The Governor sat at an imposing, Relic desk, directly before a large panel. Ethan could see right away that he wasn't Iron, but a member of the Legion of Silence. His mask was little more than shards of soulsteel bolted to his own face, and his eyes were sunken, black pits that radiated a terrible sorrow.

"Welcome to St. Louis," the man said, gesturing without looking up from his reports. As Ethan came closer, he saw that the rest of the man's livery was made of tight, form-fitting plastic armor. It was a motley of riot gear, hockey pads and construction-site materials.

"Greetings from the Alchemists' Guild," Ethan said: "I am Master Job, and bring word that your plea for assistance has been answered, in my person."

"I see," the Governor said, either not very impressed or else in tight control of his emotions, and still not looking up from his reports: "I am the Governor of this Necropolis. You have already met my Overlord."

"Yes, I have," Ethan said: "I thought the Governor of this Necropolis was also from the Iron Legion. Was I mistaken?"

"The previous Governor is no longer with us," the Governor said, looking up from his reports at last: "Is this a problem?"

"Not at all, sir," the Alchemist replied, cursing at how out-of-date his information was: "I'll be certain to tell the Guild to update its records."

"Do that," the Silent man said. His Overlord walked by his side, hands behind his back.

"So... how may I be of assistance?" Ethan asked, clasping his hands before him: "I trust the Relics we have provided for the defense of your Necropolis are still working?"

"It's not a matter of material," the Iron Overlord said: "It's more to do with the men."

"You have heard of the Returned, I trust?" the Governor asked, a strange gleam coming into his eyes.

"A rumor, or so I am told," Ethan lied, knowing all too well what they were.

"It is no rumor, Guildsman. It is a proven fact."

"I mean no disrespect, Governor, but you must admit that proven facts in some matters are sometimes hard to come by-"

"One of my Legion's best Marshals went into a Harrowing when the Storm first struck," the Old-timer interrupted, putting a hand on his superior's shoulder: "He didn't come back right away, so we thought that perhaps he had been lost to Oblivion. And then, maybe six months ago, he returned."

"And he was insane," the Governor added.

"Insane?" Ethan asked.

"He was off his head most of the time," the Old-timer explained: "Running about in the streets, shouting all sorts of nonsense. Claiming the end of the world was coming. Making predictions-"

"I think such concerns can be handled by the Oracles, gentlemen," Ethan said, hoping to goad them into telling him more than they might normally. Could this be it...?

"Let us finish, please," the Governor went on, putting up a calm hand: "We tried to engage him in constructive dialogue. We tried to ease his soul, possibly even see if the damage could be repaired. He resisted all attempts, so we had to put him under arrest."

"So you brought me here to see... what, exactly?" Ethan asked: "A man who made you angry?"

"A man who is falling apart," the Governor said.

"That tends to happen quite a bit when you're in prison, Governor," Ethan sighed, feigning exasperation to mask his growing excitement: "Now, if you're worried about his psychological well-being, I'd suggest you call a Pard-"

"Not like that, Guildsman," the older man interjected: "His Corpus is collapsing. He's flaking away like a... like a burnt log in a fire pit. Turning into ashes, right before our eyes."

Ethan smirked behind his mask: "That is unusual..." he said, knowing all too well what it really meant. It appeared this trip really was going to be worth his while...

"Unheard of," the Governor said: "He cannot heal himself, either. And as the Pardoners, they aren't sure what to do with him either..."

"If they even tried to Castigate him, they might destroy him," the old man interjected, quickly.

"Yes, and we don't even dare move him from his cell," the Governor continued: "If you so much as put a hand on him, there's just that much less of a prisoner."

Ethan looked from the old man to his much younger-looking superior, and then back. They both shared the same expression: they didn't want to admit it, but they were stumped, and fearful that doing the obvious thing might create more harm than good.

And that worked perfectly...

"Then I will look at him," the Alchemist said: "I can't promise anything more than that, but I will at least see if I can tell what's wrong."

"That's all we ask, Guildsman," the Governor said: "Overlord, please escort our guest to the cells."

"Yes, please," Ethan said, no longer thinking of rest or replenishing his energies. He had to get down there as soon as was possible, or else lose a chance at collecting vital information.

The phenomenon of the Returned - the Void-Borne, as the Alchemists had come to call them - had been old news for some time. Of course, most wraiths hadn't totally grasped the whole of the situation, yet: true facts were hard to come by, while outrageous lies spread with the winds. And that was good, as it gave the Guild time to discover the reasons behind it, as well as what it did to them, before going public with their discoveries. But it was also bad, as it made it more difficult to find these Returned in the first place.

Being one of the Returned was all in the timing... or so it seemed. For some strange reason, many of those who went into Harrowings during the outbreak of the Storm did not return as quickly as they should have. Normally, a Harrowing took between a few minutes and a few hours to resolve, regardless of how long or short it felt to the wraith who underwent it.

But these poor souls had been gone for weeks, months, and sometimes years before coming back. Even now - up to five years after the Outbreak - there were those who were just returning from the clutches of the Labyrinth. They told of having been engulfed by the initial Stormfront, or else being torn to flinders by the Doomshades riding its great, black waves.

The phenomenon seemed quite short-lived, however long its effects took to evidence themselves. Those who went down there now seemed to have no trouble coming back in a "reasonable" amount of time, provided they came back at all. Of course, there was always the question as to whether those presumed lost to the Void were also suffering from the same problem, but a few discreet inquiries amongst the Monitors confirmed that those lost were, indeed, gone.

It was a puzzle, to be certain. The records of both Stygia and the Guild were of little or no help, as there was no mention of anything like this ever having happened before. Of course, there had never been a Maelstrom like this before, either, so most were willing to assume this was some new quirk of Oblivion. The Third Great Maelstrom had turned the Sea of Shadows beyond into the Tempest, below, so perhaps the cosmology of the dead shifted with every third Outbreak?

But if that was true, as some suspected, then why was it not continuing...?

In spite of the important questions the situation presented, the Alchemists weren't too terribly interested in it at first. With the Storm on - and their return to glory ongoing - they were quite busy with other, more immediate matters. But then some interesting stories started to make the rounds, here and there, and eventually some bits and pieces trickled in that caught their attention.

There were tales of wraiths falling apart, their Corpus turning to soot, ash and dust. There were stories of fires erupting from them when they tried to use their Arcanoi, or even heal themselves. There were rumors of others being unable to do either thing at all, not to mention carrying along with them a palpable feeling of approaching doom.

And, finally, there was talk of a strange sort of augury that some of the Returned could perform. It was said that these unfortunates had been blessed with a foresight that matched that of the Oracles, only without the glamour and gloss. If an Oracle told you of things to come, then those things might or might not yet come to pass, but if one of the Returned told you something, then it was as good as done.

This was when the matter truly piqued the interest of the Alchemists. Decay was their realm to explore, so it went without saying that a wraith falling apart - flake by flake, mote by mote - was something that bore further study. And when you coupled it with the notion that such powerful foresight came as a result of this strange corruption {or at least along with it} then there was little question that the Guild's leaders would order a full and immediate inquiry.

Ethan had only ever been on the sidelines of that mighty working: his field of expertise lay in the advancement of decay in Skinlands objects, having uncovered a few new and powerful uses for Flux. Those who had worked directly with the matter had consulted him on a few matters when they were puzzled - which was more often than not, sadly - but they did not come to him all that often. His recent promotion {and the circumstances behind it} had blinded them to what he could truly offer.

But now... here was this strange, wondrous possibility that Ethan had been sent to confront, however mistakenly. If what these two men said was true, and not just some massive misunderstanding, then he might be able to bring back first-hand information in this matter for the Guild. And if he was able to verify their information, and prove that they hadn't just been chasing rumors...?

It might just make his career. It might just get him out of that corner lab in the Guildhaunt, and downstairs where the real ground breaking stuff was going on. At long last, his true talents might finally be recognized.

And while the thought scared him - almost to death, as redundant as that sounded - it also excited him like nothing before...