It appears to be a sealed envelope.

Stan nudges the envelope with his toe and, if he doesn't explode, picks it up and opens it.

Dear Stan,
I've given this message to Ogden, knowing that eventually you would pass through Oubliette. It is a strange place, isn't it?
I pray this missive finds you in good health. I write this to you in relatively good spirits, and I hope that you do not worry about me. Such thoughts are folly! I am more than capable of handling myself. You need to focus on what the Fates have planned for you.
I am not in any position to discuss how I've come to this knowledge, but know that you and your allies will play a major part in the coming Storm. Do not fret, my friend, or be discouraged; and always remember to keep yourself. Do not compromise that which makes you, you. An open mind can be a dignified pursuit, and valuable tool on your path, but remember who you are.
I pray you forgive me for not elaborating further, and for being so cryptic; but you will see the path soon enough.

Until we meet again,
Garret

Stan reads the message through several times, trying to glean meaning from its enigmatic passages. At length, he folds the paper up and climbs back into bed. He shuts his eyes and tries to go to sleep, the paper still clutched in his hand.

You lie there for a long time, waiting for sleep but it never comes. After a time, the music from the common room below reaches you. The piano melody is haunting, throwing the images in your mind into a slow churn. Under normal circumstances, perhaps this would have lulled you to sleep; but it only stirs you all the more. Finally, you carefully roll to your feet and slip out of your room.
The common room is darkly lit, and still houses many patrons. However, the scene has changed since you last were here. In spite of the many varied peoples gathered here, not a one speaks. They are all transfixed on the performance on the stage. A pianist continues the melody, but is joined by a troupe of other musicians. A dark man in a tall hat blows into a brass horn, an exceptionally skilled female lutist, and a washed-out-looking halfling stands on a stool while playing that strange lute-like instrument from before which produces bassy sounds. A terribly infernal-looking dwarf sits behind a series of boxes and round drums, and plays percussion.
But the most alluring figure on stage is the singer, an incredibly striking woman—nearly rivaling Clementine—wrapped in gown of black silk. Her voice seems to enchant the entire hall.
You move through the area, finally coming to sit next to Demios. He watches the performance, but seems to also be able to resist its' enthralling nature. The two of you share a brief glance before he offers you a nod, seemingly one of understanding your inability to sleep. May it be this place, or your pervious adventure, even you're not sure; but your son understands.

"You really should try to get some rest," he says at length. "As safe as this place seems, they enemy has equal access to it as well. If they don't know we're here by now, they soon will and it will be best if we're gone before they arrive.
"Have you given any thought of where we shall go?" he adds after a moment. "M'lady thinks it wise to cross dimensions, for lack of a better term, and not just planes. We might be able to escape Morotha that way... for a time. But there is also considerable risk, leading her to other universes and whatnot."

The wizard takes in the performance. He is glad to experience some level of entertainment and relaxation, even if the real danger is still at hand.

"It's no fault of ours if she follows us. I learned long ago that we can't burden ourselves with guilt for others' misdeeds.

"As for dimension hopping, I think I've done some of that already. Have you had much experience in traveling bygone ways?" He realizes that his son must be four times as "old" as he is - more experienced in combat and adventure, but still reverential as a good son should be.

Stan nods towards the woman, not to change to subject but from genuine curiosity. "Who is she?"

Demios shrugs indifferently at your question. "All demons look the same to me," he says as he gestures to a server passing by. The being stops short, a bizarre looking creature, appearing much like a cross between a human and a horsefly. Your son quickly and nonchalantly slides two glasses of some sweet-smelling liquid from the serving tray before waving the creature away. He passes one to you. "The troop is called Red Death," he continues after a sip. "They're talented; but a bit too angsty for my taste.
"Anyway... traveling. Yeah. I've traveled these ways a time or two... Forgive me, m'lord, but I'd rather not speak too much on that. It's all in the past now." Demios takes a solid pull from his glass before continuing, "I'm a little undecided as to Queen Clementine's destination, regarding my feelings. Jumping dimensions is risky, given our predicament. It isn't dangerous in itself," he quickly adds, "it just doesn't guarantee our enemies won't follow us. Not to mention any impact our presence will have on the other side."
He swirls the liquid in his glass a few times before finishing the drink. He then carefully places it back onto another server's tray as they pass, while pretending to stretch, yawning.
"The Treaty of Wyrms would without doubt stop the legions of Hell from physically following us; but I'm afraid all such legislation will do to demonic agents is slow them down."

"So, we're starting with the assumption that running is best? Have we no allies to call on, to face the demons head on?"

Stan shoots back the infernal cocktail without a second thought and immediately passes the glass to Demios for disposal.

"There must be more men in the world like - " he was about to say like Garret, but thinks better of it - "like the ones I've seen fighting against darkness. Lady Kaele, for one. And the teachers at the old Academy."

He wonders why Clementine is so much less evil than her kin. "Or maybe we could find others like your Queen, other, er, denizens, who resent their lot?"

He knows that his brainstorm is desperate and that running is by far the soundest option. After awhile he admits as much to his son.

"I'm so out of my depth."

The half demon shifted in his seat at his father's words. From a young age he was taught to maim and kill by the worst demons under Morotha's command. These beings were destruction personified, things too terrible to even nightmare about. But one of the first things he saw frighten them was the nearly constant threat that he was still half his father.
He had once thought their fear was in the fact that he was mortal; an affliction that seemed to demon-kind to be more of a weakness than anything any quasi-divine creature should ever covet. Certainly there was also the age-old argument of freedom of wills, which every weakling, creature capable of dying possessed. But the devils had proved time and again that even their freedom to choose, with the right amount of persuasion, could be controlled, to a science.
Sitting here now, in Oubliette, the Space between Spaces, his father, the man called Stan Fetchin demonstrated what it was they had feared, and had do it so casually, as if he were simply ordering a drink. He asked. Why was running their best option?

However, Demios was a servant, made to serve those greater than himself. If his Queen or Lord commanded he run, he would run. Ultimately, he offers you a dismissive shrug. "There are more of us than you would think. It is believed that demons and devils descend from fallen angels." Before you realized anything has changed a pair of filled glasses sit between you and your son. Demios takes a few sips from his and leans back comfortably in his chair. A silence dominates your table, despite the roaring din of the patrons surrounding you, and the performance on stage.

After a time, you return to your room and rest. Sleep finds you as you lie beside Clementine...

A melodic hum fills your ears, calling you awake. Your windowless room appears as it had last night, the fire still burning. Your senses are a tangle of confusion. Outwardly, you feel it is still night, but your inner clock is certain it is light—perhaps mid-day. You reach for your bride, and nearly leap from the bed when you do not find her. However, a moment later your eyes settle on her by the small table, buckling a new pair of long boots.
Her humming stops as you sit up.
"Impressive," says she as you lock eyes. "Normally mortals suffer a great deal of trouble in Oubliette, the first time they pass through. They sleep for days or weeks, unable to wake themselves in its timelessness. I trust you rested well?"

He nods at her and tries to pretend he isn't startled by her casual beauty. As she buckles on the boots he tries not to stare at her legs but catches himself staring anyway.

"I think so. What time is it? So hard to tell in these otherworldly places."

He gives her a light hug around the shoulders and walks around the room, stretching his muscles back to life like a cat that had slept in the wrong armchair.

"I've been so busy keeping track of my elderly son that I haven't had much time to spend with my wife. How are you? Are you still shooting those dangerous whatchamacalits?"

"It isn't any time at all," she replies with a crooked smile. The slight movement of her head causes several strains of hair to fall in front of her eye. With her hands on hips, she blows the lock of hair back into place. "Time is very much the construct of your Material Plane. It doesn't flow the same in the other Planes, save the Aetheral Plane—which is, as you know, a mirror image of the Material Plane. Even the Shadow Plane progresses at its own rate. However, Oubliette is... different. The Abyss touches all time and space; but Oubliette is timeless, for lack of a better term. In short, there simply isn't any time here at all."
She finishes dressing and checking her gear—which you also notice she hadn't had the "night" before—while you stretch away the aches in your muscles. As you stare, you also take note the absence of her wings, which you remember were once a prominent facet of her usual attire. In fact, they were missing from her robe "yesterday" during your flight from the Abyss. You continue to stare and ponder this, only now realizing that she has answered you.
"...flintlocks—but these are a little different than the ones you might remember. It's incredibly difficult to find a smith good enough to refine smoke powder and fabricate cases for an affordable price. So... I've incorporated the next best thing: magic! Well, maybe not entirely magic per se...
"Anyway, I've rambled about this long enough. Say, your equipment is a bit... gross. I'm surprised you were able to survive this long without proper gear, my love. It just proves how innovative and... masculine you are," she purrs, putting her hands on your chest, stepping closer. Passion flashes in her bright eyes, but he quickly checks it.
"There is a merchant downstairs. Let's go see if he's got anything for you!"

OOC: If I haven't told you to already, you may refresh your spells for the day

Done!

He is a little insulted at her appraisal of his gear, but he knows her concern is for his own good. Besides, he long ago felt out of his depth. Maybe some new gear would help put him on even footing with world-hopping demons and generals of abyssal hordes.

"Our first day back together and you want to go shopping?" He rolls his eyes. "Women.

"Although I am impressed by your ability to fuse magic and mundane metallurgy. Perhaps you can give a lecture sometime, if we are ever in civilized lands again."

Before leaving their room, he performs the now-familiar hand gestures to shroud himself in protective magical armor.

mage armor

"Come on, darling!" He takes her hand and allows her to lead the way to the merchant. All the while he jingles his purse, trying to estimate what kind of crazy extraplanar swag he can afford.

She takes your hand and squeezes it tightly as you lead her out of your room and into the common room of Oubliette. Not surprisingly, it appears nearly as it had the "night" before. Like your suite, the room is windowless and dark, softly lit by floating orbs of magical light—which change in hue depending on the mood the act on stage is trying to promote. The air is smoky and the sounds that dominate the hall are bassy, augmented by sharp horn and string melodies. It's exceedingly difficult to not catch a performance, or find yourself tapping your foot to the music.
Once in the common room, Clementine takes the lead and pulls you through the maze of peoples drinking heavily and watching the acts. Once, twice, perhaps three times, you think you pass Ogden as he fills glasses and fraternizes with customers; but never at the same table, or with the same group.
Near where you perceive to be the back of the large room, Clementine stops at table and pushes you down into a chair.
"Welcome to The Bodies Celestial Emporium," a high-pitched voice greets you; however its tone relates to you that its owner couldn't care less about your visit. The voice continues to drone, "The stars have aligned and shown me that you seek assistance on a grand queee—
Suddenly it stops. The creature opposite you is buried beneath a heap of faded rags, cloaks, blankets, headdresses, and other garb. A pair of long, bushy eyebrows extends from under the thickly wrapped headdress, and almost seem to sit atop the long, curved nose that juts from the pile of fabrics. The creature shifts uncomfortably—although you are unsure how any sentient creature could be comfortable under such clothing—and the brows twitch.
"Pardon me," the voice implores you, a caring tone now present, "I swallowed wrong." And then, after a forced and fake cough, "How can I help you, sir?"

Stan stifles a laugh at the creature's appearance and mannerisms.

"No, pray, carry on. I am curious as to the stars' opinion."

The eyebrows twitch again, their movements seemingly to relate irritation.
Your attention is stolen by Clementine as she places her hand on your lap. "Stan, honey. I think that was a sales pitch. Something he says to all potential customers..."
"Indeed so," the voice chimes a moment later, "I've no love of such overbearing theatrics, but these times are tough. It would seem that what once inspired learned men to partake in grand adventures is waning fast, to be replaced by the common man's wanton desire for greatness. Such things should be good for business, and indeed they once were," the creature relates as it pokes a pudgy arm from the folds of the heap to wag a curvy finger at you, "but not so anymore. Scores of men have wandered off to their deaths to the designs of some evil or another, leaving entrepreneurs such as myself without many goods or clientele to buy them. The problem? Lack of proper education!
"Too many young men tromping off into danger without knowledge or training. Simple farmers' sons think that by simply experiencing life—or death—they can understand the mysteries of the cosmos! They might unlock arcane formula that eludes even the most learned Evokers of the realms... Hog-wash!
"Of course, 'tis only my soapbox," the heap says with another shudder (which must be its version of a shrug). "What are you in the market for, hmm? Weapons, charms, reagents... another kind of implement perhaps?"

"Wellll..." he takes in an airy breath and exhales it. The salesman has the gift of gab.

"What I really want, after all the adventures I've been through, is some protection. Know what I mean?

"Now, I'm just a simple farmer's son," He winks to the hooded man, hoping that the gesture will be understood despite the creature's obviously unorthodox body language "but some of my, er, abilities require freedom of movement in the hand and arm region. I'm sure you understand. Nothing compared to the mysteries of the cosmos, of course.

"I guess what I'm saying is that simple armor will not do. Oh no, I require the layered enchantments of a softer, more accomodating garment if I am to serve a purpose on the battlefield or dungeon brigade.

"Secondly, I tire of exhausting my spell repertoire before the foe is vanquished. Have you some kind of offensive wand? An acid ray, perhaps, or a Giselda's horrid atomizer?"

He fingers the nearest magical-looking item, hoping to get a rise out of the easily exciteable shopkeeper.

The lengths of hair shudder once again. The heap rises and falls sharply. The creature is obviously upset.
"Protection?! You want protection, do you? Have you considered avoided danger at the source? Well, no. Obviously not. A simple farmer's son indeed!" it snaps. It pauses a moment and seems to calm a bit.
"Before I sell you a pinch of fine sand, answer me three questions, O dungeon brigader. The Greatest Fireball Ever Thrown was executed by Archemage Aetheoran Felldrake at the festival of Duanwu. What year? [knowledge (arcana or history)]
"The composite method of crafting by rote of the third circle of the discipline of Evocation requires three elements. A battery, focal point, and what else? [knowledge (arcana) or spellcraft]
"And finally, Garmeddon's Theory explicitly states magical energy from one source, when consumed, utterly destroys its linked source once expended. Why?" [knowledge (arcana or planes)]

"Well, those last two are easy. Any evocation spell past the second sphere requires a conduit of appropriate magical synergy. And as for Garmeddon's theory, I thought that was disproved by Baker, et. al. in the Year of the Scorpion Rain? But if you still adhere to deterministic planar geometry, I suppose the linked source would cancel out in the crossproduct."

22:17, Today: Stan Fetchin rolled 34 using 1d20+15. Arcana.
22:17, Today: Stan Fetchin rolled 32 using 1d20+15. Planes.

"As for the greatest fireball ever, let me see. Was that... no... that was frogs..."

22:16, Today: Stan Fetchin rolled 18 using 1d20+15. Arcana.

I forgot to list the DCs, but you read me correctly. 32 & 34 succeed; whereas 18 fails. Good answers too!

Again the creature regards you for a long moment from under its heap of clothing. At length, its eyebrows shift and a low, dry croak can be heard coming from it. It must be laughing.
"A farmer's son indeed! The magical synergy is the caster's will, and Garmeddon's Theory was disproved. Magical energy is neither created nor destroyed. Mildly impressive. I had thought the consort of such a demonic temptress to be either foolish or completely insane. Granted, I haven't yet disproved the latter.
"Anyway I might have what you're looking for." With that he claps his fat hands together and rolls off the chair. He waddles into the darkness of the common room, and returns a moment later, carrying a sack. Tossing the sack onto the table he leaps onto the chair and steps onto the tabletop, beside the sack. He reaches into the sack and pulls from it a lengthy, dirty coat. There are many pockets and pouches sewn into it, some even appear to have been made to accommodate wands or scrolls.
"You should brush up on your history, but your knowledge of the craft is fair enough. For that, I would like to present to you this, an apprentice's robe. It may not be much to look at, but you should find it's functionality unparalleled. Plus, it looks like it's your size.
"And secondly," he says as he reaches into the sack once more, "your issue with managing stamina." He retrieves two thick leather gloves, not unlike something a falconer might wear. However, the leather of these gloves are not common leather, you can tell.
The first appears to have been dyed the color of twilight. It shimmers as he moves it around, revealing etched runes that give you the mental impression of stars. The other appears to be made of scaled red leather. It too contains a series of etchings, magical characters situated in a pattern to appear like flame surrounding the wrist, reaching to lick the elbow.
"Stella and Ignis," the creature says, his voice dripping with pride. "Either one is a grand treasure, undoubtedly beyond the means of an apprentice. However, I can see that you are in need of one of these. Please, you may have one and only one."

You gain—
Apprentice Robe (+1 armor bonus to AC, +1 CL to all level 1 arcane spells cast)
And Ignis or Stella

Stan looks over the two gauntlets. He likes the mystique of Stella, but ranged power and a greater potential for havok better suit his tastes.

"I believe this gauntlet should serve my purposes nicely," he says, indicating Ignis.

He tries on the coat. It's shabbier than what he prefers, but if it means turning a blade or stopping an acid arrow, he'll dress like a bum.

He turns to his wife. "What do you think?"

"I think it will clean up nicely," Clementine replies as she looks you over, "although, I'd argue your apprenticeship. Not many apprentices can do what you do..." She trails off, having turned to face the creature—but it is gone. The two of you stand now before an empty table, the noisy hustle and bustle of the tavern behind you.

Sometime later, you and Clementine find Demios sitting at the bar, nursing some concoction or another, while speaking with Ogdan. The two seem to be enjoying a friendly conversation. Seeing you approach, both regard you seriously.
"Are you ready?" Demios asks.
"I can put you anywhere you'd like," Ogdan says before you can answer, "Demios has paid the fees. Pity you're leaving so soon. I'll try not to keep you much longer—I know what's after you. I was just telling the boy, proper analysis still indicates your same destination. This should give you a few months head start. I'll open the door when you're ready, unless you want to go somewhere else?"

"Thanks, dear," he says with a shrug.

With the creature gone Stan is quite shocked, but he soon recalls that stranger things have happened in this place.

He is glad to see Demios and Ogden, but the latter's words are confusing. First he offers a choice, then he says it's already been made. "Wait," says Stan, "Where is our currently planned destination?"

"An alternate dimension," Ogden states flatly, looking the group over. "That is, unless you've like to change course?"

"Stan, I've selected what I've perceived to be the safest course for our selves, given the circumstances," Clementine says. "The Material Plane is very similar to your home world, and many of the locations are relatively unchanged. Demios and I have no desire to return to the Abyss, and I felt you'd be most comfortable in this end." She presses close to you, grabbing your hands and holding them tightly. "We'll be safe, my love. We can build a life for ourselves! Just think—
"Safety, when considering a Horde Lieutenant? The concept loses all relevance," Demios chimes in.

"Son, I respect your opinion. But when your mother is talking, you need to listen."

He nods to Clementine. "If this is what you want I'm behind it one hundred percent."

Then to Ogden. "Do it."

It is exceedingly difficult to describe the sensations you felt as you passed between dimensions. It is vastly different than teleporting, or crossing between the planes.
You remember ending the conversation at the bar with Ogden, your wife and son, Clementine and Demios. You recall the proprietor of Oubliette offer you all a shot of some sweet-tasting liquor before opening the door. Did you take it?

Staring into the void was something you'll never forget. You had always imagined the space between spaces as a cold, dark place. It is cold—utterly so—but it is instead terribly bright. The light, which must be the parting strands of magical substance, energies made physical that some refer to as The Weave, is so brilliant and painful to look that you were forced to turn away. A feeling akin to nausea began to wash over you; but a comforting hand was on your shoulder. Clementine's hand.
"Don't let go of my hand!" she called over the loud whirlwind of noise as she gently yet firmly slid her hand down your arm and grasped your hand.
Str Check (DC 15)

The last thing you remember hearing before the jump, even above the loud hurricane-type wind of the door, was a series of screams. Oubliette is a terribly loud place anyway, but these shouts rose above the strange music and chatter of the varied patrons. There was also an element to the cries, something terribly fearful.
The groan of stressed wood; snapping planks and shattering glass; something pushes you forward. And then nothingness—the Void.

---

Extreme heat, intense cold. These feelings mean nothing in the Void. You are falling, but also flying. You movement through the currents are neither willful nor random.
You are underwater, your eyes are full of hot tar. Gravel pours from your ears and nostrils, bugs crawl through your hair. The worms crawl in, the wyrms crawl out...

As you travel through the Void, your Material self is being "re-programmed" for your destination dimension. You may take this time to make any changes to your character before you arrive at your destination. I know that you have never asked for these revisions; however I do feel that with my changing the system to Pathfinder was a bit unfair to you. Given any additional knowledge that you might have gained since our initial jump into the system, I will allow one last revision of your character. You do not need to make any revisions if you are comfortable as you are. If you'd like to change something, you may change your class(es)/features, feats, skills, and spells. Abilities and equipment will remain.
Reviewing your current character sheet, I do see a few things that you have not capitalized on in-game, at least not thus far. I want to give you this opportunity to change them if you'd like. In addition, I'd like to incorporate these things into my game if you'd like to keep them, or add anything new.

For example, and I should have mentioned this ages ago, but you might have noticed my DM'ing style is pretty lax regarding spell components. Your Eschew Materials feat is basically wasted. The only real time I would question your having materials to cast, is if you were in a situation where you were separated from your equipment for an extended period of time (i.e. captured in a tiger pit trap for days type of thing).
Although I am a huge advocate of the Spell Focus feats, and you have conjured a monster or two in your day, you only have one summon spell (I). If you'd like to change that out too, I would totally understand.

Sh!t's about to get real, Stan. ;-)