From: andrea@cm.deakin.OZ.AU (Andrea Todkill)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: Kadrys reads Zia's note
Message-ID: <3452@sol.deakin.OZ.AU>
Date: 12 Jul 92 01:14:38 GMT

By the time Zia returns to the inn the sun is risen, she hastily closes the
door so that the sunlight does not discomfort Kadrys.
Kadrys greets her as she puts a hand on his shoulder, and looks around
at the people of the table.
' I'm sorry Kadrys, I won't be staying, I have a few things to do.  I
will se you soon though, I will come by this afternoon... I would like a
little sleep.'
With this she is possesed by a yawn and she stretches in a manner
reminiscent of a cat. 
' This might explain things a little...', she says as she hands over a
scroll, similar to that which she handed over to Littlefair.
She grins, but her eyes look a little sad.
'The invitation extends to all who wish to come...', she looks around
the table, and shrugs a little.
' Bye for now.' 
And walks off, out of the inn.

Kadrys follows Zia with his eyes as she leaves, then recalls the scroll in
his hands. He examines it carefully.
It is on quite expensive vellum, with a a black wax seal.  The seal has
a complex geometric pattern on it, made up of circles linked in an
offset pattern which to the casual eyes forms a torus. Kadrys notes that it
is actually made up of only a single line in a dizzying helix, wound so tightly
that each turn resembles a single circle.
Kadrys breaks the seal and gives a quiet gasp of surprise. As he holds it up to
the light the Inn's patrons can see that the scroll contains neither letters
nor runes, but pictograms, of a type none of the watchers has ever seen before.
The simplicity of the symbols speaks of the extreme antiquity of the language,
but they have been drawn with such elegance and grace that the clumsy sigils
have been transformed into tiny works of art. He breathes: "Kutuk. A language
already almost vanished from the world when I still lived." His eyes scan the
pictures, deciphering the message. As he does so, his face slowly drains of all
expression, and he goes completely still. Even the delicate parchment in his
hand does not move at all. In that moment, he is indeed a lifeless thing, a
cold and stiffened corpse, with a face as pale and harsh as naked bone. Then,
the terrible statis breaks and, as silent as a ghost, he rises from his seat
and moves over to the fireplace. The vellum glows agains the firelight like a
sheet of gold, then bursts into flames as he lowers his hand into the blaze.
His white hand black with streaks of ash and red with fading burns, he stalks
back to his place. No-one who notices him can bring themselves to meet his
gaze, or ask him what the message contained.