The vagabond found himself waking with a gasp. His senses returned to him one by one. First his sense of feeling. There was a wetness where half his face pressed into the ground and the wind blew warm sand against his skyward cheek. There was an ache in Dracilnors body from head to toe. Between that, the pounding of his heart, and in his skull he was sure he was lucky to be alive. The thought represented actual cognizance. Though he couldn't remember exactly what had happened. Everything was regular. A regular sunny day a regular stroll through the slums in Gomroth. Slowly the recollection came to him. A portal had appeared at his feet and he had fallen. And ended up here? Next was sight and as his blurred vision came to focus on the shimmering waters of the small oasis pond in front of him he could vaguely make out the reflection of someone sitting across the pond from him. The weight pressing into Dracilnors back from his sword brought him comfort. Though he dared not move yet.

In the lands of Parvpora, gods were diminished in power, but here in the land of Siva Zemlyst, an immense dusty wasteland where magic refused to function, divine power was one of the few things that could function at all. No spell could be cast, and yet, there were rumours. Rumours of a deeper force that came directly from the void. The antithesis of magic, but a power nonetheless. One only had to observe the metallic eyes of the men and women who lived here to realise that this land had mysteries of its own.

 
And then of course, there was the phlogiston. A material essential for the functioning of the great alchemical engines that held Tarishitar and its fearsome fleet of airships aloft. Mendean had long-wondered how such an ingredient could only be found within the depths of a dead zone. Thus far, such secrets had eluded him.

 
It was a dismal place. Overcast without rain, muddy hills with little in the way of grass. Coarse scrub and low bushes. The occasional tree and evidence of wildlife that mostly kept out of sight. Overhead, something large and bird-like, but without any discernible feathers, circled lazily on poor thermals. Something deer-like burst from behind a bush, running for cover in a nearby copse of spindly trees. In the distance, something gave an unpleasant shriek.

 
Mendean felt tension in the air. It made his skin crackle, which piqued his interest as he stomped over crunchy soil. A pressure. Something was coming. He looked up in time to witness a brief flash of light in the air. Something dark dropped behind a low ridge, just as the distortion collapsed in on itself, unable to maintain integrity in the backlash of dead zone power. The land itself would not permit such a violation of its rules for very long.

 
Wasting no time, Mendean bounded over to see what had fallen from the distortion. No doubt this was a result of the collapsing structures of time. He had encountered them on several occasions by now. The most disturbing one being when he encountered a version of himself. But they were integrating now. Two sets of memories in a single soul. The other Mendean knew more about the Siva Zemlyst than the native one, but did that knowledge count for anything here? It remained to be seen.

 
A man. Human by the looks of things. He did not appear to be seriously injured, but he was not of this world. That much was obvious. Over the ridge lay a small oasis of life. A pond, some sundry plants. The creatures that had been drinking from these waters long-since fled, leaving many small tracks in the mud that surrounded the water. The man was lying on the opposite side of the water hole. Mendean squatted and peered at him as he began to stir.

 
“Jesi li ozljeđen?” Mendean enquired in his native Wyllmochvaran tongue.