“You are the Chosen. It is not your calling to ask what must be done.
You will do what is necessary; this is your responsibility and destiny. You are the Vārya.”
the Guardian of Arendur
Third Market Day of Decadre, 126 HR
Dilae danced to the music of a satyr bard by a fountain at the Great Bazaar. A small group of children had gathered around her, watching her movements with rapt attention. A brave tiefling boy was already trying to imitate Dilae’s steps, while a little human girl next to him bobbed enthusiastically to the beat of the music.
Dilae laughed as the satyr cheerfully switched to a faster melody. “And now, everyone together!” she urged the children.
They clapped their hands, and some of them began to dance as well, trying to imitate Dilae’s movements. Two merchants who had their stalls across from the fountain cast amused glances their way.
Dilae laughed when one of the smaller children nearly tripped over her own feet during a spin, and helped the girl back up. “Very good! Just like that. Just maybe a little less … floor.”
The child giggled and immediately continued dancing, but Dilae suddenly felt a warm tingling sensation on her left forearm. She paused and pulled back her sleeve in surprise. A circular symbol had appeared below her wrist, in bold black lines that, while subtle against her anthracite skin, were still clearly visible.
Surprised, Dilae raised her eyebrows. “Where did that come from all of a sudden?”
When the children noticed her reaction, they, too, stopped dancing and crowded around her curiously.
“What is that?” asked the little girl who had stumbled.
Dilae eyed the symbol thoughtfully. “I don’t know.”
The tiefling boy stood on his tiptoes to get a better look. “Is it magical?”
Dilae gently traced it with a finger. “Maybe. But I don’t think it’s anything to be afraid of.” She didn’t know why she believed that. But it wasn’t just a remark meant to reassure the children. Something deep inside her told her that this symbol wasn’t anything bad or threatening. She had to find out what it was all about, but not right away. She didn’t want to interrupt the spontaneous dance with the children here at the Great Bazaar. So she asked the satyr to pick up his lute again and continue his song.
“Back to dancing,” she said with a smile. “We just reached a tricky part.”
“The one where we fall over?” The little girl beamed at her.
Dilae grinned. “Exactly that one.”
A few moments later, the music rang out again above the bustling activity of the Great Bazaar. Dilae danced with the children, and a few glittering dragonflies and butterflies appeared in the air, summoned by her dance.
Elyria was sitting on a low stone wall in a small park in the Clerks' Ward, with a squirrel on her lap. The animal had apparently injured itself on a sharp-edged metal bar protruding from one of the fences. Elyria had carefully cleaned the wound and cast a healing spell. Now she held the squirrel gently in her hands for a while longer, until the trembling subsided and the little creature curiously sniffed the air again.
“There, little one,” the lupinal said softly. “You’ll be all right.”
She gently set the squirrel down on the ground, whereupon it took a few unsteady steps at first, but then ran towards a nearby tree. Elyria smiled contentedly and was just about to stand up when she noticed a strange tingling sensation on her left forearm. Puzzled, she rolled back the sleeve of her dress and spotted a circular symbol. A few strands of her gray fur had turned jet black, forming a clearly recognizable, sharply defined pattern. Elyria studied it for a while without touching it, her ears pricked forward in attention. It didn’t feel threatening, but she couldn’t fathom where it had come from or why it had appeared right now. The squirrel returned once more and sat up on its hind legs a few steps away from her.
Elyria looked from the animal to the symbol and back again. “Well,” she said finally. “I suppose you don’t know what that means either.”
The squirrel nibbled on a nut.
Elyria smiled. “Then that makes two of us.”
“You are lucky,” he remarked. “At least you still have an appetite. And you can eat your fill. I still miss food.”
One of the lions lifted his head and yawned.
Lorias sighed. “I’ll take that as approval.”
The young priest standing next to him chuckled. “You’re remarkably good with the lions, sir. We’re glad you stop by regularly.”
“Well, I’m still a paladin of Lord Firemane,” Lorias replied kindly. “And it’s a relief that the lions don’t mind when the person standing before them is a skeleton.”
Just as he was about to turn back towards the shrine, he noticed a strange sensation on his left ulna. It was like a soft tingling, all the more surprising because he shouldn’t have been able to feel anything like that anymore. Lorias paused and looked down. A circular symbol had appeared on the pale bone that hadn’t been there before. However, it didn’t look as if it had been painted on, but rather as if it had been burned into the bone. The paladin studied it for a while, silent and puzzled.
“Sir Lorias?” the priest asked hesitantly. “Is everything all right?”
The paladin slowly raised his arm and turned it slightly. “I’m afraid my body is baffling me once again.”
Curious, the young man scrutinized the mark. “What is that?”
“That’s an excellent question.” Lorias ran a bony finger over the symbol and then turned to one of the lions watching him. “What do you think, my friend? A sign of Nobanion?”
As expected, the lion did not answer, but rested his head on his forepaws once more.
Lorias nodded thoughtfully. “A convincing assessment.”
The priest shook his head with a smile, while the undead paladin hid his arm beneath his sleeve once more. He had to find out what this symbol meant. The best course of action was probably to seek out Elyria and discuss it with her.
Garush swept her axe to the side with a sharp swing and dodged her opponent’s next attack. The Prison's courtyard was filled with the dull clang of clashing weapons and the sporadic shouts of other Mercykillers training in small groups. Just as Garush was about to counter-attack, she suddenly felt a strange tingling sensation on her left forearm. She paused mid-movement and glanced briefly at the spot in question. To her surprise, she saw a circular mark that had appeared on her skin.
Reluctantly, the half-orc bared her tusks. “Sons of Dis, what’s going on now?”
Her opponent paused in confusion and also looked at Garush’s arm. But her surprise lasted only a heartbeat. She recognized the opportunity and immediately attacked again.
Garush barely saw the blade coming and raised her own weapon. Steel clashed against steel; the impact made her arms tremble. “Damn it!”
She parried the next strike, dodged to the side and refocused on the fight, now fully concentrated once more. Whatever this strange mark was all about, it would have to wait. Can’t a woman ever get some peace and quiet?, she thought to herself, grumbling.
Krixxi was completely absorbed in her work. Amidst gears, copper wires and small, half-assembled contraptions, she stood on a stool much too high for her and was tightening a metal spring on her latest mechanical construct.
Figaro sat on an upside-down toolbox and watched her with his head tilted to one side. “If you wind that spring any tighter, the top hinge will snap,” he remarked.
“It will.”
“It won’t.”
“Krixxi.”
“What?”
“It’s fuming.”
Krixxi paused and looked at the mechanism’s drive chamber. Sure enough, a thin wisp of smoke was seeping from the casing.
She cleared her throat. “That’s on purpose.”
“Of course.”
With a soft pop, a spring sprang out somewhere inside the chamber. Scowling, Krixxi looked at the smoking contraption, then noticed a strange burning and tingling sensation on her left forearm.
She stared at the spot, then blinked. “Figaro.”
“Yes?”
“I think I broke something.”
The rooster tilted his head to the other side. “What?”
Krixxi looked at him. “Myself.”
“Oh.” Figaro hopped down from the toolbox and examined the round symbol that had appeared on Krixxi’s forearm. “Is that dangerous?”
The goblin woman furrowed her brows. “No idea.” She turned her arm this way and that, hoping to make more sense of the mark from a different angle. It remained a mystery, though. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. But it looks intriguing.” She turned her attention back to the broken machine.
“What are you planning to do?” Figaro asked.
“Find out why I’m broken.”
“Do you think it’s because of this contraption?” the rooster asked skeptically.
“Not really.” Krixxi shrugged. “But we should at least rule it out.”
Figaro nodded. “You’re probably right.”
As always, Rakalla's laboratory smelled of herbs, metal, acid and substances whose exact composition was best left unquestioned. Behind a workbench laden with dozens of vials, retorts and small bowls stood the medusa, dripping a pale green liquid from a flask into a narrow glass tube. Haer'Dalis sat on the edge of the table and watched her with a mixture of skepticism and genuine interest that he had developed towards her alchemical experiments.
“And what, my viper, will this concoction do?” he asked.
Rakalla held the tube up to the light. “If my calculations are correct, it neutralizes the effects of certain poisons.”
“And if your calculations are wrong?”
She grinned at him, her fangs just as sharp and slender as those of her snakes. “Then you’ll end up in the dead-book.”
Haer'Dalis laughed. “Ah, yes. A most reassuring experimental setup.”
Rakalla was just about to reply when she suddenly felt a warm tingling sensation running down her left forearm. When she looked more closely, she discovered a circular symbol, as clear and sharply defined as if it had been inked into her skin. Rakalla stared at it motionless for a few seconds, then carefully set the glass tube down.
Rakalla raised an eyebrow. “You’re the only one I have. And since it’s not from you ...”
The bard laughed. “I’m flattered. But jesting aside, where did you get it?”
“I don’t know.” Rakalla ran her fingertip over the symbol. It felt completely normal: no coarse skin, no warmth, no pain. “It just appeared.”
Haer'Dalis rose from the table and stepped beside her. “And what does it mean?”
“If only I knew,” she replied with a sigh.
He studied the symbol for a moment as well. “Maybe it’s a sign of fate. The way it just appeared out of nowhere … You know, fate loves a good show.”
Rakalla snorted and picked up the tube again. “Then it will just have to be patient. I’m busy right now.”
Haer’Dalis grinned. “Of course. Fate has to wait until Rakalla is done with her work.”
“Exactly.” With that, the medusa turned her attention back to her experiment. But she was aware that Haer’Dalis knew her well enough by now to realize that the incident had by no means left her as unmoved as she pretended.
Blackhoof trotted leisurely through a narrow alley in the Madhouse District and noticed that the halfling ahead of him was having serious trouble making headway with his load. The crate the small man was pulling behind him on a two-wheeled handcart was apparently filled to the brim with metal parts, and with every step, one of the wheels threatened to get stuck in a bump in the ground.
“Wait a minute,” Blackhoof muttered.
The halfling turned around in surprise. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I just have to get to the workshop at the end of the alley. I’ll manage … somehow.”
“I can see that.” Blackhoof grabbed the crate with both hands and lifted it off the cart without further ado.
The halfling eyed him skeptically for a moment, but then seemed convinced that the minotaur wasn’t trying to take his belongings away, but really just wanted to help him carry them. “Uh … thank you very much,” he stammered.
Blackhoof carried the crate effortlessly down the alley, while the halfling hurriedly pulled the now-empty handcart behind him. Only when they reached the workshop did Blackhoof set the crate down again.
“Thanks,” the halfling said, relieved. “I probably wouldn’t have managed that on my own. At least not without breaking the cart.”
Blackhoof merely nodded and was about to set off again when he felt a strange tingling sensation on his left forearm. When he looked down, he saw a circular symbol slowly forming there.
The halfling had noticed it too and was examining it curiously. “Was that already there just a moment ago?”
“No.” Blackhoof turned his arm in surprise and eyed the symbol.
“Was it a spell?”
The minotaur shook his head. “No idea.”
“It’s kind of strange.” The halfling furrowed his brow. “Maybe you should have someone take a look at it.”
Blackhoof glanced briefly at the small man, then at his arm. “I suppose I should.”
With that, he continued on his way, while the halfling looked after him for a while. The mysterious symbol certainly troubled Blackhoof, and he decided to talk to Krixxi about it. But not today. In the Gatehouse, a few hungry orphans were waiting for their next meal, and the minotaur would not keep them waiting.
Sekhemkare sat in his small study, which barely had room for a table, two chairs and several shelves full of vials and parchments. It was dimly lit, as the yuan-ti could see well enough even in the semi-darkness to go about his work. Before him stood a bowl containing a viscous, dark-green liquid, which he stirred carefully with a thin glass rod. A small drop sizzled as it fell onto the surface of a blue crystal.
“Interesting,” murmured the yuan-ti, gazing thoughtfully at the liquid. “Very interesting.”
He was on the verge of discovering a rather potent new poison. But then his left forearm began to tingle. Sekhemkare paused mid-motion, then carefully pushed his sleeve back. He looked down at the circular symbol that had appeared out of nowhere on his scaly skin. For a few heartbeats, he froze completely. Then he hissed softly.
“Of course.” He set the glass rod aside and examined the symbol more closely. “Why should I ever have a completely ordinary day?”
He sighed deeply and looked at the blue crystal. But he knew he would no longer be able to concentrate on his work properly. So he stood up, walked over to one of his bookshelves and pulled out the Encyclopedia of Planar Alphabets and Writing Systems. Perhaps he could find out something about this symbol. But deep down, he knew no book would answer his questions. Only a soul shred might …
Tarik leaned back in his chair and took a sip of tea. The small café wasn’t too crowded that afternoon and therefore pleasantly quiet. Only through the open windows did the sounds of the bustling activity in the Clerks' Ward drift in. In front of him stood a cup, a plate of sweet pastries and a half-empty glass of water, and together with two friends from his faction, he was enjoying a free afternoon. The bariaur Varesh and the gnome Sira were laughing about an incident in the Hall of Speakers, and Tarik laughed along with them. For a moment, everything was simple. No Prophecy, no strange dreams, no questions about his future or that of the multiverse. Just good company and a pleasant afternoon. Then he sensed something. A brief, warm tingling ran down his left forearm. Tarik paused and slowly set his cup back on the table.
“Is everything all right?” asked the bariaur Varesh.
Tarik rolled up his sleeve and was astonished to discover that a circular symbol had appeared on his skin. “That… wasn’t there a moment ago,” he stammered.
Varesh and Sira leaned curiously over the table. Tarik touched the mark gently with his fingertips. The skin was as smooth as ever; it didn’t hurt and didn’t feel warm either. Yet for a tiny moment, he thought he sensed a strange presence - far away, almost like a thought that wasn’t his own. Then the sensation vanished.
Tarik smiled in wonder. “I think someone just thought of me.”
Sira looked at him intently. “Who?”
The tiefling shrugged. “No idea.” He studied the symbol for another moment, then picked up his cup again. “But it didn’t feel unpleasant.”
The gnome shook her brown curls. “A mysterious mark appears on your arm, and you just keep drinking your tea?”
Tarik smiled. “As long as it’s still warm.”
But even though he did his best to hide his astonishment, and even though the feeling that accompanied the symbol’s appearance hadn’t been unpleasant, he was, at best, confused; at worst, worried. He should talk to the others about this, and soon. First and foremost to Yelmalis, he decided. The thought of confiding in the air genasi felt reassuring and comforting, he had to admit. He took a deep breath and sipped his tea again. Perhaps it was time to get clear about some of his feelings …
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Yelmalis sat at his desk in his office at the City Court. For one of his current cases, he was comparing two copies of a contract several centuries old. His familiar, the monodrone F-45, stood by one of the shelves, sorting through some files. As Yelmalis dipped his quill into the inkwell, he noticed that it was almost empty.
“F-45,” he said. “Could you please refill the ink for me?”
“Certainly, master.” The monodrone extended a small gripper arm, took a bottle of dark blue ink from one of the shelves and brought it to the desk.
While Yelmalis was still staring at the mark in bewilderment, F-45 scurried closer. “Unexpected event detected,” it stated.
“Yes, that’s certainly one way to put it.” Yelmalis furrowed his brow and tilted his head. He reached for the quill, drew the last bit of ink from the inkwell and copied the symbol onto a blank sheet of paper. “I can’t make head or tail of this, F-45. We should determine the nature of this phenomenon.”
He picked up a magnifying glass and examined the mark closely. It was neither a wound nor did it appear to be an ordinary tattoo.
F-45 was silent for a moment. “Should this be classified as unusual?” it then asked.
Yelmalis looked at the monodrone. “Yes, definitely.”
“Understood.” F-45 fluttered its little wings. “Will be categorized as such.”
Yelmalis nodded and took the components for the spell Detect Magic out of his desk drawer. “Let’s try to figure out what this is. I would bet it’s connected to the Prophecy. And actually, I never bet.”
Zamakis sat in a heavy wingback chair in her private chambers, reading. Dark curtains blocked out even the subdued light of this gloomy afternoon, although it could do her no harm here in the City of Doors. All the furniture was made of dark wood, and tall shelves held countless books, all of which she had read, nonetheless, over the course of her undead existence and her long life as an elf before that. A cup of blood stood beside her, still untouched. Zamakis was just turning a page when she felt a slight tingling on her left forearm. She paused. Slowly, she rolled back the sleeve of her black frock coat and noticed that a circular symbol had appeared on her skin. The vampire gazed at it in silence, her face showing no emotion. She turned her arm and examined the mark in the light of the nearby candle. No heat. No pain. No magic, as far as she could tell.
“Strange,” she said quietly.
Zamakis thought for a moment, then took a handkerchief from a drawer, dabbed the symbol and examined the fabric. No color. Of course not. She hadn’t expected anything else. Then she leaned back and eyed her forearm once more.
“Apparently, the multiverse has decided to tell me something.” She opened her book again. “How rude not to include a message.”
Zamakis continued reading. But as the evening wore on, her gaze kept wandering back to the mysterious symbol.
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