The monk practiced his kata in silence. His movements were unusual, unorthodox to the uninitiated: part dance, part kata, and part contemplation by movement. Few outside Awakened circles would have seen the like though perhaps some may have recognized certain similarities with the shamanic dances of old Tibet. The monk danced with precise hops, graceful movements and strangely rigid poses. While he danced, space and time diluted into one substance; if he recognized his surroundings he did not show it on his calm face.

His dance was a meditation on the Arcanum of Mind. A lotus growing from a lilly whose petals evaporated into the memories that both formed and stirred the conscious. The dance was an oblation and if the Mastigos had ready access to source of mana, it would have channeled those Supernal sparks into his Pattern. Without such access it was little more than a highly technical routine of movement and stillness.

Uncarved practiced anyway. He needed to feel the pressure of his feet on the carpet; he needed to experience the tension in his muscles as he slowly twisted, turned, hopped. He needed to feel the rhythm of his breathing slow in his lungs, a mnemonic trick to assist in clearing his mind. He danced, slower and slower, drawing himself down into a meditative state. With patience he achieved it: space, time, self, all dissolved away and he found himself floating on a glassy surface at rest and at peace…

…The Dream bubbled up like an eruption from within and under his subconscious; by the time he noticed it, the vision had become a fine wine with a fulsome bocquet to be savored, drifting incense across the face of his self-awareness; splintered images filled with meaning. Each scented breath, each beat, tugged him back to the world with a new mission.

The world seemed to fall away.

The heat of flame, the burning ring of strikes burned slowly in to the back of Uncarved's eyes. He could feel every strike of metal, every strike of pain.

The ringing blows caught the Mastigos off balance and he sagged against the wall.

Then the screaming started.

It was like the Iron Tower again, the darkness aided only by the bright red of what could only be assumed as blood.

The screams turned to wails, of pain and fear.

Then the sharp sound of a door, and the noise was cut off; although the red pulse continued.

Uncarved sank to the floor, face in his hands. His breathing technique failed him as the vision poured like molten metal through his mind and into his soul.

Only then did the emotional level strike the Mastigos. Anger, Rage - hard, hot and strong.

Then the bell tolled.

Uncarved stopped. He sobbed one, twice as the wave of emotion rippled through him. He wept for those who would be expressing such pain, such sorrow, such hopeless anger.

A beat.

A breath, long and deliberate.

The visionary moves to the door, slowly at first but soon quickening with determination, seeking the object of his quest. When the Supernal called to him, he listened.