the Stone

Eusebius dead! Damnit all to the NetherRegion! The only one man enough to speak for Reason and now some good-for-nothing assassin has some gold in his pocket while I have nothing but clouds on the horizon.

Castellan only hypothesized about the assassin, the official news was that his death was natural, but Castellan knew enough about intrigue to smell a rat. He worried over the immediate look for the future of Vjorica. He worried over his own future.

if only the simpleminds didn't have so many arms at their disposal! If only their so-called White Hand didn't have so many necks... I'd snap it right off and be done with it! Castellan muttered vainly, wishing for the impossible. the forces of antimagic have gathered to a point where my future is in doubt. I will not be denied my destiny! I will not allow some weak-willed, fear-minded fools destroy what I have built over the years!

In his anger and frustration he spoke aloud the words of his heart: "Damn you all to hellfire! Why can't you easterners just stay in your own lands?!? Leave us westerners at peace, leave us to our Ways, to our delights!"

Castellan had worked long in shaping his world to his liking. A plot here, a killing there, a bribe to the north, a threat to the south... he used any device that was worth using. Yet now... is it possible that the only Way be that of war?

Going to a marble pedestal standing in the center of the wide chamber, the Warlock gently lifted a silk cloth imbued with runes. He was left staring at a jet-black orb. oh my precious little secret! This relic of the Great Empire, now nearly a thousand years dead, was a palantir, a seeing-stone of mysterious origin and power. Castellan chuckled as he remembered the night Horkus had given it to him. and now you're dead, old friend

Slowly, carefully, and with a bit of trepidation, the Warlock looked deeply into the smooth blackness of the stone...

1. the image that appeared within his mind was as odd as it was surprising...

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