“Down where Sister Felani found the nest of scargs when she was looking for some sacred wine,” said Alithana, a young Elf in white and green robes.

The scribe standing before the door didn’t make eye contact with the two women. He stared out the window opposite the door he guarded so intently he was practically sweating. “Didn’t we wall off the lower basements?” he said hurriedly, clearly hoping to rush them away. “Call for a tradesman. The high scribe is… he’s indisposed.”

Varia scowled. “This is an emergency, Brother Tuomas!”

“Some bumps in the basement is hardly an emergency,” said Tuomas.

“Not bumps. Screaming. In Root Elven,” said Alithana.

“And a weird light coming from down there,” Varia added.

“It can’t be that bad,” insisted Tuomas.

“Bad enough that old Scabbo ran off.”

Tuomas scowled. “He can’t have.”

“I saw it.”

“That old rat was too fat and decrepit to run anywhere.”

“Bolted out the front doors and ducked down into a hole in the Ridge,” said Varia, nodding.

Tuomas sucked his teeth. “That is bad.”

“Why do you think the high priestess sent Sister Alithana and I to fetch High Scribe Pathalan?”

The scribe’s eyes snapped to the acolyte. “The high p-p-priestess?” he stammered. “But I sent Brother Cheesemonger to fetch her here twenty minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got bigger problems, doesn’t she?” said Sister Alithana. “Lights and screaming in the basement. Urgent messengers from the other temples. And now that statue of the last high scribe has started acting strange again, hasn’t it Varia?”

The acolyte shuddered. “I’d swear the bronze git is grinning right at me.”

“Bigger problems,” Brother Tuomas repeated. His eyes were still vacant, but his voice had taken on the sour edge of a man pushed too far.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” said Alithana. “Though it’s not for you and I to decide, is it? We’re on the high priestess’ orders.”

“Well then, who am I to block servants of the goddess on an important mission?” Tuomas’ voice was equal parts sugar and venom, and he wore a smile that gave the sisters pause. They might have reconsidered their request, but the scribe was already pulling open the heavy door to the high scribe’s office.

A wave of heat and emerald light washed over the three. Green flames danced over the holy texts and scrolls that lined the walls and covered the shelves, burning but not consuming. There was no crackling of flame either, but a susurrant sound like the wind through the reeds, or the whisper of countless angels reciting the All Mother’s scriptures.

Pathalan was at the center of the jade inferno, suspended in the air above his desk, surrounded by a swarm of parchment that danced and swooped on currents of heat and divine power. His frame bent at odd angles, his eyes stared at the ceiling, his mouth warped in a silent scream of agony. He held a quill in each hand, and they wrote on the parchment that obediently floated to him, as if eager to receive the scriptures.

Sister Varia shrieked and pushed the door shut. A few flames and errant pages escaped as she did so.

“Still want to see him?” asked Brother Tuomas with saccharine malice.

“Uh, no. No, I think we’ll be going.” Sister Varia smoothed her robes to hide a stifled sob.

“We need to tell the high priestess,” breathed Sister Alithana, reading one of the sheets of parchment that had sailed through the door.

“Brother Cheesemonger was supposed to have already⁠—”

“Not about High Scribe Pathalan.” The priestess held up the errant parchment. It was covered in scripture, with emerald flames still dancing along the edges of the text. “About the goddess’ words. This says Tandos is revealed a traitor. I think… I think the gods are going to war.”

“It’s your basic armageddon scenario.” Brouse rolled himself a cigarette and nodded up at the maelstrom of black clouds and crimson lightning spiraling over the Pinnacle. “Prophetic visions coming to pass, magic and destiny crashing into each other, and gods settlin’ old scores on the mortal planes as well as the higher ones. See it all the time.”

Ignatius gave the technical monk a sideways glance. “You do?”

“In books, yeah.” Brouse struck a match and lit his cigarette. The grizzled monk stared down his stubbly beard at the instruments lining the plaza. Devices whirled and whistled. His briefcase sat open on the ground, and every crystal set in it flashed with panicked urgency. Brouse grunted, satisfied with his interpretation of the signs. “Classic armageddon.”

“How can you tell?” Ignatius asked, uncertain if the monk was right but absolutely convinced that Brouse’s confidence was unwarranted.

Brouse rolled his eyes. “See that string of holy beads dancin’ and jumpin’ like it wants to escape that silver hook I hung it from? That’d be swaying gently if someone’s premonition was about to come to pass. We’ve got dozens, no, hundreds of prophecies and counter-prophecies competin’ to become reality.”

Ignatius was still skeptical. “Well, yes, but⁠—”

“And see that clay fat fellow whose sweatin’ like a guilty man before the magistrate? Statues of the false monk Titus Ur’Sloot only sweat when gods or their influence are nearby. And I know it’s reading right, because the Umbraxian fertility idol has rolled behind a potted bush, and it only gets modest when divine eyes are focused nearby.”

“I suppose,” conceded the priest of Mordo Ogg. “But⁠—”

“Your magical currents are up, your causal wavelengths are compressed, your metaphysical index is all over the place…” Brouse rattled off indicators as he pointed to the various devices, totems, and meters that he had arranged around the square. “Your cosmological flux is everywhere, your ontological connections are all tangled up, your probability curve is inverting, and then there’s that.” The monk pointed triumphantly to a simple device consisting of a chicken foot set upside down in an iron candlestick. All of the foot’s bony digits were curled up like a fist save the middle one, which was extended toward the sky. “That one tells me we’re totally⁠—”

“Yes, fine, a classic armageddon,” snapped Ignatius. “But what do we do?”

“Have a smoke. Keep our heads down.” Brouse offered a rolling paper to the old priest. “Might want to head inside at some point, mister sir, but… nah, your guy’s a neutral party. Probably no trouble for you.”

“No, what do we do about the master’s shrine?” Ignatius’ voice cracked. The death priest found himself on the eve of a world-shattering crisis without use of his shrine, and was experiencing the sort of desperate anxiety normally only seen in mages whose crystal balls malfunction right before the Academy Dueling Tournament.

Brouse considered the shrine of Mordo Ogg. The sculpture’s skull hissed and bubbled from the heat of its searing eyes, and molten tears ran down its stone cheeks. “Hmmph. Seems like some stubborn soul might’ve got ol’ Mordo Ogg stoppered up, like a Gnomish music box with sand in its gears. Or maybe a dog choking on a chicken bone.”

“But what do we do about it?” whined Ignatius.

“My job’s fixin’ relics and artifacts, not their patrons. Not much we can do but step back and wait for things to get moving again.” Brouse gave a shrug, then cocked his head to the side. A keening whistle scraped at the razor’s edge of hearing, like a teakettle about to boil over a few blocks away. “Although we should give the shrine a healthy distance.”

“Get back! Get away!” Gorm waved his axe at other adventurers as he was sprinting through the spider-spattered halls of the Great Vault. He could hear Mannon’s screams behind him, the scrabbling of claws and teeth on stone. The Felfather wouldn’t stay down for long. “Run!” he screamed at the bewildered adventurers emerging from the side chambers and passageways of the expansive treasury.

To a man and woman, the other heroes ran. Among the many unspoken rules of professional heroics is that when one hero calls for flight, everyone of the same rank or lower should bolt in the same direction as fast as possible. So when the adventurers looting the Great Vault saw the hero once known as the Pyrebeard sprinting alongside the Archmage of the Gray Tower and one of the most famous mages in the Freedlands, each hero’s risk-reward analysis reached the same conclusion in the blink of an eye. Sacks of gold and gems hit the floor and heavier artifacts were tossed aside as the crowd of heroes poured for the exit, taking up the cry for retreat.

“What’s the plan?” Laruna huffed.

“Don’t know. Do ye believe that thing is actually Mannon?” Gorm asked, still struggling to wrap his mind around the nature of the threat.

“Perhaps there’s another demonic entity powerful enough to corrupt Tandos and his temple, subvert the kingdoms of Arth, and evade detection by all the mages and priests in the nation for centuries,” said Jynn. “But that doesn’t seem much better!”