Hushed rumors of missing people had surfaced in the Old Temple District. The rumors had been nearly unnoticeable at first, as even the whispering of them was thought to bring bad luck (or worse) by many of the citizens. Now though, the noise of those rumors had grown rapidly over the past weeks. It was impossible to say howmany had gone missing, but it was undeniable that people seemed to be vanishing from that section of the city.

The Temple of Myr'Khul was quiet. Not often could one see its followers leave or enter the Temple; even Vanion Shadowcast himself had been fairly scarce in the past month. Sometimes, singing could be heard from outside the Temple - the music played did not seem frightening or foreboding. Infact, the music was often of elvish origin, and had a quiet, soothing effect on those who heard it.

The Keeper of Water, Jono Slava, would sometimes be seen standing at the top of the Temple, gazing at the moon. Some claimed to hear him scream & cry & carry on in the middle of the night, but not many had the courage to watch him on those nights in which he gazed at the night-time sky.

Vanion pushed through the sheer cloth leading into his private chambers. Torches lining the boney walls flickered to life in his presence, as the dark elf moved to the desk adjacent to his coffin.

"I delivered a message for you, Jonothan.", the dark elf quietly announced as he grabbed a cloth from the desk and dipped it in a jar of alcohol lying next to where the cloth had just been.

"Please, Lord. Please. Please. Do not let me lose the Key. I'll lose my mind again. My wits." - there was desperation in the creature's voice. Jonothan Slava was sitting in one corner of the room, garbed in his standard City Guard uniform - his oozing, green tentacle slithering along the ground next to him with a mind of its own.

Vanion Knightwood turned and looked on the undead soldier with pity in his eyes, as he began to clean drying blood off of his hands with the alcohol-soaked rag. "You still have a long road to recovery, Jono. However, your right to Power is in your own hands. I battered Bran's confidence and his body, but he will still press his challenge. The rest is up to you. Remember the strength of Blood & Bone Magic, and the strength of Myr'Khul, and destiny will decide the rest."

Jonothan Slava began to weep. The sound was not unfamiliar to those who lived in the Temple of Myr'Khul, but it was always unsettling - the spirits of many restless souls voiced their cries at once with Jono, and the sound was horrible to behold.

The dark elf looked away, as he replaced the rag on his desk and shut out the sounds. Rarely had Vanion ever regretted a course of action that he had taken, but even he was not without pity for the abomination that he had created. Jonothan needed the Life Magic of the Tower of Water to become closer to whole again, and short of murdering Bran, there was nothing more Vanion could do to interfere.

The Temple of Myr'Khul had been very cautious to not be caught doing anything that would draw fire from any sort of military or mob forces. Even their secretive actions in the Old Temple District themself were known to but a handful of Priests themselves.

Vanion slipped quietly from his chamber, leaving the tortured Jonothan behind. He had other pressing matters to deal with now - he needed to speak with Protector Kasiph about the coming sacrifices. Hundreds of feet beneath the Temple, Vanion could hear the screams for help now, sickly harmonizing with Jonothan's own sorrowful cries.

Spike waited but the screaming man never came up. Spike climbed on the roof saw a door and ran over to it opening it slowly and slide inside the temple. Spike went down floor after floor. He stopped at the ground floor and slammed into a door making a loud echoing sound throughout the entire temple.

"damn!" he yelled then hit his forehead.

He closed the door behind him looking around the dark room. He listened for footsteps or any other kinds of guards. He hid in the shadows waiting.