There was a knock on the door, something which we had not been expecting and for which neither of us were prepared. The thought came to mind that whoever had slain the drunkard, now wished to eliminate witnesses. The killer had followed us here. But why would he knock first?
We suspected that some nameless peril lurked and was stalking us. Langstaff went and stood ready, positioned to hurl his spear. He raised it to impale whoever stood behind the door. I was to open the door and move aside, ready to offer my flashing blade and administer extra pain. I took up my shield and held my shortsword ready.

"Who goes there? Announce yourself." I asked to the unknown standing behind the door.
"A stranger." a voice replied. "One who wishes you good faring. –a believer. One who bears tidings precious to you, though I myself am in grave need." It seemed a gentle voice but yet of disciplined word, perhaps of an older man, carrying the well known dialect of a stern but pious people.
"I am not expecting any messenger.” I replied, “I am a traveler. But it is really alms you hope for, therefore know that my purse is empty."
“I hope for no alms,” he said. “There is a greater good that interests me.”
“Then what is your interest, say it.”

"In some small way, an increase in the sway of righteousness. Know that I bear a message to that end. It is a greater treasure than mere coin."
"Announce your name, and if you are to relay some message, do so now, or be done with this."
"My name is inconsequential. And of the message? I am a secret messenger, needing privy forum."
"Hear this, if ye will not say thy name, there will be trouble. I warn thee, I am not taking visitors...nor do I have alms left."
"Will you not for kindness sake open the door and speak with me? Among the righteous there is no suspicion, for our life is not of this world."
"I cannot take any such risk. Please, if you are a believer, know that I am a sinner and bother me no more. Look thou to the discipline of prayer instead."
"I am one who highly regards you, and I also am a sinner. I have heard that you are for the quest."
“What was that?. . . quest? I say I do not glean your meaning. But take care, the wise do not spread untaught rumour. Your mind is clouded. Away with you!”
“Your quest: it is known to me.” (He answered my rebuke with a statement of provocation, one to be considered even greater impudence. I replied with corresponding indignance).
“Who is it dares speak to us in this way, with intrusive style? Have you no respect for those soon to join the dead? We are soldiers from Aquilar, passing through to fight in the wars.”
“You are not.” He dared the more, “With the few days left in me I hope to aid you for good cause. Take care not to be inhospitable, though it is true that we live in grim times. Open and I shall tell all.”
“Indeed sir, though you are as yet unknown to me, you contradict me as false and your words will soon require satisfaction in combat.”
“Satisfaction? ...in combat?....Aye, you are on a quest...but one which you fancy to be of your own contrivance.”
“A quest of my own contrivance? What mean you by so daring a riddle?”
“The spirit of the truth works in strange ways.” he answered, unafraid.
The call of a local peddler echoed from the street below.
It occurred to me that perhaps I was mistaken to so quickly rebuke the stranger. Indeed, by some unforseen movement of things, this unknown person, (whose tone of voice certainly sounded wise), might be a help, or if captured, he could be interrogated. I questioned him the more. For a moment he said nothing, but then I answered with an utterance of my own.
“. . .So do many work in strange ways. But tell, what helpful word can you offer other than what is masked in riddles?”
“Every man about to launch upon an unfamiliar enterprise, however wise, needs the advice of those who have precise knowledge of things.”
The strange reply caused me wonder. “You seem to have a ready answer for everything...Are you a churchman? Clergy?” I demanded.
“No, just a believer...as I have said.”
“Grim are the times indeed when divine mysteries are so quickly invoked to explain the obvious. Learn this and you may perceive why I am not quick to open: today an unknown hunter, an assassin, hooded and dark, nearly fell me like a stag, though poorly aimed were his poisoned shafts.
One poor soul, but a street fellow who walked by to me, was silenced by those death bearers hurtling through air.”
“I gained intelligence of that...from talk overheard about the town. Yet one eyewitness is better than ten hear sayers. Let me in, for this killer is known to be a monk, the kind from whom is heard no songs.”
“Strangers cannot easily be trusted, as of old, and men everywhere hide daggers for one another. Therefore, pray thee, since I am a man with enemies, say what quest ye do discern of me, for I know naught of any quest, but am a traveler, curious as to the ancient ruins, and shocked to witness violence in the streets.” I spoke this in a clever way, testing him.
Birds outside chirped their daily chirp as I awaited answer.
“Ancient ruins indeed.” He replied with sarcasm, “You design to enter into lowest dungeons by means of breaking into yon eld tower. You hope to follow the forbidden tunnels deep into the nether kingdoms, in order to make crusade and war against hell, and thereby win renown and plenty.”
“Who told you of this?” I demanded.
“A certain mind, a friend from the hills, whose magical ability is renowned.”
“A certain mind? A sorcerer, doubtless, whose company is with demons having many ears. My purpose is something that I do not publish abroad.”
“He is no conjurer, but a power, one with whom you yourself have some acquaintance...one whose name is not found in the annals of men: Kruthulus Eleusinion.”
“You know the one whom men call “The Eleusinion?” Tell me where he is, and perhaps I will let you in.”
“No doubt the Prime Interquist has paid you well.”
“I know naught of what you speak. How is it that you know The Eleusinion?”
“I have known him for many years. It is my life to do his bidding.”
“Then you are vassal to him?”
“He is not one who enters into such contracts. Do you not know what order of being he is...?”
“He is a man like others, but short in stature, like the miners of the Hermit’s Hills.”
“He is not a man, though he is manlike.”
“Then a demon who seems a man?”
“No. He is a gnome, one of the powers.”
“I know him not,” I replied angrily, “nor do I know of gnomes and the like. I have heard only what others say...they are reckoned trouble. Therefore be ye gone, or this chat might be your last.”
“...yet Kruthulus knows much of you. The madness which plagues you he considers a desirable rarity. He said that you are one for whom Reason and Common Sense are alien principles, and this fact even now you exemplify...by not opening.”
“He has described me without error, indeed my reason is drowned by a will bent on a deluge of slaughter!”
“Idle talk, mere boasts...” he replied with a chuckle.
“You are in grave error,” I retorted,“and you make slight of hands which are perilous. You know nothing of what you are saying. In mindless fury I will quell the deep. Has Kruthulus sent you on account of me?”
“He has; do hurry and let me in, for the news you publish of the hooded assassin lurking here bouts worries me, and no doubt his poisoned shaft was meant for me. Open and all these things will be discussed in private.”