The Gray Keep, the great library-city, had stood since the Second Age. It was a place of quiet contemplation, a sanctuary for scholars of all races. Even demons and devils were welcome, so long as they came in pursuit of knowledge.
Today, it received two less-than-welcome visitors.
Folgreis the Battle-Master and Wilmot the Heretic-Inquisitor strode through the gates. "A den of heretics," Wilmot snarled, his paladin senses recoiling from the sheer diversity of divine energies within the city walls.
"The unknown madness is corrupting knowledge and texts," Folgreis said calmly. "Our Lord suspects the God of Knowledge has fallen. This is the first place we should look for answers."
They were met by Archbishop Barnaby. After a brief, polite exchange, Folgreis got straight to the point. "My Lord has sent us to investigate a corruption of knowledge. Can you shed any light on this, Archbishop?"
"Alas," Barnaby said, his face a mask of serene ignorance, "my knowledge is but a candle against the stars of the heavens. I cannot answer your question."
"Have you not felt its influence yourself?" Folgreis pressed.
"The Gray Keep is my Lord's divine fortress on the Material Plane," Barnaby replied smoothly. "No evil can escape his gaze here."
The conversation was going nowhere. Barnaby excused himself, and the two champions of the Dawn were left alone.
"He is lying," Wilmot growled. "My heart tells me this place is steeped in evil."
Wilmot's heart told him everywhere but the Seven Heavens was steeped in evil, Folgreis thought wryly. But he, too, felt something was wrong. A direct magical scan was too risky. Instead, he closed his eyes and summoned his power. A pair of great, white wings unfolded from his back, and the phantom image of a mighty Archon, its belly covered in eight closed eyes, superimposed itself over his own.
He opened the Archon's nine eyes.
The world transformed into a nauseating landscape of pink, pulsating flesh. The walls, the floor, the ceiling—all were made of writhing meat. A sticky, yellow ichor dripped from above. And everywhere, there were tentacles, each tipped with a single, unblinking eye. They all turned to stare at him.
"My Lord, grant me strength!" Folgreis roared. A pillar of holy light erupted from him, blasting upwards, attempting to connect to the Seven Heavens.
But an invisible wave of power washed over the city, and the connection was severed. The禁空咒文, the space-sealing runes, had been activated.
In his study, Ephram felt the psychic backlash. The Gray Keep had turned on itself. The time had come. He received the divine sign—a fleeting image of a beautiful, robed man in a flash of white light, and a single, clear thought: *Leave*.
He fled. The halls that were usually patrolled by guards were eerily empty. He turned a corner and ran into one. "Berult!"
"Ah, Bishop Ephram," the guard said with a smile. "There was an intruder from the Church of Dawn. Archbishop Barnaby is dealing with it."
The Church of Dawn? So the host of the gathering was the Lord of Dawn? Ephram's mind reeled.
"I was just on my way to the archives to look up a text," Ephram said, trying to sound casual.
"Of course, Bishop. Go right ahead."
As Ephram walked away, he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. A sense of pure malice. He glanced back. Berult was walking away, his back to him. It wasn't him. Then who?
He had to get a message to his mysterious patron. He couldn't call out his name, for he didn't know it. But there was another way. A profane way, discovered by the arrogant mages of the Third Age. He took a deep breath, feeling a deep sense of shame.
He whispered, so quietly that he could barely hear it himself, "That... that Excellency... does he wear underpants?"