Uncaring, people walked past the ragged figure braving the scorching sun in front of a whitewashed wall.
"I tell you, we are all doomed," he ranted, ignoring the fact that no one was listening to him.
"The gods have abandoned the island. Evil has awakened! The Holy Flame alone cannot protect us forever!"
No one stopped. People had their own worries. Business had been bad since the city was closed. The preacher continued without wavering. "Three signs have been revealed," he cried with a rough voice, "three signs!"
"The earthquakes were the first. And no one paid attention. The heathen temples were the second. And again, no one would listen. They were plundered – you have defiled yourselves with their trinkets. The beasts were the third sign. Three signs. The gods have abandoned us, and soon the Holy Flame will be extinguished. Ancient powers will arise. The end is near!"

"Hey, did you hear?" Philus was greeted by his fat companion as he entered the tavern. "They say somebody is running around the island that the Inquisition hasn’t caught yet. Nobody knows where he’s from."
Finally back in the Laughing Gyrger after an uneventful day, Philus joined him in a bad temper. "So what? Then he’s a bandit. He’s not the only one," he grumbled.
"Nah, not one of the Don’s people," the fat man whispered. "But he’s sniffing around anyway, going into the temples, and whatnot."
"So? Other people have done that," answered Philus crankily. He had other worries. Nobody was buying his fish.
"Yeah, but unlike them, he comes out again. They say he’s at least six feet tall, that’s what a farmer up in the Gutters told me."
"Nonsense, that’s impossible."
"And why’s that?"
"Well, because the temple passages aren’t that tall. He’d have bashed in his skull and croaked like all the rest a long time ago," was Philus’ irresistible logic.
"Aah, what do you know..."
"Beats me. Buy me a beer, will you? I’ve had a bad day."

The city had changed since the Inquisition had taken over.
The fat man sat on a bench outside the Laughing Gyrger and watched. Cid had settled down next to him.
"Man, my old lady has her heart set on a pearl necklace. Where am I supposed to get one, now?" complained Cid.
"How should I know? You boys used to be able to conjure up just about everything."
"Yeah, but back then we didn’t have that damn Inquisitor," stated the bandit. "And we could do business with the town guards. Just imagine, they recently grabbed Rodriguez and dragged him off to the Monastery. Straight to the Inquisitor. And when he came back, he was a completely different person. Almost like they swapped him for somebody else. And now he actually wants to report me if he ever catches me in a crooked deal again. Rodriguez of all people! That's scary. That Inquisitor and his magic eye, he looks straight into your head and turns you upside down. And then you do whatever he wants. You can’t trust that guy. He knows more about those temples and monsters than he admits, bet on it."
The fat man said nothing. That was all too much for him.
 

A bright rectangle thrown by the open door on the floor of the Laughing Gyrger was all that reminded those inside that the sun still beat down mercilessly on the island. But the rectangle darkened suddenly, as a new guest entered the taproom.
"Hey, stranger, join us," rumbled a beefy fellow to the newcomer. "We can always use a fresh face with fresh stories."
"I suppose you know everybody in the city?" replied the stranger.
"I should say so. I’ve been stuck here since the White Robes closed the gates. Say, I’ve never seen you around here before. What are you doing in the city?"
"If only I knew that..."
"Ah, an innocent," joked the big man. "If you’re looking for knowledge, go see Master Belschwur. All you’ll find here is something to drink."
"Master Belschwur?"
"Yeah, the mage! He can tell you all about the Holy Flame and the gods. The gods are gone, but they left the Holy Flame behind as a sign that they’re still protecting the island. But nobody knows how long it will keep burning, since the dark powers that the gods were protecting us against are getting stronger and stronger. The temples and stuff. But what do I know? I’m just a fisherman."

Three men worked their way along a narrow, descending passage.
"You want to know what I think?" asked Olf, shouldering a pickaxe.
"No, not really," grumbled Dytar. "Keep the torch up, so we don’t miss any traps."
"I’ll tell you anyway," said the first. "I’ve got a feeling we are going to find a lot of gold. I can feel it in my little finger."
"Aah, in the last temple, it was in your big toe. Can’t you make up your mind?" moaned Dirk. He was carrying a bundle of shovels. "And we didn’t find anything, either."
"Well, that’s because the guys from the Order were faster than us. But nobody’s been here before us."
"Just be glad they didn’t catch us outside the city."
"Hey, watch out! Stop," called Dytar, putting an end to the debate. "Don’t you see that joint, you dimwit? That plate looks strange to me. That’s bound to be another trapdoor."
"Well, that’s better than those nasty spikes we had earlier."
There was a distant roar. Then a sound like nails sliding across stone. Closer. Much closer.
"What was that?" whispered Olf. "Did you hear that?"
"We’re not deaf," breathed Dirk.
"Go back!"
 

Veils of smoke spread unevenly through the air. Thick, damp mist oozed and was not prepared to give way to the smoke.
Men coughed.
"Cursed soup!" swore one.
"What, Rachel’s?" said a second in surprise.
"No, you joker, the fog," replied the first sullenly.
"Cursed swamp!" elaborated the second.
"Cursed Inquisitor!" A third, who had been silent so far, named the root of all evil.
Since the Inquisitor had arrived on the island with his people, the Don had slipped out of the city into the swamp. There, he was still his own master and did not have to take orders from the new lords. There, he was the boss over his people, over a few acres of stinking swamp and an ancient, rotting temple full of monsters. He just sat it out until the Inquisitor left his city. Until then, the Don lived in the first temple hall.
"Anything come out of the temple today?" asked one.
"A creature? Nah. The front passages are all clean. Fincher just checked them again yesterday."
"Oh."
The conversation dropped off again. The soupy fog was depressing. The mood was bad.
"Anything new out of the city?"
"Nah, nothing."
"Once we’re back in the city..."
They all sighed quietly. And silently went back to their own thoughts. A bottle made the rounds.

“Hey! Don’t wave the sword around like that. What did I tell you?!“ Edgar leaned on the grindstone and shook his head compassionately. The old sword teacher had withdrawn to the shadows of a wall, in order to observe his pupil. Then he explained once again from the top:
“Hold the sword calmly. Clasp the handle firmly, so that the opponent’s first strike doesn’t knock your weapon from your hand. The point goes towards the opponent.“
Edgar’s pupil tried to implement the instructions to the satisfaction of his teacher.

“And don’t hold yourself so straight and stiff. That looks just awful.“
“And when can I finally fight against someone?“, grumbled the young lad, who was bored of the many instructions. “I want to finish off an Ashbeast!“
Edgar laughed. “Young boy. Put that out of your mind. You first need to learn the fundamentals of striking and parrying. When you have those down, then you can start to work with series of strikes in order to keep the opponent from getting a chance. After that, you’ll need to improve your footwork, so that you learn to dodge. And then you will learn to chip away at your enemy’s blockade.“
Edgar took a meaningful pause. “And then, young boy, then you can maybe start to think about taking on some of these beasts out there. ‘Cause people are predictable. You can study their behaviour and anticipate their attacks. These monsters, on the other hand, react completely imponderably. To succeed against them is something completely different. You are still far away from that.
 

The night was perfect. The narrow crescent of the moon had disappeared a little while ago behind a blanket of clouds that had been pushed in by the sea breeze. Even the whitest and most glistening walls of houses by day in the sun were now dark. The night watchman had already gone by and would not set off again on his next rounds for quite a while.
From out of a corner lying in the shadow of night, a shadow broke away. Silently he scurried along the side of a house, and then turned into an alley. A red dot revealed a last drag on a fag, then the shady figure pulled himself upwards on a cordon, climbed onto the roof and disappeared into the nearby window of a neighbouring house.

Even breaths signalised that he did not have to fear the attention of the inhabitants. The crate with the belongings stood at the foot of the bed. People were so transparent... It would now become apparent if the combination of the lock, which he obtained from his informant, was correct. The lockpick quietly snapped in the lock. With a scratching sound, the lid sprung open.
The even sound of breathing fell silent. The thief remained motionless. “Bloody hell!“ He thought to himself, holding his own breath.
However a loud snore allowed the tension to fall away from him. He slowly and carefully cleared out the chest, in search of the old, valuable amulet that his client had been out to get.
 

Breathing heavily, the man worked his way along a narrow cave pathway. Metal clinked before him. It sounded like a sword dashing against chain mail.
“Not again“. A sigh escaped the intruder’s lips. After he had to defeat wolves at the entrance to the cave and later ghouls, the next opponent was waiting for him here. The flickering light of the smoking torch illuminated a hall-like widening of the cave. The sound of feet running up to him reminded him to draw his sword.
Not a moment too soon. Cream-coloured bones peeled themselves out of the darkness. Tattered chain mail hung from the chest and down over the pelvic bone. Empty eye sockets stared across at him – or perhaps not, who could possibly say? With sword raised, joints cracking and yet silently, the skeleton rushed towards him.

The remains of some unlucky warrior had been revived by magic to undead life. The first hits of the attacker bounced off the sword of the intruder, raised in defence. A parry, then a manoeuvre, an attack from the left. The skeleton parried. Mechanically, as if taught. Or was it magic? A quick step to the side, a blow from the left, turn, one from the right and one full tilt from above. Then back. Bones splintered and the skeleton shattered into its individual parts. The remnants of the rusty chain mail crumpled up and fell to the ground. The skull behind it. It formed the peak of the pyramid out of the remains. The jagged sword had disappeared into a wide curve in the darkness.
“Keep going.“
 

He felt how the hands grew wet. The first beads of sweat shone on the forehead. Surely the first spots would soon appear on the parchment again and everything that he had written upon it would then run and blur. Master Illumar would reprimand him. As always.
“How come this always happens to me?!“, Jervis asked himself in thought. He saw the other novices out of the corner of his eye, who stood behind their desks and diligently scribbled down the magic spells they should learn as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Jervis, on the other hand, was just glad if he could even remember the correct ingredients for levitation, for the transformation into a nautilus or even for the light spell. What do you even need the boar tusk for again? And why would you need the wings of a grave moth?
Jervis sighed. Crystal Magic was so much easier than this accursed Rune Magic. A spell – a crystal that took on all the work. And you have to merely practice it yourself in order to become better. But all of these runes... You need the peculiar ingredients just to create a scroll. Completely aside from a rune.
Jervis tried to remember what Master Illumar had told him yesterday and began to write before his parchment was completely drenched.

The lanky man was already waiting for him on the corner as he came strolling with a sack over his shoulders.
“Do you have a hoe with you, or better a shovel?“, he asked impatiently.
“Sure, exactly as you assigned me to do. A good shovel, direct from the camp on the harbour.“
He proudly pulled out the shovel.
“From the camp on the harbour? Has Carasco recently been giving out something from the camp of the Inquisition?“
“Nope, I simply arranged it myself“, his sidekick grinned at him and scratched at his scrubby chin, relaxed.
“You got a shadow? If the White Robes were to catch us with the shovel, there’d be trouble“, the lanky man angrily growled.

“There’d be that anyway, if they capture us outside of the city“, his colleague calmly waved off. “With or without their shovel. Do you have the treasure map?“
“Sure! And did you grease the watch, so that we can come out of the city?“
“Course“, came the immediate reply.
“Be careful, the treasure is located near a grave. Something undead might also be haunting there. It’s gotta be a bright, grassless spot, that’s where we should dig to find something.“
“Says who?“
“The old geezer, who I recently filled with rum in the Laughing Gyrger.“
“And what is there to find?“
“What do I know? Any old stuff even. Something to fence. Delgado will take almost anything.“