Cyan allows herself to be raised to her feet, and no longer knows what to do after that.  The chemicals of her fury have begun to break down within her, leaving her cold and shaken...physically.  Her spirit is numbed by the memories that continue to flicker before her mind's eye.  It might even be easier if all were terrible, but some are not; it creates a roller coaster for her emotions, sweeping her up and down until everything blurs.

Many worlds.  Many, many worlds conquered.  And people slain.

Confusion, too, with the two men before her.  Suddenly she has no idea how to respond to their offers of a hand up.  Before, it would have been a nod, a smile perhaps.  Now?  What does she offer Dorian in return for his little smile, so oddly natural on his stern visage?  What does she give Aaron for his fervent offer of protection and friendship (is it friendship?  Does she misconstrue her own memories?), despite her crimes?

If she offers something in return, how will it be taken?  Both their hands are hot on hers - hers feel cold, but already begin to warm.

Her head spins.  She puts a hand to her face, chokes back a sob.  Sick as she feels, Cyan still feels a surge of gratitude for both of these men.  For whatever reason, they stand by her, regardless of her actions.  They still seem to trust her.  She isn't certain she deserves that, not at all.  "Aaron..."  Trying to talk, to thank him for his support, his presence was a poor idea.  She holds back tears with an effort, manages a stiff nod, ruby eyes bright.

In the past, Aaron has always left them.  Cyan finds herself wondering what he will do now.

Dorian asks if she can ride.  Of course she can.  Cyan could ride a tiger, here and now, to get herself away from this battlefield.  "Yes, I can ride."  Another struggle to get those words out.  Gratitude is a heavy weight, and the concern in Dorian's eyes is painful to bear.

Painful...but welcome.

Rest.  Clean herself.  She-

+ UNNECESSARY.  WE CAN CARRY THE GENERAL +

At the voice, Cyan pulls free from the hands, spins, presses herself back against the two men.  That voice....

The gleaming, chrome and crimson wheel blurs before her, its blades a mere pace from her face.

+ GENERAL? +

This is Right.  She draws in a shuddering breath, gives another shaky nod.  Turns her head to glance at Dorian, finds him close, Aaron at her other side, and steps quickly away, suddenly embarassed.  '...and sort things out.'

A poor greeting she has given these two, but Cyan looks down at herself, and her face twists at the sight of the armor.  Spirits....  "I need...yes, I can ride."

More of what Dorian has said sinks in.  Berd.  And James.

Spirits above, how can she face them, too?

Fangmir hurtles upwards, spinning, end over end, as it rises, and...


Around Tahirah, the people gather, their faces blank.

This is the Lords' Witch.  She can look into your heart, and see what will happen to you in a month, and why it will be your own fault.  And now she speaks of hope, and a new home, and a being out of Legend stands beside her.

Gradually the blank masks start to suffuse with excitement, awe, and even joy.  In the midst of all the destruction, these people live anew.

Parcifal raises the blade, and light flows from it, sketching phosphorescent green lines on the shattered walls, the broken floor and falling ceiling, the weary flesh of his audience, even the very air itself.

And there is a door, where none had been before...


... the sword strikes the metal of the rainwater cistern, severing the support and piercing the tank itself, and the whole structure tilts, the remaining supports groaning under the strain.  Then it stops, precariously...


Morgan's blade strikes, again and again, as the Archon is distracted by the fast-moving panthers.  Each strike is marked by a shower of blue-white sparks.  There is a flash, and the smell of scorched hair and burning grass as Leareth hurls himself aside at the last instant, only to spring back again.

All of them spring, and the Archon goes down beneath claws and blade.  Pinned by their mass, it attempts to break free, as a strange white fire flows from its wounds.  It cannot move.  It cannot break free.  In a last desperate move, it flees, injured, perhaps mortally.

There is a charred circle on the ground, and a smell of ozone in the air, and two panthers who will not fight again, possibly for some time...


... balanced, but for only a heartbeat...


... Parcival strides to the door, and hurls it wide.  "Go through, my friends, to your new home.  It is a place like Charyk, but as it was long ago.  Make your new life there!"

And they start through, while behind them, a pile of discarded weapons starts to grow...


... before metal rips, as the tank twists beneath the weight it holds.  A seam splits, and thousands of gallons of rainwater falls in a sudden torrent.

"Three!" roars James, and in the same instant, Israfil senses the approaching danger.  Too late.  Cold water slams down like a hammer blow. pounding the Archon to the floor, and dousing his flames.  James, Trista and Berd hurl themselves aside as what passes for Archon flesh explodes into steam.

Israfil screams...


Outside, a strange scene plays out.  A creature, approaches Aaron, Cyan and Dorian.  Large and hulking, it stands naked, yet its body is covered in metal scales, barbs, hooks and blades, and those razor-sharp implements slide and flow across its form in a constant motion, which seems to bear no relation to the creature's own movements.  It stops at a respectable distance, watching Left and Right carefully.

Soqed Hezi has, it seems, simply come to pay its respects.

+ GREETINGS TO YOU, DEFENDERS OF WORLDS.  YOU HAVE GAINED A VICTORY HERE, TODAY. +

+ BUT IT HAS BEEN AN IMPORTANT DAY FOR ANOTHER REASON TOO. +

+ NO LONGER DO YOU FIGHT ALONE.  THE NEPHELIM HAVE DECIDED TO ACT, INSPIRED BY METATRON'S SACRIFICES.  THE SERAPHIM NO LONGER HAVE FREE REIGN, TO DO AS THEY WILL.  THERE WILL BE WAR NOW, AMONG THE ARCHONS. +


Roman, Banglen-Yp, Jonnee Kay and the brintizzi make their way into the centre of the battlefield, just in time to see the strange creature standing before Cyan and the others.  Jonnee is limping, and moving slower than Cyan, Dorian, and Aaron have ever seen before.

Left darts forward, hovering before Banglen-Yp, and says, curiously, + HAVEN'T I KILLED YOU ONCE, ALREADY, TODAY? +  Definitely a question.


James, Trista and Berd move slowly through the gloom, lit by shafts of daylight from the broken ceiling.  Fangmir is found, still embedded in a fallen section of the cistern.  James pulls the blade free, looking briefly like some reincarnation of King Arthur.

The trio are burned, battered, bruised... but Israfil is gone, no more now than a few steaming fragments of fire-blackened material, somewhere on the floor behind them.

Ahead lies the East Gate...

 

Approaching the group, Banglen-Yp concluded that the woman that the large one was addressing to must be the little dragon's daughter.  Before she even could wave and say hello to the large one that talked to Psi-Ann a familiar shape approached and spoke to her again.

Banglen-Yp barely avoided releasing the full blast of the pent up energy at the one who had killed her.

•• Yes •• Shall • I • re•turn • the • fav•our ••

Definitely a question, and a question asked with the strange arm pointing at the Archon.  One false move from it and she would fire, no second chance.

•• I • am • ca•pa•ble • of • that • too••

In case it believed she was not able to kill as well as only stun.  She had learnt among the ones she arrived here with that it could help to be overly clear sometimes.

So much to learn, so many questions to ask, so many places to see - and so much time.  A perfect match, it would seem.

 

"Banglen, it would be wise of you to not indulge our Archon friend within the context of combat at the moment." He turned his head and beheld the massive, metalic golem of Soqed Hezi.

This Archon was particularly interesting to Aaron, who'd always held a certain respect for the shifting abilities of the Archon race. This particular one would've inspired him significantly, if he'd had the energy to indulge his thoughts. He didn't, of course, so the Archon's form and comments went almost unnoticed.

"It's about time the remainder of your race got off their asses and started taking names," Aaron said, sounding somewhat bitter. "Metatron's loss was unnecessary. His death still causes me some amount of pain."

He placed a hand upon Cyan's shoulder, but raised his head to Soqed Hezi.

"Still, don't take my bitterness to heart. Your arrival was both timely and definetly needed. I, for one, am extremely grateful that you arrived." He sighed, lowering his head tiredly. "You have my thanks."

Roman recognises the black armour the woman wears.  His thunder rolls out "Live" "without" "surrender"

He observes the interplay between Banglen-Yp and the archon, but to Aaron's reply - a warning or a threat ? he adds "She" "is" "not" "alone"

+ WHAT YOU SAY IS TRUE.  THE NEPHELIM HAVE NOT TAKEN A UNIFIED STAND, BEFORE THIS.  IT IS THE NATURE OF OUR KIND. +

Soqed Hezi's tone contains no apology, it is simply a statement of fact.

+ ARCHONS REQUIRE A STRONG LEADER IN ORDER TO WORK TOGETHER.  HARBONAH HOLDS THE SERAPHIM TOGETHER BY SHEER FORCE OF WILL.  THE NEPHELIM HAVE NO SUCH LEADER, AND SO HAVE FOUND IT DIFFICULT, OR IMPOSSIBLE, TO TAKE COORDINATED ACTION.  THAT HAS CHANGED NOW.  FOR ARCHONS TO COOPERATE ON A SCALE SUCH AS YOU HAVE SEEN TODAY, WITHOUT A SINGLE DOMINANT LEADER, IS UNPRECEDENTED IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF OUR RACE. +

+ FOR SEVENTEEN THOUSAND YEARS, WE HAVE WATCHED THE RISE AND FALL OF NEPHELIM ALLIANCES.  AND NEVER BEFORE HAVE WE SEEN SUCH A DISPLAY AS YOU HAVE WITNESSED HERE.  AND ONLY WITH THIS ALLIANCE, HAVE WE SHOWN OURSELVES AS BELONGING TO THE NEPHELIM.  ALWAYS HAVE WE KEPT OUR TRUE ALLIEGANCE HIDDEN, THE BETTER TO OBSERVE THE SCHEMES OF THE SERAPHIM. +

+ THE FACT THAT WE HAVE NOW REVEALED OUR POSITION IN THIS MATTER, IS DUE TO OUR BELIEF THAT OUR ROLE AS AN AGENT IS ABOUT TO BECOME FAR LESS IMPORTANT, TO OUR CAUSE, THAN OUR ABILITY AS A WARRIOR. +

+ A CHANGE HAS COME TO ARCHON SOCIETY. +

Dorian hovers near Cyan, but tried not to smother her with his presence. He would want room in such a condition. Indeed, when afflicted or wounded, many crave space when it may be the last thing they need. His stance is ready to assist, if needed- available.

She chokes on words, struggling just to speak with them. Seconds count. Everything counts. Dorian is a master of the psyche, he knows he delicate a mind can be after such torture and rebuilding. One wrong word, one memory can start a death spiral. He quells the rising desperation to remove her from this situation. Despite any expertise, he feels as lost as she is. He can only wonder at what she's experienced. As he noted at the rave club under the pulsing lights, she seemed older, aged, and hardened. He knew well how time could work different in some places. How long had it been for her? How did they do it? Was a clean and precise psychic surgery? No, he knew it wasn't. He knew how he'd do it, wipe the slate clean and fill her with something different. They didn't want a robot. They wanted Cyan, who knew them intimately. This wasn't a wipe. This was a twisting. What torture and terror had they used to do it?

Once more, the knot in his stomach draws itself tight and he shakes with anger and sorrow. The very sight of these Archons lingering about her like servants made him want to lash out with destructive force.

Dorian had no desire to allow Archons to accompany Cyan, and the reasons were numerous. First, they could alert other Archon's to their location after they had withdrawn. Even if the Seraphim now had opposition, it wouldn't take a large force to assault them in this beleaguered condition. Reasonably, these two might be enough to slay them all or steal Cyan from them again.

No, it was more complicated than that. The other reasons were all true, but Cyan's reaction to them drew the greatest concern. He noted her reaction to them, the sharp intake of breath, the flicker of fear.

"Cyan, these two archons," he said. His voice remained soft, not commanding or threatening. "Do you want them to come with you or return to Harbonah?"

He noted the approach of Soqed Hezi. He didn't know the thing's name, but he could tell it wasn't coming to attack. It moved too slow, too casual, for an approach on enemy forces. Archon fought against Archon.

A change has come to archon society.

What does this mean? Is the war over? Have they won?

He doubts the news is quite that good. The Seraphim have done massive damage in the Myriad Worlds. He destroyed one of their breeding worlds, once, and in a captured Archon's mind he saw just how futile the move had been. He had squashed one grape in a vineyard. He could work for a lifetime, perhaps, and not destroy all the breeding worlds.

Questions flooded his mind. Which side had the advantage in numbers? Which side had strategic, logistic advantages?

In the end, there was only one question to be asked: did it matter?

This didn't end the war, by any means. It was a victory. This was one battle, a new ally. This was progress. This wasn't the end. This was the beginning.

To Soqed Hezi he says, "The Nephelim have our support and our blessing. One question I must ask, though I suspect I know the answer. What has caused this change? Why have they chosen now to act?"

Right howls out his grating, earth crumbling laugh.  + IT WOULD APPEAR YOUR TECHNIQUE AND PRECISION REQUIRE WORK, 'SINISTER'.  WELL AND GOOD TO KILL, BUT IF YOU CANNOT MAKE THEM STAY DEAD, WHAT IS THE POINT? +

Left doesn't bother answering.  + DO YOU CARRY YOUR LIFE WITHIN SEVERAL BODIES? + she inquires of Banglen-Yp.  + OR ARE YOU SIMPLY CAPABLE OF MASSIVE SELF-REGENERATION? +  She studies the weapon as Roman speaks.  + CURIOUS.  NO NEED, I TRUST THE EVIDENCE LITTERING THE BATTLEFIELD +  She seems to study the nearby Roman.

+ INTERESTING PEOPLE + Left notes, blurring away to orbit Roman for a moment, a tiny, flickering ring of blades, before snapping back to hover before Banglen-Yp.  + AND IMPRESSIVE WEAPONRY THEY MOUNT...SHOOTING ME NOW WOULD BE COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE TO MY UNDERSTANDING +
This message was lightly edited by the player at 13:58, Fri 19 Jan 2007.

 

•• I • am • Bang•len••Yp ••

The answer given to the question about several bodies or self-regeneration.  It was the best she could offer, and wanted to offer.

She did not look over to Roman as he spoke but it was good to know someone might be watching her back.

Or at least some part of it.

She tilted her head to one side as the Archon spoke again.

•• As • was • you • kill•ing • me • to • my • fight ••

She did however lower the arm as it seemed as if these Archon were loyal to the Daughter of the Dragon, and thus no longer hostile as she appeared to have been freed from her enthralment.

One of the other men also asked her not to fire at the Archon, so she decided to spare this one despite it having killed her once.

•• I • would • sug•gest • not • to • kill • me • a•gain •• I • might • get • an•noyed ••

A friendly suggestion, coupled with a frendly smile.

Finally she was free to speak to the others.

•• Hel•lo ••

She waved to the big one and the other Archon - with a smile, naturally.

The hole in her stomach was nearly all gone now, slowly shrinking and barely visible anymore.

 

Though a long time in disuse, the heavy blade feels natural in Trista’s hand. A chilling realization, that.

Flanking the flaming creature, heat sears the woman’s flesh even through Berd’s cooling veil. The burning can not easily be put aside, but the woman fights through it. Necessity demands it.

Then Berd instructs and Trista wonders at the odd command. Her eyes flick to the other who moves back and suddenly Trista finds herself taking the brunt of Israfil’s wrath. Scarspirit seems to be setting up for something and the woman prepares herself.

A last slash at the Archon as James thunders the numbers which, oddly, skip one. Off her beat at not hearing the first in the series, she still manages to fling back before a torrent of water pummels Israfil, evaporating the flames.

The dry heat of licking flames evaporates under an onslaught of rising steam. Israfil lies dead; the task is done. After picking herself up off the wet floor, Trista looks at the piece of metal in her hand for a long moment. It still serves her well. Thankfully, this time it was put to a righteous use. Bittersweet, knowing how to kill.

Sheathing the machete, she turns to James, “Good plan, I hadn’t noted the cistern above him.” Her eyes scan the wreckage of Charyk.

A sad shake of the head empathizes with the people still finding their way to the East Gate. “They’ve lost their home. But not their lives.” She wonders how wrong her statement is, how many citizens have gone to their graves this day.


Trista stretches out her scorched limbs and starts in the direction of the others. She has offered Berd a shoulder and hopes he takes the well-earned rest for his tired little body.
 “To the East Gate then?”

A glance to the dragon’s friend and she adds as they walk, “I’m Trista.” She has offered Berd a shoulder and hopes he takes the well-earned rest for his tired little body.

Thunder all around her.

Thunder from the Archon, and she knows his name, his voice.  "Soqed Hezi," Cyan whispers, almost involuntarily.  He was with...they used her, it dawns on the once-bard.  But the thought brings only weary acceptance, with no fury.  How should she complain, if they found a place where they could do the most damage upon the enemy?  Even if it was within her own command?

Her command.  Such a feeling was alien, yet comfortably close, simultaneously.  Much as were the danioti, Left and Right.

Thunder from the other Archon...no, the Archon-like creature, standing beside the perfect woman carrying on a tense conversation with Left.  It resolves itself into words.  Directed at her?  There is a message, but Cyan is uncertain of what he speaks.  If it is to her, then it leaves her with something to consider.  If not...she still has much to consider.  Too much.

Dorian is nearby, a break against the thunder, against the confusion.  So many faces she does not know, and some that she does, but not from where.  His presence keeps her on her feet, in much the same way that Aaron's hand upon her shoulder does.  She will not cave before him, nor from under that hand.  There is very little left in her for herself, but these two have...for whatever reason, stood beside her, despite her actions.  She will not betray them by crumbling now.

Soqed continues to speak as Aaron, the leader, carries out his dues, keeping things straight between Left and the woman (Banglen?) and hearing the Nephilim (yes, Nephilim, clever, clever danioti, old and strong.  So Left and Right had told her).  But Dorian speaks to her, looking for an answer to a question, and she slowly raises her dull, jade eyes to return his gaze.  It isn't easy - shame is a heavy weight to drag vision down.  But she does.

She hasn't heard him talk that way often.  Wait, wasn't there...oh, yes.  In the dancing room.  Cyan exerts her self-control, keeps from nibbling nervously on her lip, and considers an answer.

Does she want them around?

"For now," Cyan whispers back.  Right, hovering nearby, expands slightly as if puffing out, and slides in behind her (narrowly missing Aaron in the process) to take up a position a certain distance behind her right arm.  He contracts, but remains silent for the moment, possibly listening to Soqed Hozi himself.  Small wonder if he does - what the ancient danioti says is far, far more strange than anything the General can recall from her time-

No.  Not the General.  She feels the weight of Aaron's hand grounding her, and Dorian's voice drives away the whispers in her mind.  Cyan shakes her head for a moment, and it threatens to split...but the pain fades.  Cyan.  My name.

A wave from the woman (yes, Banglen-Yp was her name, confirmed) prompts a polite response - even at her worst, Cyan knows that politeness costs nothing.  She bows, a small shift at the waist.  "I greet you, Banglen-Yp," she starts, then simply nods, unable to offer more at the nonce.  "Cyan," she finishes, all she can manage.

Apparantly politeness can have a cost, when one is this exhausted.  And was that a wound in her stomach?

It's too much.  Cyan closes her eyes, keeping her hand in Dorian's (warm and safe) and leaning slightly into Aaron's own hand, to ground herself.  She breathes slowly, quietly, evenly.  The hysterics are over, she vows.  No more.

Not here, in any case.

Morgan paused, a swift glance taking in the fallen, the marked, and the intact, before he growled, long and low, and they split. Seven remained, guard over the three wounded, and the rest, Leareth in the lead, chased after the fleeing archon. They'd not let it escape if they could help it!

Those left behind began to tug the wounded closer together, gently licking the charred flesh away from the healthy, regrowing tissues, grumbling jokes about kittens and fire.

Morgan's lot concentrated on the fleeing foe. If it rose too far in the air, they had little hope of catching it, but the forest was there too, and as wounded as it was, it might forget to clear the trees by enough of a margin.

The Archon rises, climbing almost vertically, and shrinking as it goes... and then green energy reaches out from a weapon attached to the saddle of one of the remaining ormvråkar, and impales it, flows over it, burns it.

It falls towards the eagerly awaiting panthers, but never reaches the ground, exploding instead, into a dissipating cloud of blackened dust...


Soqed Hezi reqards Dorian coldly, but then with his current shape it's hard to do otherwise.  + METATRON WAS THE CLOSEST THING THE NEPHELIM HAD TO A TRUE LEADER.  WE WOULD NOT ALLOW HIM TO GO UNREMEMBERED. +

Dissapointed, Morgan's lot rejoined the wounded guard, and Morgan slipped down to begin re-rigging the saddles as carry harnesses for the three. Their wounds were taking longer than usual to heal, and he didn't want to be unprepared when something else happened.

James wipes Fangmir on one of the many shredded edges of his clothing.  The blade comes away streaked with grime where the water on the blade mixes with the dust on James clothes.  He scowls, but sheathes the sword anyway.  Time for that and a change of clothes later.

"Yes, the East Gate.  I'm James."  James walks over and offers his hand.  "Please excuse me, I'm not normally so lax with my introductions, but things have been a little rushed since breakfast."

"I'm sorry, too, for the lack of warning.  I only noticed the cistern as we were fighting.  I couldnt risk Israfil breaking away," James lowers his eyes, "but leaving you to face that thing was hardly fair."

James shifts his attention to regard Berd.  "Berd, Trista's shoulder or mine, I don't care.  But please rest.  What's ahead is likely to be a little less dangerous but just as painful, for both of you."

James turns his attention back to Trista, to explain, "Berd's adopted daughter was captured by the enemy some time ago.  We suspect they..."  James gropes for the right word, "hurt her until her mind broke.  She's been recovered, but the reunion is not going to be pleasant."

He felt her sag, and he knew that she must be nearly as exhausted as he.

No. Not nearly. She was infinitely more exhausted than he. He moved his hand down, placing it around her waist.

"Cyan, your arm. Put it around my shoulders, woman. You're about to fall down."

He loosened Ilsefranvir so the sword listed slightly behind him, allowing more room for just such an action. Aaron looked to Dorian, but couldn't manage a smile.

"Dorian," he began, but couldn't manage the words. He just shook his head, the look in his eyes saying enough. Even I couldn't have done it alone, my friend. Without your support...

But he couldn't say it. Not yet. Soon, he felt he probably would, he would say that and more... but not yet, not now.

"We have to get out of here. Regroup with James and Berd." He looked to Left, and then Right. "Don't start any crap, you two. You're going to scare the hell out of everyone just by being with us, nevermind along with Cyan, here."

He looked at each of them in turn, even including himself.

"We're about to walk into a gigantic mess, my friends. Prepare yourselves."

Berd flutters wildly with worry as James' plan comes to fruition...but he needn't have worried, as all parties play their roles.  Israfil goes down into darkness, its life sluiced away with the water that even now drains through the cracks in the stone beneath its cooling corpse.

He chirrups with relief at the sight of his friends, old and new, still whole and hale.  His sad eyes seek out the citizens as they flee, but he is now too weary to comment; the little dragon takes the first available seat, and crouches down upon Trista's shoulder.



Berd bobs his head to James as they travel further, nodding along with the man's words.


Berd hunches up on Trista's shoulder.  His eyes are dull, but sparkle at their core.  His claws play with the tip of his tail nervously.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:54, Sat 20 Jan 2007.

A chorus pierces the Charyk sky as a dozen black drakes sweep low over the scene, keen eyes alert for threats. The battlefield has become so confusing now; they are not sure what beings are threats and what are not unless there is hostility against someone they know to be friendly. All of the targets Dorian pinpointed with his psyche have met a swift and just end. The others have wisely stopped using sorcery and are in the process of fleeing. Most of the sorcerers died. No more can be done.

With that, Dorian is satisfied, though the knowledge of how to destroy worlds will remain. It could spread to others, later. Such power does scar the Worlds and the Underflow, though. If they use it, someone or something will be perturbed and hunt them down. They are children, playing with catapults as toys.

He waits for Cyan to mount up and ride. This place is chaotic and there is much to distract her. She speaks, greeting Banglen-Yp, always polite. How much had she taught him about politeness? His harsh words about politeness when they first met came back to him. It was very Cyan to spare the strength to greet another with politeness even with the last of her strength. Slowly, he had come to admire that quality in her.

Then her strength almost seems to fail her. He holds his arm, his hand, firm for her to steady herself. Aaron is also supporting her. Maybe she could ride, but maybe she couldn't. The last thing that needed to happen was for her to slip from the back of a mount. This would not turn into a comedy on his watch.

With a note a decisiveness, he says, "I think you should ride with someone, Cyan." He had already considered this, not liking the alternatives. Yet, it would be presumptuous to invite himself to do so. He glances at Aaron. Admittedly the man was a better rider, and stronger. "Aaron," he says. "Perhaps?"

He'd hate the decision later.

But it was the right decision.

Curse it.

"We have no time to waste," He says to the others. His voice is now more direct. "Return to Charyk at once. I'll lead us to Berd and James."

He approaches the nearest drake, which lifts a wing. He swings up onto its back, behind the wings. The drakes scales felt soft and supple, deceptively so, to the touch. He felt like he could slide off. Only the drake's skill at flight would determine if he stayed aloft.

The drake twitters and spreads its wings, shifting to adjust to his weight. It isn't happy about being ridden. Ready to take off, it spreads its wings and pumps them testingly.

Right and Left both snicker, simultaneously, in the sound a two-tone howl of tortured metal.  + FORTUNATLY, THE GENERAL'S ARMOR SERVES A MANY-FOLD PURPOSE +

+ ONE OF WHICH IS COSMETIC +

Both archons now shrink to roughly the size of a quarter.  Still spinning, now tiny, razor hoops, they slip around the startled Cyan to 'attach' themselves to the heels of her armor.  If one doesn't look too closely, they might miss the fact that nothing actually connects the spurs with the armor.

Cyan, herself, blinks in surprise, then her topaz eyes widen as Aaron moves to hold her up.  She hesitantly puts her free hand on his near shoulder, not across them both.  To her right, Dorian is a black iron pillar to which she clings.  It certainly feels better to have assistance, at this moment, but...she is nervous.  So many things happening, so many thoughts and memories rushing through her mind, and now a confusing situation atop that to boot.  She looks at her armor, looks again, and a wave of revulsion runs through her.  She has to get this off.  Now.

Aaron's words sink in.  'Regroup with James and Berd.'  Sudden fear swamps her.  What will James say?  She remembers rain, and a battlefield.  Her blade, that cursed sword, cutting him.  "Look into her eyes, Aaron.  Looks like she beat me to hell."  Shame twists her stomach more - another friend injured.  Ice that atop of the cake of worlds conquered.

And Berd?

Soon, too - they speak of moving immediately.  "I...require a cloak," she states, hesitantly.  But then Dorian pulls away, his manner suddenly sharp.  His tone is not angry, but his words are now enforced by his strength of personality.  Decisive - a good word.  She looks to Aaron, opens her mouth to agree...then stops.  Thin brows come together for a moment as Cyan frowns.

She flexes the hand Dorian released, already colder, and pushes herself up straight, takes her weight from Aaron completely.  "Thank you," she says with a bow.  "But I will ride."  It's an effort, but she the will remains, and enough at the bottom of the barrel to scape out.  Despite her despair and fury at her own actions, despite her aching weariness, despite the confusion she feels...Lords of the West, she will not stumble through that gate on crutches!

She cannot follow what everyone wishes of her - not now, not yet - but Cyan knows what she wants.  And that is to stand on her own feet, no matter what the cost.  It will be hard, riding - but compared to standing before James and Berd, the ride will be as nothing.

Aaron and Dorian might have forgiven her, but there remain two more.  And her eyes fall on another figure who joins the crowd.  A small, lean man, torn and bloodied.  Her eyes light - there is no uncertainty, here, no confusion with words that stun the heart and befuddle emotions.  "Jonnee Kay," Cyan breathes.  Gently, she pulls away from Aaron and stumbles across the circle of people to stand, uncertainly, before the World-Walking street-warrior.  She wavers, breathes out, then utters the three words that have become a painful litany of late.

"I am sorry."

"Sorry for what, Babe?  You'll need to be a bit clearer." Jonnee asks, his yellow eyes looking straight into Cyan's topaz ones.  "Sorry for being brain-washed by an enemy who made you even forget who you where, let alone your friends?"

"Sorry for being alive, when we all thought you'd been killed?"

He shrugs, then shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, "Or sorry for not killing any of us, and then, finally, coming back to the people who care about you.?"

He shakes his head.  "Far's I can tell, you don't have a whole lot to be sorry for.  Anything you've done wrong, is down to others messing with your head.  With luck, you'll be able to give them some payback, and when you do, I'll be there to cover your back."

Unable to keep his face straight any longer, he grins, "It's good to see you again."  He leans close, hugging the woman.

Trista takes the proffered hand, “Rushed? Yes, it would seem. I don’t think protocol matters in situations like today. Not with hoops of fire and blades coming after us.” The man’s politeness is strange and endearing.

“Oh no, no, you did the right thing. You’re obviously a quick thinker; it was a perfect move. We all,” her eyes flit to Berd before coming back to James, “made it through.”



James’ words to the small dragon put concern back on Trista’s features. He explains and though she doesn’t understand the complete picture, she has most of it. She extrapolates that Cyan isn’t a dragon as she had first envisioned. Most likely, nor is Berd’s adopted son.

A family reunion comes, one of joy and pain. Two sides of a coin the woman understands. These are private matters and the Trista’s unfamiliar presence might be unwelcome. But curiosity, as horrific as that sounds, nudges the woman’s actions. Cyan, the lost daughter and leader of the enemy, is now herself once again. Trista would like to see this woman, look into her eyes.

As they approach the East Gate, Trista offers a compromise to herself, “I would like to meet your daughter, Berd, but I fear these are private matters. I will stay out of the way.”

Roman decides not to return to his human form yet.  There is still a risk that some suriving Seraphim might be lurking and ready to strike.  Better to stay in an elemental form that can survive their strikes and hit back with deadly force.  True, a ride would be welcome, the fight has been hard.  But the time for rest is not yet.

James ducks under an impromptu arch of masonry as he, Trista and Berd make their way to the East Gate.  He is still vigilant.  The immediate danger from attack may be passed, but the ruins of Charyk are now far from safe.

"You're too kind.  It was only the perfect move because it worked.  The number of things that could have gone wrong..."  James trails off.

"You're right in a way, Trista.  It, that, is a private matter.  But Berd's daughter Cyan became our enemy's number one general after they broke her.  It was she who led the attack here.  We who know her can forgive that, but the leaders of the city will want an accounting.  We may not have the luxury of privacy just yet."

James walks in silence for a time.  When he speaks again he sounds a little hesitant.  "When we do get the chance, I'd like to share a drink and a chat with you.  I trust Berd as a judge of character and it's very rare for him to allow new acquaintances within arms reach, let alone..."  A wave of one arm indicates Berd's perch upon Trista's shoulder.  "Also, he believes there are similarities between us and, I confess, that makes me curious."

"But it looks like we are nearly at the Gate."

 

When Cyan introduced herself, Banglen-Yp smiled at her specifically.

•• Psi••Ann • daughter • of • Berd ••

She repeated her name, if slightly wrong, and then what the little dragon had said.  Then, the red jacket and trouses began to vanish, and were replaced by cowboy boots, a short skirt and a halterneck.

•• He • will • be • hap•py • to • see • you ••

A statement and then she watched and listened until they all were ready to move out, at which point she happily mounted a black drake with a big grin, studying carefully and patting it.

•• Hel•lo ••

This was aimed at the drake she was not seated on.

•• Thank • you • for • let•ting • me • ride ••

It could not hurt to be polite, she figured.  There had been enough rudeness and killing as it were.

 

Tahirah continues to direct the nearly endless stream of people through the gate, reassuring them as they come from too far to have heard her first announcement.

Her arms are getting tired, after a while, but she's glad.

The stream of people is far, far longer than it might have been, and for that... aching arms are a difficulty with which she will gladly cope.