I From the Notebooks

of Fallendor the Mage:

t has happened again.No peace this night

or for a fortnight past. I have been cursed,robbed of my rest by a maddening vision�the Codex of infinite Planes! It has been lostsince before my time, the time of my fatherthe time of all my known ancestors.

Yet every night in my dreams, I see thecursed book. It hovers beyond the veil ofreality, a dream that has more substancethan reality. I try to touch the pages, butevery motion forward propels the bookaway. Frustration fills me and I begin torun. Every night I run faster toward it,but every night I am no nearer to my goal.In the morning, I awaken with new visionsfilling my mind.

I began recording these visions in mynotebook as I remember them. They arenot the random scenes of dreams butmessages, encrypted in a code of images. Iam certain they are passages from theCodex of Infinite Planes.

I have a theory about the Codex. I do notthink it exists yet, at least not as a materialthing. It exists only in the world of sleep.There it reveals itself, a page each night, andevery morning I dutifully transcribe itspages into the world of flesh. I am no morethan another of the great books scribes, likethe Archmage Tzunk before me.

At first the passages seemed random andmeaningless, but now I sense a pattern.The Codex�s magic is the magic of words.As the dreamer reads the entries in thebook, he creates the destination where theCodex will send him. When the image iscomplete, the traveler arrives. Perhaps ifsomeone could find all the fragmentsrecorded by the book�s scribes, the Codexwould become real in this world.

If there is a link in all the messages Irecord, it is a city called Sigil, the Heartand the Cage. This city exists, I know, atthe very center of the Outer Planes. It isthe place through which all things pass.For now, my image of it is only fragmen-tary. Perhaps if I review the entries relat-ing to Sigil, tonight I will dream of the cityitself.

74 MARCH 1994

by David �Zeb� Cook

Artwork by Dana Knutson & Tony DiTerlizzi

Aleax of Sigil, The: An engine ofdiscipline, the aleax is the formless spawnof divinity. The creature has no thought orno will, only the raw clay of its shell andthe spark of life. The creature becomeswhole only by an act of mortal denial tothe gods. Then the aleax wakes eachmorning in a new land, its hands and feetclumsy strangers. Its face is the face ofone who rejects it. With each day, its mem-ories are new; the smile of a grandchild,the taste of sweat, the cold slash of winterwind, and the shrill of the teakettle in themorning. Perhaps wanting to cling to itsborrowed memories, the aleax seeks outand kills its mortal father. This seems likethe sting of an ungrateful child, but thealeax has no choice. Its family is a ring oftraps. The mortal parent gives it form butdenies the child; the divine parent acceptsthe child but refuses it form. Unable toaccept this, the aleax chooses to returnitself each day to oblivion.

In the great city of Sigil, there is an aleaxcut off from its god. It is an idiot and a

great threat to the Faction of the Athar.Helplessly the creature wanders thestreets searching for a form. It hears thedenials and renunciations of all gods andcannot choose one from the lot. Its hand isone man�s, its face another. In this block itremembers the taste of oranges fromElysium, in the next the scouring fires ofGehenna. It talks in all voices, it speaks allwords. In its ramblings are concealed thegreat secrets and hidden thoughts of all ithas become. Driven mad by its too-fullexistence, the aleax seeks only oblivion.

The inhabitants of Sigil are as singular asthe city itself.

Dictionaries of Pain, The: This tomeis not the only dictionary found on theplanes, and not all dictionaries classifywords. There are dictionaries of smellswhere a scent evokes the memories ofother scents. There is Tbron�s dictionaryof memory, whose pages hold nothingbeyond what the reader brings.

In Sigil, the baatezu Ganeesh holds an-other type of dictionary, one of the Dictio-

naries of Pain. In its pages are listed all theshadings of anguish, categorized by theplay of the nerves under the skin, anddefined the music of their cries. Ganeeshcomposes poems from the entries therein.Some of the poems are meant to be read,since reading them is enough to causeanguish. Others are performed in secretconclaves of Sigil�s Lower Ward.

Just as there is an entry in the Codex forthe Dictionaries of Pain, there is an entryin the Dictionaries of Pain for this book,the Codex of the Infinite Planes. In thealphabet of nerves, the entry for the Co-dex can be found between the sharp stingof discovery and the salted wounds offailure.

Doomguard, The: The Doomguard isone of the factions of Sigil. It exists only tobring the end, the oblivion that over-whelms everything. Their goal of destruc-tion applies to themselves, too, for theentropy of the multiverse that they desiremust include themselves. Nonetheless,they actively recruit and expand, swellingtheir ranks while striving to destroy allelse. It is said that entropy comes wheneverything is reduced to a single state, soperhaps this applies to the community ofSigil, too.

The Doomguard has heard of the aleaxof Sigil and are frustrated by it. Theywould dearly grant it oblivion, but itslifeforce is sheltered by the gods. All theDoomguard can do is stalk it helplessly,hurling themselves at it like the goat thatcharges the tiger.

Factions: Life without belonging is notlife. Every being must have a position tocompare itself to all other beings. In thecore city of Sigil, to be is to belong to afaction. In a lesser city, these factionswould squabble for the control of water,light, or gold, but Sigil is the heart of allcities. It cannot strive for commodities, itsfactions struggle for the only realproperty�belief. What is believed is whatcreates the reality of the planes.

There are many realities in Sigil forthere are many factions. There is theAthar over whom the aleax have nopower. They forswear the might of thegods. The Godsmen, who hold that all

DRAGON 75

beings could become divine, build theirproofs in the Great Foundry. Using wordslike these, the Fated take their reality fromothers, wearing the dreams of their ene-mies as their own. The Sensates shapereality in eye and hand, fashioning theworld according to their experiences.

The Bleak Cabal denies its philosophyhas any meaning, for cause and meaningare pointless to them. The Doomguardconstantly tears down the houses of itsown thought, searching for path to entro-py. There are the Mercykillers whosejustice is like ice to fire. In the alleys of theHive are the Xaositects and the Revolution-ary League, who live their lives in contentdisorder.

On the far side of Sigil�s ring, the Harmo-nium hunts the realities that are not itsown. In its wake are splintered worlds,never to be whole again. The Guvnersprobe the machineries of reality. TheCiphers watch them without comment.Their truth is hidden in the deep mines ofthe soul. The Dustmen merge the realityof life and death. They have abandonedbelief in the line between these two things.

Of all these factions, the Free League arethe saddest in their claims. They deludethemselves with the vision of independence,never accepting that they are bound to eachother in their belief of free will.

�Come to learn about the planes, berk?Well, if that�s true, then this is the rightplace. There ain�t nobody who knowsmore about the planes than the folks wholive here. So it might be wise to sit downand listen to what a bloods got to say.

�First off, welcome to the real world�more real than most know. It pays to havea geography lesson before getting to farinto this, so pay attention. The dark of it�ssimple-there�s three realms in all themultiverse: the Prime Material Plane, theInner Planes, and the Outer Planes. ThePrime Material�s got a lot of little worldsfloating in it, bubbled inside their crystalspheres. The Inner�s a place of raw surg-ing elements and no place for most cuttersto live. It�s here�the Outer Planes�wherethe real secret of the planes is going to befound.

Only the Lady of Pain stands free of thefactions, bound in by cages of her own.

Geography of Sigil: These were thedreams of the Guvners� factol:

�Of course, for a clueless sod, the GreatRoads an overwhelming place. There�s toomuch of the planes for a berk to absorb.That�s why it�s best to learn the way toSigil, the City of Doors.

�Sigil floats over the great spike at thecenter of the Outlands, the plane thatitself is the center of the ring of OuterPlanes. A basher can�t get to it by walking.There ain�t no roads or gates to her, atleast not in the sense most primes under-stand. Sigil�s doors are portals that canlead from anywhere to the Cage�s streetsand maybe back again. Even beyond that,Sigil�s no ordinary place. It curves andarches �round itself �til the sky is filled

76 MARCH 1994

with roofed houses on other streets. Devasand tanar�ri build side by side, each ac-cording to its taste.

�So let a clueless basher take some ad-vice from a planar�get to Sigil and get akip there. Sigil�s the heart of it all!�

PLANESCAPE� campaign setting: Inanother reality, there exists a game andfor that game there are imagined worlds.One of these is the PLANESCAPE cam-paign set. In it are three books that de-scribe worlds that never were. Some ofthe players of this game imagine them-selves as people who never were�humans, dwarves, half-elves, goat-centaurbariaur, githzerai, and tieflings, the smoke-tinged children of corrupted creatures.They pretend strange philosophies andinvest their creations with powers beyondin their own prosaic lives. They exploretheir imaginary worlds with the maps thatcome with the box, maps that chart land-scapes created for their pleasure.

In this game world there is a city calledSigil, impossible in their own reality. Thecity is a ring that floats over a spire whoseheight is beyond measuring. Sigil is thehome for their imaginary people, theirheroes. From it, their characters travel bymagical doorways to distant towns andstrange lands. Back to Sigil their heroesreturn to celebrate their imagined victo-ries. In their journeys they meet othercreatures no less fantastic than them-selves. They create races to fill the spacesthey have imagined�modrons, servants ofSet, marrenoloth, and vortexes-and writedescriptions of them into the box.

The easy question would be, of course,who dreams who? Is this world the crea-tion of those who imagine it in play, or arethey mere fictions of this realm? But thehard question is this. Of the two worlds,one is truthful, while the other one lies, sowho created the honest world?

Portals: �I, Prespos, citizen of Iriaeborthe Overland City, explorer-mage, occa-sional ambassador from the court of Bron,son of the former alderman Teramgot andhis legal wife Elysa�may the gods guardtheir souls�have journeyed to planesbeyond our own; all true are my words,from my departure from this plane to myjourneys into the other dimensions of theplanes and my return again. May Oghmacurse me if my words are untrue!

�I have always been a scholarly wizard,though I admit to an uncontrollable wan-derlust that lures me to far reaches of ourglobe. Although some consider my schol-arly journeys reckless, I am not a foolishman. On my explorations I have everydesire to return to Iriaebor alive and notas ashes in some jar.

�On the day of departure I prepared forthe worst. My will was complete and theservants paid through the end of the year.A scroll gave the means for departure-I�had invested a small fortune to make thesheet. I uttered the words and sureenough, a shimmering gate appeared.Bravely, wand in hand, I stepped through.

�Straight into the center of an openmarket! There I stood, like a gaping farm-boy, in a doorway between the moundedfruits of a melon-dealer and the batteredbrass of a tinker. I first thought the spellerred, teleporting me to a market fairsomewhere in Calimsham. A quick glanceto the sky corrected that belief. There wasno sky. Overhead I looked at the jaggedtops of buildings. The city was both aboveand below us and strung out like an arcfrom north to south and east to west.

�I have since learned this city was Sigil,the city of doors. And well named it is.Where I had spent my fortune and timepreparing a single scroll, the citizens herecan travel throughout the planes simplyby stepping through a door. If the rightitem is held, even the most harmless-seeming arch crackles with the flame ofmagical power to reveal the vista of adistant land. The citizens call these portalsand make regular use of them. In my timethere I did too, passing through to otherplanes. But I will leave those stories foranother day!�

The Lady of Pain: She is the guardianof Sigil surrounded by her silent staff, thedabus. One sees her as she floats abovethe ground, too rare a thing to touchcommon earth. Voiceless, she drifts pasthim and into the Maze of the city, dispens-ing her blessings on no one. All that is leftin her passing is the aura of serene fear.

This is my dream, Fallendor�s dream,recorded in the pages of the Codex. This isthe part where a mage�s life intersects thelife of his dreams. He falls in love with asingle glimpse of the Lady of Pain but hecannot acknowledge that love. Herwarmth would bring destruction. Still, heis unable to forget her. He researches theCodex more and more, searching for theclues to a portal that will lead him to Sigil.He records his dreams, compiles them,and draws maps of their routes. Fromthese he searches for the final entry thatwill lead him to his goal.

At last he dreams the magistrate stand-ing in an empty house, reading the papersFallendor has left behind.

The document ends here. To date, nosign of Fallendor has been found.

Magistrate Lach-Verger

From the unpublished

Tjournals of Ambranthe Seeker, half-elven paladin ofOghma’s temple at the court

of Azoun IV; king of Cormyr.

en days in Sigil: As fascinating asthis city is, I fear I have tarried too long.My charge was to explore the realmsbeyond the barriers of Toril and I must notlose sight of this goal. My friends back atcourt cannot wait forever for my report.

It is with reluctance and fear that I haveprepared to leave this city. I have heardmuch of the lands beyond the doors ofSigil. Much of what I hear worries me,though I am not sure how much of what Ihear is exaggeration or truth. That, Iguess, is part of my duties. I have becomeparticularly concerned about the BloodWar. There is always a chance that suchendless warfare will present a threat toCormyr. Certainly the fiendish travelers Ihave seen pass through Sigil�s gates showlittle concern for the lives of others, evenhere where peace gilds the surface of life.

This morning I hired a guide, namedGlin. He is a bariaur, one of a race of goat-centaur men. It was curious dealing withhim�though he was quite polite, he hadall the appearance of a tattooed savage.Even after spending time in the city, Ibarely understood him. People here speakCommon but fill it with odd expressions.My guide said he was a Free Leaguer anda blood when it came to the planes andkept calling me a clueless or a prime. Ican�t say that I liked either and he makesme suspicious� peery, as they say here.Still, he was the only guide who claims toknow the Outlands that I could find on mylimited funds. (Sage Trandleer�s maps ofthe planes note this as the ConcordantOpposition. Glin laughed when I used thename, saying it pegged me as one of theclueless for certain. I must be more cau-tious in relying on the sage�s works.)

Glin is ready to leave tomorrow. He hasexpressed no problem with my aimlessitinerary. I have learned the bariaur are arace quite given to wanderlust. He sug-gests I get new clothes, so I won�t standout so much as �a hopeless prime." Insult-ing as it sounds, I�ll take his advice eventhough it stretches my funds dearly.

One day out of Sigil: What an ex-traordinary means of travel! Having ar-rived in Sigil by spell, I had never seen aportal in operation. From their descriptionI had no idea what to expect, certainlynothing as simple as this.

The day began when I met Glin at theGreat Bazaar. Though he said nothing, Ithink he approved of my new travelinggear, since it is much more in fashion withthis world. He brought virtually nothing atall, save a small saddle-bag and a stem ofwhat I gathered was horse-tail reed. Thegoat-man led me down several side streets,

28 APRIL 1994

past the hordes of beggars so prevalent inthis city, until we reached an open archthat spanned the small street we were on.To my amazement, he said this was ourportal. The whole thing seemed patentlyridiculous�I could see the street continue,I even walked under the arch and nothinghappened. Glin gave a bleating laugh andsaid, �Poor sod, of course it won�t workwithout the key.� Then he pulled me bythe arm as he stepped though. The archcrackled with sparks that tingled my skinand before my very eyes the landscapechanged as we stepped through to stand

before the walls of a great building�thePalace of Judgment. (Even though it wasas large as a city, there is no note of it onTrandleer�s maps. Neither was I able tofind any note of Sigil where I began mytravels. I suspect the accuracy of the sagemore and more.)

This, Glin explained to me, was thedomain of a power venerated in the PrimeMaterial Plane as the judge of the dead,part of a great bureaucracy of powers. Itreminded me of faiths I had heard of fromKara-Tur. Indeed, the building had the lookof those found in far eastern lands. What

by David �Zeb� Cook

Artwork by Dana Knutson & Tony DiTerlizzi

made this building singular was the line ofbodies filing patiently through the gate.Humans, half-elves, and creatures I couldnot identify, dressed in colors and ranks ofclothes, waited in a queue that stretchedbeyond my sight.

�Petitioners, them that�s died on theprime," was how Glin explained it. �Insidethe proxies of the power�ll send each oneto his proper plane�least that�s how itworks for the cutters who follow thispantheon." Petitioners and proxies�twothings new to me. I must learn more aboutthem.

TwO days out of Sigil: Ignoring theprotests of Glin, I joined the petitioners online for the palace. It seems the bestmeans to obtain an audience with thebeings within. I have been waiting theentire day, slowly shuffling forward. Glinhas gone off to one of the many tavernsthat line the way.

Though the wait was (and is) tedious, itgave me the chance to learn more of thepetitioners. My first curiosity was wheredid these travelers come from? Not onecould answer this simple question. Theyhad no knowledge of where they once

lived or even how they came here, only anunquenchable desire to file through thepalace gates. Unable to get an answer thatway, I watched for where they came from,yet this too was impossible to tell. When Iwatched the road behind us, not one peti-tioner did I see. I lowered my gaze for aninstant and when I looked back, therestood two or three new travelers, not 10�from me! I could believe only that theyhad appeared from the very thinnest of air.

At first, when they are fresh to the line,these petitioners are like unformed clay.Their features are sharp but their mindsdull. Their words are slow and halting andtheir passions flat. With the passing hoursthis mental haze lifts and they becomemore natural and animated until onewould mistake them for a normal mortal.Still, as much as I questioned them of theirprevious lives, not one could dredge upeven the slightest memory of a momentprior to this one.

Three days out of Sigil: Still waitingon line. The wonder of the petitioners hasgrown weary. Glin is impatient to take meelsewhere, but I think tomorrow I willreach the gate. Oghma grant me the pa-tience to endure that long.

Four days out of Sigil: Today Ireached the gate and had my ambitionscrushed. After waiting half the day, it wasfinally my turn to stand before the en-trance. There I was confronted by a singu-lar creature. It was taller than a man andhad the head of an oxen, like a minotaurand yet not. It was dressed in splendidrobes and gleaming armor and barred theway with a massive halberd. These detailsare clear because I had ample time tostudy it as it blocked my path.

At first it spoke in a language I could notfathom. Seeing my ignorance, it shifted toanother and then another, all similar intone yet different in inflection. Only whenit had failed in all this did it resort to Com-mon. �You are not awaiting judgement,� itsaid with some puzzlement.

I explained my nature�a prime, not apetitioner�and that my purpose here wasto gain knowledge and understanding.Unfortunately, the answer was discourag-ing. I was welcome to apply for an audi-ence in two to three weeks. It was clear Icould not immediately get in and I have nodesire to wait around here for weeks itwill take to gain audience.

When I found Glin at a stable-like innand told him, he was quite pleased to beon our way. Perhaps sensing my disap-pointment, he offered to take me to Rib-cage, the gate-town to Baator, the planeTrandleer notes as the Nine Hells. Againthere are more name changes I mustlearn.

DRAGON 29

Here is the end of Vol. 7 of Ambran’sjournals. The next diary in the sequence,Vol. 8, has never been found. From whatcan be inferred from other notes in Am-bran’s diaries, the volume was probablylost in the flight from Ribcage or the fightthat followed shortly after.

Nineteen days out of Sigil: PraiseOghma for escaping Ribcage! Looking on itnow, I marvel at my mad desire to viewthe portal to Baator or the terrible conse-quences it would have. I saw, yes, as Ihave already described and for my ownpeace of mind, I will write no more of it. Itis effort enough for me not to dwell on itstill. Sage Trandleer prepared me for noth-ing like what I saw.

Glin has been driving us both at a brutalpace ever since we escaped Ribcage. Icannot blame him for I too fear the town�sBlackguards are still pursuing us.

Even in our flight, I cannot help butnotice the mountainous landscape we arepassing through. Glin says it is the Vale ofthe Spine and it is aptly named. The bar-ren valley floor is almost perfectly curvedand the mountain peaks arch overhead,though not quite as skeletal as they werein Ribcage.

I have not seen any game�deer, rabbits,or birds�since our descent into the Valeon the way to Ribcage. Before, even at theworst points of our journey, near Se-muanya�s Bog, there were at least somenatural animals.

Twenty Days out of Sigil: My guidecontinues his driving pace, even thoughthere are no signs of pursuit. When Ichallenged him on it, the haughty bariaurclaimed speed was urgent if I wished tosee the wonders of the Outlands and thenasked if I wanted to end his employment,leaving me abandoned out here. If hepresses me on it too much, I will. I refuseto be held hostage by a guide. Oghma willguide me.

We have cleared the Vale and the landhas changed. Gate-ward�the local way ofsaying you�re moving toward the edge ofthe Outlands disk�the plain grows rough.(The other direction is �spike-ward,� to-ward the spire at the center of the plane.)I can see in the distance that it is fracturedalong near crystalline lines, so that thehills tilt and angle like great blocks. Glin,who is at least not completely secretive,explains (in his own colorful words),�There�s no dark to it, cutter. Every planearound the rim gets mirrored on the Out-lands. Know it and you can fix where youstand. Them blocks are toward Acheron.Head that way and you�ll find Rigus."

Twenty-three days out of Sigil: Glinsays we�re somewhere upland of Automa-ta, the gate-town to the plane of Nirvanaor Mechanus as it is known to the nativesof the planes. (With all his errors, how didTrandleer ever earn the title sage?) I wastold in Sigil that near Mechanus, rigidorder prevailed. Then I didn�t believe it�itseemed too fantastic to be real�but here

30 APRIL 1994

the fields are squared, the forests almoststraight rows of trees. Perfect, logicalorder.

I do not know what I shall do if myguide does not relent. He seems to lead mewith some purpose of his own, perhapsfulfilling desires I have not yet realized.

Twenty-four Days out of Sigil: Howcan I describe it, the most extraordinarything that has happened yet? Purposes havebeen revealed and yet I still do not under-stand. This morning Glin waited impatient-ly, as he always has, while I broke camp.I�ve become used to the fact that he will notassist. We set out at his thundering paceonce again, and I resigned myself to thestruggle of keeping up.

At noon, we reached the crest of a ridgeoverlooking a walled town. From its per-fectly square blocks (described to me inSigil), I knew it was Automata. I assumed itwas our goal, the cause of Glin�s haste butinstead of descending to town, he insistedwe stop in the center of a field. There helaid out a blanket, curled his legs beneathhimself, and waited. I didn�t bother askingwhy, now accustomed to his stubbornrefusals.

�You�re a long-suffering cutter, Jon," Glinsaid suddenly without my asking, �andyou�re right to be peery of me. I should�vesaid more earlier, but I�m not much of abasher to rattle his bonebox. It�s bad busi-ness, you see, to linger in the Vale of theSpine too long, especially after that dust-up in Ribcage, and the ground �roundAcheron ain�t much better. So that�s why Ipressed us at first. Then, once we werefree of that case, I figured you�d want tosee this." With that he pointed toward athin line of figures that was snaking itsway from the gates of Automata.

�It�s the modron parade. Every seven-teenth cycle, a whole troop of modrons,those strange little berks, tumble outthrough the portal of Mechanus and begina march round the whole length of theGreat Road. Nobody knows why they do it,but they�re modrons, so it�s got to be some-thing to do with the order of the universe.�

As the line marched through the neatfields outside Automata, I could estimatethere were over a thousand or more ofthe strange creatures. They marched inperfect files, organized by rank with eachled by a banner marked in symbols thatonly had meaning to them. �What happensto them?�

My guide shrugged at this question.�Most of the little sods wind up in the deadbook, I guess. The road takes �em rightalong the gates to Baator, Gehenna, theGray Waste, Carceri, and the Abyss. Ateach gate they pass, raiding parties ofbaatezu, yugoloths, geherleths, andtanar�ri come boiling out and make a fewmore of �em lost. The chant goes thatmaybe two or three ever make the fulljourney, coming home a couple of cycleslater."

I was and still am stunned by this. Whatwould possess a thousand or more intelli-

gent creatures to blindly march to almostcertain death? Perhaps they march toobserve the state of order along the GreatRoad. Perhaps their march ensures thesurvival of that road. Perhaps they marchjust to die. What would Sage Trandleermake of this?

My meditations on the whole spectaclewere interrupted by the arrival of a wom-an, clearly a warrior, though her armorwas to my mind scant. At first she keptsome distance from us and surveyed thescene just as we were. At last, againstGlin�s well-meant advice, I hailed her. Herecognized her as Doomguard by thedevice she wore.

Though wary, she was not hostile andwe eventually fell to conversation. Hername was Rialiva and she�d traveled toAutomata from one of the Doomguardcitadels on the Inner Planes.

�I�ve come to see the modrons march,"

she explained. �We Doomguard alwayswatch the progress of their parade tolearn what our role in it should be."

�Your role?� I had to ask.�Our universe exists but to end, and it�s

our purpose to see that entropy is ful-filled."

�So then the modrons are your enemies,because they seek order in everything,� Iguessed. �You�re here to see if they fail."

�Not necessarily. Entropy is only anotherform of order. The modrons may serveour purpose."

�Then you�re here to protect them fromthe fiends?� I pondered. This was becom-ing stranger than I anticipated.

�Not all order�s entropy. We�re here todecide what cause the modrons serve. Ifthey seek the absolute rigidity of the uni-verse, then it�s no different from yourkind of entropy, is it? The stopping of allthings. Here�s the chant, if the modrons

see order as progress to somethinggreater, then it�s the fiends we�ll sidewith��

�And let the fiends rule the universe?� Iblurted in horror.

Rialiva laughed, though I hope not at mysimplicity. �For a handsome cutter, youmust be a prime. The fiends, particularlythe baatezu, are only another type oforder. We don�t want to be ruled by themany more than you do."

I must confess I surrendered the argu-ment at this point. Her philosophies, likeso many others in this strange realm, aredeeper than I ever imagined. I have muchyet to learn and see.

To Glin�s raised brow, I have invitedRialiva along for the rest of my wander-ings. Tomorrow Glin has promised tocontinue to the River Ma�at. What newmysteries will I see there?

DRAGON 31

by David �Zeb� Cook

Artwork by Tony DiTerlizzi & Dana Knutson

From the final journal of Ambran theSeeker, former paladin, who forsook hisgod, name, and country to remain on theOuter Planes. May Oghma forgive him ofhis errors; may King Azoun not judge himtoo hastily

hird day in the

Mausoleum: I have lost all trackof days and nights. The marchsun across the sky, the falling

grains of the hourglass�what is the use ofthese things in Chronepsis� realm? Thespan of days is his to rule, within theMausoleum�s shattered boundaries. Per-haps I have aged here, perhaps I have not.Glin greeted me this morning, his faceunlined and horns just budding. By after-

noon he was aged again. Could the samebe happening to me? Sometimes my hands

are hard and worn with care, then freshwith youth. There is no way to tell.Chronepsis banishes all reflections, so thateven the smoothest water does not sharewhat it sees.

Glin is impatient to leave. He worriesthat Chronepsis, sole inhabitant of thisrealm, will change his humor. I am reluc-tant to leave. I have never been in thepresence of a god before, even a scaledone like Chronepsis. Still I have becomeused to the presence of petitionersthroughout the land, so it is strange tofind none here. What becomes of thosedestined for Chronepsis� land? Perhapsthey are the grains within his hourglasses.

Glin is right. It is time (if there is timehere) to leave.

First day outside the Mausoleum:Glin�s fears seemed unfounded. Indeed Iwonder if Chronepsis truly knew we werethere. Perhaps we are still there in theshuffled randomness of the dragon lords

DRAGON 51

hours, arriving with our heads bowedduring its breakfast, leaving quietly againat lunch, only to reappear during dinnercounting the hourglasses in their niches.

Outside the limits of the Mausoleum, theland has changed. It is no longer green,but has the sere look of fall. It reminds meof Cormyr. Since the Mausoleum I can nolonger count the days from Sigil.

Five days after the Mausoleum: Theland grows worse�more rugged than Iexpected. This morning Glin asked his firstquestion of me, beyond the usual queriesof every day. He was curious about mydreams, if I had any recently. I have notand told him so.

Seven days after the Mausoleum:Glin asked again about my dreams. Hisinterest is more than curiosity.

Glin says we should pass over Ilsensine�srealm soon. Although he did not add anymore to that statement, he clearly does notwant to linger there like we did at theMausoleum.

Eleven days after the Mausoleum: Iunderstand now why the bariaur wishesto hurry. The air here is filled with a sub-tle pain that, were it stronger, would driveme mad. It began this morning with abuzzing burn at the back of my thoughts,a verminous fly lodged behind my eyes.All day the drone has grown stronger. Bythis afternoon there was the distinct sen-sation of thoughts�images and whisper-ings that were not mine. Hands withoutskin, whimpers from the room of a dark-ened inn, the ranting of a fevered fiend,and scraps of other thoughts I could notidentify�these things have filled my mind.Even focusing on my writing is hard.

Glin solicitously asked about my dreams.I think he only pretends concern�there ismore in his eyes than care. It is like heexpects an answer, casting his net to col-lect my dreams. Perhaps he�s not a FreeLeaguer as he claimed. Is he a follower ofthe Fated, those who seek to understandthe planes by taking it from others? If I tellhim what I dreamt, do I lose my visions sothat they can become his?

Thirteen days after the Mausole-um: Glin�s question persists and thismorning I lied. I can no longer trust hismotives.

I told him no, but I did dream. It was apersistent buzzing that skirled behind myeyes. It was not my dream, but the dreamof another that slipped away in the tangleof other preoccupations. I can even imag-ine a man, a shadow at the back of theburn. Perhaps because of Glin�s curiosity Ifeel compelled to write down thesethoughts, or is this some effect of theillithid-lord�s realm? Glin says Ilsensine�sdomain is in caverns beneath our feet,tunnels lined with the pulsing veins ofIlsensine�s mind. Perhaps the mind-flayergods knowledge is too great for it to con-tain. Whose dream is this�mine, an-other�s, or the secrets gathered by thething beneath the ground?

Dream One: I dream about the book. Icurse it in my dreams. Each night pagescome to me and press themselves againstmy flesh, carving their images into myskin. The chapters construct places that Iwill go. They build themselves word byword, slowly tattooing their knowledgeonto me. When they are finished they willtake me to these places, these places I donot want to go.

There is a man I see who travels towardme, sometimes straight, but more often withthe path of the lost. There is a page in thebook my dreams are writing for him. Whenit is done he will stand before me.

When I awoke, my arm stung anditched. Rolling back my sleeve, I was horri-fied to find a band of writing freshly tat-tooed there. A single word girdled myforearm� Fallendor.

For the first time since I left Faerun, Iam truly afraid. The terrors of Baator Iglimpsed in Ribcage cannot compare tothis. They were real, at least. I could havefought them if it had come to that. Gro-tesque as they were, they at least had fleshand substance.

What have I done in leaving the safety ofToril? What a fool I was to feel safe in aworld where my dreams turn against me.

Seventeen days after the Mausole-um: Glin has stopped asking, although Istill think he covets the images in mymind. I know what he is after now, andwill not fall for his traps. I�m not a fool�ifhe can�t trick me into giving him what hewants, he may try violence. Let the bashertry�I�ll be ready for him.

Worse still, the dreams have not stoppedand we have left Ilsensine�s realm. Eachnight they become stronger and moreinsistent. My left arm is almost completelycovered by tattoos. Why does this nolonger concern me?

Dream Two: Slowly moves the tattooinghand, carefully inking the script on skinlike the whorls of a finger. With eachtouch of the needle, another syllable iswhispered. I shape the sounds carefullyadding a little more of myself to the ink.Carefully I inject the memories into theflesh, layering a new skin over the old.Ambran becomes no more. He is the can-vas, the escape from the prison the Codexhas built for me.

Nineteen days after the Mausole-um: This morning the tattoos advancedbeyond the collar of my jacket to coilaround my neck. Glin has seen them forthe first time and I can see his fear. He nolonger hungers for my dreams. Perhapsnow he knows what they are. The bariaurcan no longer be trusted.

Twenty-three days after the Mauso-leum: We have reached Bedlam, gate-town to Pandemonium. After all mywandering through the Outlands, now Itravel with a purpose�to reach Pandemo-nium. I have forced my journey upon my

52 MAY 1994

guide. I lead and he follows, increasinglyapprehensive over the paths I choose. Pikeit, I tell him when whines.

Dream Three: By day I serve as a slaveto the Codex of the Infinite Planes, copyingthe pages. Today’s entry was on the Grottoof Bones at the heart of Hruggekolohh’srealm. With fearful patience, I describedthe cluster of skulls that ring his throne,how those heads whisper of their liveswhen the winds of Pandemonium blowthrough their moldering sockets.

I know that when the words are done Iwill go there, but I cannot stop the dreamsfrom flowing out of me. The best I canmanage is to tarry over the arch of a let-ter, the flourish at the end of a line. Thepages of Tzunk’s work that I have foundshow the same touches, the same devotionto artistry, as he too came to understandhis fate.

At night the Codex visits me, filling meas its receptacle. Even as it does so, I shapemy dreams and send them to Ambran.Each night I tattoo a little more, paintinghim while he sleeps. Each night I sensethat he is a little closer to me. I am amazedthat the Codex does not suspect me, evenas my escape nears its finish!

Twenty-seven days: Where I havebeen is meaningless. Where I am going isthe only thing that matters. Today I dis-missed Glin and he was glad for it. He isuseless as a guide. I know where my jour-ney will end.

Still, I fight my fate. I have tarried nowfor four days in Bedlam, staying to thehigh ground of the Citadel. The inhabit-ants are saner here than on the lowerslopes, so close to Pandemonium�s gate.Every moment I struggle to resist the urgeto descend and pass through the iron archto Pandemonium.

The tattoos continue to appear. Thememory of a past love is written in thecurve behind my ear. I cannot see it, but Ialready know what feelings the wordscarry. I am less of myself and more ofsomeone else.

What is happening to me?Twenty-nine: Today I almost suc-

cumbed. I was searching for a sage, amember of a group called the Sarex. I hada hope he would explain these tattoos(what would Trandleer say?) when I real-ized my steps were carrying me from thesafe haven of the Citadel and into thetangle of the lower slopes. I could barelyremember the prayers to Oghma tostrengthen me!

My distress did not go unnoticed. Evenas I fought for strength, a voice addressedme from the shadows. At first I thought itwas another part of the madness that hastaken me.

�You are in great danger," it whispered.�The Slave of the Codex has written uponyou.�

I nodded to the eyes I could dimly see.�To exist and to grow, the book becomes

the dreams of a prime. The slave writeswhat he dreams and goes where the pagestake him, until eventually the slave is auseless husk. When he finally writes hisown page in the dead book, the book waitsfor another and continues its pages."

�I�ve been captured by the book?��No, you berk, you�ve been snagged by

the slave." The darkness gave a dry,throaty chuckle to my plight. �Sometimesthe slave learns from the Codex even as it�susing him. He learns how to ball up hisdreams and send them to some poor sodlike you.�

�And?��And you become him. And he escapes

the Codex’s grip�even if he does havewear his memories on his skin for the restof his life�makes for an interesting life."

I started to shiver. �What happens tome?�

The shadows swirled around me and thevoice whispered in my ear. �Maybe you�redestroyed. Maybe you�re trapped insideyour own body. What does it matter?�

I was sick with fear then. �Why are youtelling me this? What do I owe you?�

The laughter came again, fading into thedarkness, �Owe? Nothing. I�m Hrava, theshadow-fiend, what you�d call a thing fromthe pits of the Abyss. I told you because itamuses me. But I�m a fiend�am I lying ortelling the truth?� With that he left me inthe darkness.

I have given up looking for answers inBedlam.

Pandemonium: Now I have even givenup counting days. My body carries meforward as if it knows where to go. Thewind cuts and screeches in my ears, tryingto drive me insane. It can�t�what morecan madness do to me now? I (or someoneelse?) still harbors the hope that I canescape this fate.

that now covered nearly all my face. �Youknow about this?�

�I am Hrava�leader of the Sarex. Comeinto the shadows if you want to hear thechant."

It was foolish, but I followed the voice. Ineeded to know. �What is happening tome?�

There was a soft caress of shadowacross the bridge of my nose, tracing thepatterns of words etched in tiny letteringthere. �You�re being replaced. Word byword, memory by memory. Each sentenceon your skin�s the thought of another,every syllable a moment of their life."

�Impossible!� That was ridiculous to say,but I did.

�And yet it happens."�Who���Who is doing it? A prisoner and a slave.

There is an ancient book�the Codex ofthe Infinite Planes. Perhaps you haveheard of it?�

I was dumb-founded. Until this point, no Dream Four: He is here! My needlesone in Bedlam had even noticed the tattoos have pricked the last letters. My hands

have wiped away the blood and ink. WhenI wake he will be before me. He nears thedoor to my cave. I when I wake, I, Fallen-dor, will reach out my hand and pull. I willdraw him out, trap him within this shell. Iwill be free!

I feel his footsteps through the earth. Myeyelids tremble . . .

Procampur: I still struggle with thetransformation. There are parts of Am-bran left behind that press me to actagainst my will. I wonder how his incom-plete spirit feels in that cave in Pandemo-nium? I wonder if he too is a slave of theCodex?

I thought I was free of the Codex, buteven now I realize this too was a lie. I nolonger see it in my dreams, but its wordsstill bind me. These notes, for one. I can-not resist the urge to write my experi-ences, even though I always burn themlater. My passions are printed on this face;these hands describe the childhood ofanother body. All the things that Fallendorwas are written for everyone to see�hishopes and his final treachery. People seethis tattooed face and shun me. Words stillenslave me.

DRAGON 53