Considering her reflection in the mirror, the Margravine Keltaine gazed
upon her flawless, regal countenance and was well pleased. Not a trace
of the past remained: no dirt upon her powdered face, no tears in her
silken cloak, her eyes betraying nothing but cool, calm control. Years
of study, deception, graft, and sheer strength of will had brought her
to this point, and there could be no blanching now. Donning her borrowed
title like armour, and her stolen jewels like weapons, the Margravine
set out for the city of Ashtan, the Bastion of the North. A city with
ten footpads for every lord, a dozen alleys for every avenue... a place
where, the Margravine pondered, past shame might be transmuted to future
glory.

Announcing her intentions to hire a formidable band of mercenaries, the
Margravine Keltaine was swiftly escorted to the Ashtan War Room by the
Bastion's perennial eminence grise, Skarash Azon, and a small group of
Ashtani. Suppressing her unseemly glee at so easily gaining admittance
to the very heights of Ashtani society, the Margravine briefed her hired
hands. Waxing lyrical upon the mystical puissance inherent in that most
abstruse of the arcane arts, mirror magic, the Margravine cast courtly
imprecations on the guardians of that lore, the Conclave.

Among such an educated group, little introduction to that fell circle of
mages was needed. Maklak, Haag, Yudhishthira, O'ising, and Hycanthus:
the power and influence of the Conclave remained well known. Masters of
reflection and image, their knowledge was jealously guarded and poorly
understood.

"It is time for that to change," announced the Margravine, her sea-green
eyes glinting with avarice. "We shall wrest their learning from them by
force."

And so, drawing on her henchmen's guile, force of arms, and moral
flexibility, the Margravine's requirements were swiftly met.

As all toasted their success back in the safety of Ashtan, it occurred
to many that the Margravine's higher intentions remained a mystery. To
all questions however, the Margravine remained indifferent. "Next month,
my friends, we shall test our newfound strength. Watch for me at the
Orphean Serenade." And with that, the lady swept from the room.

How, then, will this stolen mastery of mirror magic manifest? To what
end will it be directed? All of Sapience may not have long to wait...

Penned by My hand on the 24th of Mayan, in the year 560 AF.