The Lost God

[Katdoral]

An Uncomfortable Awakening

There was no light within the cave, the embers of a fire having long since burnt out. There were signs of others having been here not all that long ago, but now only a single figure lay on the hard stone floor; dressed in intricate leathers, a pair of finely wrought scimitars sheathed in a belt lay near his head. Had there been light a first glance would have noted that the figure’s skin was a deep ebony, a stark contrast to his long silver hair. Were his eyes open, they’d also take note of their deep scarlet hue, or perhaps they’d notice the toned muscle of his arms and legs. Had they the ability to see magical eminations, their sight may well be dazzled by the radiance of power that washed out from this figure and his possessions. To even the simplest of minds, the word that would scream into their mind would be quick, and terrifying. Drow. Yes, laying in what would seem relative peace was one of Severall’s most feared races, the boogey man of countless children’s stories. Only with Drow, it was not just children that feared them; Humans, Elves, Dwarves, and a multitude of other races knew of the might and danger the Drow represented. Most creatures, had they stumbled into a cavern such as this and laid eyes on it’s inhabitant would retreat as quickly and as quietly as they were able.

But no such creature disturbed the resting Drow. After a time, the Drow stirred. First came the languid stretch, a motion simple yet executed in a manner that seemed gracefull. Then it rolled to it’s side, seemingly at ease on the stone. Then the eyes opened, showing red through the dark. It went very still then, no motion or even breath for several heartbeats. Then a blur of motion, and what was once a prone figure was now fully erect with twin scimitars drawn and gleaming light that seemed to pulse from within the blades themselves. In the right hand, shades of forest greens bathed the walls. In his left hand, soft silver light caressed the stones. He stood with a posture not so miuch of menace, but bespeaking of countless years of training. His balance was easy, his heels slightly raised from the stones. His weapons hovered unflinchingly in a strong guard position, waiting as if they possessed their own unique will to spring into motion. But the contrast of his eyes spoke another tale. They were wide, far more so then an experienced warrior’s would be. And they moved back and forth quickly, not assessing a vulnerability in an opponent but in the rapid motion of the unskilled.

After the pause of a heartbeat or two, his eyes focused on the twin weapons he held, and with a drawn breath of fear he dropped them both and sprang backwards, jarring into the stone wall behind. As the weapons left his hands, so too did the light they shed extinguish. For a few moments the Drow went into another panic as darkness encased him. He scrambled along the wall, half running and half sliding along the rough surface. After several feet he stopped, noticing that there was a light of sort somewhere. At least he thought there must be since his vision was returning. Another few seconds and the room came back into focus, though everything seemed to have a mild green tinge to it. He saw the weapons on the floor where he’d dropped them, the remains of a fire, and an exit roughly across the room from him. The strangeness of it frightened him, he didn’t like this strange green world, he need light-Real light. At that thought, and seemingly by reflex, words came to his mind. Strange words that he didn’t understand, but seemed to have a meaning all the same. His right hand moved up and forward, his palm twisting upwards and his index finger curling at an angle to his wrist before he even thought about it. Suddenly, there was a faint wash of warmth that tingled it’s way from the base of his neck, moving in a rush down his right shoulder and on to his hand. It was the strangest thing he’d ever felt, the warmth as it travelled through his body pulsed in a rhythm to the words he spoke. Finally the words ended just as the rush of warmth reached the tip of his index finger…And there was light. A ball of soft silver light hovered over his palm. The Drow stared at it for a moment, then two….Then screamed and dashed for the exit, the ball of light following the terror-filled Drow with the relentless drive of a stalking great cat…

[Katdoral]

Revelations in the Dark

The dark skinned elf leaned heavily into the stone wall supporting him and panted heavily from his exertions. That damnable demon fire had followed him for the better part of an hour, relentlessly chasing him down every twisting passage he’d taken. Even when the drow had emerged into daylight the vile thing had continued its nefarious pursuit. He wasn’t entirely certain when it had given up chase, at one point when he’d chanced a look over his shoulder it was just gone. So here he was, leaning on an outcropping of stone somewhere in a small mountain range trying to catch his breath.

After a few minutes his breathing slowed and the pounding of his heart subsided and he had a chance to survey his surroundings. He wasn’t that far up in this range, but he had a decent view of the southern slope. Stretching away from the mountain range was mostly gently rolling hills with a few lightly wooded patches. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but the name of the small range came to mind: The Tierghal Rise was the name of these mountains, along the south-western border of something called Lark. Somehow that seemed important to him, a tiny warning bell sounding somewhere in the recesses of his mind. He couldn’t recall anything more specific, but he had the impression that this Lark wasn’t somewhere he wanted to be.

Now that he had a moment though he tried to recall something about himself but nothing came to mind, not even his own name. He tried to concentrate on who he was, he’d almost get a vague impression of a name but before he could grab a hold of it, the impression would slip away. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t latch onto anything substantial. Finally after several minutes of trying, his frustration growing, he swore and gave up. Instead he turned to his possessions, certainly something in what he carried would hold a clue. With that thought he remembered the weapons he’d dropped inside the cave. Sighing he gave up that notion, even if they did somehow have an answer for him he had no desire whatsoever to face that light creature again. Instead he looked to what he had with him right now: He wore leather armor that seemed to be well maintained, but without any discernable heraldry. A belt around his waist had three pouches attached to it, and there were a pair of short wooden rods attached to the belt by a leather thong. There was a silver necklace with a green stone in a clasp around his neck, and a thin gold circlet resting on his brow. He wore three rings; A silvery metal ring on his right hand index finger with a clear crystal set into a clasp, a gold ring with a black stone on his right hand forefinger, and a curious stone ring on his left hand pinky. All of the rings had strange markings on them, but they seemed to be of a language that he didn’t understand. He took off the gold circlet, but it was too thin to have any discernable script so he shrugged and put it back on. Next he took off the silver necklace, noting that there was a single symbol etched onto the green stone that appeared to be a spider on it back, but what it might mean also eluded him. Filing the symbol away in his mind he put the necklace back on. Next he examined the two wooden rods but other than being made of a highly polished dark wood, they bore no symbols or clue as to what they may represent. Last he turned to the three pouches attached to the belt.

The first pouch was the strangest. It was made of a fine cloth of some sort and bore several symbols that he didn’t understand, but what made it odd was its weight. Opening it, the bag was empty, but for being made of cloth it was heavy, far heavier than it should be. It seemed to be between 20 and 30 pounds, but that didn’t make any sense at all to him since nothing was in it. He opened it up to its fullest and turned it upside down, nothing happened. He inspected the bag again and again, but whatever was adding the weight to the thing didn’t appear. After several minutes he laid the bag to the side and moved on. The next bag contained mostly dried jerky and trail bread, though it did have a few odder contents. There was a length of thin wire about 6 inches long, a pair of small vials with rust colored powder, and another vial stoppered with a green liquid inside. Unstoppering it he smelled the contents, the impression he got was a heavy, earthy aroma. Shrugging he stoppered it again and moved on to the last pouch. This one held an assortment of things that made no sense at all. Small bones, even smaller pouches that had dusts of varying colors and smells, several white pearls, a few onyx’s and other things that he couldn’t readily identify.

He swore. No letters or maps to give him any clues he could follow up with right now. Maybe the symbols he’d found would help, but out here in the wilds they weren’t much help. He’d have to find someone, somehow, that could decipher the strange scripts. Sighing he gathered up his possessions and replaced them on his belt. Well, it’s not like I could have stayed on this mountain forever anyways, he thought to himself. Standing up, he began the short descent to the hills and headed south west.


He’d walked for several nights now. He’d started travelling mostly at night because he realized now that his vision in the dark was actually better than it was during the day. At first it seemed strange, but now he’d grown used to it. Luck must have been with him because he’d stumbled on a path that was clearly man made leading east and west so he’d been following it west. However now he wasn’t sure what to do. The path had met up with a fairly well maintained road leading north and south. The problem however was that currently there was a caravan of sorts coming from the south. Something nagged in the recesses of his mind that the fact that this caravan was moving at night was significant, but he couldn’t place why. Heeding his reservations though, he took cover in the brush 30 or so feet from the road and waited.

As it got closer he started making out more details that didn’t make sense. There were 16 people approaching his position, five of them rode on horses, one drove a wagon, eight were inside the wagon, and two appeared to be walking behind it. Three of the horse riders were in front of the caravan and two were behind the walkers. The wagon was of large, sturdy construction but the sides however were comprised of large metal bars with the arms and legs of its occupants hanging out limply. The walkers seemed to be attached by the neck with chains to the rear of the wagon and they seemed to stagger more then walk along. He also noticed that there were differences between the riders and the people in the wagon. First, the riders bore the same dark skin and light hair that he did, whereas the occupants were mostly light skinned with varying hair color. He began to think that maybe these were criminals, but as the caravan neared to around 100 feet, he could see that at least three of the occupants of the wagon were young children. What could a child have possibly done to warrant this sort of treatment? He wondered to himself. The three fore riders suddenly stopped and drew weapons, it was only then that he realized that in his confusion over the scene before him, he had stood up from his hiding place.

“In the name of the empire, identify yourself!” Shouted the middle rider, brandishing a long bladed sword at him as the three fore riders cautiously approached.

He noticed also that the driver of the wagon reined in the pull horses and produced a crossbow, as well as the rear riders moving forward. The two walkers, also immediately slumped to the ground. It occurred to him that he not only understood the language the middle rides was speaking in, but also that the name of the language, and his race, was Drow. He felt a rush of accomplishment, momentarily ignoring the entire scene. I am a Drow! He exclaimed in his head. He was so excited that he almost missed the booted foot rapidly coming towards his head, almost. As the foot rushed towards him, he noticed a nearly imperceptible deviation in its angle, as if there were some invisible yet tangible force that had nudged it to the side. Reacting without forethought, he reached out and grabbed the attacking Drow by the ankle and pulled the attached leg straight and slightly over his head, then with his other fist he punched upwards and connected with the underside of the kneecap. There was a sickening popping and crunching sound as the kneecap came out of its socket and the surrounding tissue was mangled. The Drow on the horse screamed in pain, dropping his weapon. The other two mounted Drow stabbed downwards with their own swords. One was also deflected away like the booted foot was before, the other seemed to slide along the leather armor ineffectually.

Confused as to what the hell had just happened, the nameless Drow released the ankle he held and rolled under the horse bearing the screaming Drow, instinctively picking up the fallen longsword as he went. A crossbow bolt slammed into the ground near him and threw up dirt into his face, while a blade slide along his armor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other rider come around the horse he’d just rolled under and out of instinct the nameless Drow lashed out with the weapon he held, drawing a deep gash along the rider’s leg and up his calf. He heard from somewhere nearby the other two riders urge their mounts into a charge and could feel the vibrations of their movement in the ground as they raced to charge him. The nameless Drow lunged towards one of the riders still close to him, driving in and through the Drow’s chest, then wrenched the blade free in a shower of blood and again rolled under a horse to narrowly avoid being trampled by the two approaching Drow. The scene by this point was complete chaos, the Drow who’s knee had been broken had at some point toppled from his saddle and lay not far away clutching his leg and screaming. The Drow who’s leg and calf had been sliced open was attempting to stem the torrent of blood streaming out of him, and the Drow he’d just stabbed had both his hands over the wound, hot red blood fountaining out around his fingers. The two charging Drow were now entangled with the other three horses and were trying to maneuver their way out of the mess. A rush of air and a whizzing sound near his left ear told the nameless Drow that the wagon driver had just missed again.

He tried to stop, to think of something to say to put an end to this carnage, but his hesitation gave the two uninjured riders the time they needed, and now both of them bore down on him. They maneuvered him between them, riding hard to ride by and attack as they passed. The nameless Drow let them, as they came within reach of the longsword he held, he jumped up, spinning as he went. In that moment, he became a whirlwind of death, each stroke as he spun landing on the throats of the riders, cutting deeply in one, and severing the other. As he came back down to ground, the two Drow toppled from their mounts.

He heard the lash of a whip and the yell of another voice, he turned his head and saw the wagon driver urging the pull horses to a gallop, the people behind the bars screaming…The children screaming…A flick of his wrist and arm sent the longsword tumbling through the air, and point first into the eye of the wagon driver. The horses, not caring that the driver was now dead, kept on running. Horrified, the nameless Drow watched the two walkers connected to the rear by chains being dragged along behind. In an instant he fast mounted the nearest horse and spurred it on to catch the wagon.

It took less than a minute to catch up to the pull horses, and then only a few seconds more to bring them under control. After he brought the wagon to a complete stop and engaged the brake, he then hurried to the back of the wagon. It was obviously too late however, the two walkers being pulled by chains, a man and a woman, lay there with the heads hanging at an unnatural angle. The nameless Drow turned around, not wanting to see their dead eyes staring at him. He turned and by happenstance was eye to eye with a young child, eyes wild and terrified. Another child near the one he now faced looked back towards where the dead Drow were, then back at him and spoke with a mix of fear, and awe.

“The Duskwalker is real…”

[Katdoral]

The Name We Choose

Duskwalker. That was the name given to him two months ago by a child. The name seemed just as alien to him now as it did when he first heard it. However the stories the child, a girl of eight named Errya, told him seemed to resonate. She told him of how the Duskwalker saved the innocent of Crossriver from hordes of demons, of how he’d battled the legions of the walking dead at Hearth home, of how he’d braved all manner of dangers in the cause of justice. The tales were inspiring, even though he could not recall any of the specific events. But Errya had been insistent, and not having a name to counter with he’d gone along. He didn’t believe that he was in fact this Duskwalker, but the little girl had already lost so much that he couldn’t bear to refuse her this fantasy. He learned that her parents and older brother had been killed during the assault that left them prisoners.


The others of the group were less trusting. At first they would jump whenever he spoke, fearing that at any moment he might deliver them back into bondage. The Duskwalker remained patient with them though, especially after learning how they’d first been captured. These people had lived in a village named Koltis, farmers mostly. Before the night the Drow had come, over 200 souls had lived and worked together. Of them, only the 16 he’d saved remained. From what he could gather from these people, the villagers had refused to submit. But pitchforks and shovels were of little help against hardened steel, trained soldiers, and magic. A man named Elan had recounted most of that to the Duskwalker, most of the others still had trouble just making eye contact with him. Elan had also told him of The Great Divide, a massive river several miles across that lead to The Confederacy. According to Elan, the Confederacy was the safest place he could think of. He’d also told the Duskwalker that the Empire wouldn’t be merciful with them after killing one of their raiding parties, and in all likelihood would send others to track them down.

So for the last two months the Duskwalker had spirited his charges west as quickly as they could. Some hidden part of him had come alive during this journey. He saw the trail they left, and seemingly by rote obscured it as best he could. Though he was certain that eventually whatever pursuers were sent after them would realize the tricks he’d employed. For the last few days he’d had the distinct impression of being hunted. It wasn’t anything he could see or hear, but nonetheless he was certain of it. Unfortunetely, there was nothing left he could do to stall their pursuers. The land before them was flat and open, another 2 days would bring them to the Great Divide, or so Elan assured him. They could now only run and pray.

One day left…The Duskwalker thought to himself. Just one more day and they’d be to the river. From there they could find a ferry or a village and be safe. Currently they were taking a rest, the dawn quickly approaching,they’d been walking through the night without pause. Only the Duskwalker’s feet weren’t covered in blisters from the pace. The horses had given out few days ago, so they were all on foot now. The children were in better shape than most, but even they could only take so much. Arrya was snuggled into the Duskwalker’s side, catching whatever sleep she could before they moved out again. Absently the Duskwalker brushed back a stray hair. Sleeping, even exhausted as she certainly was, the Duskwalker thought she looked at peace. The stark contrast of that expression and their grim reality struck him hard. There was a twinge of guilt at that sleeping face. He remembered back to when he’d first seen the caravan of slaves, and though he’d never admit it out load the Duskwalker also remembered that there had been no sense of wrongness that over took him when he’d seen it. He recalled wondering what horrors a child might have commited to earn such a fate, but there was no morality in the thought, just confusion. Now, however, having walked with these people for the last couple months, now there was morality. But more than that, there was a kindled burning inside him. It smoldered just below the surface of his thoughts mostly, but there were times when it rose up and demanded his attention. Looking at the sleeping girl was one of those times. Like a voice you might hear inside a dream, a desire to bring justice for this girl was growing strong. It spoke to him of getting these poor people to safety, but after that, to go to this place of Lark…To burn and slash and crumble their petty cities, to bring them a measure of pain and retribution equal to what they have wrought themselves. And while he didn’t understand it, there was a cold certainty that told him he was somehow entirely capable of doing exactly that.

Errya whimpered and stirred, shaking the Duskwalker from the rising tide of his emotions. His right arm had cradled the girl, squeezing just a little too tightly, while his left hand was clenched in a fist. He relaxed his grip and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and slowly to calm himself. After a few moments he opened his eyes, and there in the sky he saw something he didn’t understand. High above them dove a massive black winged creature bearing a rider. Before the Duskwalker could react the rider made some gesture that ended with it’s finger pointed directly at them. From that finger, a small pebble sized ball of fire shot forth leaving a streak of flame in it’s wake. Half a heart beat later and the camp turned into a firestorm as the flaming pebble slamed into the ground a few feet from him. The flames washed over him like a thick fog doing nothing to burn, or even heat the air. For him at least. The effects on the rest, however, was nothing short of catastrophic. Hair immediately vaporized, skin boiled and melted from the bone, most were dead before even realizing they were burning. The Duskwalker looked down and saw the same happening to Errya. Then it happened again. From deep inside him a power arose. There was a word that he spoke and the fingers of his right hand drew a circle in the air. He felt that same rush of power, but this time there was barely the feeling of it before it was unleashed. As the fires came and went in the same heartbeat, so too did Errya’s wounds come and go. Her eyes popped open wide, as if in her dream she remembered pain but was safe again in the waking world.

There was no time for the Duskwalker to question, or even ponder, what had just happened. Something else had taken hold of him now. He snapped to his feet, putting himself between Errya and the flying creature as it leveled off it’s dive. It was then he also noted the 8 or so Drow that were riding hard towards them, perhaps 600 feet away. They were first. The Duskwalker began a new string of words and gestures, this time the power built slowly, intoxicatingly. It built and built over the next five or so seconds. In his mind’s eye, the Duskwalker set a target on each of the Drow, as well as their horses. Then one more word, and the power he’d collected exploded outwards. For the first second nothing seemed to happen, but then the skin of the Drow and their horses pulled tight to their bones, waves of steam swirling about them as their momentum carried them forward. Then their eyes shriveled, and horse and Drow tumbled to the ground, exploding like so much dust as if they’d been left to bake in the sun for a hundred years.

And then the Duskwalker turned his terrible gaze on the flying creature. It’s rider must have seen the fate of the other Drow, for it had spurred it’s flying steed away from the danger. But there was no escape from the Duskwalker, there was no evading the terrible judgement of his scarlet eyes. A new power came over the Duskwalker then. A terrible and epic power in relation to what he’d done before. He drew this power from a primal part of the world, the raw essence of power, and shaped it not with word or gesture, but with sheer force of will. It poured into him from the very ground, the air, from all things at once until it was near to bursting within him, he felt wounds erupt along his arms…And then, in the manner of the rider’s initial attack, the Duskwalker pointed.

A massive blaze of elemental fury rolled out from his finger, it sped the distance in the blink of an eye, and detonated. Red flames crackled, blue-white electrical bolts ravaged, green vapor dissolved, and a cocaphonate roar shattered, all in one place, all where there was once a Roc and it’s rider.

[Katdoral]

Reprocutions

Dyvir waited in the imperial antechamber with as much outward calm as he could muster. His day had gone decidedly poorly. First, he’d been pulled from his normal duties of border patrol and attached to a policing force intent on hunting down a rogue slave caravan. Then, of course, there had been that damned mage. Riding high up on his Roc mount, Dyvir had thought to end the business quickly with a well placed spell. And it was well placed, the entire group was huddled together, and the raging flames of his spell should have ended the encounter then and there. And that was where things went wrong. He watched in satisfaction as most of the escaped slaves were turned to ash, but one seemed completely unharmed. That one, a Drow no less, then turned on the 8 riders Dyvir was attached to and cast a powerful eighth circle spell known collectively as Horrid Wilting, removing all moisture from the body’s of those affected. This spell caster had not only killed all eight Drow, but their horses as well. It had become immediately obvious to Dyvir that he was laughably outmatched so he’d begun the gestures of a teleport spell. While going through the motions, he’d caught sight of the next spell that the Drow was readying, and that one terrified him to his core. It was a level of magic that went beyond normal spells, something only the greatest of mages could perform. Dyvir could only determine that the spell had some form of elemental basis before it was hurtling towards him. He just barely managed to finish his own spell as the terrible force of magic exploded around him. So close in fact that his riding robes were singed in places.

Several hours later, after all had been said and done, it was decided that the identity of this myserious drow was paramount to the security of the empire. So dispatches were sent to the House of Unizar, requesting that Shazer’sal himself be sent to deal with the situation.

When Sal first received the dispatch he read it carefully and considered the situation. He concluded that this was a mission best done in silence. While he held the greatest of respects for his brother Valruuk, he also retained the memory of his recent displays of rage during the rescue of the imperial princes. No, he thought, this was not a mission for his brother. He left the house compound and headed to the Imperial district to collect this Dyvir and utilize his magic to return to the vicinity of the crime.

An hour later Shazer’sal and Dyvir were approaching the area where this renegade had last been seen. The wizard had urged that they teleport well away from the location, a bit more fearfully then seemed appropriate for a sworn protector of the realm to Shazer’sal’s senses. Though he supposed it was both likely and eminently appropriate that this Dyvir be fearful within Shazer’sal’s reach for so long a time as well. He did, after all, fail in his duties. Shazer’sal allowed a slight half-smile to reach his lips, not because he particulairly felt happy, but because of the chilling effect it seemed to have on his companion.

Shazer’sal stopped and used the drow’s hand language to tell it to remain where it was, he would go on alone from this point. Dyvir returned his affirmative in the same manner, his very visible relaxing sparking a sensation of mild irritation in Shazer’sal. He made a mental note of requesting the permission to suitably punish Dyvir for his recent failures and moved off towards his target. Most creature’s in the world did not understand the power of silence, not to the effect that Shazer’sal did at least. Long years and experiences had honed his ability to move without notice beyond the comprehension of virtually any creature short of the divine. Not even the natural dwellers of this environment, the birds, the rodents, even the insects, had not a clue that death moved within inches of their nests and holes. Shazer’sal had built upon his talents to such an extreme extent that in most cases he didn’t even realize himself that he was so hidden from view, so ingrained was it that it had become his natural mode of movement.

Several hours later, with the sun now long below the horizon, Shazer’sal believed he was closing in on his prey. He’d only briefly inspected the area of the attack to determine where the survivors had gone. Now, in the distance, a faint light glimmered, likely a small camp fire along the tracks he’d been following. Curiously the only tracks he could follow were that of a small humanoid, likely the child from the report. Perhaps the wizard had done more damage then he’d realized Shazer’sal mused. Either way he was confident it would be dealt with in short order. He continued his approach to the firelight, until finally he could see two figures resting within it’s embrace. One was swathed in a winter blanket, but from the distortions he could see had to be the child. It had curled itself up against the other one, who in turn was resting against a fallen log. It was without doubt a drow as Shazer’sal studied the scene...Then Shazer’sal stopped his approach, mustering all of his years and skill to remain as absolutely still as he could. He knew the features that sat against that log, knew them from a thousand, thousand busts and reliefs within the empire, knew them from the preachings and the clergy, knew them from first-hand experience. Shazer’sal’s mind raced with inconsistancies, this entire scenario fell apart around him as every piece of information he possessed shouted that this couldn’t be possible. Because there, sitting with a human child, nuzzling of all things, was Katdoral, The Devouring Darkness, The Lord of All Evil, Greater God of the Three Worlds, one of the of the most powerful beings in all the multiverse. For one of the very, very few times in his life, Shazer’sal didn’t know how to proceed.

“You haven’t attacked yet. Good, don’t. I’ve already taken more lives today then I care to discuss, and honestly have little interest in taking more. I will, don’t doubt that, but I don’t want to. Turn, go, and leave us be. There is no discussion here, go.” The drow said, raising his head and staring intently exactly where Shazer’sal perched. It was then, the voice at least, that put most everything into it’s proper place for Shazer’sal. He’d been wrong, as distasteful as that was to him. This was not Katdoral, this was something far worse, something that shouldn’t even be yet still was. Kallestrae. Another god, an abomination as it went, a splinter of Katdoral that was stolen and corrupted by light. Once he was the god of fate and war, but was destroyed during the rise of Cyian. Shazer’sal knew that he was now in actual danger. Powerful as he had become, he doubted his prowess in the face of a god. So he nodded once and slipped quietly away, returning with all possible speed to where Dyvin waited, his mind racing with how and, more disturbingly, why.