With a start, Xillian belted upwards from bed. For a moment, he saw glimpses of unfettered reality, walls melting, the air going backwards, the patterns of the wingbeats of every mote of dust. It was but a glimpse before his coping skills kicked in, and he reeled himself back to a more grounded world, releasing a pent up breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.
 
He felt sweaty. He must have had bad dreams, or else it was very hot in here. After what he had just been though, he was going to say both, as he could be on the snowiest mountains of Stensia and still have these sweats. Getting dragged into a nightmare world constructed of your darkest fears - hell even surviving what he had - was enough to drive most men comfortably insane. He had no such luxury.
 
The mosaic of his mind fractured long ago, so many glittering pieces jumbling about in an orchestra of sporadic inspirations as varied as the winds.
 
Why was he in a bed, anyways?
 
Xillian finally looked around the blue room, noticing that the carpet was the same as that in a house he had been in before. He couldn’t recall when, only that he had. Also, there was someone else in the room. Several someones, in fact. Looking around, he spied seven or eight individuals by his bedside. It wasn’t shocking that he hadn’t noticed before; in his manic fits he often couldn’t even see other people, let alone give a shit about them. A friend called it “Sociopathy”, but Xillian was sure that was a made up word.
 
“Um...” Xillian croaked with a sore throat, still feeling out of place, “Hello, everyone.”
 
The group nodded, half in awe, half simply not knowing what to say. A few let out a happy sigh, and most were smiling.
 
“I suppose the question we’re all asking ourselves right now is, why am I in this bed?” There was a light chuckle through the group before one of them spoke up.
 
“You’re in my house, monsieur,” said a mustached man with simple clothing, standing out from the better-dressed folk around him, “I’m Pierre, the cobbler. Your...uh...friend dropped you off here and told my family to watch out for you.”
 
“Ah, yes, thank you, Pierre. I’ll have to pay you back for this hospitality.” Xillian looked off, distantly, into space for a second, as if reading some manifest to which only his eyes was privy, before adding “How long was I out? A few days?”
 
“No, just for most of the morning. I was about to have supper with my wife when you made the lightning strike.” replied the cobbler, getting nods from those around him.
 
“Lightning?” he asked, before looking up, “Oh yes. I was feeling a little drafty. Didn’t start any fires?” He looked back at the group, futilely brushing some wood chips and dust from the small hole in the roof out of his tangled hair.
 
“Just the sheets,” replied the Cobbler, “and we changed those before you began to come to.”
 
“Right right... Was the mayor...?” he asked, and the question was met with grim looks, “Ah, good, glad your problem is fixed. The manor should be safe as well; I handled your ghost problem...but the rats might need some fixing.”
 
“Would you like some fresh clothes, monsieur? I think my son has some that might fit you,” he offered, in a noticeably reverent voice.
 
“Yes, please...” said Xillian, before looking at everyone around him, “And what of your guests? Did you at least charge admission?” The last part was a joke, which caused comfortable smiles among those present.
 
“Most are the town’s Cabinet, and a few are just curious, such as Mrs. Hamburg over there,” replied the cobbler, pointing at a shy, petite woman wearing a bonnet and fluffy, frilly dress. She looked up at Xillian with fair features and a small, timid smile.
 
“Uh-huh,” he responded, “And what of the family I saved?”
 
“My son is well,” responded Mrs. Hamburg, “I must thank you for your timely intervention, you are looking much better than last night.”
 
“Oh, yes,” responded the lightning mage, “sorry if I was a little frightening. Moon here makes my scars stand out.”
 
“All is forgiven.” she responded, blushing. With a chuckle, Xillian turned back to Pierre. “Would you be so kid, my host, to escort everyone out and give me some time to change? I will take care of my business with the Cabinet away from your home, as I am afraid I have imposed too much all ready.”
 
“Of course, monsieur,” Pierre said with a faint smile, “This way people, let us give the slayer his peace.”
 
The crowd was pushed out of the room, and Xillian found himself alone. He yawned wide, not entirely sure what happened after his talk with Arix. He supposed he fainted from exhaustion, or strain. He wasn’t the most able-bodied of men, as anyone could tell. He could even see his ribs sometimes, a fact he noticed as he rose.
 
Yeah, he was stark naked.
 
No, this did not please him.
 
“Oh damn, those robes were custom tailored, too,” he moaned, rising with some strain, sore muscles protesting the effort. “I’ll have to nab some more from Tin Street when I get back to the office. Till then,” he stretched a little bit, “I’ll make do.”
 
The tattoos and scars were no longer visible, his magics no longer disrupted by the moon of Innistrad. His ugly reminders would return in the night, unless he actually put effort into redoubling the illusion, something he could not afford in the middle of a fight, no matter how severe.
 
With a sigh, he checked the foot of the bed, where some clothes had been laid just before the party had left. They looked hand-made and, while rough, they didn’t seem that poorly made. They were strong and heavy, and a little baggy. He was just happy to be saved from running around Innistrad with his ass hanging out.
 
Examining the leather-belted pants, he noticed a few straps down the side. Probably for holding weapons, tools, or braces, he thought. Was the cobbler’s son a blacksmith, a cobbler as well, a Cathar perhaps? Firemind, the Cathars. Xillian had almost forgotten about them, the holy warriors of the Church, the last bastion against the darkness, the knights who stave off evil, those hooligans who couldn’t find their ass from their brains.
 
Inquisitors ticked Xillian off a little. That went without saying.
 
They reminded him of the Boros Legion, those militaristic assholes who always charged in first and asked questions never. Don’t get me wrong, Xillian loved Arix as a brother, despite his own personal alignments. Even if he and the Legion shared some views, that did not shift any malcontent from the Legion towards Arix. Xillian just felt the Legion could stand to create more, and destroy less.
 
Oh, right. The Cathars. How did he get to thinking on them? Xillian looked at his reflection once more, seeing the pants that he’d put on absentmindedly. Ah, yes, the pants. They were very good quality, actually, despite their rough appearance. The craftsmanship and sturdiness of them was unexpected, given their simple construction.
 
“Why am I admiring pants?” Xillian muttered to himself, before looking himself in the eye. It had a familiar glint to it, one he always got right before an episode. “Well, Xill, seems you’re going to have an episode soon.”
 
“I know that,” he responded, “I’m looking in my own eyes.”
 
“No need to be rude!” he exclaimed.
 
“Shut it, both of you,” he snapped, twitching towards his left foot, “We don’t want to creep out the people in this house. No idea how thin the walls are.”
 
“They’re exactly seven point four inches thick, mostly clay and straw stuffed between logs with a thinner interior wall of about three inches comprised of planks and a covering of clay,” he rambled, pulling the shirt over his head.
 
“We know that, dumbass, it was a rhetorical question.”
 
“... Fine.”
 
“Oh, look what you did now, you’ve hurt his feelings!”
 
“I did not hurt my own feelings by talking strictly with myself!”
 
“Shhhhh, you’re getting too loud!”
 
“WOW, THIS SHIRT IS SOFT!”
 
There was a knock at the door, to which Xillian turned with a devilish smile.
 
“Is everything alright in there?” asked a female on the other side, a little worry in her voice.
 
“Oh yes, everything is fine,” he said, glad to have shut himself up. Opening the door, he smiled kindly, and motioned for her to lead him, “I am extremely thankful for this hospitality. It means the world to me.”
 
“Oh, do not worry, ‘tis nothing. Pierre is just setting the bowls out for supper, and we would be honored for you to join us.” She seemed well intentioned, but Xillian couldn’t possibly-
 
“Grrrrrrwlg,” said his stomach, earning a reproachful stare from Xillian. “Groll,” it added, to which Xillian’s shoulders slumped.
 
“It’s settled,” she said, beaming, “I’ll fetch Colbert.”
 
Xillian walked through the one-story house, moving to a rather large table, and waited, almost unsure of where to sit. He wasn’t familiar with the family’s traditions, and didn’t want to have to deal with the temptation of picking at some of his... well, he assumed that was food. A few moments later, Pierre came in with a bottle, likely from a wine cellar, and sat down, motioning for Xillian to sit to his left. Three children came in, one small girl, a teenaged lady, and a young man, who Xillian assumed was the rightful owner of his current garb.
 
“Ah, good you could join us, Colbert,” said Pierre, grabbing his cork screw. “It seems you’ll be sitting next to our guest of honor!”
 
After handshakes and friendly greetingswere passed around, the family and Xillian began to eat, Pierre offering Xillian a glass of wine.
 
“So, Xillian,” said Pierre, “I have never heard a name such as yours. From which region do you hail?”
 
“Well,” Xillian said, with a deep sigh, “I’m from a distant land, known as Turri. You wouldn’t know of it, as it’s far beyond the seas.”
 
“The seas?” interrupted Colbert in disbelief, “You mean you’re from beyond the mists? That’s impossible, nothing exists out there!”
 
“Don’t be so rude, son!” scolded Pierre. “Please, continue monsieur.”
 
“Well, yes. The isle of Turri. It’s a venerable fortress. I left there by accident one night, entirely not of my volition, mind you,” Xillian continued, noticing the sour look on the younger man’s face, Pierre enthralled, “and ended up in a massive city. It was known as Ravnica. My, my, the streets are paved in gold in some places, and it’s so large that you could walk in one direction for days and never see the end of it.”
 
“What did you do there?” asked a very interested lady from across the table, the teen.
 
“Elise, do not interrupt the man,” this time the mother spoke up.
 
“It’s quite all right, ma’am.” Xillian responded casually, turning to Elise. “Well, I was what was called a ‘Magister’, sort of like your papa, only rather than being a cobbler, I was a master of something called ‘electricity’. Are you familiar with the term?” he asked the family, getting perplexed looks from the family, save Colbert, who lost a little color.
 
“Like, lightning?” asked the younger, receiving a beaming smile from Xillian.
 
“Exactly so!” he responded, ecstatic, before the young man pushed his chair back and stood up violently.
 
“That is heresy,” Colbert spat, his temper rising, “That is the methods of a skaaberen! A corpse architect!”
 
Pierre was about to demand his son sit down and shut up, but Xillian was on his feet in a flash, already in Colbert’s face.
 
“Boy,” he said in a mad tone, a strange glint in his eye, “those foolhardy idiots who waste time trying to create life from the dead are no better than artificers who spend hours looking at a bolt and a nut trying to figure out the morality behind why they screw together!”
 
Colbert was speechless, for the lopsided grin and the twinkle in Xillian’s eyes showed a deeper, darker pool beneath the otherwise noble exterior, that of a fractured mind. Slowly sitting down, Colbert returned to his food, not even venturing an eye at the Izzet mage and his haunting gaze. Staring down the young man, Xillian also returned to his chair, making sure that should Colbert look up, he would catch sight once more of the madman beneath.
 
“So, you study electricity?” asked Pierre after an awkward moment, intrigued. “Like a scientist, I assume.”
 
“Quite so. In fact, I’m even a bit of a mage. As a wizard, I can create lightning from my fingertips. This is, obviously, supplemented by my understanding of the deeper physics.” Xillian boasted, getting a stunned look from those present. Elise was more interested than the others at the table, however. “I used this magic to slay the werewolves last night. They didn’t even realize what was going on before I had them.”
 
Colbert finished his meal and downed the last of his drink, before rising and bidding his mother and father a good night, kissing his sister on the forehead. Pierre and his wife began to clear the places, and Xillian sat back, looking over at Elise with a small smile.
 
“Let me guess,” said Elise, “You just kinda pointed at them and they rolled over?”
 
With a chuckle, Xillian shook his head. “It was a bit niftier than that. Here, let he show you,” he said, putting his drink down, splaying his fingers on his right hand, arcs of electricity began to bounce back and forth between the fingers. The young girls eyes went wide, amd she gasped a little, a small “wow” escaping her lips. Xillian smiled, and let the energy fade, leaning close.
 
“A secret,” he whispered, “is that anyone who really, really wants to learn how to do it, can be taught if they have a strong enough connection to the Mana. But the really gifted students are not the ones who have an aptitude for magic, but an aptitude for learning.” Elise smiled wide, and stood up.
 
“When I’m old enough, I’m going to do the same thing too!” she exclaimed, earning a laugh from Xillian.
 
“I’m sure you will,” he said with a happy smile, “I’m sure you will.”
_____
 
Closing the door behind him, Xillian turned towards the town proper, the small outermost cottage that Pierre’s family lived in a short distance from the manor he had investigated the night before. He was sure Arix was off finding food for himself, and since the dragon was capable enough to handle himself, the Magister didn’t worry.
 
Xillian had a very important task to take care of with the town’s Cabinet, namely the activities of the mayor, who was actually the leader of the council that ran the town. While the tedium was alleviated by their numbers, Xillian couldn’t stand having to deal with multiple people, trying to convince them all at once of his objective. This was going to be very painful, of that Xillian was sure.
 
Checking the new knapsack gifted to him by the very friendly family, he pulled out the weathered scroll. It was a bill of sale, to a “Peobody Noneson, Esquire”. It was an alias, for sure, and from the context, Xillian was sure he could find who it was that used it. As it happened, the mayor Xillian had killed had been using the slain from his murderous sprees to fund the cover-up. Ingenious, and depraved to the extreme. Xillian was glad this mayor person had never been to Ravnica; the power he could have amassed with that mentality would have been dangerous.
 
The short stroll through the bustling town was eventful. The people of Avabruck parted for him, children pointed and smiled, men and women both looked at him with a kindness in their eye for his deed. He had saved a woman and her child from certain death, as well as ending a scourge upon the town proper. He was celebrity for a day. To Avabruck, he was a hero.
 
A few tips of his new tricorn to a few passers-by, some small talk with a curious child, and Xillian finally arrived at his destination, a tall building with which he was familiar, having escaped just last night from the clutches of a specter within. Loathe as he was to enter it again, he honeslty had no choice.
 
Walking up to the double doors, a pair of pikemen opened them regally, fully expecting him. A pretty red velvet carpet that he hadn’t fully noticed the night before ran up the stairs, brass rods weighing it down. The mirror that stood to the back of the landing had been removed, a clear mark on the wood behind it from where time and dust had worn the wood darker around the mirror.
 
“Ah, Mister Xillian!” said the voice of an old man to Xillian’s right, “the man of the hour, if I do say so myself.”
 
It was Georgeir, one of the oldest mayors of Avabruck. He was well-received and considered one of the best men in the village, and his senile, happy demeanor almost took Xillian off-guard.
 
“Thank you, Mayor.” Xillian responded, matter-of-factly. He wasn’t interested in ceremony, solely in results and the matter of interest. “I assume you are to show me to the waiting Mayors?”
 
“Yes, yes, this way please,” responded Georgeir, hobbling off at an old man’s pace with an old man’s gait down an old hallway to the right, a section of the manor Xillian had not explored.
 
As it happened, it was a very lavish parlor, and a pot of tea, or he assumed it was tea, was sitting on a silver platter on Nephalian table. Ornate chairs contained two elderly gentlemen, and two vacant chairs awaited the third mayor and his old man butt, and Xillian. The lightning mage slowly walked in, rummaging absently in his pouch, checking with his senses to ensure everything was present.
 
“Gentlemen,” Xillian nearly yelled, “We’ve no time to discuss this, yes, I did more than we agreed to and yes, you’re going to pay me for that too, same bounty as the werewolf.”
 
“B-bu-”
 
“No, but nothing, and I’m not done yet. Comfy?” Xillian asked, taking a stand behind his chair as the old man put his old ass in his old man’s old chair. “Good. We have a problem. The mayor was selling the bodies of those he and his pack killed to someone in Nephalia. I’ve not yet uncovered who, but I’m confident that if, with some aid from you three, I can uncover who it was that was buying bodies from the mayor. Unless you want this news to go to the public and have to deal with a riot, I suggest you listen.”
 
While he was speaking rather quickly, the Mayors were quiet, if a little fidgety and awkward. They looked at one another, but did not speak a word.
 
Odd. Xillian couldn’t be that alienating; he was sure that they would listen to a charismatic and take-charge individual who had a sure grasp of leverage. It had to be something other than him. They were too veteran politicians for this to shock them that horribly.
 
“Right. I need you to allocate me a guide through the Moorland to Nephalia. We need to get there yesterday, so a pair of horses for myself and the guide as well.”
 
“What of your compatriot,” asked one of the younger mayors, “The...dragon?” The last part was almost a whisper, as if he was afraid of Arix, but he could hear another tone on the man’s voice, one that hinted at disgust that the Hunter would affiliate with such a being.
 
“Arix,” Xillian made sure to address his friend by name, “will fly hard and fast by our side, as I do not wish to burden him with the supplies we shall be having. Gentlemen, we need that guide, things have been deteriorating fast. The undead bolster their numbers daily, vampires encroach further and further into ‘safe’ hamlets...I fear this is but a part of a greater plot against us. If I do not unravel this mystery and end whatever it is that conspires against us that requires around a hundred bodies a month...” Xillian pulled out the bill, and set it on the table. One of the mayors took it as Xillian finished, “I shudder to think of what this world might devolve to.”
 
The mayors looked at one another as they passed the note around. They passed worried looks and hushed murmurs. Finally, they handed the bill back.
 
“You will have what you need, Xillian.” said Georgeir, “I shall dispatch a soldier to retrieve some food and supplies from the granary and barracks, enough rations for a week’s ride, and another to saddle our fastest horses.”
 
“Thank you,” Xillian said, rising, “Your decision may well have saved us from certain death.” as he made to move, one of the three called to him.
 
“Xillian,” Georgeir said, “Go with speed, and do not stray far from the path. There are worse beasts in the Morkrut Swamp and the Moorland than just banshees and unhallowed.”
 
A dire warning, one Xillian made sure to keep in mind as he strolled from the manor. Morkrut was a dangerous region, even when Avacyn was strongest. Could Georgeir be insinuating the resurgence of something far more diabolical than any ghoulcaller? Could he mean...
 
Demons?
 
A shiver went down Xillian spine. There was no good demon, nor a trustworthy one, only one which considers you useful to itself. He should know; he had slain one once. And that was far from an easy feat.