Session 92

Aftermath

Chapter 1: Audience with Hamanu

The party was led through the grand halls of Urik, their footsteps echoing ominously as they approached the audience chamber. There, towering over them like an immovable force, sat the Lion of Urik himself—Hamanu. Around his throne, six stern-faced templars stood at attention, flanked by Severin, a dozen hulking half-giant guards, and two robed defilers, their fingers already twitching with arcane energy.

Hamanu did not look pleased. He brooded in silence, his golden eyes burning with barely restrained fury. Finally, he broke the silence with a single demand:

"Who are you?"

His voice was like a growl of distant thunder, his glare piercing. The defilers began their incantations, weaving unseen magic into the air as Hamanu’s interrogation continued. His words were sharp as blades, cutting straight to the heart of their trespass:

"Why did you dare sneak into Destiny’s Kingdom? What were you seeking to steal? Which city hired you? How much did you hear?"

But these were merely opening salvos. His gaze narrowed as he shifted to more pressing matters, guided by the intelligence his advisors had gathered.

"Did the Order send you? What do you know of them? And this rock crystal found in your possession—explain it to me."

At the mention of Mahlanda, everything changed. Hamanu leaned back upon his throne, a slow, knowing smile curling across his face. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyes gleaming with a rare flicker of amusement.

"Ah, the Great One. I see. What is my friend up to now?"

Then, with an air of absolute certainty, he declared, "I can contact the avangion." But there was a condition. His smile faded, replaced by a calculating stare.

"I will need the help of minds that know her well. Will you submit to my magic for the purposes of this meeting?"

The weight of his words hung heavy in the chamber, a challenge and an ultimatum wrapped in the same breath.

Chapter 2: Calling Mahlanda

A grand slab of obsidian, its edges lined with pristine white marble, was carried into the chamber with reverence. The air grew heavy with expectation as the massive stone was set before the sorcerer-king. Hamanu’s golden eyes gleamed as he gestured for the party to step forward.

“Look into the blackness,” he commanded. “Picture Mahlanda.”

One by one, he placed a firm hand upon each of them, his touch cold and charged with power. Then, pressing his palm against the stone, he released a pulse of golden energy. The obsidian flared with a brilliant glow, its dark depths swirling until an image began to take shape.

Mahlanda appeared, her expression shifting from surprise to quiet concern. Her gaze flickered over the group, taking in their weary forms.

“What has happened to you?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. “How did you come to be here?”

Though the conversation that followed remained civil, an unspoken enmity simmered beneath the surface. The party could sense the tension between the two powerful beings—politeness masking a deep-seated hatred.

Hamanu wasted no time in declaring his stance. “The sorcerer-kings are not to blame for this crisis,” he stated with unwavering certainty.

Mahlanda countered smoothly. “Nor are the preservers or the pyreen,” she assured him.

Their discussion turned to a whispered legend—an ancient preserver fortress hidden within the Road of Fire, a chain of islands adrift in the Sea of Silt. Both agreed that if such a place existed, it could hold the key to unraveling the Psionatrix field. Yet, as Hamanu spoke of it, he hesitated for the briefest of moments. Something about the site troubled him, but when pressed, he refused to elaborate.

Mahlanda, undeterred, shared her own lead. “There is a halfling psionicist I have worked with before. He may provide answers. He should be consulted.”

As the discussion unfolded, a grim realization set in. One by one, other suspects were ruled out, until only one remained.

“It must be the Order,” Hamanu concluded, his voice carrying the weight of certainty.

With that, the path forward became clear. There were two objectives: seek out the Order and unearth the ancient knowledge of the preservers. Mahlanda, already deep in the Hinterlands, pledged to hunt the Order’s trail, beginning with the halfling psionicist. Then, she turned to the party.

“Will you take up this quest?” she asked.

Once they agreed, Hamanu made his own decree. “I will send my chosen retainers with you,” he declared. “The matter is settled.”

His tone brooked no argument. His decision was final.

With the conference concluded, Mahlanda’s image flickered and dissolved, leaving only the cold black stone behind. Hamanu wasted no time, calling for his aides to make the necessary preparations. The weight of their task settled over the chamber like a gathering storm.

Chapter 3: Before Departing

The echoes of the arena still rang in your ears, a distant roar fading beneath the quiet opulence of your quarters. Hamanu had been unexpectedly generous, though his generosity felt more like gilded chains than true hospitality. The chamber was lavishly adorned, its furnishings plush, its tables laden with exotic fruits and salted meats. A sickly-looking half-elf—Hamanu’s personal physician—had tended your wounds, his bony fingers deftly wrapping bandages. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, your bodies no longer ached, and your minds felt sharper, clearer.

And yet, beneath it all, the ever-present weight of Hamanu’s gaze pressed down upon you. No matter how fine the accommodations, you longed to be free of the Lion of Urik’s scrutiny.

Hours passed before the heavy doors swung open. Severin, the sorcerer-king’s cold-eyed enforcer, strode inside, eight half-giant guards flanking him like living walls of muscle and steel.

“On your feet,” Severin commanded. “Hamanu awaits.”

You had little choice but to follow. As you stepped into the corridors of the palace, you passed rows of disciplined Urikite soldiers, their armor gleaming in the dim torchlight. Beyond the barracks and the sprawling parade grounds, the massive silhouette of Hamanu’s inner palace loomed. The half-giants halted at the great chamber doors, remaining outside as Severin led you in.

At the heart of the room, the Sorcerer-King of Urik sat upon his ornate throne. His golden eyes gleamed with amusement as he gazed into the great slab of obsidian before him. The polished stone shimmered, its depths shifting as though reflecting more than just his own image. He spoke softly, as if engaged in conversation with someone unseen.

Then, without turning, he acknowledged you with a mocking chuckle.

“Your pets are here, my friend.”

He rose, his movements fluid and effortless, and beckoned you forward.

“I have spoken at length with Mahlanda,” he began. “Though we do not agree on all things, we agree on this—we must work together if we are to unravel this crisis.”

His voice, measured and confident, carried across the chamber.

“Whatever force is suppressing psionic powers, it has spread far beyond a single city or land. Mahlanda will travel with a halfling colleague to the Forest Ridge, where she hopes to uncover the truth behind this affliction. She will contact you once she has learned more.”

He let those words settle before continuing.

“Meanwhile, I have chosen to grant you a boon. I release you from bondage and commission you to undertake an expedition to the Road of Fire. Your master believes an ancient preserver fortress lies hidden within those islands, and that within it, answers may be found. You will go there and seek them.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

“I would join you on this dangerous endeavor, but alas, the affairs of Urik demand my attention. Try not to be too disappointed.”

His smirk vanished.

“However, you will not go alone.”

Hamanu turned toward Severin.

“Send them in.”

The heavy iron doors groaned open, and through them marched a unit of Urikite warriors, their steps synchronized, their discipline evident. They halted before the throne, each standing at rigid attention. Their leader—a scarred and hardened veteran—made a crisp salute to Hamanu before casting a scrutinizing gaze over your group. Behind him, the soldiers remained expressionless, save for the half-giant among them, whose dull gaze betrayed her limited intellect. The rest, however, were far from mindless brutes. Their eyes gleamed with quiet contempt.

Hamanu descended the steps of his throne, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

“This mission is of the utmost importance,” he intoned. “Not just to Urik, but to the entire Tyr region. If you fail, many will perish. The conflict that follows will be beyond any of your imaginings.”

He let that warning sink in.

“You will succeed in this task. Or you will die in the attempt. Fail, and know that none of you will ever be welcome in Urik again—assuming the city still stands.”

His voice, calm and certain, carried the weight of absolute authority.

“Prepare yourselves. My quartermasters will see that you have provisions, mounts, and weapons. That is all.”

With that, the audience was over. Hamanu turned away, already lost in his own thoughts, as the Urikite soldiers took their places beside you. The road ahead had been set. Now, all that remained was to walk it.

Chapter 4: The Road to Bitter Well

At first light, they departed from the towering walls of Urik, leaving behind the dubious safety of the sorcerer-king’s domain. The sun, a merciless burning orb, rose over the horizon, already promising a day of searing heat. The sky, a pale and cloudless expanse, stretched endlessly above the lifeless terrain, offering no respite from its cruel gaze.

The Urikites lingered at the gates, exchanging quiet words with the guards before Severin himself arrived to grant them passage. Whatever was said remained between them, but soon enough, they fell into formation behind the group, their disciplined footfalls a stark contrast to the shifting sands beneath. Their presence was a constant reminder that while the travelers were no longer prisoners, they were far from free.

The road ahead promised hardship. The wastes of Athas were merciless, a landscape sculpted by death and desolation. The land itself conspired against travelers—shifting dunes hid treacherous sinkholes, jagged rocks threatened to break an ankle, and the relentless sun sought to drain all life from the unprepared. Then, of course, there were the other dangers—the nightmarish creatures that called this wasteland home, waiting in the shadows, watching from the ridgelines, sensing fresh prey.

Civilization would be a distant memory for some time. The only real settlement ahead was Bitter Well, an oasis on the edge of the wastes. Beyond that, only the occasional dust-choked ruin or scavenger camp would break the endless expanse of the desert.

As the journey began, Safi quietly called upon his powers, his senses stretching outward like an unseen web. His detect defiler spell swept across the land, searching for the foul taint of defiling magic, a corruption that scarred the very essence of Athas. Meanwhile, Shiv observed their so-called allies with a careful, calculating gaze, using his know your enemy ability to dissect their strengths and weaknesses.

The Urikites remained stoic, their expressions unreadable, but in time, Shiv began to piece together their nature—their combat stances, the way they favored certain weapons, their movements betraying small habits. A few were seasoned veterans, trained killers. Others relied on brute force, like the lumbering half-giant. They were not to be trusted, but at least now, they could be understood.

The desert stretched before them, vast and unforgiving. The journey had begun.

Chapter 5: Worm Sign

For several days, they had traversed the harsh wastelands of the northern Tablelands, passing the great Dragon’s Bowl to the south. The relentless sun burned overhead, sapping their strength with each passing hour. Their mounts, exhausted from the unyielding heat, struggled onward, their movements sluggish. Every step felt heavier, every breath drier, yet there was no escape from the elements.

The land stretched before them in an endless expanse of hard-baked sand and blistered rock, cracked and lifeless beneath the merciless sky. The wind carried no relief—only dust and the distant wail of something unseen.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, plunging the world into deepening shadows, they finally found a place to rest. A shallow depression in the sand, flanked on two sides by weathered sandstone formations, offered some protection from the desert winds. Soon, those same winds would turn bitterly cold, the night bringing a chill as deadly as the day’s heat.

They tied their mounts and settled into the sandy bowl, exhaustion pressing down on them. The ground was uncomfortable, but it hardly mattered—rest was a rare gift in Athas. One by one, they began to slip into uneasy sleep.

Then, the earth rumbled.

At first, it was distant, a deep tremor beneath them. As they stirred awake, the vibrations grew stronger, until the very ground beneath them seemed to quake with fury. A sudden eruption of sand sent them scrambling as chaos tore through the camp.

Chtek Ch’re, the Urikite thri-kreen, moved with insectile swiftness, positioning himself to shield his leader. Safi called upon his magic, blessing himself and the brothers, Shiv and Shank, as the shifting sands gave way to something monstrous.

With a deafening roar, the sink worm burst from below, its massive maw gaping wide before snapping shut—swallowing Shank whole. Then, with terrifying force, it slammed down into the camp, shaking the ground beneath them.

Ulreg reacted first, gripping her maul and driving it forward with a Skull Crusher Strike. The force of her blow sent cracks through the worm’s thick hide, and she followed with two more devastating strikes, each tearing into the beast’s flesh.

Shiv roared in fury, his rage surging as he moved swiftly around the worm’s bulk. Calling upon the Fury of the Arena, he struck twice, his weapons cutting deep into the monstrous form.

But before they could press their advantage, the sink worm convulsed—then vanished beneath the sands, phasing out of sight.

It was retreating—with Shank still inside.

Inside the worm’s pulsing throat, Shank fought back, his own rage igniting as he swung his greataxe with wild fury. The blade tore into the creature’s insides, sending waves of pain through its body. The worm twisted violently before its stomach convulsed—violently expelling Shank onto the sand in a slick mess of bile and shredded flesh.

Safi wasted no time. With a primal cry, he wildshaped into a hatori, his new form burrowing through the earth with speed. He tunneled beneath the sands, ready to retrieve his battered companion before the desert claimed him.

Chapter 6: Black Waters

It had been six long days since they left the relative safety of Urik, and the unyielding desert was already starting to take its toll. The heat, the shifting sands, and the weariness of their mounts were beginning to wear on the group. The kanks had become increasingly difficult to manage, refusing commands and wandering off on their own, as if the desert was calling them in a language they could not understand.

But just as the oppressive day seemed like it might stretch on forever, a glint of water appeared on the horizon. The sun reflected off the shimmering surface, casting brilliant hues across the landscape, offering the faintest promise of respite. Spirits lifted at the thought of a refreshing stop at an oasis, but as they drew closer, their hope faded.

The water before them was no lifeline. It was black—oily and slick, reflecting a disturbing sheen under the fading light. The Black Waters. The poisoned remnants of Hamanu’s foul magic, cast upon the once-pristine waters of Yaramuke to destroy the city. A curse still lingered here, a warning not to drink, but the oasis would offer some protection from the night.

Reluctantly, they set camp near the blackened waters, watching the sun dip behind the horizon as darkness settled once again over the desert.

It was during the second watch that the peace was shattered.

Safi was jolted awake by the sound of shuffling feet. The desert night hung heavy around them, the stars offering little comfort. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head. Shadowy figures moved between the sleeping forms of his comrades, shapes that seemed to shift in the night, sniffing the air as they passed.

Then, one of the creatures stopped. Its red eyes glowed, burning with a malevolent fire that pierced the darkness. It stared into Safi’s soul, and with a hideous scream, the attack began.

Safi reacted instinctively, casting Sacred Flame at the ghast, the fire searing its flesh. The radiant energy illuminated the night for a brief moment before Safi summoned his Halo of light, trying to protect himself from the oncoming assault. The ghast retaliated with a vicious Shocking Grasp, its fingers crackling with electricity as it reached out to seize him.

The Urikite thri-kreen, alert and ready, lashed out with his Gythka, cleaving through two ghouls in one swift motion.

But the ghast was relentless. It repositioned itself, and with a flash of lightning, unleashed a devastating Lightning Bolt. The crackling arc of energy struck four of the sleeping heroes, jolting them awake as they scrambled to defend themselves.

In the chaos, Fazanna summoned a Wall of Force, protecting her companions as they gathered their bearings. But before the wall could solidify, the ghast unleashed a Disintegrate spell, shattering the barrier with a burst of raw power.

Ulreg’s maul swung in a deadly arc, and two more ghouls fell to the ground, their forms crumpling under the sheer force of her blows.

Another ghoul lunged at Karnos, its claws raking through the air, but Karnos, already prepared, turned insubstantial, evading the attack as if the creature had never existed.

Shiv rose from his sleeping position, his mind focused. With a fluid movement, he used Disengage to reposition himself, then activated his maul’s ability, Breaker of Minds, unleashing its power on the ghouls. Seven of them fell in quick succession, their bodies torn asunder by the psychic energy.

But more ghouls began to crawl out of the Black Waters, their twisted forms emerging from the oily depths, an endless wave of undead.

Thovadorak stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with eldritch power. He cast Eldritch Blast, sending bolts of crackling energy into the fray. Three more ghouls were reduced to ash.

Another ghoul lunged at Shiv, its claws aimed at his throat, but Shiv responded with a savage Menacing Attack, knocking the creature back with a flurry of blows.

Shank’s fury ignited, and with a roar, he charged into the mass of ghouls. His Fury of the Arena erupted around him, cutting down three more undead as he hacked through their ranks.

Jherrid, never one to shy away from the fire of battle, cast Fireball, the fiery explosion obliterating six more ghouls in a massive blast of heat and destruction.

In the midst of the chaos, Zahraan’s calm focus cut through the turmoil. He grabbed Anvar and Shiv, using his Monk Abilities to transport them swiftly toward the ghast. With a swift slash of his Flamebite Sword, he struck the defiler down, sending the creature’s body into flames, ending the terror.

But even as the battlefield grew quieter, the oppressive weight of the Black Waters hung heavy on the group. The fight was won, but the desert had many more secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Chapter 7: Harvesting the Ghast Defiler

Fazanna, ever the opportunist, chose not to rest. Instead, she set to work, her keen eyes scanning the remains of the ghast defiler. Jherrid, standing off to the side, couldn't help but grin as he watched her from a distance. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and admiration for her relentless nature.

With her practiced skill in Arcana and her natural dexterity, Fazanna carefully harvested the materials from the defiler. The delicate process required precision and caution, as she sought valuable components from the creature’s remains—perhaps something that could prove useful in the future. Yet, despite her success, the task took a toll on her. The foul nature of the defiler's essence clung to her, and the contact made her feel nauseous, her stomach churning with the dark magic that had been woven into the creature's very being.

Anvar, ever the healer, noticed her distress. He quickly stepped forward, offering his aid. With a few whispered words and a gentle touch, he called upon his healing magic and cured her of the sickness. The feeling of illness faded, but her fatigue remained—she had gone without sleep for far too long, and the weariness could not be so easily undone.

Though Anvar’s spell had soothed her body, it did little to lift the exhaustion from her mind. She could feel the weight of the desert’s unyielding march upon her, but she would press on, as always. The others had no idea how far her limits could stretch.

Chapter 8: Ambush

The scorching sun beats down mercilessly on the barren wasteland as the group trudges onward, each step through the oppressive desert heat sapping the strength from their bodies. Sweat clings to their skin, sizzling as it hits the parched road beneath them. The landscape offers no reprieve: just endless stretches of sand, the occasional shrub, and jagged rock formations that do little to break the monotony of the desert’s cruel expanse.

The silence of the desert is all-encompassing. The creatures of this unforgiving land are hidden away in their burrows, safe from the blinding rays of the sun. Only the sound of labored breaths and the occasional grumble of their exhausted mounts fill the air, a constant reminder of the harshness of their journey.

But as the heat continues to blister the earth, a glimmer of hope appears on the horizon. A cluster of banners flutters weakly in the wind, and as the group draws nearer, their hopes rise. Could it be merchants, offering much-needed supplies? The thought of water, food, and shelter quickens their pace, urging their kanks onward.

Yet, when they arrive at the site, their hopes are crushed. The caravan is nothing but a charred ruin. The remains of several wagons smolder in the oppressive heat, gutted of any valuables. The bodies of the guards lie scattered across the ground, half-buried in the sand, their lifeless forms bearing the marks of vicious assaults—teeth, claws, and a variety of other brutal weapons.

As the group surveys the grim scene, they struggle to maintain control over their mounts, who grow skittish and pull at their harnesses, sensing the danger that still lingers in the air. Their unease is palpable, as if the desert itself is warning them of something worse yet to come.

Then, from the shadows of the ruined camp, a figure emerges. A young woman, covered in dirt and blood, her club still dripping crimson. She moves with a sense of urgency, her eyes wide with shock and fear. Her name is Selanu, and she belongs to the infamous slave tribe known as the Free.

She is a ragged sight, her clothing torn and her body shaking as she steps into the wreckage of the camp. In her eyes, there is a frantic desperation, a desire to know what has become of her people.

Without much ceremony, she speaks, her words coming out in a rush as she recounts the horror that has befallen her tribe. Her voice is tinged with impatience as she explains the events leading up to the massacre. The Free had been tracking a band of gith who had been raiding their caravans, but the gith had set a trap. Selanu and her companions had been caught by surprise, and only she managed to escape. She does not know the fate of the others, nor how many of her people may have survived.

The urgency in her voice is clear as she pleads for assistance. She knows where Bartras, the leader of the Free, had believed the gith lair to be hidden, and she begs the group to help her avenge her fallen tribe and find out what happened to the rest of her people.

However, Thovadorak is unmoved by her impassioned plea. With a growl, he mutters a dismissive comment, expressing his indifference to the plight of the Free. “If you want to go charging off to play heroes, be my guest. We don’t need your help anyway,” he grumbles, clearly uninterested in getting involved in what he sees as a futile quest.

Despite Thovadorak’s apathy, Selanu's eyes remain filled with hope, waiting for the group’s decision. The choice now lies with the adventurers—whether they heed the call for aid or turn their backs on a cause that could bring them into conflict with the dangerous gith.

Chapter 9: The Hunt is On

The sun had burned relentlessly on their backs as they trudged through the arid wasteland, following Selanu with a mixture of determination and desperation. The land was a barren expanse of sand, dotted here and there with the occasional desert shrub or small rock formation, an unrelenting sea of heat and dust. Each step brought more sweat, which boiled away as soon as it touched the road, leaving nothing behind but the parched dryness of the desert.

As they traveled, the land began to rise, the ground sloping gently into low hills. It was a welcome change, the rising terrain offering some relief from the flat, oppressive desert. Along the way, Selanu spoke in halting fragments, each word a painful echo of the tragedy she had witnessed. Her voice, cracked with grief, shared the tale of how The Free had fought the gith to a standstill. Bartras, their leader, and another warrior had tried to fight back, but it hadn't been enough.

"The gith needed food," she had muttered, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking the words caused her physical pain. "Us... we were to be dinners for weeks. They trapped us. They had a defiler with some kind of magical pipes... tried to control us. They hurt."

Her words faltered as the memory of the violence surged again. "Bartras got him... but the gith got Bartras... and another. They both tried to struggle... but it was no use. Then the gith stripped them. Naked... they were. Took all their equipment... weapons... stolen. They were gagged, bound, hand and foot. Naked... they were... Two gith threw them over their backs... made off through the desert... to their stinking lair."

The gravity of her words weighed heavily on the party. Bartras and the others, once proud and strong, had been humiliated and stripped of their dignity. They had been taken—bound, gagged, and carried off like cattle to their grim fate.

As Selanu led the party up a hill and they crested the rise, the sight of the gith lair appeared below them, nestled in the rocks. She pointed it out, her finger trembling slightly as she indicated the dark structure that marked the home of their captors. It was the first real sign of hope they had seen in days, and yet, the ominous presence of the lair filled the air with dread. The journey ahead would not be easy.

They moved forward cautiously, keeping to the shadows as they descended toward the lair. The dim torchlight flickered on the crude stone walls of the tunnel as they entered, each step measured and careful. The sounds of gith laughter echoed off the walls, unnervingly close. They moved slowly, ducking behind boulders and pressing into depressions in the walls to keep out of sight, barely breathing as they crept forward.

The approaching sounds of footsteps alerted them that the gith were nearing. They could hear the faint scrape of boots on stone and the rustling of torches being carried by the enemy. Soon enough, the first of the gith warriors appeared around the corner, followed by several others. They entered a side cavern, their crude torches casting erratic shadows on the walls.

Through the darkness, they saw what they had feared. Hanging from chains along the walls was Bartras. His body was bruised, battered, and broken from the gith's tortures. The Free warrior's eyes were dull, the light of hope dimming with every passing second.

The gith uncaringly unshackled him, his hands cruelly bound together. Bartras wase led by two gith, their shackles clinking with every movement as they dragged himm through the dark tunnels. The sound of their chains was a constant reminder of the cruel fate that awaited them.

Before the gith could lead their captive too far, Selanu’s voice had whispered just loud enough to hear: "We are here to rescue you. Be patient, and you shall be free."

Bartras' head had nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgment, but there was no verbal response. The Free warrior was dragged into the central chamber of the lair, and the party had followed as silently as they could, their steps barely making a sound.

Inside the main chamber, the stench of rot and decay was overwhelming. The floor was littered with the remnants of past meals—rotting meat, bones, and broken scraps. The oppressive stench threatened to make their stomachs churn, but they held their breath and kept their focus. The gith chieftain sat upon a grotesque throne, crafted from bones and skulls, his mouth caked with dried blood. His eyes gleamed with a malicious hunger as he surveyed the kneeling captive.

The gith warriors around him laughed and jeered, their voices cruel and taunting. They pushed Bartras to his knees before the chieftain, their harsh laughter filling the chamber with sickening echoes. The tension in the room was palpable as the chieftain muttered something in a language none of the party understood. He made a gesture toward the two nearest gith, signaling them to begin the ceremony.

Two gith stepped forward, each bearing a massive, rusted two-handed scimitar. The edges were jagged and crude, yet deadly in their own right. The party could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on them as they waited for the right moment to strike. Every second that passed brought them closer to the brink of disaster.

The time for hesitation was over. The rescue would begin now, before the ceremony could proceed any further.

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