The sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor was drowned out by the tempest. The lights of the few interspersed lanterns shivered, collectively twitching a faint glow in the darkened townhouse. Shutters and windows rattled throughout the residence and the masonry chimney in the kitchen groaned a loud protest against the unrelenting winds. The fire in the cooking hearth, flickered and wavered, casting long shadows about the room, dancing with eerie fluidity on a canvas colored in a ruddy hue. Lucien paused at the kitchen door, standing upon the threshold. Gone was the smell of bread baking. Gone was the sound of pots banging. The room was too still. It was too quiet. Only the lone kettle sat over the fire. Only the smell of coffee, black and bitter greeted his arrival. It was a cold and empty greeting from the room that was once the warm bustling heart of the manor. The crash of thunder shook the very air around him and shook Lucien out of his contemplation. Pensive furrow knitted to an irritated frown that remained etched on the barrister's features as he uprooted himself and poured himself a cup of the bitter brew. Another boom of thunder sent the long unused pots and utensils hanging in the kitchen clattering into each other, sounding a cry of rattling lament. Lightening flashed with its blinding accusation as the chimney moaned, echoing the stirring grief. A deep and soundless breath was drawn to stave off the oppressive weight that started to press in his chest. And Lucien moved from the kitchen in hopes of staying the tumultuous whisperings that started to rise out of his wandering thoughts.

Another blinding flash of lightening was immediately followed by an earthshaking crack-rumble of thunder, as if the storm had taken root right over the barrister's residence. The howl of the wind carried upon it a bestial shriek. A chill brushed an icy caress along the back of his neck: one, then another, a swelling chorus of shrill, hellish wailing with an undertone of chanting that could not be mistaken for the wind's own voice. Lucien rose to his feet slowly, a troublesome thought etching a deep furrow upon his brow. Rapt attention remained on the dim ripples of color that painted the wall of books in a glum rainbow as he stepped out from behind his desk. Worrisome whispers buzzed in his ears as he approached the wall of books and immediately reached for several deliberately placed journals. Hushed accusations murmured over his thoughts as mundane texts were set aside to reveal access to the otherworldly vault hidden behind them. Lightening flashed once again, shocking the muted and unnatural shimmer of color into a brief flare. The rolling thunder shook the entire wall of books, threatening to rain down the vast collection upon the barrister's head. As the tomes trembled upon their shelves, Lucien stood stoically in front of the vault and moved his hand over the vault door in precise formation as he'd been taught to disengage the wards. The vault door opened with a soft slide of an unseen latch and revealed its contents. The brilliant strobe of light and the piercing beat of the whistle forced the barrister to retreat several steps. Deep consternation became firmly entrenched upon his features as he lifted a hand to shield his eyes for another breath before the blinding glare dimmed and the stabbing whistle quieted to a dull hum. A preternatural cold seeped from the vault, momentarily coating the floor beneath his feet with feathers of frost. At the farthest spectrum of light, just barely visible, he saw spidery traces of incandescent energy sparking sporadically across the interior.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother's, when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath! Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke! Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm! Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet song, and dance, and wine! And thou art terrible!"the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know or dream or fear Of agony are thine. - Fitz-Greene Halleck (1790"1867); Marco Bozzaris. The murmuring whispers from the vault drowned out the howling storm. Incoherent sentiments carried upon hushed and unintelligible sighs near silenced the rumbling thunder and the sizzling crackle of lightening. The once dull buzzing grew louder and louder, its tone alternating from a coaxing coo to tremoring indignation, indistinct mutterings building to an angry crescendo. The undulating glow of deep crimson beat steadily like a man's heartbeat, methodical, hypnotic. It seemed to fill the immeasurable confines of the vault, tainting the entire spectrum of light in a wash of red. Each pulse of blue or green brought about a brighter flare of scarlet. Each beat of violet or yellow brought about another flash of maddened red.

Another burst of blinding light and another shriek of ear piercing cry assaulted the barrister, sending him staggering back away from the interdimensional vault. The storm unleashed another deep rumble of thunder that rattled the very foundations of the townhouse as the winds screamed in its whipped up frenzy. The fire in the hearth struggled to stay lit, even as the lantern on Lucien's desk was extinguished.

Nevertheless, the storm was all but forgotten to the barrister and instead his attention remained on the bookshelf. The flash dimmed to a muted red pulse and the blare quieted to a droning murmur. Lucien recovered his steps back to the bookshelf and there, nestled within the unseen walls of the vault, he saw the source of the internal chaos. An item wrapped in black leather and sealed in red wax with the mark of a barony.

Of all he had seen on his bizarre route, back tracking and hacking his way when necessary, the truth was he had no recourse but to drop into the Tunnels. Warnings had been fired in shrill whistles that fluttered and bounced against the stone walls: danger has entered. The few shadows that had managed the tracking of him were dispatched with the help of another Tunneler called Root. "Get to Maze and Compass. Tell them to keep the warnings going. Lock away all entrances, warn the Holding Houses, and brace for the squall."

Root nodded and slunk fast and sleek as a cat along the corridors. Ewan did the same another way. His breathing was slowed as he took the steady pace. Fingers sprang pricks of agony as he shook them free of their tension, and then worked to clean one blade and then the other as he jogged the path. The Tunnels smelled clean again from the scouring rain that purged refuse in the flood of its continuance. Some Tunnels would dip too low to avoid a waist high, fast moving current of water, and that caused him to go a more chaotic route. As chaotic a route as his mind was taking in exploring possibilities for the night's events.

Care of the exit, not certain the commands had been carried out yet, he gave the signal upon the stone circle and heard the necessary reply before he lifted it up. A stone common to the paving circles in many gardens, was raised up from the ground so he might climb out. The Tunneler who's home held the garden looked pale but determined. Ewan did not smile, but a confident nod brought the wary smile to the Tunneler's lips.

There was no time for exchanges as Ewan checked his blades again on his way to the Barrister's. Lights were suspect against the windows and in the flashing array of the storm. Beneath the drumming insistence of the storm, Ewan felt no obligation to remain stoic. Urgency pressed him to call out, hammering the hilt of a blade against the door. "Mallorek!" As swift as the memory came of being too late, Ewan turned it to action. "Mallorek!"

He had expected Gwyr, but even that was not as stunning as the image of the man who opened the door but a space. Ewan dropped his voice. "Mallorek, open the door. I have word, and?" the glimpse of a hand before it was secreted into a pocket dropped any further requests. Ewan edged a foot in and forced the rest of the way inside. "Swords and arrows, man, what has happened?"

If Ewan had suspected the barrister's edge of reality was frayed, the suspicion was heightened by what he saw in the man's eyes. The prickle of warning, something he felt like sand against the skin kept him alert to his surroundings. A humming with undulating sounds that carried like distant murmurs tapped against his awareness. He could not hear or make out anything more than the understanding of something carrying its intentions upon the air.

Green eyes narrowed on Lucien. He reported as he had come to do, but in doing so, started to take a careful inspection of the home. His steps slow and cautious and one blade remained in his hand. "The Scathachians are awake tonight. Along the lanes of West End, creatures of all manner have surfaced: zombies, skeletals, shades, and others. Their intent to follow and consume is not mistaken nor is it trifling."

The Barrister looked to be listening, but what part of him was listening Ewan held judgment. At the door of a room, its conflict of mystical lights of red pulsing in echoing appeal of the storm's raucous torrent of noise and light from a far wall resolved Ewan to make his earlier question more of a demand. "What has happened?"

Ewan followed the barrister into his office. The man's words of uncertainty did nothing to ease the heightened awareness Ewan maintained. Senses reached out to seek warnings and the palpable threats, but all around him was the sight but not the source other than the vault. Its bloody hue soaked the room in angry domination.

But when Lucky spoke of his intentions or at least the need of his action, it was though the arcane vault became an enraged being, sentient to its dismissal and seething the denial. Its shriek banished both men out of the room, though Ewan forced the keen rage inside him as a bulwark to the vault's protestations and kept a step behind Lucky, placing himself an edge closer to the demonstrative object.

While the barrister had many secrets, this was not the time for idle chit chat about what those might be. Ewan knew he had the gifted cloth and the blade, that which he held paramount braced behind by the more mundanely crafted sword. Without looking to Lucky, who was just on his periphery, he said beneath the rage both in and outside the townhome with grand understatement, "This is proving interesting."

If it were anywhere else, conclusions would be jumping madly with the connections between the bizarre storm, the uprising of foul beings, and the unholy presence in the vault. This was not anywhere else, but one had to work with what they knew, and there was too much to consider and ignore the manifest reality. Too much of a bad thing all at once stank of relation. "I am open to suggestions, because other than defending against what may attack us, I have not the slightest notion of the cause to your incarnate closet there. Leaving it to its business seems a poor choice, but it may be the only viable one to us."

He spared a glance to the man at his side and wondered if he was with him or not, and in some thought to the influence of the surroundings, raised his defensive perception in watch on Lucky as well. The shattering of his mind stretched out against the possibilities dancing around him like a bear baiting. Reaction was a dubious course of action, but one he must wait to rely on for now.

As the door closed, Ewan relaxed his stance the barest measure. It was not in laziness, but sane judgment not to waste energy that would be better used later. He had no worries that reflexes would do their best to keep him and his companion as guarded as possible, and one second more or less would make little difference to an outcome should the opponent prove overwhelming.

"I am," Ewan grumbled, 'relieved to hear this is a first occurrence.? He watched the Barrister in combination with the door. The hand needed tending, but its matter and the consummate determination on Lucien's face to deal with the vault object were not to be debated.

An object kept for a client, he had said, and now that object was revealing a nature Ewan would have hoped to avoid much of his life. Arcane elements were not his specialty. This night had already born out though, the wealth and value of gifts of remarkable nature that Sid had granted him. But the item in Lucien's vault was not a matter as easily adapted to his dealings.

Its vehemence now lessened to a pressure against the senses not described as heat or voice. It was the red of a sick ocean and its deep unknown beneath that tumbled souls caught in its grip. Ewan gave a determined nod to the Barrister's request and braced for what would come upon the entering. Weapons rose again, but he flipped them point downward and hilts up in his grasp. If at the last, he could use them as a brace between wall and the man's head as requested.

The red hit his eyes like a wash of fabled hell, but he had seen its kind before when the rage of his youth had risen like the fires of an inferno. Long ago he had mastered to look beyond the colors to the lines and shadows for what they might mean and could do. He was beyond the edge of his control, and the only safety in his presence was the guidance of that rage against those that would do those commanded to his care harm. It was the rein his soul had upon the cruelty inside him. It could not stop it, but it could guide it, and it guided to guard and protect the Barrister.

A scream born out of surprise and pain filled the room. And just as quickly quieted to a low growl rising from the barrister's chest as he wrenched his already injured hand which had pinned by the abrupt and wide arch of the vault door, free of it. Lucien retreated a few steps holding his hand at his side, testing his fingers with a pronounced grimace, as Ewan instantly placed himself between the enraged artifact and the barrister. Lucien's fingers were swelling, stiff and hummed with stabbing pulses that shot up his arm, but his hand was not broken.

You have to focus for the wards to be set properly. A familiar voice rose out of his memory with the same instructions she gave him years past. If the wards are not engaged precisely, they will not. Or worse. The sorceress' caution echoed in his ear as he looked over at the Master of Arms gravely keeping his vigil.

Wind and rain poured into the room freely through the tall broken windows, whipping up anything that wasn't heavy enough to remain rooted in place. Papers were blown about. Weights and books and various other objects were scattered across the floor. The fire in the hearth was finally blown out, but the blood hue continued to fill the room. A crack of lightening streaked across the darkened night sky, washing out the crimson glow briefly. And amid the ensuing chaos, Ewan stood with his blade drawn, staid and sober, like an unmovable rock.

For all the man's prowess and vigilance however, Lucien wondered how Ewan would stand against an archaic backlash from a failed attempt to set the wards. The tension roiled off the Master of Arms, even as he maintained an unshakable stance. The barrister grimaced as doubt insidiously seeped into his thoughts, his fingers becoming stiffer at his side.

Ground-rumbling thunder preceded a wet and icy gust that whistled through the room. A piece of parchment was swept up on the violent currents, floating and turning in a carefree dance in the midst of the maelstrom. It stirred memories for the barrister from years long past, of a couple dancing in a crowded and chaotic inn without a care. Melody hummed and lyrics sung that long ago evening played softly against the incessant buzzing, the rumbling thunder, the screams of wind and man...and shadows.

Retreated steps were recovered in a measured gait, fingers flexed to keep them limber for the task at hand. Eyes of ice blue remained fixed on the murderous aura manifested in a deep crimson. The quiet melody continued to play and the dancers continued to turn gracefully in his mind's eye. Lucien didn't see the volumes of books tremoring on the shelves, nor did he hear the growing rattling and groaning that resulted. He didn't see the short bursts of color that shot out from a sea of red turning the mouth of the vault into a spectral kaleidoscope. Nor did he hear the hot sizzle that filled the air as each beam burst forward.

A heavy tome was pitched off the bookshelf and onto the wooden floor, landing with a sharp slam that punctuated the chaotic din. Another rumble, another pitch, and another book slammed to the ground landing by the barrister's foot. Several other volumes were thrown off the bookshelf in succession, landing with repeated sharp slams that sounded like gunshots. Lucien rushed forward and slammed the vault door shut, the latch catching with a muted click. The entire wall of books came alive in an instant, thick and heavy books shaken and thrown from the shelves as the reinforced latch groaned in protest to withstand the growing force threatening to blow it apart.

Lucien closed his eyes. The gentle ballad grew louder in his ear, as the dancers faded into the background, replaced by precise turns of hands, subtle bends of the wrist and exact formations of fingers. The barrister mimicked the practiced gestures faithfully. Then, with the final turn of his hand, the moaning latch silenced and the rattling shelves stilled.

There was silence. It stretched over the room and quieted the angry storm and raging susurration. Lucien stood unmoving for a moment and simply listened to the silence around him and within him. Gone was the red that filled his vision. Gone was the fire that burned in his periphery. All that remained was the soft muted melody and the faint outlines of the dancers against a cool black canvas.

The barrister drew a deep breath and cast his gaze over the chaos that laid waste to his office and residence. Wisps of papers stirred as he moved deliberately to his desk, flexing his hand at his side to keep this fingers from stiffening. Lucien tugged at the corner of the desk and pulled it back to its place. He righted the chair that was laying on its side and settled into the wet leather seat.

A drawer was opened and a few items were retrieved as the Master of Arms spoke. The barrister rose to his feet, slipping the blaster into his pant pocket and a few cigars into his breast pocket. He stepped around the desk and started for the door. Lucien gave Ewan a nod as he moved past the Master of Arms. There remained a weighty air in his voice as he broke his silence. "Let us go, Master Corinsson,"