We're about to be sitting on empty instead.

Turning to the incoming noise, you just barely see the shocked look on your companions faces before seeing what they have seen. A black stagecoach; which seems to use bones in place of wood, drawn by a strange pair of skeletal beasts; they appear to be the bones of some sort of horned horses, each having three pairs of legs. The stagecoach itself bares a symbol in lead, that of an hourglass that has reach the end of its flow. Masses of wax sit atop the roof at its four corners, each with a protruding wick that is lit with a flame. Most disturbing are the wheels, each of the four having the skeletal remains of both humans and monsters of some sort strewn between the spokes; akin to those subjected to the tender touch of the breaking wheels in history books... we used to read those...

"Hail, young ones!" A polite, yet grandous and flamboyant voice calls out, that of an older gentleman.

A shame this gentleman appears to be headless; a lanky, long-armed body sitting in the driving seat of the stagecoach; the head that produced the sound sitting next to him, with a rather silly mustache that covered his whole mouth; yet moved vigorously when he spoke. His body was nearly see through, and seem to be comprised of a collection of wispy after-images. His body wore a fine suit, bound in chain to the stagecoach. What sat atop his severed mustachiod head was a silly tall, yet thin hat, which too bore a wick, wax, and flame.

The headless specter pulls to a stop, releasing his left hand from the reigns, and lifting his head over towards the watching window of the main compartment; our ears pick up the following blips of half of a conversation held in whispers. "Ah, yes... guests... Runacathy types... a priestess... the hunt... pie!... Saltmoore..."

The phantom lifts his head from the window, and towards your group, calling out "Which way are you headed, ladies and gentleman?"

The other stand silently, so you answer. "Saltmoore... and you?"

The ghost calls out "Ah, my mistress is heading the same way! She has asked that you accompany her within our Hearse, as the way there is quite long, and the roads around there are far from safe!"

Cilla looks as though she is experiencing a mixture of euphoria and total dread, while Gabriella is simply terrified. You, however, have no concept of fear as of right now.

"Oh, yeah. Kinda should work on that." Urge says, still as useless as ever.

You walk towards the 'Hearse', followed closely by your companions, able to make out an almost excited whisper of pondering from our cloaked friend. "It can't be... can it? Oh..."

Once you are within hand-shaking distance of the headless man, he tips his head as though it were a hat, saying "A pleasure to meet you, mortals. I am Sir Archibalde Dropspoon 'the Goblinwacker' the Third. But please do just call me Archie. My mistress awaits you inside."

"Ok... Thank you... Archie..." You say. Such manners! Ah, I'm so proud.

The girls choose to simply nod and wave. The door to the stagecoach swings open, seemingly of its own accord. The interior is drenched in an unnatural darkness, with a gloved hand reaching out to take ours. You put out your own clawed mitt, and are pulled in. You are unable to see, but hear the noises of a cloak ruffled about to your side, and the clanking of a wooden staff. Then, all at once, the darkness fades, revealing your traveling companions sat next to you. Sat across from you, however, is a stranger.

What little of her skin that can be seen is as pale as our own, with raven black hair reaching down past her shoulders. The top half of her face is obscured by a sort of ballroom mask, in the shape of a skull. Besides that extravagant piece, her clothing would more accurately be described as armor. Black leather worked to fit her thin frame perfectly, with plates of darkened metal place to protect more vital parts of her body, but not restrict movement. Her leggings too were the same style of flexible, lightweight protection, down to her boots, which looked sturdy enough to crush a man's skull. Pulled around her shoulders is a cloak of feathers, which, you guessed it, is black.

"Goth alert" Urge says... Oh, Ego a goth is a...

Nevermind, she greets you "Greetings, Mortals. I am Mortigan. Daughter of Ihsrom."

"The God Hunter..." Cilla says in awe; you are still unsure if she is excited about this meeting, or terrifed.

"Oh that silly nickname... Yes. I am." She gives a small smile. "Well then, who are you three then? Don't worry, none of you are on my list."

I HATE THIS ONE

Silence!

NO HEARTBEAT! NO THUMP! NO THUMP!

Listening closely, you hear the pounding hearts of your companions. You somehow come to the conclusion that Gabriella's heartbeat is fearful, but not for herself. Cilla's heart is blasting out a steady flow of joyful excitement, intrigue, and amazement. This Mortigan however... her heart lies silent, should she even have one. Why can we hear these palpitations so... intimately. We can discern intent, desire, and other details of importance from these sounds, but how...

You are nudged. Apologies, the other had given their names, and I was too busy pondering to detail it to you. They have asked for a name...

What is our name?

"What is our name?"

"What is our name?"

"I'm sorry, madam Mortigan, but he... um... lacks one. I call him Nameless, like those of the Runacathies who arrive with no name, or abandon their old one." Cilla interjected for us, good. If we kept thinking like that, we might have remembered...

"Of course. A pleasure to meet you, Nameless." The daughter of **** reaches out a hand to shake.

You grasp it, and shake it up and down dramatically like a buffoon... damn you, Ego, and your inability to think!

"Your fault" Says Urge, even though it most certainly is NOT!

She ignores your failed handshake, asking instead. "So... Who are your Patrons, my guests? And no, I will not be mad if it is not my father."

Gabbie responds with pride, puffing up her chest in a familiar way to a certain away angel. "I serve the Martyr God Ariel... he's... uh.. my big brother."

Mortigan's eyes light up at Ariel's name. "Oh, you're the sister of the cute new arrival back home? Father was always fond of the Martyr God line. So willing to accept ****. What of you, Ranger of the Runacathies?"

While our priestess friend recovers from the idea of ****'s own daughter finding her brother 'cute', Cilla responds with "Ah, yes. I serve two of the eight, my lady. Ardor, God of Seasons, Cycles, and the Wild. Along with Mahcae, God of Lore, Magic, and Order.

"The usual pair for a researcher like yourself. I've always been fond of Uncle Ardor, his trees are great to hide in on the hunt. Now how about you, Nameless?" She turns to you, expectantly.

Um... do we go with Ariel?

"No, we don't worship bros." Urge says, unhelpful as all hell.

"The truth never dies, until somebody lies."

I thought you were supposed to be mad, why are you making sense right now?

"We're the same person, we're all mad. Barking. Raving. Mad."

You try to shut the voices in your head out, speaking as you do. "No... one..."

The atmosphere of the stagecoach compartment turns cold as ice in that very instant the words left your mouth... no, wait... the temperature has actually dropped, our breath is now visible with each exhale.

****'s spawn looks at you with enough spite and vitriol as to make a rabid dog look like a harmless puppy; she asks you "And why is that? Simply agnostic, or..."

The other two girls look to you with concern, but being the simpleton you are, you ignore this indicator of danger; opening our dumb mouth again. "Don't... want to be... dragged into... fights anymore. Just want... to be... left alone..."

The interior of the stagecoach returns to a normal temperature, and the look on Mortigan's face becomes a conveyance of neutrality once more. "Ah. Not an upstart then. Good, so no Nameless on my list."

Outside, the bombastic voice of Archie can be heard.

"Mistress, we have arrived at Saltmoore! Oh, once more I must say, you simply have to try the local pie! Its to die for!"