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+#+TITLE: Spell Gauntlet: Practical Spellcasting
+#+CLASS: dnd
+#+CATEGORIES: FF SS WP
+
+* Teleport
+
+** Wizard - ft. Ula Mindis
+The young Wizard Ula Mindis awoke to the smell of steeping tea.
+
+She sighed, opened her sleep-encrusted eyes, and yawned.  Another day.
+Another attempt.  She rolled out of bed and drifted over to the
+window.  It was cracked open, but she threw it wide to welcome the
+morning air and golden sunrise into her bedroom, or study rather.
+She'd recently moved her most used bookcases in here for easy access.
+Her spellbook sat open at its usual spot, turned to the page she'd
+most recently been studying.  This particular spell she'd attempted
+half a dozen times to no avail, but this morning felt somehow
+auspicious for it.
+
+Ula looked over the first line.  The elven letters were written in her
+own hand.  She had copied the carefully penned italic espruar letters
+from an old scroll recovered from a captured pirate ship no more than
+a tenday ago and had tried to cast the spell immediately.  When she
+failed, she had rechecked the writing a dozen times against every
+source she could find, so she was sure that the letters weren't the
+problem, she was.
+
+The tea arrived, cup wobbling in midair, held by a construct of pure
+magical force, whom she thanked politely.  The morning breeze caught
+the bay spray and filled the room with the smell of salt and sorcery.
+
+Perhaps she could not cast the spell, Ula mused, because she was
+perfectly happy exactly where she was.
+
+Emboldened by the tea, she shook away the thought and dove again into
+the spell.  Just imagine what was possible!  No longer would she have
+to send away for expensive spell components.  She could just say the
+words and pick them up herself.  She could visit her family back in
+Mulmaster or take a vacation on the shores of some exotic beach
+island.
+
+She finished the first line, an anchoring, and began on the second.
+While the first had been filled with words of permanence and
+stability, the second was quite the opposite, using words of whimsy
+and transcendence. She had gone over this before, even looking up
+words and pronunciation from the deepest parts of her library.
+
+This time though, the spell began to make sense.  Like a distant blur
+on the horizon solidifying into a ship, but that didn't mean that she
+could sail upon it.  No, the spell would likely take another tenday to
+work through at this rate.
+
+She moved to the next line, back to permanence, repetition, solidity,
+before turning again to shifting sand and billowing wind.  The salty
+sea-spray began to blow against her spellbook, almost flipping the
+page mid-sentence.  She nearly cursed, but a mage learns to be careful
+with errant words early in her education, and she remained silent.
+She reached for her tea, but it had grown cold.  She absent-mindedly
+heated it with a cantrip and brought the near-boiling mug to her lips.
+
+Ow!
+
+She set it down again and sent her unseen servant for an ice-block for
+the tea.
+
+She thought about ice, about water, then again about the spell.
+
+Permanence. Transience. Solidity. Liquidity.
+
+That was it!
+
+By the time the ice-cube arrived the tea was long forgotten.
+
+"Of course!  The key isn't thinking about location at all, it's about
+matter!  I'm solid right now.  I need to be liquid!  A solid cannot
+move, but a liquid flows, through time, through space, it doesn't
+matter!"
+
+Ula poured herself into the spell and the teacup clattered to the
+floor as she used her full concentration on the spell at hand.  She
+focused on the market down below her.  Fish-mongers barked their
+catches to the passersby and coin flowed freely.
+
+The words came one after another perfectly, Ula could almost predict
+them.  Permanence.  Transience.  Solidity.  Liquidity.
+
+And suddenly she was in the marketplace.
+
+The surprised merchants around her started then blushed as she cheered
+"I did it! I did it!" and jumped up and down.
+
+Only after nearly a minute of excited and likely bewildering
+explanation to the surprised fellows did Ula realize she had not
+changed from her slip and nightgown yet.
+
+Oh well.  She needn't be that embarrassed.  She could always move; now
+the world was at her fingertips.
+
+** Sorcerer - ft. Saffron Dayl'asaar
+
+Saffron looked at the picture of the remote village.
+
+"You've got to be kidding me." she stated in deadpan.
+
+"No, I assure you that is the location of the disturbance!" said the
+thin old actuary.  He stooped over the table with a lens held to one
+eye peering at her as if he expected her to pop out of existence at
+any second.
+
+Which, admittedly, she was likely to do, assuming of course that she
+could locate the stlarned place to disappear to.
+
+"No, I mean, this is the best information you have?"
+
+"Oh yes.  Absolutely positively the best.  The mine is just right by
+the village you see.  That is where Betrice, our informant that is,
+recovered the clues.  It's just luck that she thought the mine pretty
+and drew it for us in such exquisite detail."
+
+/Exquisite detail my arse./ thought Saffron.
+
+The eldest child of the now-esteemed Dayl'asaar family of Aglarond,
+Saffron had always been the adventurous one, even more so than her
+trio of older brothers.  So when the Institute came knocking three
+years ago, Saffron was the one to take up the call, not her father,
+not her brothers, but little Saffron spell-touched. Plus, she was the
+only one of them capable of the kind of magics that the Institute
+really lacked, even though the spells didn't always go off exactly as
+she planned.
+
+"Okay.  It will have to do."  She snatched up the paper and her
+traveling gear and concentrated on the picture and on her breathing.
+
+The mine was rather typical, but the old actuary, the elder one of the
+Minster Brothers who ran the Institute for the Recovery of Rare and
+Dangerous Artifacts, had supplied her with an atlas of remarkable
+detail and enough stories to feel as if she knew the place intimately.
+Or perhaps at least enough to try to translocate to it.
+
+Saffron felt her breath go out into the world and spread out
+impossibly far.  The world shift beneath her.  She felt connected to
+the strands of the Weave around her, following them like a cart along
+a track, but moving impossibly fast.  Her mind raced across the land,
+across the sea, to where the atlas had shown her.  She hesitated above
+the island for a moment gauging the possibilities.  Then suddenly she
+was plummeting into the jungles.  This was no divination, so she could
+not actually see any details, only what she imagined the jungles to
+look like based on the dark greens and browns of the atlas.  Suddenly
+a mine was in front of her.  There was no saying if it was the right
+one, or if it really was a mine or not, but Saffron was tired of
+waiting.  She drew up the power within her and stepped through the
+world itself.
+
+She stepped through the Weave and out into a monsoon.  She snagged a
+strand of loose magic on the way out and an explosion of cold air
+burst forth from where she was standing, instantly freezing raindrops
+into mini-hailstones which pounded her mercilessly.
+
+"Ugh, Mystra you're working with Talos now to make my life violent and
+unpredictable?  Is it too much to ask for--I don't know--a normal
+casting every once in a while?"
+
+Her curses as she trudged through the rain would have made her
+ancestors, the Day'lasaar pirates of the Sea of Fallen Stars, proud.
+
+** Bard - ft. Orryn Raulnor
+
+"You mean you're the third Raulnor with that name?!" the sellsword
+asked incredulously.
+
+"No, no. Where I'm from that means that I'm the third oldest son." a
+gnome in gilded leathers replied.
+
+"I see.  Still too long for my tastes, I'm not for knowing what yer
+parents was for thinking, but nobody needs a name that damn long.  And
+what about that 'sonoviches' part?"
+
+"Well, that's a bit complicated: it roughly translates to something
+somewhere between 'indefatigable one who spits on witches' and
+'largely punctual' ... it's a family name."
+
+The table erupted in laughter.
+
+Soon thereafter, the group seated around the table parted company and
+the gnome made his way into the street.
+
+He wasn't nearly as drunk as his companions had been, but he only
+barely noticed the shapes in the alley before he'd walked into them.
+
+Orryn licked his lips and looked over at the subtle shapes of his
+soon-to-be assailants.
+
+There were perhaps eight of them now, arrayed in a semicircle around
+him in the darkness.  He should have known better than to flaunt his
+gold around the tavern as he'd done.  But them again, it wasn't all
+bad.  It had been far too long since he had a chance to live a good
+story instead of simply tell one.
+
+"Excuse me gentlesirs, how can I help you this fine night?" the
+gnomish bard, twirling a strand of his green beard around his finger
+in a gesture of mock-nervousness, asked the group of local toughs.
+
+One of the larger of the group stepped forward into the alleyway and
+quickly botched whatever ready line he'd been prepared to say.  They
+evidently hadn't realized the gnome has seen them before he'd spoken.
+
+"Halt there, uh, sirrah.  It looks like you've, uh, forgot to pay the
+toll."
+
+"Hmm, I hadn't taken ye to be trolls, but now in the light I do see
+the resemblance."
+
+The group was not particularly disciplined, most likely coming
+together recently at the smell of gold and lacking for a real leader.
+About half of them were silent and nearly shaking with anticipation.
+The other half were blustering fools.
+
+"Did'ja he just call Cratch t'be a troll?" one asked.
+
+"He is a troll!" another joked.
+
+"Your mother's a troll."  Cratch replied.  "Now little one, hand over
+your money or you'll wish I's a troll."
+
+"All right, all right.  No need to be hasty.  I'm sure you're all
+upstanding gents and just want to use the money to pay off your debts
+and buy your mothers veiled carriages.  Here, take the money."
+
+Orryn pulled at a pouch on his waist, snapping the straps, and tossed
+it on the ground in front of Cratch and the others.  It fell open and
+several dozen large gold coins rolled from the sack.
+
+The octet dived for the spilled coins and struggled with one another
+to snatch them up.
+
+"Of course, this sum is just a trifle compared to what I keep at
+home."
+
+The novitiate robbers looked up with various states of doubt,
+incomprehension, and greed.  This had been the plan, but somehow it
+was far too easy.  The smart thing to do would be to grab the gold and
+flee.  But these were not particularly smart men, less so when blinded
+by the fortunes of gold held in their hands.
+
+"Take us there."
+
+"As you wish..."  The rest of Orryn's sing-song sentence danced in the
+wind to distant places and forgotten ages.  The eight bullies found
+their thoughts taken far away as the strange music lifted them up and
+carried them upon a journey.  The true names of places are powerful
+things, most strange and unpronounceable, most lost to time immortal.
+But the bard's magic remembered them.  His words were not an
+incantation as much as a call-and-response.  His voice echoed through
+the world, and the world responded.
+
+Orryn and the eight were suddenly elsewhere.  A very far away
+elsewhere.  Snow billowed through the air and covered the icy ground
+in heaps.
+
+Orryn's captives reeled and screamed in terror.
+
+"Where are we?? Curse you wizard!"
+
+"Fear not.  Everything is under control.  We are in the middle of a
+northern glacier, where a small expedition settlement once existed.  I
+hadn't planned on the blizzard, but I suppose you're familiar with the
+adage 'we take what we are given.'"
+
+Cratch lunged at the diminutive bard, but Orryn was already in the
+midst of another spell.  He spoke words that felt like rushing air and
+drifted lazily into the sky, just out of reach of the huddled mob.  He
+extended his arms, recited the lightly tingly words that covered his
+body with bright red faerie fire, and then spoke with a voice that
+boomed through the icy plain.
+
+"Hear me well, I am Orryn Maye Sylvester Miles Felix Hectacre Notin
+Jiles Bulron Sysil-Sisler Klif-Wistler Anasto'tofande Sonoviches
+Overton Sennison Johnnyson Raulnor the Third, Bard of Faerun, Walker
+of Worlds, Smiter of Evildoers and Annoying Backwater Pricks, and
+I. AM. NOT. A. WIZARD."
+
+The group cowered and shivered before a spectacle of magical prowess
+unlike any they had ever seen or were ever likely to see again.
+
+"And if you would give me back my coin, I would appreciate it."
+
+A few hours later, the eight would-be robbers staggered into a
+tavern, each holding a single gold piece and a story.
+
+None of them would ever rob again.
+
+
+* Prestidigitation
+
+** Magic Initiate Feat - Wizard - ft. Harvey Hoban Harpell
+"Whadd'ya mean cutof?"
+
+"I mean, cut off.  You, Mr. Harpell, are cut off.  No more drinks
+tonight.  Sit, enjoy the fire, rest.  Do nothing to rouse the ire of
+my other patrons.  Especially none of that odoriferous weed of yours!"
+
+"Whadd'ya mean rows the ira!"  Here, turning to a hooded man nursing a
+half-pint of dark liquor beside him.  "Do I rows ya ira?!"  The man
+turned to face him, grim faced, and in a motion dumped the glass'
+contents over the young man's dirty matted head of hair and set the
+empty glass upon the counter before the frowning bartender.
+
+"That's a waste of good liquor, Malcom."
+
+"Just wanted to give'im one last drink is all.  I'll pay."
+
+The bartender sighed and reluctantly poured the man another glass.
+
+"How come 'e gets some!?"
+
+"Go. Sit...  Now."
+
+The dripping cleric, robes which had successfully avoided the downpour
+now dripping with a darker rain, wobbled over to the fire and landed
+upon a cushion with some measure of practiced grace, or luck.
+
+"Oh, Mal-com gets another drink.  Sure."  He looked to give the man an
+evil-eye but noticed for the first time that he was not alone.  "Oh,
+ladies, my apprologries."  He attempted to stand but finding
+extracting himself from his seat more difficult than anticipated,
+simply half-bowed to the pair of dripping maids.  Straining for words,
+he offered, "I see you're wet! I can help you with that!"
+
+As he struggled with gaining control of his faculties to remember the
+blasted name of that cantrip, the sound of broken glass from across
+the room cut through the lively atmosphere.
+
+The Selune's Smile was rather crowded with weary travelers looking for
+rest or for revel.  Twin fireplaces bookended the common area, giving
+a warm glow to the ancient decor.  Gristly trophies bequeathed to the
+tavern adorned the walls: dragon scales, naga fangs, and owlbear heads
+among them.  A few quiet tapestries hang from the rafters, heralding
+the ancient Lords of Waterdeep who frequented the tavern in times long
+since past.
+
+It is said that every adventurer of the Sword Coast eventually finds
+her way to the City of Splendors, but rarely do so many of them come
+to a particular tavern all at once.
+
+Seated across from the most recent blackfish of the Harpell family,
+sat a pair of ladies wearing drenched leathers and scowls. 
+
+Harvey seemed not to notice the latter as he inventoried his magical
+repertoire.
+
+/Prefeguritat?/
+
+/Pregnanitato?/
+
+/Presdogranado?/
+
+/No. That'd jus worse./
+
+The room grew instantly silent at the spilling glass and subsequent
+trading of blows.
+
+/No, youse keep talkin, gotta thing./ he silently berated the floor.
+
+/Prestangerition?/
+
+One of the combatants fell to the floor and then laboriously dragged
+himself back up and slumped into a nearby chair.  Harvey thought he
+heard one of the two women, the shorter one, say something, "Need
+some... mumble mumble Moose?"
+
+/Moose?/
+
+/His mind joined his liver, slowly churning through the facts of the day./
+
+/Animal.  Forest.  Green.  She's kinda greenish.  I wonder if she's
+from a forest?  Ew, she's probaly dirty if she came from a forest. Eh,
+nothin a little Prestidigitation couldn't fix./
+
+/.../
+
+"Prestidigitation!" He shouted over the now-returned din.  Magic leapt
+from his fingers, but not exactly with the effect he had originally
+intended.  Reminded of the magical pranks from his childhood, his most
+common retaliatory strike was that of the "foul wind."  This came
+unbidden to him now, and the magic unleashed the foul smelling breeze
+from his fingertips.
+
+
+* Cure Wounds
+
+** Bard
+** Cleric - ft. Harvey Hoban Harpell
+
+The minor scuffle in the tavern had turned to outright chaos.  Harvey
+struggled to look unassuming beside the fireplace.  The two furious
+women had stomped off for some reason and then suddenly returned,
+except... one of them had a thick moose pelt thrown up over her arm
+like a shield and had grappled away a sword from an unfortunate fellow
+behind her, and...
+
+Oh no, now there were three of them.  The wet woman, the moose woman,
+and a new woman... who could probably lift a moose.  And despite his
+best efforts, his "gusts" had spread to even the outer tables.  People
+were taking notice.  Through it all, came the deep contralto of what
+he could only assume was a giantess, standing now, teeth clenched and
+nearly trembling with rage.
+
+"What is the meaning of this?"
+
+Even drunk, even stupid, there was no mistaking that tone.
+
+Stumbling with words, with mental images, and especially the literal
+stumbling involved when attempting to slink backwards from fear of a
+large angry Goliath woman, at first Harvey could do little more than
+whimper.
+
+Stopping just short of the fire, it's tongues licking the edges of his
+trailing sleeves, he composed himself as well as he could in the face
+of possible crushing death, closed his eyes, and sputtered "Excuse my
+casting m'lady.  My name is Harvey Hoban Harpell, 'eric'a Eldath.  I
+only meant to help."  Then peeking carefully from one eye he added,
+"Please don' crush me."
+
+He was inadvertently saved by another man. The drunken merchant lost
+his footing as he approached the bar for another bottle of stsass and
+stumbled into the goliath maid's firm buttocks.  He might as well have
+walked into a wall for all the good it did him.  Actually, he most
+certainly would have preferred to walk into a wall, as walls don't
+seize you by the collar, hoist you over their heads and fling you at
+their true sources of rage.
+
+Layers of fat flapped in the wind, terrified by their unnatural
+acceleration.  Equally terrified, the eye Harvey had dared to open
+flinched shut.  He could hear the sounds of the fireplace mantle above
+him abruptly stopping the man-boulder's flight.  And a moment later he
+could feel the crushing weight of the man-boulder's fall, the hard
+coolness of the wooden floor against his face, and the uncomfortable
+warmth and wetness of a terrified unconscious man letting go after a
+long night of drinking.
+
+In that moment, he felt that the only proper thing to do was to join
+him.
+
+Minutes passed and Harvey was more than satisfied with resting
+stupidly beneath his boulderous brother, surrounded by the incontinent
+smells and the tumultuous clatter of battle... wait.  Battle?
+
+/Oh no. What have I done?/
+
+Harvey tried to stand, to lift his face from the hard pearwood
+floorboards, to see what was going on.  Red blood splattered down
+beside his cheek.  It was warm and fresh.  He managed to lift his
+shoulders and turn.  A bloody maw lolled above him, the jaw obviously
+broken, tongue bit, nearly severed.  Bruising was already beginning to
+settle in between the voluminous folds of fat around the face and neck
+-- black and blue and red.
+
+Suddenly what was the proper thing moments ago seemed foolish.  This
+whole night seemed foolish.  Eldath, what have I done?  This man is
+hurt because of me.  I started a brawl.  I'm not worthy of serving
+you.
+
+In Harvey's frantic heart, beside the furious pounding and self-pity,
+came a shiver.  It raced along his chest, along his limbs, his spine a
+roadway, his bumbling extremities the destination.  A familiar sense
+of peace, contentment, and quiet perfection, washed over him like a
+gentle flowing stream.  The sensation reached his head, starting from
+the base of the skull and rushing forward to envelop him, to hold him,
+to wrap him tightly in a warm stillness.  All was silent.
+
+And yet from in that perfect silence, Harvey could almost hear a quiet
+voice, a whisper of a whisper upon the wind breathe to him.
+
+/I know.../
+
+The silence abated and the bustling lights and sounds of the taverns
+returned.
+
+Thank you, m'Lady.  Harvey mouthed deferentially.  Then squeezing a
+hand beneath his torso and the floor and taking up his holy symbol
+from around his neck, he gently turned his body into a sitting
+position against the wall, the large man laying across his lap, and
+allowed the Peace of Eldath to flow through him and into the man.
+
+He spoke words, though he knew them not, and the symbol of the rushing
+waterfall and the still pool gleamed with a quiet silver and blue
+light.  The unconscious man's wounds were bathed in the light, and his
+clotting blood staunched, his bruises soothed, his avulsed tongue knit
+together, and jaw gently returned to place.  He opened his eyes,
+wonderstruck, then promptly grimaced at the smell in the air and in
+his trousers.
+
+"Oh, right!"  Harvey waved away the effect of the cantrip and helped
+the man to his feet.
+
+** Druid
+** Paladin - ft. 
+** Ranger
+
+   
+* Power Word Kill
+
+** Wizard
+** Warlock
+
+
+* The Fugue
+
+The orcs pulled you down.
+
+They beat you.  You could feel the blood in your mouth, and leaking
+beneath your skin.  You could feel their clubs break you.  You felt
+your spine snap, one, two, three places.  Frantic, try to focus on the
+spells your patron left you. But you know there is nothing there.  So
+you flex the fingers on your right hand, where your brand is--the
+deep, red burn which you know will never heal.  You feel the bitter
+the connection to Nine Hells, in some ways it feels like a fishing
+line pulling you back there, and in other it just feels like a part of
+your body, like a gland.  Pulling on the connection feels like crying,
+but tears of sulfur and of smoke.  Soon hot, sticky, bruised-looking
+energy responds to your call and leaks from the brand like pus.  An
+orc stands over you, a battleaxe held high above his head, and you
+fling it at him with a roar of defiance.  He takes it full in the face
+and his brain explodes out the back of his head.
+
+But he wasn't the only orc, and the hits keep coming, You know that
+you are going to die.
+
+Soon the blows stop hurting.  The world stops spinning and everything
+is very very quiet.
+
+...
+
+You don't open your eyes.  There's no moment of focusing, blurred
+vision, bright light.  You just see.  You just are.
+
+You're standing on a desolate plain.  The sky is a dull shade of dark
+gray, the same color as the thick dirt which covers the ground like
+dusty snow.  You can see ahead for hundreds of miles, but it doesn't
+seem to strike you as odd.
+
+You aren't alone.
+
+Others, mostly humans, but a half-orc here, a half-elf there, move
+through the dirt, knocking up clouds of dust in their wakes.  They
+move so slowly.
+
+You are standing.
+
+You look down at your hand, there is no brand.  You flex the fingers,
+but there is no burning sensation.  In fact, there's barely any
+sensation at all.  It doesn't seem to strike you as odd.
+
+As you turn the hand over to put it back at your side, you notice that
+where the brand was, on the back is a small red patch of dried ink.
+Perhaps some rune or letter?  It doesn't seem important.
+
+You drop the arm to your side, slowly, quietly, and begin to walk.
+
+Nearby is a small hill.  Several men and women are gathered on it.
+They seem to be singing.
+
+A light opens above them and a creature with wings of fire and a
+shield emblazoned with the symbol of an upright gauntlet appears.
+With a circular motion of his arm and a smile, the light becomes a
+whirlwind and the faithful are lifted up into the shining gateway and
+disappear in an anti-climactic non-flash of light.  For as suddenly as
+the herald appeared, he is gone and the plain is returned to stoic
+grayness.  You notice that even the hill is gone.  But it doesn't seem
+important.
+
+You spot a woman along your path, old, wrinkled, dirty, as grey as the
+dust and sky.  She is sobbing softly, clutching at her knees.  She
+wears the low-cut rags of a Luskan whore.  Her eyes grow wide with
+fear as you approach.  But you hear a voice call out "do not be
+afraid."  Your eyes follow the voice, to a woman standing nearby.  She
+radiates beauty.  Calling her beautiful is like calling the sky
+overcast.  It is like calling the air stale or the dirt dirty.  She
+reaches out a hand to the woman, her long red hair flowing in a wind
+that isn't there.  The old woman bounds to her feet.  She falls, but
+stands and tries again, every step growing stronger until she grasps
+the hand of her goddess and is clothed in the beauty and vitality of
+her youth.  She cries with joy, collapsing into the breast of the
+goddess, and the pair step through the planes together leaving behind
+the scent of strawberries and freshly cut grass.
+
+The scent dissipates quickly and you continue walking.
+
+You see others wandering aimlessly like yourself.
+
+You all seem to be walking in the same direction.
+
+In the distance is a circle of lights around an impossibly thin silver
+line disappearing into the sky.
+
+Your approach takes many hours, perhaps days or months or years, but
+eventually the lights become a city.  A huge city.  The walls rise
+over a mile high, and moan softly, though you can't tell how or why.
+
+From a large gate, hooded figures approach the aimless walkers,
+including yourself.  One stops before you and removes her hood with a
+look of vague, forced, curiosity.  She isn't exactly human, she has
+scales across her face and bright yellow eyes which are difficult to
+follow.
+
+She speaks, but the words are distant, muffled, "Guarded Faithless or
+Bargained Soul?"
+
+A deep, resonating, but scratchy voice answers from somewhere behind
+and above you.
+
+"The first.  Perhaps next time... the second."
+
+After a moment of consideration she nods deferentially, raises her
+hood, and turns towards the city, ushering you forward.
+
+The walls continue to grow as you get closer.  They must be ten miles
+high.  This city must house millions.  Around you is a crowd, closely
+packed among each other, though most give you a wide berth.  Now
+devils mingle among the humans, whispering, promising.  They lead away
+many.
+
+As you approach the wall, the whimpering grows louder.  The wall has
+faces.  Bodies are stuck together with rotting mortar, which dissolves
+them like a giant stomach.
+
+Suddenly jagged rifts open beside and before you, along the wall.
+Creatures with the faces and tusks of pigs, but the bodies of great
+apes rush through, crushing or tossing aside both wandering Faithless
+and cloaked guides.
+
+Horns blare clearly through the otherwise muted scene of violence.
+
+The guides throw aside their cloaks and brandish sickles and shields.
+Devils howl war cries and abandon their bargaining to do battle with
+their hated foes.
+
+The demons flow through the rifts in a great horde and begin to tear
+at the wall, dragging huge chunks back through with them into the
+Abyss.  Some moaning souls cry out as many are ripped asunder, torn
+from a slow non-existence of centuries to one of instants.  The rest
+disappear into the Abyss, their forms already being twisted into those
+of the demons that abducted them.
+
+A giant six-armed demon with fangs like a viper rushes at you.  You
+raise your hand to call down fire upon it, but you have no power on
+which to call.
+
+A bony whip-like barbed tail shoots out from behind you, striking the
+creature and sending it writhing to the ground.  A massive bone devil
+steps over you, it's skeletal spider-like limbs moving to propel it
+impossibly fast through the slow-motion battlefield.  It hefts a
+greatclub that was probably once the femurs of one of those huge
+pig-ape-devils and smashes the six-armed serpent into a blackish
+pulp.  The blood splashes up into your face, leaving a line of acidic
+muck running down your nose, between your eyes.
+
+Then the fighting stops as suddenly as it started.  An angel, clad in
+flames the color of the sky shuts the portals with a pointed word and
+outstretched finger and surveys the damage to the wall before flying
+off towards the great spire of Kelemvor, the god of the dead.
+
+The bone devil turns and looks you over.  "It is time.  The vessel has
+arrived."  He then leaves you and cuts a thin line in the air with his
+tail.  He steps through it and disappears, leaving behind the familiar
+scent of sulfur and brimstone.  You hear the distant sound of a faint
+chime.  It's probably not important.
+
+--
+
+You open your eyes.  There's a moment of focusing, blurred vision, and
+bright light.  You take a breath and feel the cold morning air fill
+your lungs.  A horned tiefling with a pitch black bell and a scroll is
+standing over you.  Your whole body burns, but especially your hand
+and a strip running from your forehead down between your eyes.
+
+Everything is blurry, especially your memory.  Standing around you are
+your adventuring companions.  It feels like you just saw them moments
+ago?  Was there a battle?  What's going on?  You can't remember
+anything... it's all just indistinct and gray.
+
+Faust and the Fugue Plane
+-Andrew Murrell