Into a shallow basin water dripped.

Again.

Again.

Dripping.

Dripping.

Falling.

Falling.

Eternal.

Unbroken.

Alone.

And then silence.

A gear cranked, hard, struggling. A tap burst wide.

Water flowed from the ceiling into the bowl like a waterfall. It filled the basin; then overflowed. Water glided over the edge and splashed into the next. Down, down, and down it went. Until it slipped and glided into one last bowl. Deep, yet small.

In the bottom of this last bowl was a small, clear crystal the water gently stirred and caressed.

As the water filled the bowl the crystal started to glow. Brighter, brighter, as the bowl filled it's light grew. The stone was brightest white as the water reached the lip. It reached as high as it could, reaching higher than could be conceived.

Water gushed from the bowl, glowing on its own. It slid and glided along channels cut in the floor. Flowing out into the room it painted the walls and objects in light.

A stone table and chairs were revealed. Stark and angular as the rest of the room. The glowing water lacked the strength to reveal any colors; all was cast in a twilight grey.

Four walls, four chairs, four places, four names.

Lost to time and shadow, the faded names were known only to the ones they belonged. The room was a moment, an instant set adrift in time, waiting to be called once more.

The gear cranked again, hard, reluctant. The spigot squeezed shut. The water stopped falling with one last drip. The channels were filled. All was silent.

A door slipped open, soft as a breeze, and light gasped into the stark room. A man stepped in, dark and broad. He wore a pale scarf around his head like a hood, obscuring his face in shadow. He held a shepherd's crook in his hand and carried with him a deep sense of calm and safety.

A voice rung out, cold and sharp: “Recognized: the high shepherd, ruler of the Singing Plains.”

The shepherd walked to the table and took his seat. His door shut.

A few moments slipped by and another door opened. In walked a woman. Sun kissed, windswept, and thick. Her body glistened with perpetual dew, on her wrists and bare feet hung were strands of pearls like foam on the water. On her head a net of pearls, woven with silver to match the small mask around her eyes.

The voice rung out, cold and sharp: “Recognized: the Foam mancer, ruler of the Glittering Coast.”

The foam mancer nodded to the high shepherd and took her seat. Her door shut.

A few moments more and another door opened. In stepped a squat man swathed in cloth. Every inch of his pale skin was covered but his fingers and just around his eyes. The edges of each piece of fabric bore the signs of travel; worn and tattered by wind and rain. Around his neck hung a compass and on his head a large hat.

The voice rung out, cold and sharp: “Recognized: the path maker, ruler of the Winding Ways.”

The path maker nodded to the foam mancer and the high shepherd and took his seat. His door shut.

It was several minutes until, at last, the final door opened. A tall women entered, dusky and imposing. She was clad all in dark leather, surrounded by a large, blood red cape that pooled at her feet and covered her black curls. Her face was covered by a white mask meant to mimic a human, eye holes cut out to reveal a soft glow of gold. On her thigh was strapped a black knife.

The voice rang out, cold and sharp: “Recognized: the crimson angel, ruler of the Flaming Peaks.”

She nodded to the others and took her seat. Her door shut.

Tension filled the silence as they waited. They didn't wait long.

“All are present,” a new voiced called. “All have agreed. The game begins. The selection of Champions may proceed.”