The beast within Khor did not see reason or any sense of logic except for that which complied to his own twisted sense of vengeance and lust for murder. He howled at the sky, and Sura saw the red veins circling his eyes - the demon, it seemed, had been unleashed. He was entirely nude save for the cracked, tormented Murder Knife. He was a killing machine..

"Murderrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

But an intelligent one. He knew what the gate meant, even in this rage-filled state. He leaped into portal with the electric grace of the tiger, and the thing shimmered and closed behind him.

Oh, there would be murder.

Sura drew a long sigh. Crisis avoided. Sura then sat down calmly in the sand and took a brief moment. He asked for a high ranking cultist, perhaps one who was working with Khor in organising troops. As he waiting, he began cultivating the realm by raising the sand from underneath the city, creating a hill. Any army wishing to invade would have to climb up treacherous sand in the scorching heat. He knew this could exert him so he took his time.

Sura had risen the sand about the city by about a centimeter - the endeavour was both taxing and lengthy - when he was met by Brother Caliph of the Fourth Degree. Caliph was Khor's direct underling and served as a lieutenant-officer amongst the troops.

"Master Sura," he bowed. "How might I assist you?"

He continued while he spoke. "Tell me the status of our men. Khor had to step out for a moment, so you're in charge. Also i need preparations for me to take the innvocations of the sun immediately. Before the battle commences. " He then spoke quietly
This message was last edited by the player at 17:01, Sun 15 Aug 2010.

"I.. yes, of course," said Caliph. There was terror in his eyes. Khor was a disturbingly frightening man. "Our legion is some eight hundred men strong. They are prepared for combat, though morale is still shaky - the Battle with the Mad will have longer affects, I fear, on their psyche. Nevertheless, each one is fully trained and committed - mortal holy warriors, soldiers of justice, capable of taking on three to four lesser men in combat. They are our elite, and only, force. Each has their Blade of the Sun and all have at least taken the first Invocation."

He smiled and continued.

"I apologise, my Lord, but you must ritually bathe and abstain for the Invocation by yourself. It is a highly personal test, as you know." He seemed a little puzzled.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:18, Sun 15 Aug 2010.

"Very good." Sura said almost too softly. "You may return to your duties" He then stopped raising the city and sat patiently for three days until the third night was upon him.

At the end of the second night, as the sun rose quietly above sleeping Tushmuthut and the embittered Guard of Night were replaced by the zealous Guard of Day, Sura found himself sitting at the edge of the city, surrounded by shattered stone.

The coming of sacred dawn was one of the most beautiful sights a man could witness, but as the beetle crawled across the sky, Sura found himself plunged into darkness, falling down a terrible Abyss within his very own mind..

The fall was great, and it continued even as Sura met the man in the yellow mask. His hands were cold and clammy, and Sura knew this even though he did not touch them, and his skin was pale. His robes were of a similar colour.

"There is a revival in the East," said the emissary of this strange place that was in a voice - and a language - that Sura could not comprehend but could still, somehow, understand. "Would you care to dance?"

Sura became cautious... He does not recall this happening in his previous Invocation. For now, he played a long. "A dance? May i first know your name? Forgive my apprehensiveness." Sura spoke calmly. This was a situation he could not yet comprehend.

"I am not to be named," said the yellow-masked thing, not unkindly. "Though you may call me by my original and most benevolent name, if you will. The shepherds of the field at the long-forgotten lake call me Haita, and it is a good name."

The abyss about them seemed to crawl and to dance, to sing and to prance with shadows. There was no light. Sura felt his skin crawl.

"You can understand my predicament," said Haita. "You know the struggle. It is a tragedy, quoth the playwright. Ever considered the hero? Death for a noble cause. Enough?"

Beneath the mask, a smile.

"Can it ever be?"

Sura tried hard to make sense of his words. "Death for a noble cause? Which cause? They're many." Sura spoke the best he could. He focused hard, still trying to figure out what was going on. This strange sense of fear is overwhelming. It is not right here.

Even as Sura tried to focus, the abyss about him blurred and danced, dodging his perceptions. Nothing about the yellow-masked host was clear, either, except for the pallid guise itself..

"There is only one cause worth fighting for. Is it love? Some are certain that it must be. Family? Perhaps. Duty? Almost certainly - to those who adhere to the code. Dust?"

Suddenly, the pseudo-silence was broken by Haita's laugh, like the screeching of a thousand locusts. Loud, disorienting, otherworldly and strangely enticing..

"Some of my brothers - and children - would think so. Dust, dust, dust.. this is the theme we must work with. Players in a great game. Who is the master? Not the Primordials.. they are a function of the universe itself, and thus cannot rule it. Not us. Not the Babbling King, the Blackened Liar.. no, it is an external force. Actors in the greatest play ever devised! Characters in a novel whose beauty transcends that of Tsang!"

The shadows suddenly dimmed.

"They work to craft their perfect world in the demise of imperfection. How is that not noble? Pawns in a game whose rules are dictated by the winner. Tell me, friend," illumination once more, "What, would you say, is worth fighting for? Dying.. for?"

It was clear that Sura had no power here and was entirely at this "Haita's" mercy. He thought Haita's question and ramblings. He had expected to answer "One must die in service of their masters" or something similar. Instead, he responded with "Whats worth dying for? Nothing is, unless your death can help the situation. So perhaps gain is worth dying for?" Sura was not sure where he was going with this, but he was speaking honestly.

"Wrong."

The answer was flat and final. An absolute truth. Shadows danced and ghosts laughed. The abyss was as black as before.

"Art is worth dying for," said Haita. "Art is what drives this universe. Meaning - the arrangement of symbols and metaphor to create change. It is a mystical act, the ultimate sublimation."

The being sighed, and Sura saw its yellow mask shimmer slightly. The cloth was at once flimsy and all-encompassing.

"It is coming. Perhaps it is already here. You have spoken with the Treacherous One, with the Thing Consumed By Mist. The False God of Mist. Rahause. Rahoose. Rayuse. He has been tasked by the urge of Yggdrasil. He is to destroy the Bloated Woman that sits on the throne of Nyahagha and drinks from the vine of the last word. In doing so he will be gifted with the Mark."

Haita stopped. Silence. Haiat seemed strangely lucid.

"You understand, Sura. He cannot complete his task. He is the trigger to begin the Purge, the end of the Mad on this Tree.. No. He cannot. The Nyarlathotep must be killed. You will hold the knife. The God of Mist will fail, and in doing so be ruined. You understand."

There was pleading in its voice.

"You understand, Sura."

Sura smirked and let out a small laugh. "If you've brought me here to ask me to kill Ruse then you have wasted your time." He spoke confidently. "Don't you worry, the God of Mist will die soon enough."

"No," said Haita the Shephard. "I have brought you here to ask you to bring an end to Nyarlathotep."

Sura was surprised by this. He, of course new all about the black man, the crawling chaos - but to end his existence? He had never given it a thought. "Why would i do this?" Sura asked cautiously.

"Because I have commanded it," said the Shepherd. "Because you desire it. Because if you do not, your universe will crumble and be consumed by entropic forces beyond your own comprehension."

Haita smiled, and Sura saw rows of crooked, jagged teeth. He was reminded of the shark, not the shepherd, and could not suppress the shudder.

"Above all, do it for art," said the shepherd. "Your World-Tree is dying. The Gallery of the Mad have taken their toll on your strange universe, and as it turns slowly to dust it contemplates a final option: the word, I believe, is archaic and forgotten.. 'kami-kaze', 'divine wind', from the Earthborn of this time.. it will consume itself in fire so that none might survive."

Shadows danced.

"But the curtains are not ready to be closed. Not yet. The game is still afoot.. I wish for you to destroy the more potent aspects of my brother so that Ruse cannot and both are ruined. I am prepared, yes. Prepared to give you what you need in return for service."

Sura thought for a moment. He thought, maybe, he was crazy to even consider doing what Haita says. But something deep inside him wanted to test himself against the Crawling Chaos. "Very well. You think you know what i desire?"

"No," admitted Haita the Shepherd. "I am not, despite all the tales and stories, despite the plays and the festivals, despite my own insurmountable power.. omniscient. I know what you need, however, for the task I have given you. But what you desire.."

He stopped, and looked at Sura. Sura saw his eyes, dead and black, filled with crawling luminous worms..

"No. What do you desire?"

He couldn't help but laugh at the mad ones honesty and humility. Sura then spoke "I desire the power to bring about the end of the conclave and bring peace to my people." He then continued after a brief pause. "However, i believe i have this power already. I would ask your opinion on that, if i may. Perhaps i am missing something key? A key you posses?"

"A key?" asked Haita, and the dead eyes behind the pallid mask showed small amusement. "Perhaps. I hold many such things, each of them more wondrous than the last. Nyarlathotep, my dearest friend, his fantastic contraptions hold no strain on my own. Tell me. What do you think I might possess?"

The shadows danced.

"A key to a door. A door that would normally be closed. I have faith in my current path, what i need is to see some options." Sura said with a hint of curiosity. "What door will your key lead me down?"

"Art and artistry, the poetry of the damned and the dead, the bleak realization of whatever barren landscape you happen to call home," said Haita. "Most importantly, I give you two tools and an offer - if you accept my own. The first tool is Inspiration, with which to destroy the Conclave from the inside out. The second is Art, with which to destroy and protect yourself from Nyarlathotep. Both are vitally important to artists, sorcerers and the mad. I believe you to be all three, and yet you possess neither of those attributes."

His eyes were alight with excitement. It was horrifying.

"And an offer. Do not be scared to refuse if you feel you are not worthy of it. I wish to give you my blessing, my bloodline: I wish to make you a scion of the Line of Hastur. Mad and broken, ineffably deadly, you will be my child and my rightmost servant. United in entropy. Together in madness."

"Your "tools" intrigue me. Those blessings i will accept. Your other offer, however, i respectfully decline. I will0 carry out your task, none the less." Sura bowed his head in respect then said; "I wish to depart then. I have a lot to do."

Haita, the Shepherd, looked worn, like ancient parchment, and sad, like a star that has realized it will soon meet death. But he also appeared as Haita also did: terrifying, inscrutable, utterly beyond reason.

And here Sura Al'Amun reasoned with it.

"Very well, my child," the thing shrugged. "It is not for everyone. The Court of Azya-Thoth will be open to all, in time, and when you find yourself in front of it's bone-carved gates, listening to the songs of my jester... you will have a chance to reconsider."

Haita smiled. It reached into its yellow robes and removed a tiny mirror - smaller than a child's palm - and an inkbrush carved of ivory taken from a fictional creature.

"Inspiration," he said, gesturing with the mirror. It shone brightly in the darkness. "And Art." The inkbrush did not shine; it did the opposite of shine, which was not to remove light but to deflect it in reverse. "Take these gifts freely, my child. Use them without restraint in your quest to destroy our Jester."