, precious, youngest sister."

Rephath leans over to whisper into Lochinvar's ear, "Watch, my champion. Watch, and learn what the Temple will not tell you."

And then Lochinvar is elsewhere, far, far away. He is in a vast city, up in a mountainous area, though the buildings of this city rival the mountains themselves in their heights. A ridge of seven mountains flanks the city on one side, and an eight mountain can be seen, larger than any of them. A great building can be seen to at first be mistaken for a mountain … but it is, in fact, the Tower of Babel, the grandest achievement of the city's architects over the millennia, built upon generation after generation, until it has grown to rival the mountains themselves.

The buildings of this city are built in similar fashion. The foundations are far below, long lost to the sun and Procession, as successive generations have simply built atop the buildings of the old. Irregular towers form, rising upward, and bridges span across them to connect them for those not possessed of flight. Here and there, buildings have collapsed, and the rubble, once settled, has been used anew to build upon. It is not a particularly stable arrangement, but few things are here, in Babel, heart of the old Empire of the Sabaoth, the Ashdod Territories.

It is night time, and the city is alight with lanterns and torches – far many more than would be the norm for nightfall, especially in a city populated by those who can "see" with their ears. No, strains of music reach the Vartan-Hekoye's ears as he perches on a crumbling, forgotten tower on the fringes of the city. It is a holiday, a celebration. Occasionally, here or there, fireworks prematurely launch into the air – a common problem due to quantum uncertainties on the surface, which are never kind to the least bit of explosives … and, no doubt, there are going to be antsy celebrants in a city of this size.

Lochinvar realizes that he's not alone on the rooftops. There are numerous bats gathered, perched here and there, though he has this particular perch to himself … himself, that is, save for a lady bat that holds onto his arm and rests her head against his shoulder, looking in toward the city. "It's almost time," she says. "Almost midnight, and the end of a year … a decade … a century. It will be the year 6100, by the Temple's reckoning."

Looking to the Eeee next to him, Lochinvar asks, "That's what they're celebrating then? New Year's?"

The lady chuckles, and nestles in closer to the large half-Vartan against the chill of the night breeze. "You've got it. The Guild always sends up the most dazzling fireworks display – courtesy of the Sphere of Fire, of course. It's right over … " She points toward the jumble of buildings, and somehow Lochinvar is able to figure out the spot where she's pointing. "… there."

"It's quite … breathtaking," replies the winged coyote. Then his face firms up a little. "Almost makes me forget it's not magical in nature," he adds. "Almost."

A murmur goes through the bats across the rooftops … counting, apparently, in their native tongue. Then, they must have reached the end-point, as they start shouting and cheering, and whipping noise-makers around. Fireworks sputter, misfire and occasionally launch all over the city. A far more dazzling display erupts from the area that Lochinvar's companion pointed out, as streaming sprays of sparks shoot upward, then burst into expanding spheres of shimmering, glittering particles that slowly descend and spread out, forming mushrooming billows before they wink out entirely. In the flashes of light, Lochinvar's keen eyes pick out something floating overhead … an airship braving the skies, despite the hazards posed by the pyrotechnics. It's just a flicker, but it looks as if something fell from the airship. It plummets … down … down toward the heart of the city.

"What the… ?" asks the coyote. "An airship overhead during fireworks? Are they mad? … Wait – did they get hit?"

The bat lady just watches, not offering a word at first. She lets out a long sigh, then whispers, "Boom." And at that instant, the speck of light flares outward, before it reaches the buildings. The sky itself seems to shatter like a broken mirror, as segments show light, darkness, expanses of stars, and other strange sights that Lochinvar can't make much sense of. Fire and vapors burst outward and dissipate, all in the matter of an instant, an eye-blink, no more than two … and before Lochinvar even has a moment to fully register what he has just seen … it's gone.

In the center of the city, there is a dark spot where once there were lanterns and torches, and fireworks lighting the sky. A great, gaping hole. A pit. Nothing. And terrible winds rush inward to fill the void.

Some of the bats on the far perimeter, perhaps thinking this is a marvelous trick of the mages, laugh and applaud … but such a response is only intermittent. Music stops … and a hush falls over the city.

Lochinvar listens to the silence, and stares at the hole. "What just happened?" he asks his companion.

Lochinvar can hardly hear himself speak, for the ringing in his ears he was not even able to notice until this moment, caused by the great clap of air rushing inwards to fill the void. Nonetheless, Rephath's words can be heard clearly by him. "You have seen with your own eyes, yet you do not know. Even when I tell you, you will not feel the full weight of what has happened. These are our brethren, our friends, our children, our ancestors, our lovers, our heritage, our pride … all gone. All stolen by Rephidim. Self-righteous, posturing Rephidim. And this is what they have done."

"But … what kind of weapon could do such a thing?" asks the Vartan/Hekoye. "Rephidim wouldn't have such a thing in their arsenal."

Rephath's mouth forms a bitter smile, completely free from any warmth or amusement. "Boom," she whispers again. And then, across the city, Lochinvar can hear, as the ringing of his ears fades slightly, a great wail rise up from all quarters of the city, as Babel realizes what has happened, and mourns for its dead.

He feels a squeeze on his arm, as she grips him tightly … and then she lets go, slipping away. At once, he feels very alone, as Rephath, without further explanation, has vanished.

Lochinvar looks to his side, where she was, and then not seeing her, looks around trying to find where she went.

Instead of the woman, a black male bat with his wings folded about him like a cloak leans against a tree on the mountainside. In the darkness, he is nearly invisible, until he opens his eyes to look at Lochinvar. They glow with a fey, green light, and no pupils are visible through it. "They stole it from our allies, the Nagai," the bat says, in a voice level, but tinged with bitterness.

The winged coyote shakes his head in disbelief. "Stole it?" he asks. "But what was it that it could do … this?"

"They call it a 'boomer'." The Eeee steps away from his tree, brushing past the Hekoye to stare at the gaping pit where a large part of a thriving city once did. "The name doesn't do it justice. Watching it, from here, safe and cozy – that doesn't do it justice, either. Did you see where the brightest fireworks came from, just before it all went away?" He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I used to live there. So many of us… "

Lochinvar blinks at the name? "'Boomer'?" he asks, then looks back at what used to be there. "There was a weapon that destroyed a large region of the Himar – the homeland of my people. They called that weapon a 'Boomer' also."

Yes, it's clear that the area that the brightest fireworks were coming up from – the area pointed out by Rephath – is within the area that is now empty, though it looks like it was caught on the very edge. Just a little to one side, and it could have escaped destruction, perhaps. As he looks, there is a rumble, and one of the buildings at the edge of the pit – cleft in twain by the effect of the strange bomb – succumbs to gravity, breaking away from its fellows and collapsing into the depths of the pit, letting up a cloud of dust in its wake.

The Eeee turns away from the sight with a wince, and looks to the Hekoye. "'Destroyed?'" he quotes. "You misspeak. The device – and to my knowledge, it was the same kind – swapped a piece of the Himar for a section of another planet, Abaddon. Much damage was done, and lives were lost in it. But the town from the Himar yet flourishes in its new locale. Do you want to know where this piece of my city went to?"

Lochinvar nods. "I am curious," he says.

"Then I will show you," the mage says, and the fey glow in his eyes dims.

The winged Hekoye feels a sudden, disorienting shift in his perspective. The experiences of his life suddenly fade into the background, and in its place he feels an entirely different life.

It's almost midnight, and a young Eeee girl peers between the bars of the great winding staircase in her parents' home, looking down on the party goers below. She can hear the distant sounds of the reveling dancers, and she cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of her mother, so beautiful, in the most elaborate ball gown the young girl has ever seen.

Her name is Kilsia, and she is eight years old. She holds in her hand a doll she got for her name-day nine nights ago, and she dreams of the day she will be a grown-up like her mother, and wear beautiful dresses and dance all through the night at glamorous balls. In the mean time, she delights in her full belly, and as the clock below her begins to toll, she thinks of sneaking down for another candied butterfly from the tray in the kitchen.

The last chime of the clock tolls, and suddenly the whole world rocks beneath her feet. She looks around in blank incomprehension as every window in the house shatters outwards, shoved violently by a rushing of air like a wind that comes from all directions at once. The shards of glass do not fall – instead, they hang in space, like the tumbling figures of the confused dancers below Kilsia. She tries to draw in a breath, but nothing comes. There's no air left to breathe. The blood vessels in her eyes burst, turning her vision to misty red, and her ears burn like wildfire as the capillaries in them rupture, too.

Her mouth tries to form the word "Mother", but she has no voice to say it with. Her limbs feel an unbearable outwards pressure, as if her insides were trying to boil up from out of her skin, and her arms and legs twist uselessly against the floor, sending her floating, weightless, into the vacuum. For an unbearable, agonizing time the hideous sensation seems to go on – then –

Nothing.

Lochinvar shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the vision. "I still don't understand … Abaddon is habitable. But … what happened to those people?"

"Nothing," the mage says, his voice rich with anger and irony. "Nothing happened to them. The boomer sent them into vacuum, into the empty place between worlds. Their bodies, their homes, their possessions, their little chunk of our world … sent into emptiness. Have you ever heard the phrase, 'Nature abhors a vacuum?'"

The winged coyote nods. "I've heard of it," he says. "Though, you said part of Himar that was … displaced … thrives. Why didn't this Boomer do that to them?"

The unnamed Eeee turns his head to gaze down the mountainside again, at his mourning, ruined city. "No one knows. No one understands how the boomers work, or why they do what they do. Or why the first spared Elamoore, and the second destroyed my people."

"I still can't believe that it was Rephidim that did this, though," Lochinvar persists. "They weren't at war with you. Why would they launch that weapon on you? It doesn't make sense."

"Because they could." The mage glowers at the sky where the airship vanished. "Babel has spies among Rephidim's people. We know the name of the man who dropped that weapon. 'Captain Rockmore.' The Temple pleaded innocence, do you know that? They said, 'Oops! So sorry! We must've left this weapon of mass destruction unguarded by mistake! Too bad about your capitol city and the eighty thousand people who died. You don't think we meant that to happen, do you?'"

"Oh yes," and the heavy sarcasm weighs in the Eeee's voice like lead, "I find that story completely convincing."

Lochinvar thinks for a moment, then asks, "But what if it was true? Maybe this Captain Rockmore somehow acted on his own? If you are going to seek revenge, at least make sure that you are taking it out on the right person."

"Indeed. Perhaps all of this weighs on the head of just one man." White teeth are bared in a snarling grin. "And against him, surely, we are entitled to be revenged. For five years we have sought this man, this Captain Rockmore. For five years we have searched, and hunted. Rephidim, for all their protestations of innocence and insistence on their lack of involvement, would not even give us this one man whom even they admit did the deed. Instead, they have covered his tracks and sheltered his trail. But we will not surrender. Five years, while our people lie dead and unburied in an indifferent void … and he has lived free and unharmed." The bat's fingers clench into fists at his sides. "Sure even you must see the injustice in that."

The Vartan-Hekoye nods slowly. "I believe I am beginning to," he replies.

There's a whispering breeze that tousles Lochinvar's feathers and fur, and Rephath is once again at his side. She gives the other bat the faintest of smiles of approval and acknowledgement, and an even fainter nod of her head, and then she puts her hand upon Lochinvar's shoulder. "Only beginning? Surely your heart is not so incapable of being moved. If you wish, I have many other experiences to share with you, to make my case. I should hope we wouldn't have to go through eighty-thousand of them or more, to make the point. And that does not even cover the grief of the survivors."

The black bat's wings rustle, and he takes a step backwards as Rephath returns. He lowers first his head, then drops into a kneeling pose before her that seems ritualized, with his wings draped to either side, right hand resting against one thigh, while he leans forward with his left fist crossed before his body, and pressed to the ground before him.

"No. I mean, I can sympathize with you, your people," replies Lochinvar. "After all, mine have gone through similar, albeit less disastrous circumstances."

The lady bat nods to the black bat, and waves in a gesture of dismissal. Rather than giving him a chance to leave, however, it seems that the very surroundings about Lochinvar and Rephath shift at once, or melt in such a way in dreams that there is no one instant that Lochinvar can point to when he was at this place, and then at another. He is no longer on the rooftop in Babel, but he is perhaps not far removed from it – He is on the side of a mountain known as Rephath, or its counterpart within the realm of dreams.

Broken red gravel lies beneath his feet, forming a path that winds its way up and down the mountainside, and poles thrust irregularly into the ground on either side of this path support ropes that run through loops at their tops … forming a fence bordering either side, though it looks quite easy to bypass if one were inclined, even if one did not have wings.

Lochinvar looks around him, remembering from a previous time walking along this path.

Rephath says, "I need a champion, but, as I said, I have little patience for dreams and visions, phantoms and fairy-tales. Blood has been shed outside the realm of the gods, in the heart of the city of my people. Do not be mistaken: it is not for the gods to weep over the deaths of mortals, for they all shall soon enough go to the embrace of Sunala, either sooner or later. But it is the manner of their death that brings me grief. It is an affront to us, and one that I will not suffer to remain unpaid in kind."

"Not all of Rephidim needs be dragged down from the sky to atone for what has happened. I do not ask that of you. But prove yourself worthy of being my champion. Bring to me this murderer of men, women and children. Bring him to justice, and let vengeance be served. And then, all Babel will know that I shall see to it that their grievances shall not go without recompense, and I will grant you an honor above all others, though your blood is not of my people." As she says this, the fingers of her hand lightly brush against the Hekoye/Vartan's cheek.

"That's what you would ask?" asks the winged coyote. "Toseek this Captain Rockmore and bring him … back to Ashdod to your authorities there?"

The lady bat tilts her head. "Or to strike him down with your own hand, so that he has no chance of escaping. Do whichever you have the heart for, my champion. I shall be watching, and your decision will tell me much of you."

Lochinvar thinks this over for a few moments. "This is not my fight," he replies. "But I can try and find this person. If so, I could point your agents towards him so that they can deal with him. I have no other reason to get further involved."

The look that Rephath gives Lochinvar could be best described as … weary. "Would that I could give you them, and would that I could woo you to my side with promises of favors for your service. Lochinvar Arques, you are a frustrating man, neither hot nor cold, but lukewarm, through and through. My blood does not flow in you, or not so strongly as it should. But I have need of you. Be strong, my champion. I test you because I wish to see you succeed, and for all who see to recognize your accomplishments, and give glory to My name."

Rephath leans against Lochinvar as if for support, then reaches up to touch his jaw with one hand, and gently hold it as she places a cold, passionless kiss upon him. "Do not betray me, Lochinvar Arques, as my sister Barada was betrayed. I am neither thief nor befouler, sorceress nor brigand, prostitute nor murderer. I pay offenses in kind, as is my due, but you will find that I reward those who are true to me. Deliver me, and I will deliver you. Stay with me, and I will stay with you. You may think you have no need of me – so stubborn are you in insisting you have no enemies to seek recompense against – but believe me … if you serve any cause with the whole of your heart, you will invite enemies. I will not disappoint you. Do not disappoint me."

And with that, Lochinvar can feel the gradual return of wakefulness, as the realm of dreams releases its grip on him.