The clerk takes the pendant from Larsen and sniffs haughtily.  "Barely, after the appraiser gets his cut, but I suppose it will do.  Name?"  The clerk dutifully writes down the name Larsen gives him and nods officiously.  "Welcome to Sigil.  Step lively and join the queue at the portal, please -- that's the large stone ring, there, just follow someone if you can't figure it out -- and wait your turn to pass through into the city.  You ought to be warned that the Sons of Mercy don't take kindly to the Clueless causing trouble, so mind your manners."  The clerk waves you past him, anxious to tend to the next group of travelers.<br/><br/>You join the long queue of humanoids, beasts of burden, and some combinations of the two leading up to the stone ring, and as you approach the rough ball of dirt and rock at the center of the broad docking structure you begin to realize just how massive it is.  The wharves spread outward in all directions from the hub, curving slowly upward and away from the "horizon."  There must be thousands if not tens of thousands of boats moored here, to a chunk of rock in the middle of the very definition of nowhere.<br/><br/>As you approach the portal, you begin to be able to make out vague images of the city of Sigil through its plane, as though you were underwater in a hot spring, straining to peer through cloudy water and surface mist.  You see a gabled roof here, a formless statue there, but nothing you can put a name to.<br/><br/>Finally it is your turn to pass through the gate, and you are stopped by two men bearing pikes and a third standing at a lectern.  "Names and your business in Sigil," he demands through the Spartan faceplate of his helm.