Just over two hundred years before the Coming of Estarra, the Basin was a place
of disarray and danger. New Celest, ruled over by the unscrupulous Paladin King
Aloysious Nethtepine, continued to wax in the west, crushing the tainted forces
of Magnagora in huge numbers. Militarily stunted (in numbers at least),
Magnagora nevertheless possessed far greater resources and weaponry, aided in
no small part by the economic mastermind Governor Grokdan i'Xiia III: better
armed and better trained but far smaller in number, the Imperial Legion of
Magnagora clashed constantly with the Meridian Battalion of New Celest. Great
battles raged across the land, men and women alike participating in fierce
conflicts which made many heroes... and left many more dead. But this tale is
one of a battle far more secretive - and deadly...

* * *

[Come... come... and join me...]

The young viscanti boy, close to dozing off, snapped back to alertness. His
eyes roved around his immediate surroundings: the sun-parched Magnagoran road
upon which he sat; the majestic Lich Gate, just to the south of him; the
magnificent d'Murani tower even further off... but much closer was a narrow,
filth-encrusted sewer grate. As he watched, the layer of dirt covering it blew
away in a spiral, akin to some tiny whirlwind, and a soft, sighing voice seemed
to speak from all around him:

[Can't you hear me? Come... come into the sewers...]

"Who are you? Show yourself!" he brashly challenged, leaping to his feet,
thoroughly unnerved. He was answered by a soft laughter, like the whispering of
a finger upon velvet.

[Calm yourself... sleep... rest... sleep...]

The voice was so smooth, so persuasive. The boy sank back down to the roadside,
making feeble, furry noises in his throat, and closed his eyes. Soon he was
snoring gently. He continued to snore as he returned to his feet, and with the
drugged, clumsy walk of the hypnotised or sleepwalking, make his way over to
the sewer grate.

* * *

"Eighteen! Eighteen beggars in a single week! I tell you, it's unacceptable!"
Governor Grokdan i'Xiia glared at the ur'Guard Administrator, an ineffectual
and blustering orclach of notoriously poor physique, though savvy enough
politically.

"With all respect, sir, I have commited as many of my troops to the streets as
I may. We need good men to arm the walls against invasion. And after all,
they're only beggars. It's not like we truly need them." the orclach reasoned
imploringly. He was forced to duck a second later as a heavy tome crashed into
the wall beside him, leaving a sizable dent. The Governor had a good arm.

"SIMPLETON! We need those beggars because we require raw labour for the
workhouses! And as you well know, the fires of the Engine will soon burn out if
our cheapest and most reliable source of men is lost!" the Governor bawled,
resumed his nervous pacing of the narrow room which served as both his office
and war chambers of the Iron Council, "We are much depleted militarily from our
constant skirmishes with Celest, and if we are to succeed economically, it is
imperative that we retain - indeed, if possible, expand - our workforce. We may
not need those beggars but we need them as potential workers, and if we do not
have them we are doomed! Have you discovered nothing? No clues of what might
have been taking them?"

The orclach scratched his bald, prodigious forehead with a paw-like hand.

"Well, we have discovered one similarity between each individual kidnapping,
sir."

"What? Tell me!"

"Well, each occured in very close proximity to a sewer grate. Logically, this
could mean that the kidnapper (or murderer) is using the sewer network as a
means of travelling swiftly around the city, but it could also mean that he is
using it as a hideout. If you're truly set on the idea, sir, I could send men
down there to investigate?" the orclach spoke gingerly, eyeing Grokdan as if he
feared further literary reprisals.

"This is an important matter. You will accompany four of your best ur'Knights
down into the sewers, as shall I." Grokdan smoothed his serrated, bat-like
wings, which draped around him like a cloak, dropping their previous tense
posture.

"Personally, sir?"

"Yes, yes, personally, Vardek. For all we know we've got some kind of rogue
monster, maybe a half-formed, lurking down in those tunnels. At the very least
we have to expect heavy resistance," Grokdan's narrow, brooding face split into
a slightly malevolent grin, "and, of course, I have been rather flagging
recently in my popularity. If I am to retain office it is necessary for me to
take a more 'hands on' approach, I feel, in the running of the City, and
single-handedly dealing with a rogue monster is bound to improve my standing."

"Single-handedly, sir?" Vardek nervously asked. The Governor responded with a
light, good-natured laughter.

"Why, yes. All by myself, not a soul to help me. And Gods help the man who
claims otherwise." his laughter cutting off, replaced with a steely glare. He
summarily swept from the chambers, cloak and wings flapping dramatically.

"Yes, sir." Vardek sighed.

* * *

"Hrmph. Smells down here, doesn't it?" one of the ur'Knights observed. While
undoubtably one of the finest warriors in the city, the dracnari was as
mentally stunted as his leader was physically.

"Observant, aren't you?" sneered Grokdan. The dracnari, too foolish to realise
he was being mocked, nodded sincerely. Grokdan sighed. "You! Vardek! Where are
we right now in relation to the upper city?"

"Well, it's a winding system. Should be a large chamber coming up in about an
hour. Used to be used as storage space in a pinch by we ur'Guard, but it was
discontinued a coupla decades ba... wait." the Adminstrator abruptly halted and
drew his sword. The four ur'Knights did likewise, and the Governor (a Nihilist)
summoned a burning ball of cosmic energy in either hand.

"What is it, Vardek?" the Governor asked in a soft voice, his crimson-tinted
eyes rapidly taking in the narrow surroundings of the pipe in which they stood.

"Can't you hear it? That... voice... hush..." Vardek trailed off, becoming
glassy eyed. His eyes closed, his head slumped onto his chest, and he became
still.

"Sir? 's you all right? Sir?" asked one of the knights. Vardek responded by
clumsily beginning to stumble foreward, not bothering to retrieve his sword,
his head lolling uselessly from side to side. "Sir? SIR! CAN 'EE HEAR ME?"

"What do we do, Governor?" one of the more sensible knights asked. The
Governor, eyes narrowed, spat in disgust.

"Don't be a fool. We follow him. Get his sword."

* * *

After about two hours of following the dreaming Vardek, the small group found
themselves emerging from the narrow sewer tunnel into an enormous, darkened
chamber: so huge that they literally could not see the ceiling or walls in
either direction.

"Hrmph. Vardek setting the pace must've halved our marching speed, meaning this
is the storage chamber. Hang on a moment." Grokdan again summoned his cosmic
flame, lighting the chamber in a flickering green-tinted light. As one, he and
the ur'Knights gasped.

The chamber was the size of a cathedral, with a massive vaulted roof and
rough-hewn earthern walls. But far more impressive was the enormous crowd which
stood in a huddled, slump-headed group just a few yards from the entrance.
Utterly silent, they swayed from side to side with an unsettling sameness, as
if controlled by one mind. While almost entirely composed of rag-shirted
beggars, a few numbered more prestigious individuals: Grokdan saw ur'Guard in
platemail (bolstered as the comatose Vardek stumbled forth and joined the
crowd), mud-smeared mages and even a cloaked Nihilist or two amongst their
number.

"Ha, found them. Still alive, too. But under the same accursed sleep as that
fool of an Administrator. Hey, you!" Grokdan yelled, stepping forward and
clicking his fingers in an authoritarian manner before one of the dreamers. He
did not so much as flinch, even when Grokdan began mercilessly slapping his
face. "No, they're deep under."

"What do we do, sir?"

"Let's see if we can fight our way through. See what's up there and how it's
managing this... mass-hypnosis." Grokdan signalled to the ur'Knights and they
began to pummel their way through the crowd, which parted easily, allowing the
men to stride forwards. After a few moments they found themselves at the front
row. One of the knights gave a growl of anger at the sight in front of him... a
berobed, apparently sleeping merian mage. His features bespoke utter calm, the
soft, velvety-blue hue of his skin contrasting sharply with the rich
green-yellow of his robes. His scales refracted and glistened the light from
Grokdan's hands in patterns hypnotic.

"Scum! I dunno how 'ee did this, but yer history!" the dracnari ur'Knight
growled, raising his claymore and rushing forwards. However, after just a few
steps he stopped, slumped, dropped his claymore, and fell on his side.

"Dead?" asked Grokdan dispassionately.

"No, sir, he's ju..." one of the knights began, but did not end, for he slumped
forward in similar posture, eyes glassy. The remaining two knights did likewise,
and after a few moments sleepwalked their way over to the crowd. Grokdan did not
bother trying to retreat: he knew the way back would be impassable now.

"... just sleeping. Right." Grokdan returned his attention to the sleeping
mage. "So, mage! I assume you can hear me, if you're capable of stopping my men
in such a fashion. I won't try and harm you, because you can obviously do
likewise to me. So... why all this? And more importantly, how?"

For a few moments, there was nothing. Then an insubstantial hissing began, and
a fuzzy, flickering image of the mage appeared in front of Grokdan. Conscious,
standing, even smiling, the merian began to speak.

[I am Celest's secret weapon in the war on Magnagora. Our war of attrition
accomplishes little - one side begins winning and the other puts on a spurt,
catches up, exceeds... and thus the cycle continues. I am intended to change
that by striking a blow in the area of your one strength - the Magnagoran
economy. A deadly blow, but one without death: a crippling blow that leaves all
limbs intact. These beggars and interferers exist in suspended animation, unable
to move, not needing food, or sleep - existing outside time. When we defeat
Magnagora they will be released, to join our cause, or suffer as slaves, it
matters little]

Grokdan gave a rueful smile. "Clever, I suppose. Yes, I am an economist. I can
appreciate the mechanics of the operation. But... how?"

[It is an art lost many years to time, but it is known as dreamweaving. I am
the last of the dreamweavers, and unprepared as your city was, I was able to
discreetly slip into the sewers. While my body remains here my mind travels
outwards touching all those in its path and lulling them to sleep. Once asleep
I can enter their bodies, possess them, lead them here, and sever their minds
connection, leaving them perpetually dreaming... dreaming until I reconnect the
cord and let them back into their bodies]

"So what are you going to do with me? From what you tell me, you cannot kill me
as a phantasm, and if you awake, you release my men. And I imagine that with
knowledge - and my own strong willpower - you would be ineffectual against me
regardless." Grokdan began to grin, and the cosmic flame on his hands
intensified, as he prepared himself for a charge upon the prone body.

[Quite right. I cannot harm you.

But they can.]

With the soft, sighing groan of a trees branches in high wind, the crowd behind
Grokdan raised their heads. Their faces bore no expression, their eyes no
colour: merely white. And as one, they began to advance. Grokdan's final irony
was to be killed by that which he had sought.