Maximus felt something was wrong. Even as he pressed his attack against this huge demon with it super fast healing power and razor sharp claws, he felt that this couldn’t be real. His vorpal blade sheared through yet another hair on the creatures head and it reacted like the gladiator had struck a vital blow. It screamed incoherently with rage and its eyes turned blood eye.

This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. Maximus thought and tried to find a clue to the truth in his surrounding. For a second he saw corn – a field of corn and his mother standing in the distance waving to him. But that was impossible because ….

The distraction proved fatal to Maximus as the demon’s claws tore thorough his chest and out of his spine. Screaming in fury about his lovely head of hair and his flowing locks, the ugly monster literally ripped Maximus in two and tossed the pieces across the street. With barely a moment’s pause, the demon leaped through the air upon Kilgim, ignoring the bite of the axes into its flesh. It opened its oversized mouth and bit off the dwarf’s head with barely an effort – slaying poor Kilgim before he could recover from the shock of Maximus’ death.

Adrian took to the air with a fly spell only to get a birds eye view of the destruction of two of his companions. Three of the party was dead now – it did not bode well for the rest of them. He wondered where Dapple was – if the young boy was still in the house or also met a fate like Char or the others.

The flying demon throws a bolt at Arien, this time striking the knight with the energy of the weapon. But the protection that Kilgim had placed upon the knight absorbs the deadly energy, causing it to dissipate harmlessly. The enraged demon becomes frustrated, stamping his foot in the air, “You think …you are … all that! Well…I know …another way…to harm …you!” He gestures with his polearm towards Adrian as he takes flight, and the battle mage is engulfed in lightening. While Valentine screams, the demon fires bolt after bolt until there is nothing left of Adrian except dust in the wind.

Inside the house, Dapple is unaware of the fate of her companions, concentrating on this creature before her that seemed to flaunt all that she reviled. “Get outta my head and back to hell!” as she attacks. She slashes viciously at the demon but it dodges her attacks easily. She follows up with a roundhouse kick to its head, hoping to strike at the face that could not be hers. The demon didn’t dodge this blow, but threw herself into it, as if blocking with her oversized chest. Dapples foot passed through the flesh like it was putty and then finds that she cannot break free from the hold. The demon smiles and her flesh rippled as it sucks dapple foot first into her body. Dapple desperately attempts to break free but cannot do anything except be dragging.

“You reject your heritage, but in the end, you must accept it! The woman yells at her. For a moment, Dapple can see Fast Ties face looking at her, then Char’s. Whatever its visage, it continues to cry out as Dapple is drawn in, “You must accept to turn the key.”

Arien is almost overwhelmed with pain and remorse as he watches his friends killed one after another. He pushes grief and anger back from his mind and focuses on his enemy. He can not allow them to go unpunished. He must make them pay if it is the last thing he does with his dying breath. He readies his lance and commands Winston to charge, hoping to strike with wood – this demons only venerability. The Pegasus moves into a rapid dive, building speed and at the last moment, serves towards the white haired monster so Arien can strike hard and fast. The lance pieces its chest, the head and shaft driving through the body in a death blow. The demon howls in pain, like it had never experienced suffering before now. He thrashes around in agony like a pig on a spit, screeching like a banshee.

But then, with a heroic effort it plunges the head of the polearm into the flank of Winston. The Pegasus whines at the blow just before the demon delivers a bolt of energy directly through the vital organs of the flying horse. With a cry and a whimper, the Pegasus dies in mid-flight and Arien finds himself crashing to the ground, his sword bouncing across the laneway and his armour caving in on itself. The dead mount cushions enough of his fall that the knight is not killed but his legs hit at a bad angle are severely broken. Arien cannot get up; all he can do is move towards his sword by pulling his body with his arms across the dirt.

The ugly demon moves to Arien side as the fair one almost drops to the ground. The dark one puts his claw on his brother’s shoulder and pulls out the lance with the other. The wound immediately heals up, as if his healing ability can be transfer by touch.

“Shall we slay him now” The dark demon asks.

“No. I have …a better…idea.” He says while reaching into his robes. He draws out of a satchel a leather belt with a circular clasp coloured half pink, and half blue. “Remember …this…my brother?”

“The magical girdle of masculinity/femininity?”

“Yes…you did say…you wanted … a woman …tonight.”

“My brother! You think of everything, and she won’t be able to run away! My favourite kind!”

The laughter of demons is so loud that the screams of the knight are never heard.

Well that didn't work.

Corn….

You are standing in a field of corn. The air is cool, but the morning sun beams down upon you. In the distance is a town near the mountains. On top of the mountain is a ruined castle. You are on the edge of Hevlorn, by the looks of things. Only it isn’t destroyed or burned. It seems to be just fine – like you. Your horses are a ways behind you, and they are all horses, not a Pegasus among them. It is like you tethered them up before head out into…

What the….
You find yourself in a field of late harvest corn as if coming out of the worst dream of your life and you were sleep walking. You look around you and see all your companions safe and sound. No one is dead. No one is even injured. But it seemed so real, the battle with the demon brothers. All around is evidence that you have been moving like the dream was real. Corn plants cut in half, a lance plunged into the ground, and a scarecrow that looks like Dapple attempted to kick and got her foot caught in the burlap of its body.

A distance from you, there is an older man holding a pitchfork in front of him like you were about to attack him. Behind him is a younger woman, very attractive and with some Sueli Barbarian blood judging by her white hair and paleness. The old man calls over to you, “What are you doing in my corn?”

OOC: Okay. What were you guys smoking last night? Pretty weird stuff if you ask me.

Char felt his heart skip a couple of beats as he felt the sensation of death swept away from him by the call of the old man. His bow is in his hand, he could still feel its familiar grip, but the vision of them standing in the corn having just experiencing what they'd experienced has left the ranger shaken. Straightening from his combat posture, Char slipped an arrow from his quiver and placed it to his string. In his experience, when something that strange occurred, there was magic afoot and that could mean that the threat was still near.

Scanning the countryside, he decided to let those better versed in communicating with the public answer the old farmer and instead he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of danger. His body felt strange, almost as though it were disconnected from his mind--Jus' da lingerin' effects o' da spell dat made ya tink ya was dea', Char-lad. That had been a horrible experience and he was more shaken by it than he'd ever admit to anyone. As he was looking about, he drifted his gaze over Valentine and Kilgim to see if their reaction could shed some light on what they'd just went through--the positions of his friends indicating they'd had a brush with whatever it was he'd experienced as well.

He hoped those more familiar with magic could get to the bottom of this before it killed them all...again.

Well... that was certainly... strange
Corn. Adrian never really liked to behind with, but it was a more welcome sight and smell than everyone dying around him. The action figures... The weapons... Adrian's mount. How much of it was real?

The mage quickly checked his mental reserves. Had he really bee flying around a cornfield with armor sparkling around him? That was a hell of an illusion, if it was an illusion at all. Adrian had sworn off of illusions his entire life, so there was little chance he could recognize it even if it was arcane. Jal, if we ever needed your odd assortment of knowledge, this would be it.
"The townsfolks? None of them? The rain? How much time have we lost!?"

A man and his attractive (presumed) daughter came to the group, obviously peeved that they have destroyed some of their crops.

"I... I don't know" was all he could utter as he lifted himself up from the cornfield and brushed the debris off his prized sword. He tried cooking up an explanation, but figured it was better left to Arien. He had to figure out when real became dreams and how the dream had affected them.

(OOC: So doing the best he can in game terms, is anything different such as damage or mana lost?)

One moment he was dead, the hair losing demon killing him, the next he was standing in a corn field with the rest of his companions as if the battle just fought had never happened.
“Whaa, what just happened, was it an illusion??”

"I... I don't know" This reply from Adrian who clearly was as lost as Maximus was as to what had just happened.

Waiting for any of the rest, Dapple, Arien, Char, or Kilgim to reply his attention was drawn to an older man holding a pitchfork defensively in front of him as he addressed the party.

“What are you doing in my corn?”

Behind him Maximus could see was a younger woman, very attractive the Ex gladiator could not help thinking, clearly with some Sueli Barbarian blood judging by her white hair and paleness. The question for the moment posed by the farmer was clearly a question to be answered by someone, anyone, and hopefully soon......

Dapple slashes viciously at the demon but it dodges her attacks easily. She follows up with a roundhouse kick to its head, hoping to strike at the face that could not be hers. The demon didn’t dodge this blow, but threw herself into it, as if blocking with her oversized chest. Dapple watched in horror as her foot passed through the flesh, only to become stuck. The demon smiles and her flesh rippled as it sucks Dapple foot first into her body. Dapple desperately attempts to break free but cannot do anything except be dragged in….
The little rogue flailed and struggled against the flesh that was enveloping her, lush feminine flesh that suffocated and subsumed. Dapple was about to be completely consumed and she had a fleeting thought of regret that she’d never accepted Fast Toes’ friendship, when …

Well that didn't work
The flesh surrounding her was cloth and hay and sticks, simple homespun sewn into clothes and stuffed into the rough shape of a man. Dapple’s foot was firmly lodged in the thing’s chest, and she was covered with shredded cloth and bits of hay.

“What are you doing in my corn?” asked a voice, and Dapple nearly jumped out of her skin, which was enough to unsettle her precarious balance. She toppled over, breaking the scarecrow’s “spine” as she fell. Grimly, she gathered up the “body”, stalked over to the farmer and threw the mess down at his feet, staying just out of reach of the pitchfork he was waving about.

“I’m getting rid of these stupid scarecrows, “ she stated, her manner all the more menacing for it’s emotionlessness,” one by one. Damned things scare more children than crows, if you ask me.”

She tilted her head challengingly and crossed her arms, her face stony. She looked at the sky while waiting for someone to speak and noticed the light. “What day is it, anyway?”

The horrifying scene of the deaths of his comrades - and Arien's own fate, one worse than death - faded, leaving the knight and his companions confused and fighting with a field of corn. How real it had seemed! He had been chosen by Heironeus, Winston had shown his wings (which were clearly no longer evident), the battle had been terrible...

At first, Arien believed that he had been in the throes of some sort of dream or vision of his own, but the bewildered looks on the party's faces - coupled with the damage done to the cornfield - proved that they had all shared the experience. The young man shook his head to clear the cobwebs and opened his hands in a gesture meant to indicate peaceful intentions to the poor farmer. "Good sir," Arien spoke, "allow me to offset the damages we have caused here." With that, the knight reached into his purse and withdrew a generous sum for the damaged crops.

As the party rode on, he wondered. What could it all mean? Was this some sort of foul charm, designed to sway the party from their course, to make them believe that their enemies could not be killed?

Firm resolve flooded the knight. No. I will not be swayed. Those monsters must be defeated. These people must be protected! I will not back down, not like those cowardly priests. Even if it costs my life...
Suddenly, Arien Aston Thedell the Third could hear his grandsir's irritated voice as the memory came flooding back.



"Sir Gunraud was a hero! He gave his life in a hopeless battle against Duke Ragnin's forces, and bought the king enough time to rally his men to defeat the villain!"

Arien the younger had been about to continue when he felt the old man's icy glare on him. He looked up, impassioned speech cut short.

"Don't be a fool, boy," Grandsir spat. "Gunraud was, and it didn't just cost him his life in some romantic notion. Innocent people were killed, women were raped, and the town was put to the torch because he was a fool. He had walls, and Ragnin had no siege tools. The king would have been there in days, but Gunraud thought himself divinely blessed, and many families paid for his pride and folly."

Arien gaped, open-mouthed, as his grandsir sullied the name of a local hero. "Shut your yap before you start catching flies in it, boy," the old man snapped. "Listen Arien," he continued, his tone softened ever so slighty, "a true knight may well be called to lay down his life if there is no other choice. Even so, don't mistake idiocy for bravery. Better to make your enemy die for his cause than for you to do the same."


The heir to House Thedell grew quiet. What day was it, indeed? How much had they imagined - the fight only, or the refugees, the scouting, and all of it?

Arien felt shame of his own hubris. Was he as deluded as Gunraud, to think that he was chosen by the gods, and so willingly walk into some terrible fate... all the while, expecting the gods to intervene? He felt shame burn his cheeks. Those priests of Herioneus had to be brave and of good character, at least by and large, else they would never have been in the priesthood. Yet the young noble had been more willing to believe in their cowardice, coupled with his own divine destiny, than to consider that there might be a reason they shied from conflict.

Did they know something that he did not? If these demons truly were impregnable, perhaps they knew this - or knew of the cause.

Shamefaced, Arien voiced his thoughts. "Perhaps, before we again engage these monsters, we shoud speak to these priests. If they know some vital secret as to what we can do to harm the demons, we would be fools to not learn it."

Me 'ead! Me 'ead! Kilgim found himself on all fours on the ground. But the ground wasn't the road passing through the town, but a field... a field with corn crops growing where the sweating dwarf and his companions hadn't yet destroyed it. Just to make sure, Kilgim leaned back, sat on his feet and raised his grimy hands to touch the sides of his head only to find it still where it was supposed to be. Char?... Max?... Adrien? The fates of his friends filled the thoughts of the bald priest as he pushed himself up. He could feel the exhaustion in his muscles as he'd really been fighting for his life only a couple of heartbeats earlier.

"Me knew it coulnd'a been real. Me just knew it...", he whispered to no one in particular as his green eyes took in the forms and conditions of the others. "... but it was so real..." They were all there. All in good shape, unhurt and certainly not dead. But the whole party was more or less shaken after the dream. If 'at was wha' it was. Kilgim leaned on his legs, took a few deep breaths and then stretched his back to push away the weariness from his body. Kilgim walked to others with a pat on Dapple's shoulder, a smile to Char and Arien and a nod to Maximus and Adrien on the way.

"Lads, did ye all see the same thin'? The brothers 'n the town 'n all? Ye see me loose me 'ead?" After the confirmation from the others, the cleric shook his head in disbelief. He'd heard of some illusions effecting a large number of people before. But so many sharing the same dream? Magic was at work here, that much was for certain. Powerful magic... Kilgim could only hope, that the power behind the magic was not as lethal as the brothers in the vision. They'd been something very much beyond the abilities of Kilgim and his friends. He had doubt whether even Dwan or Gwanele could've done any better. Then again it had been a dream, effectively an illusion. And as far as the priest's knowledge of such matters came, illusions tended to go a bit over the edge at times. But it was so real...
So when did the dream begin? Were even the people runnin' from the terrors real? Is this field of crops real? Kilgim watched in silence as Arien paid the farmer for the damage they'd done... Paid generously he might add. Probably a year's worth. Not that it mattered to the dwarf. He would've done the same. He'd lost the yearning for earthly treasures decades ago. Dwan provided him with all the necessities he needed and more. Gold was nice to have, but didn't really matter. Really... funny word that... makes me wonder what's real 'n what's not... It was so real... I must pray for the Lord of Battle's divination on the dream tonite. Maybe e'll be generous enough t'shed some light on it.

“What day is it, anyway?” Dapple asked.

The old man looked at the pretty lady and back at you, the exepression on his face clearly describing how dumb he was thinking you all were, “What day is it? What kinda question is that?” It’s Moonday. The 4th of Mordan if you must know.”

The date surprises you all. That would be the day you left Freegate. In fact, since it was clearly morning here, it would be almost the precise moment that you left Freegate. But if that was true, then how could you be here. How much of what passed the three days was real?

"Good sir," Arien spoke, "allow me to offset the damages we have caused here." With that, the knight reached into his purse and withdrew a generous sum for the damaged crops. The farmer gladly accepts the money, after quickly testing on of the cions with his teeth.

“Much obliged Ummm, Mister Knight. We don’t get folk like you people around here much. Not since Zepher was destroyed. Timing’s good though. Them there priests up the hill haven’t come down for a spell. They usually trade with us – you know, goods for healing and the like. But they haven’t come down for a long while and the town was about to have a council to talk about doing something. That’s what councils do, don’t ya know – talk about doing thing instead of just going up the hill and knocked on the door, asking “hey! You priests need to eat or anything? Cause my back is hurting a peck of trouble and I got good corn here.” He laughed to himself pleasantly.

(add any questions or comments here. I will answer afterwards)

“Anyway if you want to talk to the council, you can head directly into town. Can’t miss the place – it’s the one with the really big chimney.” He says pointing towards town. The big chimney he refers to is visible form where you stand – it is the same chimney the two brothers were standing upon when you encountered them in your dream.

Char didn't like this one bit, and the good ranger's face showed his displeasure--at least for those that could see through his curtain of newly dislodged bangs and the scruffy beard that is. The whole while the farmer spoke with Arien and Da' Moon, the woodsman was scanning the surrounding terrain, and pausing occasionally to study the beautiful young woman standing behind the farmer.

His study wasn't one of lustful recognition of her beauty, though he wouldn't be able to deny that she had that, but rather to look after her countenance. The ranger was watching her body language as he would a lynx caught in the open; searching for signs that would hint at what she was going to do next, what she was thinking, and who she might be. It would be a fantastic thing to have a daughter such as her living on a remote farm without trouble coming of it, let alone having an old man such as that land a wife such as her.

While looking, he remains quiet, waiting for Arien to move the party on, not really sure of any input he might be able to offer, but pretty sure that the knight would either take them to the council, or the keep. Either way, he would proceed with caution and readiness for trouble...for more trouble.

As the you leave the fields of dreams and head toward the town, you cant help but feel like things are not as they seem. you started out on a mission to help the people of Hevlorn, sent here by Dwan to investigate missing people and a possible vampire resurrection of a arch-mage named Zephur. Along the way you had met refugees running from the town, all claiming that demons had attacked the town. You had run to intercept the danger only to end up battling two demons with wondrous power and a rather odd view of you as heroes.

After all that, and losing the battle, you awoke in a corn field. According to the farmer, there haven;t been any disappearances, but the priests that guard the castle have not been heard from in a long while. Furthermore by all signs, you have arrived before you left, as if your travels never happened. It is almost like somehow you have arrived before the events you experienced could happen.

Moving through Hevlorn, you see many different kinds of people, most greeting you kindly as you pass, but some more reserved. There are some who are probably ex-slaves from the empire, not a few who are from the sueli descent with pale skin and blond hair. Other are most likely soldiers - deserters from the imperial ranks. Considering the remote location, no doubt they find safety here away from possible imperial recovery.

The town hall is a large building, stone foundation built into sturdy wooden beams. The door is open and a few people are milling around but they move out of the way as you approach. through the doorway you can see five elder gentleman standing by the great fireplace with drinks in hand. Near them is another man, sitting in an easy chair close to the hearth, He wears a yellow tunic with a blue (somewhat garish) and boots of a russet colour. His reddish hair is held beneath his wide brimmed hat with a colourful feather attached. In one hand he holds a battered fiddle and he wears a scimitar by his side. At least one of you speaks the obvious - "bard".

As he followed the rest of the party out of the corn field Maximus still could not reason out what had truly happened, though he remembered it clearly. Something had caused the “dream” but what it was, was unknown to the big gladiator as he had no teaching in the ways of magic. If Jal were still alive, Maximus would have bet money that the little mage would have been able to tell them all just what had happened. A soft smile bloomed on his face as he remembered his friend, his first real one in this none arena world.

But as they gained directions from the pitchfork wielding farmer he returned his thoughts to the matter at hand and followed the others into the town of Hevlorn. Right away it became clear that many different types of people seemed to call it home from ex-slaves from the empire, to a good number of humans, clearly of sueli descent, with pale skin and blond hair, to a large number of soldier types, perhaps deserters from the imperial and other national ranks.

Then before they knew it they had entered the town hall, before him Maximus could see inside the main area of it five elder gentleman standing by the great fireplace with drinks in hand. Near them is another man, sitting in an easy chair close to the hearth, wearing a yellow and blue tunic and boots of a russet color. Reddish hair the big gladiator saw was held beneath a wide brimmed hat with a colorful feather attached. In one hand he was holding a battered fiddle. The man’s only visible weapon that of a scimitar by his side.

At the sight of the seated man registered, Maximus could not help but blurt out the first thing that entered his mind.

"Bard"

And then realizing he had said it out loud looked to the others to see their reactions to it, hoping yet again he had not made a fool out of himself once more........

The people of Helvorn were an eclectic mix who claimed origins from every corner of the continent and every walk of life but had come together in this remote little patch of Oerth to form a community of easy-going, honest, and hard working folks who were more than happy to share a drink, a meal, a bit of coin, or, sometimes, even a bed for a good song or tale spun in exchange. Perhaps that was the reason the half-elf fiddler had decided to stay behind when the carnival with which he had been traveling for the past year packed up its carts after a three day festival and moved on to the next town; because these people were his kind of people. The kind of people who were both willing and happy to set aside differences in heritage and homeland in order to come together as a community of free-men with no other demands or requirements upon each other aside from living their lives together for mutual aide and protection but without interference or animosity. It had been truly easy to make himself at home in this place. As many tunes as he would play and songs he would sing while he lingered in this place, he had been sure even those few weeks ago, there would be twice as many new songs inspired by his stay here.

Having been invited to attend this meeting of Helvorn’s council wasn’t a thing at which Caicher Flynn was apt to sneer. The gypsy bard was relatively new to the out-of-the-way little town, after all, and to have been so easily taken in by the people here as one of their own in so short a time was pleasant enough… let alone to already be held in high enough regard amongst them to be summoned to council of all things… it was as close to a troubadour’s dream as he had been in some while. The fact that he was sitting here, now, by the grand fireplace in the town hall, sipping drinks with the town elders and discussing the whys and wherefores behind the recent lack of visits from the priests on the hill and pondering what, if anything, should be done about it was confirmation enough of Flynn’s initial instinct – he could feel the music gathering itself to be woven into a new song already – but when the doors of the hall opened and admitted a troupe of adventurers who could only be “The Heroes of Freegate,” he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there would be much more than a handful of simple ditties and sonatas born of the days to come…

Oh yes, Flynn thought, an inspired twinkle flashing in his emerald eyes and an interested smile dancing across his lips as he took the group in, there’ll be a veritable epic to come of this, I’ll wager. His free hand, which, before the Heroes had entered, had been reaching for a flagon of ale that sat beside the chair, now sought out his fiddle bow, and he straightened his previously relaxed posture to one more conducive to playing.

The Freegate Heroes weren’t exactly as the myriad stories and songs had depicted them, of course – while the armor worn by the knight Arien Thedell was impeccably shined, for example, it wasn’t quite ‘burning bright with the light of holy justice,’ and the once-gladiator Maximus (whom Flynn had heard improperly dubbed Talas in a yarn or two) was a large man, yes, but far from the ‘ten-foot-tall Sueli beast-man’ of song – but, Caicher knew, that was to be expected. After all, it was usually the artistic embellishments of the composer that added that epic flare and sold the song in the end, wasn’t it? The battered fiddle was nestled to his chin as his gaze traveled over ‘the Wild Man of the Coast,’ ‘the Sour Lad of the Shadows’, ‘Valentine the Red,’ and ‘the Wise Blackaxe of Clangeddin.’ Yes, the Heroes of Freegate, despite their depictions in legend and lore, were very much as Flynn might have expected them to be. The song that came to mind as he set bow to string, though, wasn’t the heroic fanfare of fiddling that he had first thought to play... (perhaps it was the vaguely out-of-sorts expressions that lingered just beneath the surface of the heroes faces that had inspired him to change the tune). Instead, he coaxed a dreamy, almost melancholy strain from the strings and, following a bright grin in response to the big pit-cat calling out “bard” at the sight of him, began to sing along as softly as he played…

~I fell asleep down by the stream
And there I had the strangest dream
And down by Brennan's Glenn there grows
A briar and a rose

There's a tree in the forest
But I don't know where
I built a nest out of your hair
And climbing up into the air
A briar and a rose

I don't know how long it has been
But I was born in Brennan's Glenn
And near the end of spring there grows
A briar and a rose

I picked the rose one early morn'
I pricked my finger on a thorn
They’d grown so close
Their winding wove
The briar around the rose

I tried to tear them both apart
I felt an arrow pierce my heart
And all dressed up in spring’s new clothes
The briar and the rose

And when I'm buried in my grave
Tell me so I will know
Your tears will fall
To make love grow
The briar and the rose

And when I’m buried in my grave
Tell me so I will know
Your tears will fall
To make them grow
The briar and the rose

Your tears will fall
To make them grow
The briar and the rose. ~
((OOC: Caicher's going on the assumption that the Heroes of Freegate are surely here to see the elders and not him, so the bard will simply play and sing in the background while the elders and our champions exchange pleasantries… Given recent events/non-events where our heroes are concerned, I found the above song somehow appropriate… some little verse in there for each of them, I think. Edits, backposts, etc, as required and requested, of course. Soooo glad to be back!))

"What day did ye say it was? Are ye pullin' me leg? Ye do know it's deadly dangerous to piss off a dwarf, don't ye?" Kilgim sent another evil glare at the farmer's way and turned away not really waiting for or expecting an answer. If what the old man was saying was the truth - the real truth and not some imaginary thing he thought was true - then magics beyond the priest's understanding were at work.

There wasn't much these days that surprised the orange-bearded dwarf. He'd been around sorcerers and other spell-weavers long enough to get some kind of a grasp of what mighty magics could do. He'd witnessed people brought back to life with the power of gods channeled through a fellow priest's body and mind. He'd seen the archmage Gwanele destroy and build huge walls of stone with a few words of power. But not once had he heard of anyone moving back or forth in time, the way they apparently just had.

And not only that, if only indeed was a was a word one could use here, they had been moved to a completely different location at the same time. Teleporting, as the mages called it, Kilgim was familiar with even if not too keen on experiencing himself. But either what they'd just experienced had been some incredibly powerful illusion or dream somehow strangely shared by them all, or they had in fact traveled back in time. Kilgim shrugged his muscular shoulders and looked at his companions who obviously were sharing his thoughts.

After Arien had paid the farmer and the heroes got back on the way towards Hevlorn, Kilgim rode Grumpy beside the paladin. The look on his dear friend's face made the dwarf's heart skip a beat. He could read the shame on Arien's expression. Shame for engaging the daemons so foolishly. But that was a decision they'd all made. The shame was not Arien's alone to bear. Kilgim could only wonder if their previous successes and clear increase in power and skill had made their little group arrogant. Had they charged into combat overconfident and certain of their victory. Perhaps their deaths would've been the righteous outcome of the battle after all. Whatever the case, the stout warrior still preferred the way things had apparently gone over what the they'd all experienced.

Kilgim cleared his throat and waited for Arien to turn towards him. "Worry ye not, laddie. We're still alive'n that's what counts. 'n what's better, we may still 'ave a chance to 'elp the villagers. Me thinks yer right. Let's talk with 'em priests'n see if they've got any ideas to offer. There must be some reason fer their cowardly behavior. Me doesn't think they'd leave them poor villagers to face the bloody daemons alone without a fairly good reason."

When they finally reached Hevlorn again or actually for the first time, the place was totally different from what they'd seen in the dream. The town was full of life. People were walking and talking on the streets and everything seemed to be the way it should. Kilgim caught himself sighing in relief and not only for the sake of the locals, but for himself and his companions as well. Maybe, just maybe the dream had been a vision of a possible future, not the future.

It was not difficult to find the town hall. The building was too big to miss and there was a throng of people blocking the entrance. It was easy to see from the quiet and calm way the townspeople were standing outside the town hall that there was no imminent danger threatening their wellbeing. A gap appeared into the crowd as Arien led his team forward and then they were facing the leaders of Hevlorn no doubt… And a bard, like Maximus so nicely pointed out. The man was not known to Kilgim, but then again that was little surprise since he'd never been a great fan of human music or entertainment. It was too light and happy to his liking… A bard. What else?