Having recovered the Blood Gem and journeyed to the outer reaches of the fiendish Freyder's stronghold, you find yourselves before the gates of a near-endless maze of twisting rock and soil. From the raised vantage point of a nearby hilltop you can see that the great, irregularly cut figure of the labyrinth stretches on for many miles; almost as far as your eyes can see. Were it not for the tiny, tell-tale protrusion of Freyder's tower on the horizon, you might think your quest quite hopeless.

The twin moons are high and in the midnight sky, and the mingling blue and pinkish glow they cast illuminates your guide. Even with the evening shadows his cragged face and bent posture are enough to let you know that this man has seen his share of rough times. Perhaps it was the way he leaned on his dark, gnarled wooden cane or the way his limp seemed to alternate sides, but something had alerted you from the moment you first glimpsed him that perhaps he was playing it up a bit. Since that first vision a few weeks ago you had, of course, been informed that your suspicions were correct and that he was milking it quite enthusiastically.

As he shambles down the hill towards the black spiral gates of the maze, wedging his cane in the roots of swatches of plant life for support, he calls to you with that same, always oddly mirthful voice, "Watcha' waitin' for troop? We ain't even in the Labyrinth yet, n' you folks are already frozn' solid with fear. If I'da know that..." He continues on for a few moments in his usual rambling manner before stopping as he arrives at the gate. Simon had a great talent for acting, gods know where he had acquired it from, but standing there before the gates with his hand resting on the pommel of his rusty sword, brown traveling cape flapping ever so slightly in the breeze, he cuts the usual, overtly theatrical figure before launching with great gusto into his latest rendition of the classic do or die speech at a pace that would leave even an excited, Halfling, orator gasping for air.