Clack, clack, click.

The sound of sandal soles marching on to the metronome of the cane. Every third beat was the steady sureness of the elder's staff striking the ground. The intricate rod designed with an inlay of with gold and inscribed with arcane script which spiraled down the haft, the words of divine command and arcane authority sealed into the staff. The staff of charming which bore itself a unique handle curved back upon itself, like a sharp question mark and bore a small crystalline orb like fruit changing from the branch. And if fingers were to pluck the fruit, the branch above was to rest a palm against nestled against the fork of a new direction, a customized handle which bore the likeness of Ioun's symbol. It was the very same symbol worn around the neck of the staff's possessor. A faithful of the arcane goddess, dressed in not clerical vestments worthy of his high rank within his holy order, but in a mere traveler's garb. Brown and white Monastic robes, plain and simple, thrown with seemingly little decorum to the untrained eye unaware of the intricate wave-like folds the drapery made. Perhaps he was known, perhaps he was not, it mattered very little the scholar deep in thought, as his stroked his short grey bread that ironically covered his chin but not his bald crown. The old man recalling a moment he answered the summons.

[hider= Click, Clack, Clack.]
[i]
The same sandals miles away, days ago. Not the cobbled path leading to the Seat of Mavros, but rather upon the polished granite floors of the Grand Library of Archimagos. Stone was stone, and the resounding echos of his steps were all too similar, but the murmur of the crowd that gathered to see the procession was far louder than that his quiet sanctum. The saintly stillness of scroll and scholar scribbling the sacred secrets in skilled silence. The whispering wizards and warlocks wandering within waiting in wonder of when the work would be wrought. His quill dipped in the blessed ink and a trembling hand placing the wetted tip against the parchment at last, yet still no line was drawn. Patience, for the mages who hurried their way about the Magocracy had none, keen keepers of time and power spent little waiting for the master to conduct his art. They watched him, and clocked him, how long did the hoary cleric sit there? Would not the ink dry by the time he began? But still he bade them wait in his meditation. For great intellect they had and never could they replicate his skill, as knowing how was merely half of the art. It was in wisdom where he had them beat, foreseeing each stroke in his mind as the black flowers flourished the empty field. Only when he saw the entirety of it all did his quill begin to move.
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Eight heroes forward.

There were many of them that had answered. Some known to him, some not. There was Sir Lakeltia on his high-horse, for what beast could bear the weight of such a man? A half-orc paladin of Tyr of the Hammers of Grimjaws, a man most upright and moral, a Justicar devoted to bettering the lands by his own might and prowess against the forces of evil and villainy. Such was the burden of his oath was it not? Thus how heavy a load must such a pair carry upon each other's backs. And then there was striding beside him with her great owlbear was Lonett of Caernath, blessed aasimar huntress of monsters. She too was known for her ferocity against the evils of this world, it was fitting that they answered the call. But what of the rest? There was the towering warforged admist them, like a giant amongst the heroic rabble. He was not known to the clergyman who dabbled not in war and warriors but rather protectors of good and peace, yet his stature and aloofness marked him to be a being born of battle. Or perhaps rather made for it, as the soldiers saluted the cold machine. Then there beside him and riding a mechanical beast was a curious gnome seeming to ponder at a drawing of the warforge designed. How quaint to see the innovator, too often mad with genius, as perhaps she was the machine's creator? One tall, one short, and the rest of the group trekking still behind them.

[hider=Eight days back.]
[i]
A week and a day ago they had come, requesting the scroll commissioned. They had paid well in donations to the library, books for shelves and gold for coffers. For the arcane arts merely brought back the dead as a shadow, only the divines had favor beyond death. They had provided the astral diamond and all other materials, and requested him to craft the scroll. Why such a group required it was a question left unanswered, even to the cleric's raised eyebrow at the nature of their secrecy. For secrets were vile tools of the servants of Vecna, knowledge held close even to confessional was treated with a wary eye. They told him not for what purpose they needed such a scroll, a spell to transcend a death dealt within one hundred years. And though they beckoned him hurry, urging the elder to carry on with their commission, the fools had forgotten under who's eye they stood. For the light of Ioun's wisdom was upon them, filtered through the stained glass of his chambers where they approached him. And there the shadow of Vecna would not cover their dark intents or hidden agendas. The ancient battle of shadows, for the greatest power second to the divines was information was it not? So who where they?
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[color=DEAD2B]"The devil smiles at the chance to collect, but what riches shall he be due?"[/color]

A proverb seemingly out of the blue. For aloft they had went together, plodding along the boisterous path. Many had come to see them, greeting them with awe and wonder as forward they ascended up the mountain pass towards a place Kethan was quite familiar with. Long since did he sequester himself in his study that the comings and goings of a market square seemed so foreign. The fishmonger, the butcher, the greengrocer all discussing prices with their clientele at stalls, as the jewelers and smiths carefully count their coins beneath the shade. Hagglers here and there, bakers and cobblers, weavers and other masters, yet as the group made their way, even the market seemed to slow to catch a glimpse of the travellers. It was not often to have a gathering of this importance, for surely if the four before came, surely the next four were just as worthy with Kethan coming last amongst them. A half-elf archer, a halfling wizard, and a human bard. His steps were slow but not struggled, the cane-staff perhaps merely a ruse to appear more fragile than he was resolving to let the others walk ahead of him. And nothing escaped the old man's eye, not even past his glasses, for not trace of mischief could elude his terrifying insight. Though perhaps there was good within the heart, the wicked mind gleaned itself a smirk. Wide across the bard's face in a flash of teeth like daggers, filled with treachery as a hand drew up his cowl. There in such a smile was a secret, one that the old man knew for too often did he see the same twinkle in the eyes of cunning youth.

[hider= Due is his own damnation, too often by his own hand.]
[i]
They had denied him, but he had finish the scroll regardless. And the victory was his, for their deception was returned with one of his own. The calligraphic writing intricately drawn across the scroll revealed nothing to them. Not until it was too late and the raging inferno consumed them all. The charred remains of the cultists withered dry within their secret dens. They had planned to resurrect the very cult leader the cleric had vanquished decades ago, using the very scroll their enemy has provided. The price of their secret was Kethan's own, for the scroll was not for a spell of resurrection, but one of pure destruction. The moment they had foolishly invoked the scroll their fate was sealed, flames erupted to consume their vile den, purging the wicked and undead with a burning celestial wrath. A firestorm unleashed and all burned in the great consuming pyre. His old enemy was ash, the secrets of Vecna were embers. And just like that, the victory was his and the survivors scattered to heal the scars of their lesson. Wrongfully deceive, and thus, rightfully receive. 
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Nine Pilgrims.

One more appeared. Her ebon wings folded into her body, like the Raven Queen herself, pale as death's unmoving lips. An elf by the points of her ears, one able to take the guise of animals, suggesting her druidcraft, but many mages too had spells to change their shapes. Quite a few times the old cleric had to remove a curse from a frog or newt, returning the victim into a man once more. Yet her unearthly earthly grace seemed far less of a swamp hag and more of some reclusive hermit, and perhaps far wiser than he was for she chose to fly rather than walk. Yet for all his knees were worth, too often did the hoary academic stalk through his treasured shelves, and should he shepherd these wandering misfit souls they may complain of not arriving to the peak by nightfall as the orange afternoon turns to purple dusk. His age brings a frailty suggests his difficulty handling too heavy a burden save for the pack carried upon his back or the magic quiver belted at his left hip across the pouches to his right, yet still there was some life in the old bones. Though admittedly his mind was not as sharp as it was years prior, lucidity escaped his grasp if it were not for the wreath of golden laurels resting behind his ears serving to augment his natural intellect. It was the way of senescence, and all mortals shall perish as their bodies become slaves to time. Only the Gods were forever, though not for all of time.

[hider= Nine words.]
[i]
[b]Kethan, you will go to the Seat of Mavros.[/b] A command? Or prophecy no less. Communion with the celestials, meditations on the divines. The very night his rival was no more, the message was revealed to Kethan in his prayers. Mavros, where the Twin Lady and Lord reigned was it not? It was rare a time where it was he that ventured into Mavros, rather than the Lady Mavros visit him. When had she frequented his library last? How the months seem to fog, his memory certainly failing to recall things without great effort. The years had been kind thus far, but now approaching his eightieth years perhaps the old cleric had doubts to his own state of being. For the holy spells could dispel disease and mend wounds, but nothing was stronger than fate. Fate that declared an age must come to an end, so too must old men die. A new body perhaps then to be grown, and yet each time he tried thus far tragedy befell such efforts. Was it truly that hard to create an undisturbed vessel? But alas, with the faithfulness of a saint, the wizened cleric packed his supplies, notifying the librarians of his leave of absence and with one last look at his beloved books, the old man set off once more as he did decades ago...
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Ah to feel young again.

In the presence of such company, truly Kethan felt the eldest, or at least perhaps was visible the most weathered of the lot. Where the crowd that gathered came to view and recognize the heroes, and the younger ones smile in awe of adventurers, few came to jeer nor applaud the cleric's arrival. Perhaps it was because he was the last one who ushered in the epic flock, leading from the rear as the final guardian. Or perhaps it was the mystery of who he was since his retirement. Few he could wager did remember him, most of those he helped ought to be dead by now given time, or perhaps far too young to remember who it was that brought rain during the times of drought or cured them of their pox. But these heroes seemed far more competent than commoners, thus what use did they have for an old man? Wise consul? Nay, there were certainly those wiser than his feeble mind, and what ears would listen to his proverbial advice when they were champions of their own right.

[hider= For one last adventure.]
[i]
Three books carried in his pack. A blank book taken with him, within his pack to be kept. The pages clean and untouched, virgin to the quill or pen. And another book, one leather-bound manual of the planes fifth edition, revised with various minor edits made to the outer realms. A intended gift for Lord and Lady Mavros as a formality when visiting foreign regents and friends. And finally the last book for himself, reading material that he has read over and over for the sake of committing the insights into memory. While the warrior may bring arms and armor, and the archer bow and arrows, it was the armor of knowledge and wisdom which protected Kethan for so long. Discipline, temperance, patience, years of training in the art of suffering, the path was never easy was it? And the road that went on was long. And as so many had asked the elder what was the secret to his good health? A scoffing chuckle nearly dismissed their query followed by the sharing of the fabled key: The secret to a long and healthy life? Is to never give yourself a chance to enjoy it.
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[color=DEAD2B]"Agreed. I reason that at best, given who we are assembled here, we are all summoned because there exists a great immediate threat to the land."[/color] Kethan mused as the group approached the Keep at the peak at last. What other use was there for a cleric, a bard, a tinkerer? Several warriors and mages? And an... With a chuckle to himself, the elder found his solemn expression cracking into a strange smile with the subtle curl of the corners of his lips of dry wit. [color=DEAD2B]"And at worst... We are wedding guests."[/color]