The Flame of Time
מנא ,מנא, תקל, ופרסין
We find our heroes attending a grand banquet deep within the extravagant halls of Skyheim. Earlier that evening Griff Byron had gathered them and brought them to the titanic floating temponaut, telling them that there was to be a grand ceremony the following day celebrating their victory over the menacing giant Fafnir and the consequent restoration of the Cosmic Clock. Delgen was late.
Leomourn gorged himself upon meats and cheeses aged literally through time as Amarella shoveled delicacies from all around Terr into her gullet. Darella ate but was more entralled with the hidden and shaded parts of the hall, her gaze taking in and calculating all the angles and cachés. The dwarf would have loved all the cured meats and assorted ales but was absent still, deep into the night. The elf had not shown her face since the incident in Felden, she had fled with much urgency and many of their items, which they had recently concluded.
As the heroes enjoyed their repast, the juggernaut that is Skyheim steadily advanced over the icy waves that separate Valerius and Rienland, and slowly settled over the flat expanse of southern Rienland.
Amarella was enjoying a fillet of peccary when she noticed; across the hall, a pale disembodied hand materialize and proceeded to carve, above the head of the table, with a stylus, words upon the wall. She abruptly struck Leomourn in the short-ribs with her elbow, pig-flesh falling gracefully from her lips as she sat in confusion. She extended one finger towards her twin sister, with aims of gaining her attention, but the keen eyes of the thief were already upon the queer hand.
The spectacle culminated with a quick lash of the stylus and a snap of the disembodied hand, nothing was left but a golden, gleaming message; written in a tongue long forgotten.
A lone scholar was able to identify the script and fled the hall in hopes of cross-referencing the script with scrolls found within his collection, claiming to have previously read of such an omen.
The following day our heroes awoke in silken beds, attended by fair servants who fed, bathed, massaged, and clothed them in fine cloths suited for the following celebration. Long flowing robes with tassels and ribbons, and hats.
“I wonder where he is.” Leomourn said as he met the Darkeyes twins in one of many verdant gardens upon Skyheim.
“Who?” Darella asked, as she examined a flower she had not seen previously.
“Delgen.” Leomourn said.
“Oh, he is probably going to surface quite dramatically with pertinent information about a new predicament of which we are unaware.” Darella joked, oblivious to the veracity of her jest.