In a place like this...

Den'Mezzier was hot. Dmitri ran through his cyclical thoughts again, the same worries he'd had since they walked out of that gods-forsaken desert. The heat, the intense light, weren't good for his spellbook. The omnipresent heat, beating down on him even at night, was so unlike Mendiera that he almost didn't know how to handle it. Only the gracious warnings of the townsfolk they had saved had helped him acclimate at all to the new environment. He was in a very foreign land, one where he was largely unable to communicate, and one in which he was largely...broke.

They'd planned well before the sandstorm. He'd purchased a fine horse, plenty of provisions, everything he'd need to see him through for some time. That, of course, had all gone terribly awry when their mounts had scattered, taking all of their things with them. He'd been left with the pack he carried and not much else; he barely had the financial means now to set himself up in an inn without turning to the charity of his companions.

So, like he tended to do at times like these, he wandered alone a bit. The Staff of Gallows tapped out a melancholy march for him, always sounding lighter, somewhat hollow, despite the sturdiness of the wood. The streets wound, turning in on themselves, showing very clearly that this was an organic city, one that had grown with its people, rather than one which had been plotted out by engineers. The night, though quite warm still, was bearable. That alone was a refreshing change, especially after the still too-recent journey through the desert on foot. A breeze ruffled his robes, circulating the cooler air, and he was again lost to thought.

Following the turning route his feet had put him on, Dmitri was brought up short, almost running headlong into the wall ahead of him. The street had ended in the back side of a building, leaving him deposited nicely in a cul-de-sac of two and three story brick and clay walls. A breeze of air hit him then, air too cool to be natural for this climate. The air on the back of his neck was accompanied almost immediately by that unmistakable tingle that accompanied the spirits of his family. The cool became cold, and the tingle a twinge so sharp it was almost painful. Dmitri flinched, spinning around to see which of his spectral relations was haranguing him this time.

And then, of course, he saw him. A man, garbed in the flowing black cloth the Alk'Haran's preferred, stepped out of the shadows a few feet away, bowing curiously. He took the time to straighten both himself and his clothes before speaking slowly in stilted Signian.

"It is perhaps not a good area that you are walking in this night, my friend. Why not let me show you a safer way?" The man smiled, proffering a hand. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm quite alright, thank you. There isn't much cause for me to worry about the night lately, I think." Dmitri was emboldened by his recent successes; the business with the desert orcs had simply solidified his somewhat arrogant confidence in his steadily growing abilities. A common cutpurse seemed like not much of a threat at all, after having dealt with the howling black skinned demons of the desert.

But, of course, there are always ways in which one can be caught unawares. In this case, it was the small eggshell thrown at Dmitri's face. The shell shattered harmlessly, releasing a choking cloud of powder. Dmitri, caught unawares, gasped, eyes watering, senses reeling. He was caught behind the ear with a heavy sap, and collapsed to his knees.

"I did try to warn you, my friend. Now, you will be giving us your purse, yes? A man in such robes is not likely to be a pauper." The man searched Dmitri efficiently, pulling away his small sack of gems. The man weighed it quickly in his hand, and then scowled down.

"Nothing? I risk myself, I show mercy and do not just kill you where you stand, and I get nothing? I think, perhaps, that your purse is empty because you have spent your money, my friend. I think, perhaps, that it is this staff you hold. I think that I will take it, and we will be good with each other, yes? Your life for the staff."

Dmitri stayed where he was, head still spinning from the caustic powder. "You don't...want it. Trust me." He spat the words, coughing while he spoke, but making no move to keep the staff secured.

The man reached for it, and Dmitri opened his connection with the staff. His power flared into it, and out of it, and into the man's grasping hands.

A few moments later, Dmitri stood, shakily, leaning heavily on his staff, and began walking home, away from the ruined scraps of torn flesh that had been a man before he touched the Staff of Gallows.