<html> <body> --------- Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars II: Denuncio (u) Saturday, May 12, 708 CR Lars' brewery, though accessed by most through doors set in the stone hillside where it could easily be disguised, did have a few outbuildings along the southern slope of rock where much of the actual process of brewing took place. The stench of the place left the whiskers curled and the nose burning but, due to careful design of the louvered vents in the shale roof, much of the overwhelming scent was wafted away downwind of the Glen. Ales, meads, and even a selection of wines were lovingly mashed, strained, reduced, and mixed before being casked and borne away into the caverns beneath the brewery. Some few were brewed in the caverns but only in a handful of rooms whose ventilation was beyond reproach. The rest of the caverns were kept for aging. Murikeer was familiar with the complex mélange of aromas; he was also downwind of the Glen and could often catch the tantalizing scents in the early morning when the air was heavy with dew. Up close and among the tuns the bouquet left his eyes watering and his nasal passages burning so he hastened down the wide aisle toward the double doors in the wall at the far end of the outbuildings. Slipping through the heavy doors he pulled them closed behind, breathing a deep sigh of relief at the less pungent aromas pervading the caverns. The overwhelming scent of the brewing was held at bay and only the smell of aging lingered. Light was offered by a single lantern hung a short distance away and he wandered deeper into the storage cavern, past towering racks of barrels. Another lantern at the end of a second, narrower chamber led him further, until he finally came to the open door of an illuminated storage room. Two racks of small casks stood along one wall but, otherwise, the chamber was clear save for the items that Malger and Misanthe brought with them. “Dusk is nearly on us,” the skunk said as he stepped through the open doorway. The stout oaken door was banded with iron and fit tightly into the stone aperture. Lanterns set on sconces on either side of the door, their thin smoke trailing into a crack in the rock that led above ground where none would notice. In this soft orange glow the monochromatic skunk took on a burnished appearance as if he were smelted from brass. Malger was alone, finishing up the preparations of the bedrolls and glanced up at Murikeer's arrival. “So it would seem,” Malger replied as he swept one arm to invite his friend inside. “I usually sleep in finer accommodations than this, but it will suffice.” Murikeer stepped inside and his eye noted the wooden supports along the interior walls and crossbeams giving extra strength to their roof. “I had hoped that Kozaithy would have returned with Rickkter before sunset, but I guess she could not find him. Or convince him of our need.” Another lantern dangled from the center of the crossbeams and its light shone faintly along each wall. The racks of aging liquor looked as if they had not been touched in several years, a patina of dust having accumulated upon them. But his gaze was drawn to the pair of pallets and quilts arranged in the middle of the floor and the small censer set near one end. “I have seen peasant cottages smaller than this.” Placed on the floor between the pallets was a single taper in a simple brass candle holder, though it was not yet lit. “As have I,” Malger replied with a faint chuckle. “And I've slept in bedchambers four times as large!” His jocularity only elicited the faintest glimmers of a smile in his friend. Murikeer peered into the corners of the room and then started walking along its edges, trailing one hand across the stone walls. “Where is Misanthe?” “Securing a good hearty meal for the three of us. You missed her by moments. What are you doing?” “Feeling the magic in the room. I need to know the best place to hide.” Malger sniffed the air once the skunk's head turned toward the wall. Though the wax and incense stones both tickled his nose, and his own and Misanthe's musks were plain, there was no hint of the skunk. He marveled again at his companion's mastery over the senses. Maybe, just maybe, he hoped, this night would pass without the portent he feared. ---------- “He's coming,” Misanthe announced. Murikeer stepped back against one corner and vanished from sight behind an illusory wall. Malger stood and stretched his legs, swallowing the last of the bock beer Lars had provided them. He wiped his jowls with the back of one arm and straightened his tunic. The faintest of claw clicks sounded along the cavern outside the door. Misanthe eased the door back and stood just behind it. They waited. Around the corner came the knight rat, dressed in comfortable tunic and breeches of an unremarkable brown that blended well with the night-time Glen. A black cloak was draped over one arm. The ruin of his scared flesh burned in the golden embers of lamplight. His eyes scanned the room, noted Malger and the pallets with quilts and then took a deep breath. “Good evening, Malger. I am here. What must I do?” “Step inside and lay down on one of the pallets. You will need some place to sleep if you are to enter the Dream. I will be beside you but there is no need for us to touch. Misanthe is here to watch over us as we sleep.” Charles stepped through and turned to note the fox. “Will we need watching?” “Both to ensure we are not disturbed and to wake us should something go wrong.” The rat's whiskers twitched as if he'd been slapped. His voice took on a note of alarm. “Can things go wrong?” Malger nodded, but lifted one hand to assure him. “They can, but it is very rare. Instead of fearing what might go wrong, take comfort that Misanthe will be here so that you will not take harm should something, however unlikely, go amiss.” He offered the rat a fang-filled smile and then gestured at the pallets. “Please, lie down and make yourself comfortable and we can begin.” Charles paused as he crossed the room, scowling for a moment at the far wall as if vexed, but shook off whatever plucked at him and moved over to recline on the pallet, laying on his back and folding his hands over his stomach. Malger struck a flint and lit the taper while nodding to the fox. Misanthe pushed the door shut; the iron latch clicked into place with a heavy thunk. Leaning to each lantern she puffed out their flames with a soft breath. The room was plunged into darkness save for the single steady glow of the lone candle. Taking up a slender stem of incense Malger used the candle's flame to quicken the coals of the censer as well, but hooded their glow with a vented cap. As the censer began to send thin tendrils of sweet and heady smoke into the air, Malger picked up his flute and blew across the opening, sounding an experimental tone. Even as he lowered the flute the note seemed to hang in the air, tremulous, like a will-o-the-wisp for the ears, slowly fading. “Now, Charles, look to the flame and let your mind drift,” Malger intoned, his churring voice a smooth lyric baritone. “Listen to the melody I play and let your mind drift, but think of me as you drift; it matters not the thought, but that it will be a beacon that draws me to you within the Dream.” Charles stretched slowly upon the pallet, comfortable padded against the unyielding solidity of the rough-hewn stone floor. His dark eyes glimmered in the unwavering light, seeing the room and those within but not truly seeing, as his thoughts turned inward. “Let the flame lead to calm, the calm to its center,” Malger intoned in that low, lyrical voice like a father's lullaby shushing a child toward sleep. Almost before Malger even raised his flute once more he saw that Charles' breathing had slowed, his eyes drifted almost closed. His chest rose and fell with slow measured breaths to show he was alive, but that was all. His whiskers didn't even flick as the incense drifted over his sensitive nose. And all that before Malger had even begun his melody. The marten wasn't sure whether to be impressed or alarmed. Malger raised the flute to his lips and began to trace out a slow, sinuous melody that ever turned back on itself. Curling upward and then downward, slow and methodical, almost as if it too were breathing in and out, Malger crafted his melody with precision. It was not a lullaby or some other sweet melody to comfort a child, but a seductive tune full of mystery and allure. The rat's eyes remained open for a few minutes, but the combination of the flickering light, the hazy incense, and the slow, hypnotic melody of the lute drooped his eye lids and relaxed his frame. Malger continued to play, slowing the melody, and letting the notes drop in pitch with each iteration, until he was plumbing the lowest depths his instrument was capable of producing. By then, the rat's were closed and he had fallen asleep. Malger played for a minute more to be sure, then lowered the flute. His ears twitched when, even after taking the flute from his lips, the music continued in a far softer tone. He cast his eyes toward the illusory wall beyond which Murikeer hid, appreciating the assistance though he felt it superfluous. After decades perfecting the art of bringing people to a state of somnolence that allowed him a conduit to their inmost selves through the Dream he was confidant in his unaided skills. Silently he unfolded his legs, turned, and stretched out upon his own pallet, crossing his hands upon his breast. With a smile he turned his gaze toward Misanthe and nodded slowly. She nodded back, settling down between their heads with folded legs before closing her eyes. The tip of her tail brushed Charles' shoulder while the fingertips of one hand came to rest on Malger's shoulder. The marten took a deep breath, stilling the fear he felt gripping him, and closed his eyes. The incense, sweet and sharp in his nostrils, lifted his mind away from all concerns. Within moments he was not in the caves beneath Glen Avery. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>