The Other Part of Session 1

*We go now to a place far away, deep underground. An old man sits at a desk carved from the stone of the cave. He writes casually in a thick tome, cover entirely in his messy scrawl, likely years upon years of his work. On the desk above him a faint blue light glows with a comforting hue, as it has for the past one thousand eight hundred years. He was not the first to watch it, and he would not be the last.*

*The light - the ever-present light flickers briefly for a moment. The old man looks up at the light and stares at it for a moment, assuring himself that it was still glowing, before muttering under his breath about getting old.*

*The light flickers again.*

*It turns off.*

*He stares, unbelieving for a moment, as the light remains unlit and then like an explosion he rises to his feet, ignoring the way his body groans in protest. He dashes away, his tome, his life work, clattering to the floor discarded. He practically flies up the stairs, moving faster than he has in years, faster than he thought his old body could move, and quickly lashing two horses to a carriage as soon as he reaches the surface.*

Minutes after stepping outside he notices the rain pounding down around him, although he was already soaked, and begins to drive the carriage. Although the path is mostly overgrown, he knows it well; better than any mortal alive today. The horses are pounding down the path, their footsteps muffled by the mud and rain.

He pulls them to a stop, a tree down blocking the path. Quickly clambering out of the carriage he goes to do what he can to move the tree before his instinct, dulled from decades of misuse, begin to scream at him.

"Ah Mr. Pratfoot fancy seeing you here!" A voice echoes from behind him. He spins around, to see a man in a sharp white suit, seemingly untouched by the rain.

"It seems you have me at a disadvantage Mister..." Pratfoot says, trying to catch his breath. He's pushed himself harder than he has in years and is *not* ready for an encounter with anyone.

"Mogul." He finishes for the old man, "Embras Mogul. High Priest of ■■■■■, at your service."

The old man shivers, having nothing to do with the cold rain pouring around him. That *name* was not to spoken. If ■■■■■ had a High Priest again then... that just confirmed that he *needed* to pass the message on that the Nails were weakening.

"I'm terribly sorry to impose, on a day with weather as bad of this, and knocking down a tree in your path... why, it's rather inhospitable of me." Embras continue, seemingly oblivious of the cold terror running through Pratfoot at the moment. "But I believe you've received a message tonight that we just... can't let you pass on."

"So if you and I just came to an agreement about me not passing on the message then I could leave?" Pratfoot asks, still offput by the nonchalance of the man in front of him.

"Why yes! That's just the idea I had." Embras replies, a good-natured smile on his face. "You just agree to not tell another soul about this whole business and the light turning off and we'll-"

A gunshot splits the night.

Blood begins to pool through the old man's stomach, although most of it is whisked away by the rain.

"Did you have any last words Edward?" Embras asks, as the old man slowly collapses to the ground, the Nail through Edward Pratfoot's heart begins to glow. "I am terribly sorry about this whole mess, but I hope you understand."

"Grandfather the seals on the darkness are beginning to fail," The light from the Nail begins to switch from a dull silver colour to a deep gold, and, almost casually, Embras lunges forward and sinks a knife into the old man's throat, silencing his words.

"Now we can't have that, now can we?" Embras states, looking almost sadly towards the now inert corpse of Edward Pratfoot. "Well everyone, lets pack up and be on the move."