In his sparse boarder's room, Cael can almost touch both walls at once.  Rain trails the windows like silvery fingers, though the rain seems to have abated for now.  Through the floor, he can make out the muted laughter of a woman, the roar of the crowd... then sudden silence.  There is no sound but the soft ringing in his ears of a sudden silence, then, among it, the rustling of leaves, the whisper of dew falling from breeze-stirred branches.  As he turns toward the door, he becomes aware of a presence, immediately behind him, that was not there before... a shape, blocking the window.  A broad-shouldered man stands in the shadows of the rooms small oillamp, his bare shoulders like knots of wrist-thick vines.  His hair, wild and unkempt, is youthful, angular.  His breath is the only sound before he speaks.  "Cael," he says softly.  "It is time."<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>Downstairs, Oz finds hmiself staring up into the face of the massive, leopard-clad man, his eyes screwing up in a look of disgust as his huge shoulders heave with rage.   The one-eyed warrior who, up to now, had been content to nurse his cider lets his chair topple to the floor as he as well, and with an effortless motion he lunges forth toward Oz to loom over him.-- all sixteen stone of him coiled and ready to strike.  "Necropolis?" Says the pelt-wearer, who turns from where he's been standnig to leer down at Oz.  "You be listening to me speak all night, or jus now did you get an urge to die, worm?"  His hand creeps toward the stout, knarly club at his belt.  There is a rustling of wind-whipped silk behind him, and suddenly the weapon is gone-- his hands close on the air, and he blinks rapidly and stares down to where his club had been.  "Wha--" The bearded, bald man and the one-eyed grunt lunge for Oz, their drinmk limiting the finess of their attack to a ham-fisted lurch of mass.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>Lucille senses something evil is transpiring around her, and the icy chill down her spine returns.  Shadows are gathering at the windows of the tavern like whirling black mists and she can sense through her growing unnease that the tavern are being surrounded.  There is the feeling of whispering at her ears, and for a moment she thinks she can hear words.  "-- ordained by the piss of a so-called god, no doubt... oh, what a wate of flesh... let us take it..."  "... nay, so many to seize upon, we must snatch the berry before we snare the fox..." "ooooh, but she craves it she does..."  Her mace feels reassuring in her hand, and the icy feeling creeps thruogh her body in ways she doesn't entirely expect...<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>Katarzyna is passnig the door, and feels a number of presences without the structure.  A well-shouldered man with eyes like the sea sidles past her for the door, some look of intent in his eyes (Glais).  He seems determined to get more than fresh air from the outside, and she can see in his carriage that he is something more than human.  Soemthing in him is good, and the dark goddess' grip on her seems to bristle at his presence... that is forgotten, however, as the dark one's gift makes her aware that, at this very moment, something black, shapeless-- like living smoke, is curling its way around her calf.  In that spectre she can see forms that fade and reform, as of hands attemptint to climb up her body.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>The music that flies from Krin's lips and fingers is reaching a crecendo, and as if possessed he springs to his feet-- he is on the broad span of a wooden table without having intended to do so.  The boards thump under his feet as he dances, and words spring into his mouth.  He drops the flute from his lips as he cants a story  in a language he does not recognize, but somehow knows... "And it shall come to pass that the city will rise that has been forgotten, and its people shall ride the skins of the children of light and shall lead them to darkness! "  The moment passes, suddenly, and Krin finds himself staring into the eyes of a dumbfounded audience-- the dancing seems to have stopped, as has the singing.  A brawl appears to be breaking out in the back of the room, and a shrill cry pierces the night from outside--<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>(simultaneous with prior)  Glais sees the rain-drenched night beyond the tavern door, the cool of the air and the welcoming moisture waft over and through him like the breath of the sea.  The wench and her quarry seem to be rutting against the runnnig board of a nearby wagon-- the trader's velvet-clad back is toward the door, and her hair can be seen over his shoulder.  No army can be seen, though the fresh rain's mist creeps up from the soil like smoke from the ashes of the world.  And then, whether he'd intended to spy them or not, he notices something... well, vile.  A spattering sound, and the splash of something ichorous at the couple's feet.  The angle affords him little view, but from the distance something surprising becomes evident: the trader's head flips back like a corn husk, the tendons that connected it in front having been removed in a gory rending.  The dead man's head rests between his shoulders and a the girl's head-- her hair matter with blood-- bobs where she seems to be working at his chest-- perhaps, it seems, chewing.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>(back to Lucille for new info)  The paladin knows, suddenly and certainly, that she is surrounded by the dead.