The scroll, well preserved from its centuries of rest within a mountain tomb, presented Sindri with something of a quandary. The language was one she couldn't even identify but it was also filled with so very many promising pictures. It looked relevant to her interests and a most fortuitous find indeed. Would it be better to have the words translated, or would that simply ruin all the delightful things the crudely inked drawings seemed to imply? The truth was such a tricksome thing, and could not always be trusted.

She studied the scroll quietly by the light of the inn's hearth as other guests came and went, each about their business. Most were a hardy sort, nuggety miners and the sorts of travelers who didn't mind a region known for blizzards, avalanches, and the massive beasts the natives of this world still insist on referring to as miniature pets despite their actual size. Many glanced her way, but few approached. As long as no weapon was summoned, she could pass for simply another Unseelie demon; but such assumptions couldn't negate the quiet air of mystery that Death shrouded his people in and the veils Sindri wore were not limited to the scrap of sheer fabric that covered her small smile as she traced a rather gruesome diagram.

Most of her other acquisitions had been packed up and sent ahead to the sprawl of Halloweentown to be stored until her return trip. As even the most stalwart of delivery services had difficulty reaching the islands that held the Clans, and Death most of all. The end of her small quest was approaching and Sindri could feel it in the small, eager tensions upon waking and see it in the snapping, smokey whispers of the fire. It wasn't quite homesickness, but there was that longing, that sense of having a place meant for her, waiting for her to fill it. Maybe not now but soon. There was only one sign missing, and that was Jora's shadow cast across the threshold.

All it took was a whisper, a dream, a scrap of paper to urge Sindri to wander while countless stars and a myriad of symbols steered such travels far and wide beyond planning, well past maps. But it was only her sister, only Jora, who guided her home. It had been years since they last saw one another, and the Guardian was no doubt at the end of her patience. The duty to a priestess could only distract her for so long, and besides, the priestess in question was long familiar with the sisters.

She wondered how Jora would solve the dilemma of the scroll, and caught up in this thought, nearly missed the conversation at the next table down.

"'Orsemen, you say?" Said the shorter to the taller through an enormous bush of a beard, as it sloppily dripped cider upon the rough wooden table. The two were likely reapers, if the portly rat and gossiping raven sipping drinks further down were familiars and not guests themselves. Those who called themselves creeple, those of Halloween, were a much stranger and unpredictable folk than those of any other world. "Just...gone? Poof?"

"There's a few left, but the islands they lived on are a crater and most of its people are..." Cautiously he leaned in and whispered something low before continuing normally, "Council's put them on some sort of reservation in town. As much to keep an eye on them as anything else s'far as I'm concerned and a good thing." The tall one nodded with sage superiority. "They say the Clans had a weapon, some sorta dire trouble for the Human World and pr'aps ours as well, and it backfired. S'what they get."

The other nodded, "Hope they learned their lesson."

The two went on for some time, speculating about the council's motives and the future (and lack of one) that awaited the Clans. Sindri listened to their chatter, rife with impersonal judgments, with the sort of quiet shock that did not allow for thought or even emotion. Later she would try to dismiss it, but the story was told again and again, each time from very different sources. Obvious differences and embellishments littered the news but the single consistent stand weaving through all was destruction. The Four Clans were no more.

Sindri waited a month with a hope that lingered, even after she accepted that no familiar shadow would cross its threshold other than her own. Eventually she left, to go back and see for herself, and maybe find some sign, some answer as to how such a thing could happen. For the first time, Sindri set out for home on her own, faith faltering and without a beloved sister to guide her.

For the first time, in all her wanderings Sindri felt lost.