Nasperge walked alone through a dreary, lonely plane. He had never much cared for the plane of Maaskaraad. It was far too dark. To the best of the Magician’s knowledge, no sun had ever burned here, but there was no way to be certain of that. He had never found a story here that spoke of one, at least. There were two moons, but only one glowed with a celestial light. The other ran alongside the first, matching it stride for stride in an eternal race, cutting the glowing moon in a perpetual crescent. There were local legends that said this was not always so, but Nasperge had no way to verify this, either.

There seemed to be much lately that Nasperge could not verify. The rumors of the prize he sought was the first and foremost of these, but worse still were his own Aubedore readings. The cards, of late, had been confusing, unfocused. Just two days ago, Nasperge had been on Thorneau, working a quick, fortnight contract for Jacques de la Terne’s carnival. Jacques was a plump, jolly sort of owner, and indulged short-term contracts more than nearly any carnival owner in Foraine, so he was a good man for an Aubedore reader to befriend, even if he were a bit empty-headed and dull. Good pay with little commitment was a valuable commodity.

While working the carnival, Nasperge had been engaged to perform a reading for a friend of a daughter of the Baroness of Corneille, or some such person of moderate importance. While delivering the reading, however, Nasperge knew instantly that the cards were refusing. They had not attuned themselves to the girl, but rather to something else, something Nasperge could not readily identify. He bluffed his way through the reading, making up meanings and connections that simply weren’t there, and the girl had gone home happy, but the Magician was troubled. What the cards were actually telling him was something far darker, and of far more import.

Without knowing precisely what his cards had attuned themselves to, it was difficult to read them, but they seemed to point to Maaskaraad. Nasperge finished out the remaining two days of his contract, and reluctantly left for the moonlit plane. It had been years since he was here last, and nothing had improved. The wind howled like a predatory beast as it prowled across the landscape. Everything was dismal and gray, and civilized life was virtually nonexistent. Oh, there were people on Maaskaraad, but Nasperge had learned during his first visit there that most of them were best avoided. So that was precisely what he did.

Nasperge planeswalked into the small town of Leams and immediately walked out again, this time physically. Leams was simply the closest landmark to the Magician’s ultimate destination. He followed the narrow, poorly-worn path through Hag’s Mire, into the fungal forest called Lichen Throat, and finally toward the twin peaks called the Thirsting Fangs. As he went, Nasperge continued to idly shuffle his Aubedore deck, occasionally flipping a card over to project any danger that might be waiting. All three locations had their share of dangers, but Nasperge was fortunate and encountered no complications, although he was becoming increasingly certain that someone was watching him.

Passing between the Thirsting Fangs, careful to watch out for any of the vampires known to frequent those spires, Nasperge entered the area collectively, if unimaginatively, known as the Three Valleys. The Magician had heard much about them during his first visit, but had never come to see them, and as he entered the first valley, he was glad he hadn’t. It was a large, bowl-shaped valley called Horn’s Cleft. According to local legend, Horn’s Cleft once contained a stairwell leading down to, or more accurately up from, the infernal caverns of the Thirteen Hells. In ancient days, the demons of the underworld who sought redemption would be cast down to the lowest of hells, and forced to battle their way up and, if they survived, out. If they managed to do so, they would mutilate themselves by cutting out their own demonic horns, the very action for which the valley was named.

Now, though, Horn’s Cleft was an ashen wasteland, and there was no trace of any mysterious or infernal staircase. There were, however, demons, or at least the remains of what may have once been demons. There were not many, but every so often down the rudimentary path that wound through the valley, the Magician would spot one. They were all the same, frozen in place in poses of pain and fury. Whatever ancient force had covered the valley in volcanic ash had done so quickly and completely enough to trap the demons of Horn’s Cleft quite literally in mid-step. As Nasperge moved past the exposed but preserved corpses, he noted, with credit to the legend, that none of the demons had horns.

Eventually, Nasperge came through the other side of Horn’s Cleft and into the second valley, which was yet more horrifying than the first had been. The locals of Maaskaraad named this center valley the Forever Fray, and with good reason. While Horn’s Cleft had been populated with only a few unfortunate demonic remains, Forever Fray was brimming with them, and more than demons besides. Locked in everlasting, unmoving combat with the hornless demons who had no doubt followed the same path as Nasperge were an equal number of angels. The angels, just like the demons before them, had apparently been trapped and killed by the ash in a matter of heartbeats, as their primal, godly rage was still reflected on their ashen skin.

Nasperge hurried his way through Forever Fray as quickly as he could. He had never been comfortable around angels, demons, or the dead, a fact that was making this trip particularly uncomfortable for him. Still, his cards had seemed to indicate that his search might come to an end in the third valley. As he moved through the Forever Fray, he found himself looking around, wondering what could possibly survive in a place such as this. Even as he did, though, he noticed life had not stayed entirely absent from the Three Valleys. Insects buzzed through the air and crawled around the ground. Snakes, lizards and other reptiles and amphibians darted one way and then another, undoubtedly sustaining themselves on the emerging rain-fed swampland that was beginning to claim the valleys. Nasperge shuddered at the thought.

Finally, after far too long for his own tastes, Nasperge came to the high ridge that marked the end of the Forever Fray and the entrance to the final valley. Like Horn’s Cleft, legend spoke that this valley once contained an impossible stairway, this one up into the heavens. And while Horn’s Cleft had, in legend and perhaps in truth, served as a transition for repentant demons, the third valley served the same function for angels, fallen from the grace of above. Here, angels would begin their new lives as mortal beings, beings of evil and malice and hate. Here they would learn to give up the existence they had once known and prepare themselves for a new one. That is why the locals called the third valley the Halo Wean.

Whatever Nasperge was looking for, or whatever his cards were looking for, was somewhere here in Halo Wean. And so, without truly knowing what he was looking for, the Magician began his search. It was a strange place, certainly. Much like Horn’s Cleft and Forever Fray, the entire area had once been blasted with thick, volcanic ash. Despite the life that seemed to crawl and fly all around, this was a dead place. The weight of the intact, frozen frames of the fallen angels seemed to push away the very sensation of life. Still, at times, when the wind was blowing quiet and cold, a contemplative traveler could just make out the barest whisper of the memory of the echo of a scream.

There was little light to mark the passage of time, and so Nasperge had only the vaguest idea of how many hours passed before he finally gave up. The Magician slumped on a fallen, petrified log near a tiny pond of water, likely merely a collection of stagnant raindrops converging on a low point. Nasperge felt the same about the memories of his search. Unsure of what to do next, Nasperge resorted to his usual tactic and used his cards. With a few quick shuffles to allow his deck to attune itself, hopefully to Nasperge this time, the Magician dealt out three cards on his lap, careful not to let the cards fall onto the ash all around him. He flipped them over quickly, but one at a time, revealing the Hourglass, the inverted Pond, and the Ancient One. Nasperge exhaled in a huff. The message seemed clear enough. Patience.

Hours passed by and nothing happened. Nasperge was hungry, thirsty, tired and bored, but nothing seemed to happen. He had been a master of Aubedore for a long time, the vast majority of his life, and the cards rarely led him astray, and never after so many readings had directed him somewhere specific, but even he had to begin doubting now. If something were truly supposed to happen, why wasn’t it? Nasperge shook his head. He had been hungry before, and many times. The life of a travelling Magician was not always an easy one, even for a reader of his skill. He had been thirsty before. Too many planes underestimated the importance of clean water. He had been tired before, and he could push through it. But if there was one thing Nasperge truly hated, it was being bored.

Suddenly, a scream echoed through the air. Nasperge looked around quickly, searching for its source. The scream had been blood-curdling, but quiet, as if it were coming from some distance away, but Nasperge could not locate it. He was just about to stand up to begin a more thorough search when it sounded again, and this time, happenstance placed Nasperge’s gaze directly on the source. Just off to the Magician’s right, no more than three or four feet away, there was a tiny frog. It was dark purple in color, with several small patches of dark yellow. Although the sound was quiet and horrible, there was no doubt it had come from the frog.

Nasperge rolled his eyes. “A screaming frog? That’s a new one for me. Do you do anything but scream, little one?”

The frog blinked, then screamed.

Nasperge shook his head. “Fantastic,” he said, mostly to himself. It was bad enough to be bored and waiting for something to happen, but now he had to listen to that horrible noise, as well. Suddenly, an idea struck him. “Hey, frog, how would you like an Aubedore reading?”

The frog screamed.

“Good,” Nasperge said, nodding and smiling. He shuffled his cards several times, trying to attune them to the tiny, screaming frog. It was an odd sensation. In all his years, he had never tried to give a reading to an animal before, but he was bored, and it was worth a try. After he had shuffled the deck to his satisfaction, Nasperge laid out three cards on his lap once again. Whereas the first time he had laid them in a straight line, called the simple Bridge pattern, this time he put them in a simple Identity Pyramid, pointing toward the frog.

“Are you ready?”

The frog screamed.

“Good, good.” Nasperge turned over the left card, revealing the Spider. He looked over to the screaming frog. “Going to get some dinner tonight, perhaps?”

The frog screamed.

“I don’t blame you for your reaction, my strange little friend. I wouldn’t want to eat spider, either.” Nasperge smiled, then flipped over the right-hand card. It was the Sufferer, and it was inverted. The Magician shot an eyebrow upward and looked at the frog, but said nothing.

Still, the frog screamed.

Nasperge shrugged and reached for the center, foremost card. Wordlessly he flipped it over to reveal the Servant. Nasperge stared at the cards for a moment, and then stared at the screaming frog. “This reading is very confusing,” he declared.

The frog stopped screaming.

Nasperge ran one exacerbated hand through his graying hair, wondering just what was going on here. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind sprang up, and Nasperge hastened to protect his cards. He was able to brace the three from his reading, but the top card of the deck was blown off, landing a short distance away, stuck in the ash that was covering the ground. The Magician winced, gathered up the cards, and walked over to retrieve the other one. He picked it up, looking at its face. It was the Seeker, and now had a small ashen smudge on the bottom corner.

Nasperge looked around Halo Wean, but he was entirely alone, apart from the insects, the reptiles, and the strange screaming frog, who himself was now silent. The Magician shook his head. It was certainly a bizarre night. He was still no closer to his answers. If anything, he seemed further away. What did this exceedingly strange reading portend? Nasperge had been using the Aubedore cards for far too long to dismiss the sort of omen he had been given, but that did not help him understand this one any better. The Spider, the Sufferer, the Servant, and the Seeker, and all from a strange streaming frog in Halo Wean.

Nasperge took a few long moments to stroke his short, white beard and tried to put together the pieces of this weird puzzle. Somehow, he felt he was missing pieces from it. Someday, perhaps, he would be able to put everything together. For now, however, he was hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and bored. His intuition told him he was done with Maaskaraad, and so, with one final nod to the odd frog, the Magician ‘walked away alone from a dreary and lonely plane.

As he disappeared, the frog screamed.