"I like it not.  It's too bloody quiet for I, by a long chalk." opines Caravan Master Bhost Jukarthag, to anybody who will listen.  "A dozen and a half years have I been taking this road, twice each moon, and the wood's've never been this still afore."

"Captain Knaeth!  Make sure your troops are awake!"  Then he starts making his way back, along the caravan, as it moves along the road to Charyk.  At every wagon, or group of travellers, he pauses for a moment, to give instructions, "Stay alert.  There's somethin' amiss here.  Keep an eye on the woods, and the other eye on the woods too.  Don't be worried 'bout raisin' the alarm.  I'd sooner be frightened over nought than killed by somethin' as nobody warned I of."


Inside Charyk, a large proportion of the population are makeing their way from the dark interior of the city, up the long stairs, to the higher parapets and battlements.  Along those fortifications, the weapons are sweeping now in broad arcs, the handlers searching for any movement which is not part of the legitimate traffic on the road.

At the very pinnacle of the building-city, the <i>ormvråkar screech and bite, roused from fitful slumber by the familiar sound of the Great Trumpet.  The runes inscribed on every stone blaze with a blue-white glow, the arcane glyphs and sigils spreading a defensive aura over the citadel.

Even with the crowds moving upward to find places to watch for, Morgan's trio of companions seem to have no difficulty whatsoever in finding a suitable vantage point.


Far below, in the Sanctuary Inn, among the very roots of the great tower, those who plan to go and watch take their leave.  Those who will stay, spread out and give themselves a little more space to enjoy their morning meal.

Next to swashes and splatters of forlorn blacks and greens surrounding jagged pains of red, the woman scribbles bits and pieces of dark poetry, thoughts, and notes. Consumed in her well-worn notebook, Trista does not at first notice the mood of the Caravan as it approaches the city. Instead she indulges in bitter memories reflected in the pictures she paints and the words she writes.

Love and hate tango over the wounded heart.

It isn’t until the Caravan Master approaches the wagon where the woman perches that she pulls from her reveries. A quiet interest flecks those dark grey and blue eyes, the color of storms. She contributes a sullen nod to the general responses of strained understanding. As the Master moves off to warn the next group, Trista looks down at the words she’s written this day. A slight frown mars her forehead, and she adds one more thought: Though it would appear otherwise, love is not an illusion.

“But perhaps it should be.” The whispered words go unnoticed by her traveling companions. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Trista tucks the thick leather-bound book and pen away before swinging the pack onto her back.

Finally, she looks up toward the Shadow Crosswords of Charyk. Well informed, the wanderer knows of its notoriety: both the nexus of Shadows as well some of the inhabitants who find entertainment in the misfortunes of the caravans. The fabrics of worlds mesh here, and Trista’s spine shivers with rare excitement. Her eyes scan the woods to either side, searching for signs of the beasts she expects to spring forth, but sees none. The Caravan Master was right to fret, the silence thunders all around the restless group.

Trista hops down to earth, comfortable hiking boots protecting her ankles from jarring. Her faded jeans hanging low on her hips and short dark grey t-shirt project an image of one who doesn’t fuss about her appearance. Adjusting the shoulder straps of her pack, her attention leaves the hushed woods and the rustling city to the long line of groups and wagons. She seeks to walk with those who seem less able to fend for themselves, perhaps children or the elderly. The guards may be adequate, but the blood pulsing under her skin tells her they may not be enough.

Besides, she’s been sitting quite long enough; she’ll grow soft if she doesn’t get moving.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:48, Fri 08 Dec 2006.

"You should get aboard, Miss." the young woman says, reaching down a hand to Trista, from her own place in the wagon, "In case something happens.  You don't want to be left behind."

In truth, though, the creatures hauling the caravan's vehicles do not look to be built for high-speed chases.  Squat and short-legged, they are, with broad shoulders and armoured hides, marked with patterns of green and brown stripes.  In the three days that Trista has travelled with this caravan, she has not seen any sign that the beasts are capable of anything faster than a casual stroll.


Above the citadel, over a half mile from the forest floor, Berd keeps watch.

Below Berd, on the parapets and battlements of the city, people gather.  Some are there simply to watch, while others have gathered to pray for the safety of the incoming caravan....

Below those even, many of the citizens go about their business.  Caravans arrive every day in Charyk... some suffer losses, some don't.  Surely this one will be no different.

And at the centre of the Market, just a short distance from the Sanctuary Inn, where some of Berd's companions still discuss their own situation, the doors of the Cathedral stand open, as people enter, to pray for their city, for the caravan, and for themselves.

With a piercing shriek, the first of the ormvråkar launches itself from the eyrie, it's rider struggling to control the creature.

Berd continues to watch, but now his eyes begin to burn like tiny suns.  The light begins to refract around him, bending, and his form grows obscure in the sky.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:08, Sat 09 Dec 2006.

"As the Old Man says, many good points.  Corwin, right?  I'm hardly 100% familiar with the Amber Royalty, James, but I have a good idea of whom you speak.  Something of a family dark horse, isn't he?"  Lukes lips split in a grin.  "Came back to take the family throne, decided it wasn't worth it?  Something like that?"  The grin faded.  "Sounds dangerous."  His head came up at Berd's warning, and he spoke, quietly.

Somehow the sound of his voice echoed to both Roman and Morgan, upon the Panthers, as well as Aaron, heading for the walls.  Banglen-Yp, however, was warded.  "Company's coming.  There's a scout out there, somewhere."

His gaze flicked to Tahirah.  "Calling our fortunes?  I'll not object, not now.  James, I'm going to have a look around outside Charyk, if you get my meaning.  Try to get us some advance warning."  His eyes grew unfocused, and he stared into the distance....

"Connections," Tahirah replies, though her voice comes out somewhat distantly.  Another handful of cards flip onto the table before her, in rapid succession.

Dorian's head comes up, though he doesn't look any more cheerful. He watches Tahirah's cards.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:46, Sun 10 Dec 2006.

"Corwin is dangerous, Luke.  But to put it in perspective most everybody tried for the throne in those years.  The first attempt Corwin made he was allied with my Bleys."


At the news of an Archons presence, James mind races as he tries to anticipate the tactics of the enemy.  Most of the thoughts are unpleasant.  "Berd, Luke, scan that caravan.  It would be a dangerous ploy to sneak in an advance party," likely suicidal given the strength of the defences  "But I don't doubt that Cyan would find willing volunteers." Let's hope she doesn't have people inside already.

"Tahirah.  If the time needed for the caravan to enter would compromise the defences here, say if it leaves a loophole in a warding against sorcery, then they may have to stay out.  As Luke just said, there's at least one Archon out there already.  Can you tell the Lords that?" And may God have mercy on me for signing their death warrant.

Morgan, who'd been about to slide off of Leareth, looked about for the voice. A scout? As the words registered, he began searching the sky, one hand shading his eyes from the sun.

 

Still all giddy, flushed and excited beyond decency, Banglen-Yp easily slid off Catherine and landed gently on the ground.  She walked up to the head and patted the big cat.

•• Thank • you • it • was • won•der•ful ••

This statement was confirmed with a quick hug around the neck of Catherine, face burried in the fur of the neck - and then she was off, sprinting.

Off way out there, it would seem, as the strange, blonde girl ran towards the edge of the battlement...

                    ...and leapt over it.

_{Edited so she did not hear Luke}
This message was last edited by the player at 13:02, Tue 12 Dec 2006.

Roman slides off his mount easily.  The people want to see the caravan, so a few moments to effect his transformation without attracting too much attention should be possible.  He slips into a nook, behind the crowd.

He experiences a moment of concern when Banglen-Yp jumps, but quells that with the knowledge that it's only social activities that she seems to have problems understanding.  Especially as she can change shape quickly and claimed to have a flying form.

If anyone was watching they would see Roman's clothing start to shift, as if whipped by the wind.  Then his form fades to monochrome grey, expanding and blurring as it does so.  Where Roman stood there is a curious sight, a localised storm of wind and rain.  He keeps his lighnings leashed, his thunder silent.  It is not yet time.  He slowly drifts into the sky, showing no sign of intent or purpose.

Berd hangs on high, a nearly invisible presence watching those on the ground below.

Banglen-Yp falls.  From her place on the battlement, to the ground below, it's some twelve hundred feet.  Five and a half seconds later she unfurls her wings, with a snap, and levels out.  The wind whips through her plumage, as her taloned feet skim less than a foot above the road surface, and she starts a long, gentle climb.

She lets out a screaming cry, and, high above, one of the ormvråkar answers her in kind, as it launches itself into the void.


Roman's exit from the parapet doesn't result in a fall... quite the opposite in fact, as he rises into the sky, passing the great winged forms as they emerge from the mews, their riders clearly having some difficulty maintaining control.

Higher the Chaosite climbs, passing Berd, who is barely visible, save as a small ripple in the air, like heat haze on a summer day.


A few of the residents of Charyk notice the departure of the two strangers, but too many eyes are fixed on the forest, and the roads, for their strange behaviour to be generally noted.



On the road, brighter daylight starts to appear ahead of the caravan, as the forest opens out into a large, man-made clearing, several miles in diameter.  The stumps of the felled trees still stand in place, sharpened into spikes.  And there, clearly visible from beneath the forest trees, stands Charyk itself... a single tower, broad enough to appear short and squat, even though it reaches over half a mile into the air.

Every stone of that tower blazes with light, carved as they are with sigils and symbols of power.  High overhead, great winged forms wheel and soar, the ormvråkar, guarding the citadel, and watching for any attack on those who travel the roads.

Near the base of the tower, a fast-moving form follows the road, climbing higher as it moves towards the forest edge.  It appears to be a great eagle.


Tahira expands the field of her reading, adding extra cards to it.  The pattern spreads across the table, and the locals who are close enough to see it try their best to be looking elsewhere, as if concerned that they might suddenly gain the ability to perceive some indication of their own fate in the cryptic glyphs.



Seeking solitude in the face of the coming storm, Aaron waits, watching for the caravan, and the attack that he knows will be heralded by its appearance.

Even the animals fall into an agitated stillness.

Trista looks up at the young woman showing concern. She’d rather stay down on foot, able to act freely, and certainly she can move as quickly as the lumbering draft animals. However, boarding the wagon would give this girl a bit of peace, believing Trista to be safer. Jumping down again, if needed, wouldn’t be a strain.

Before the woman accepts, a glint of light catches her eye, yanking Trista’s head around to the grasses off the trail. The something vanishes so quickly a lesser mind might wonder if there was anything at all. A furrowed brow scans the trees again, but she neither sees nor feels a nameable threat. It will do little good to go chasing after skittering light and so the she turns back and takes the proffered hand, “Perhaps you’re right, thank you.”

After hauling herself up, Trista looks over her fellow travelers, bestowing an almost smile (purely for comfort) on the girl who worried. Sitting on the edge of the bench as the Caravan breaks from the woods to an open field of jagged stumps, her eyes flash up at a screech rending the air as a mounted animal takes flight. She indulges a moment admiring the creature’s strength, barely contained. More than one makes an appearance and Trista knows they are for protection.

Which will certainly be needed.

Besides the ormvråkar high in the air, an eagle swoops towards them. Then another something catches her attention high in the tower: their audience, perhaps. A figure watches…and waits? Her body taut with readiness, a hand quietly slips a plain, gleaming knife from its strap.

"Corwin," Luke stated quietly, "is more dangerous for knowing what he wants, and ignoring pressure from upbringing to pursue it.  A man who knows what he wants, and is willing to set aside other things in order to...."

His feet came off the table, hit the floor...silently.  Luke slowly rose.  His brows knit together, and he focused harder, eyes narrowing.

"That can't be right," he muttered.  "The disturbance in the Underflow...."  Another moment passed, and then Luke's eyes widened as the colour washed from his face.  When he spoke, it was almost in a whisper.  "James...you may as well tell them to open the gates.  In the end, I doubt it will make any difference."

Now his voice echoed again, throughout the Inn and beyond, reaching Aaron, Berd, Dorian, Morgan and Roman, despite the distance.  Banglen-Yp, shielded, perhaps does not receive it.

"Something comes through the Underflow, bearing on this world.  Quick, powerful, and...Father, interdict this World, prevent them from arriving!

 

Falling freely the blond girl was no longer a blonde girl but a huge eagle with a wingspan of several metres.  Not a match for the Ormvråk that had answered her shriek, but still larger than anyone would want landing on their shoulder, or see swooping down at them.

Turning her head the eagle scouted around for anything that could pose a threat to the caravan and the city itself, ready to report any findings with a shriek that would alert the Ormvråkar above.

Using the speed and momentum from the fall the great eagle rose up as if flew with speed towards the caravan.  Huge wings began to flap to keep the velocity and the eagle quickly began to rise.

Of Luke's warning nothing was heard.

 

Roman drifts upward, watching.  He sees the eagle and thinks it an odd choice.  Not obviously a match for these Archons.  He refrains from accessing the Logrus, in case the scout marks it - best to be nothing more than an odd meteorological phenomenon.  Until he hears Luke's warning.   Power will be needed.  He calls on the Logrus, for physical protection.  With that, maybe even the firey Archons may not pose a threat to his current form.  And there are other possible tactics, if the fight should go well.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:46, Sun 10 Dec 2006.

Berd, hidden within twisted rays of light, hears Luke's words clearly.  He reaches forth, into the vague area between the worlds, and realizes that to attempt to cut this world from the others would strand those on the path and ensure their deaths.

That, he will not do.  Not so long as there is a chance.

A moment of consideration more, and he abandons the idea completely.  This World is too open - to seal it would not be impossible, but might prove extremely difficult, and in any case, Cyan holds a ram that would shatter any gate he might close against her.

Gurthang.

And so he reaches out with his own senses, hunting in his own way for the enemy as they close, seeking to verify Luke's sighting.

Aaron snapped his sheathe, making sure it was tight against him as he bolted along the wall. He would not be the last to reach this battle, and for that he needed a ride.

Constant in his mind was Serena's portent, and he knew he was hastening the probablity of fate. Honestly, it wasn't that Aaron didn't care, so much as he'd accepted such things. With great haste, he headed for the tower, for he would need one of the ormvråkar if he were to make pace.

Arianne receded into her bladed shell, surrounding herself with razored flora. There would be danger, and she would be the first to sense it, there to enhance his reflexes with even a second of precognition. For that, she needed focus, and he let her be.

The caravan would be the flashpoint, and Aaron was surely an incendiary. His mind flickered, finding the bridging.

"How much time, Luke?"

Chance rises slowly from the table, leaving his vodka where it sits. "I have a bad feeling about this," he muses, as he turns to find a way into the higher parts to watch the battle and see where he could help. As he walks, his clothing flutters and becomes black high-tech armor, though he forgoes the helmet for now.

Dorian stood as Chance left. Everyone else was going for the high ground, so he would, too. It mattered little where they chose to stand, considering Luke's messages. That part didn't surprise him, though. He had wondered all along if the Archons would be able to simply appear in the fortress. He predicts that nothing in this battle will go as planned.

It made sense.  A battle inside the walls was exactly what James had hoped to avoid since coming here.  Cyan would surely anticipate the damage that could be caused by simply circumventing the strongest defences of the tower.  In the chaos she could direct her efforts to her objective with the least organised resistance.

Still he couldn't help wondering in the change wrought on Cyan, that she could contemplate the massacre of innocents and civilians.

"Forget that, Tahirah.  We need to warn the defenders of a possible strike within the walls.  Mobilise some defensive patrols.  Get civilians off the streets.  Secure any internal strongpoints."

James pauses, his conviction shaken by the magnitude of the task.  He hoped that the local commanders were up to the task.  It was far too late to try and take command.

"So much to do and I don't have the least idea where to start."  James reaches a decision and stands.  "If it's okay, I'll stick with you Dorian.  I've a feeling Cyan will strike against us, to kill or to capture, and we're spread out enough as it is."

"Time?"  Again, Luke's voice was heard by all of the Questors, save those shielded completely from psychic intrusion.  "It might take them some time to get ready, Aaron.  When you're dealing with numbers of this magnitude, and you're a stickler for order, it takes a while to get your people properly lined up."

His smile was sickly.  "Perhaps several minutes.  Perhaps less.  They come, quickly now."

He turned his face toward James, Dorian, and Tahirah.  A bemused smile suddenly lit his sharp features in a very un-Luke way.  "Understood, James.  I shall deal with the 'civilians'."  He chuckled.  "And now I stand in defense of a mighty fortress against these so very misnamed 'Seraphim'."

"How odd.  The circle of my life seems appropriately complete."

Closing his eyes, Luke once again spoke, and this time his words echoed throughout the gigantic fortress, into the minds of those people who still milled around outside their homes.  "Citizens - in an orderly fashion, seek shelter.  Seek shelter - to remain without is perilous.  Seek shelter - find your deepest room."  He breathed out, opened his eyes.  Perhaps there would be panic.  But better panic now, than when the Archons came.

He sent one final message, this one to Chance as the man left.  Chance...be careful.  Please.

He didn't have many friends left, now.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:42, Mon 11 Dec 2006.

"More than welcome, James," Dorian agrees. "If she comes after me, your presence may give me the seconds I need to aid in the battle. I imagine Berd might be her first target, though.

"And James is right. We are too spread out, especially if we are to attempt moving Cyan to a central place where we may deal with her. If that is the plan, it would require all of us. Are we to attempt this, or merely fight her and her entire army? If they are to appear inside, it may matter little. However, if we can have a prepared area of some sort…"

A humorous chuckle rolls back to Luke. If you'd wanted me careful, you shouldn't have given me Vodka. Don't worry, I'll watch my step.

Tahirah sweeps her cards into a pile, squaring them in the same movement, and drops them into her box.  The box then disappears back into a sleeve, as she stands as well.  "Fate follows closely on your footsteps," she says.  "That which you seek will not be easily lost."

"Charyk is well warded against entry; if the outer Walls will not stop them, those within will be as nothing," she points out, as Luke's voice echoes througout the stronghold.

Turning somewhat towards Dorian, she says, "I think you speak of the Gates.  The Inner and Outer Gates are separately Warded, as are the stones of the Gateways.  They're not exactly intended for entrapment, but they are by far the most `prepared' area you will find within the Walls.  This morning's caravan arrives from the west, leaving three Gateways open.  Which would you like cleared for your purposes?"

Morgan shared a bemused look with Leareth as the pair of shifters flew off. "That was odd. Guess we'd better go back, though. Sounds like they've found something." Turning around, they headed back for the Sanctuary Inn. Maybe it'd been foolish to come, anyway.

As Aaron made his way to the tower, carefully passing people by, he narrowed his eyes.

"We should still try to isolate Cyan and take her alone - that is our primary objective, and thus requires our proximity. Her army is a secondary nuisance, but it still needs to be stalled if we can't stop it completely. Charyk must be protected."

Over the link, Dorian says, 'Tahira, the new one here, says that the Gates may be best for that purpose, then. Her judgement seems sound, and she is a local so she would know better than we. I will be there. Anyone who wishes to help can meet there. I'll give warning before I make the attempt.'

Chance stops half way. "It sounds like the main battle won't be outside, anyway, though caution is advised. I think I'll join Dorian, too. If he manages to snatch her, then we'll need all the numbers we can get. Besides, if enough key players gather there, she might show up there anwyay."

He couldn't shake the bad feeling about this whole situation. They should be doing something else- but what?

Luke's eyes cleared and he laughed, a jagged, bitter sound that went out to all the Questors, as did his voice.  "Isolate Cyan?  Her army, a nuisance?  Stalled?  Charyk, protected?"  He glanced around at the fortress as they walked, and slowly shook his head.  "I see them coming, Aaron.  Not yet clearly, but but not by their doing.  They don't need to hide.  They create a...wave before them in the Underflow.  We thought we would face a handful of Archons and the Army of the End of Time?"

"We were wrong.  And because of that, because we underestimated their resolve, their desire, this world is doomed."

The man began to draw in strength from the world around him.  He knew Berd was doing the same.  "Gird yourselves," he said, suddenly calm.  "Fleeing now would do nothing more than leave Charyk to their mercy.  We must hold out for Jonnee Kay's army, and hope it is enough to convince them to pause."
This message was last edited by the player at 12:27, Tue 12 Dec 2006.

Dorian continues to find the right spot. "Tonight we dine in hell, Luke?" he says. "Numbers are not the battle. I've won more battle than I should have by making my own odds- and I am no tactician as some here are. If we can do so here, then we shall."
This message was last edited by the player at 13:18, Tue 12 Dec 2006.

 

Outside the giant eagle soared higher and higher looking for trouble.  It called out a long cry again, but not of warning, but of greeting, as it saw its bigger relatives circle up above.

Down below the caravan kept creeping along and the sharp eyes spied each individual in detail.

The battle ahead would come soon, but not in the air, not for the eagle.  There were still more in there than met the eye.

 

The first of the wagons moves out into the open, moving forward across the Killing Ground, and the weapons of the fortress swing towards that area.  Attacks have always come in the vicinity of the caravans.  They act as bait, of a sort, though the merchants, drivers, and passengers would probably be horrified to hear themselves described thus.

The majority of the airborne ormvråkar, and the large eagle, are circling there now, above the western road.

Higher still, the wind is gathering force, and clouds are hurtling across heavens, moving from east to west.  With each passing minute, the sky grows darker.


By the time the sixth wagon is into the open, and the first is almost a quarter of the way to the gate, Aaron has reached the lower part of the mews, and is arguing with two of the grooms, "No, we can't let yer take one of 'em.  They's vital ter the defendin' o' the city, an' we don't let just anybody take one out fer a spin.  Yer shou'n' even be 'ere, mate."  His colleague keeps pulling at his sleeve, and the speaker gives him an irritated glance, before turning back to Aaron, "Now get out, 'fore I calls...  What?  What the bloody 'ell is it?"  The question is directed at the annoying sleeve-tugger, but it is somebody else who answers, a incredibly old-looking, one-eyed man, dressed in plain, dark robes, who is barely visible in the pools of shadow which lay well away from the external doors.

"It is the Lord Ferenc.  If this man wants one of the birds, give him one.  Surely we can spare at least one, or else why do we pay you so much money to see to the breeding of them?"

"Yes, my Lord.", and then he beckons to Aaron, "This way... Sir.  Jess, run 'head an' get one of 'em ready."

Ferenc fades back into the darkness, with one last, baleful glare at the open sky-doors, muttering, "It is done.  Now we will see."


Between the high pinnacles of the city, and the lowest of the clouds, Berd and Roman hang... each is keeping watch in his own way.


Aaron is led into another chamber, where the great birds sit, their yellow eyes filled with madness and malice.  "There, that'n.  Spite, 'er name is.  Don't get too close ter 'er beak, else yer'll lose a bloody 'and."


The tenth wagon emerges from the trees... almost a quarter of the caravan exposed now, and still no attack.  Trista sits with the nervous travellers, many of whom seem scared of the ormvråckar, perhaps not realising that the great birds, wheeling overhead, beneath the gathering storm clouds, are there to protect them.


Chance and Morgan both move down, through the city, seeking Dorian and the place where he will attempt to trap Cyan.  Morgan is accompanied by the panthers, as they wait for Dorian to decide which of the four gates he will use for a containment area.


James, Luke, and Dorian, accompanied by Tahirah, move away from the Sanctuary Inn, through the Trade Ward, towards one of the gates.  Most of the locals seem to be moving in the opposite direction, towards the great cathedral at the very foundation of the city.

As they move, there is a sudden flow of shadow from a nearby ramp to the stables, and Devlin is running with them, still in wolf form.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:10, Tue 12 Dec 2006.

"I cheated...." Dorian shakes his head in dismay.

"Thanks, I think." Aaron said to the groom. He took a few moments to let the insane beast get a good whiff and feel for him before mounting. Somehow, Aaron felt that he'd probably end up liking this thing.

Soon he was mounted and airborne.


And he flew on, eventually circling the caravan from above with the other riders.

"My name's Elean, Miss." the girl says, smiling weakly at Trista, "That's my Da, and my brother, Tobe."  The two men nod in greeting, then look up quickly as one of the great birds hurtles past, low overhead, the rider seemingly struggling with the harness.

Far above the birds, the stormy sky continues to hurl clouds into the west at a worrying speed.  Oddly, though, there seems to be little wind at ground level.  Certainly not enough to account for the rapid movement of the clouds.

"We're hoping to change to another caravan here, one bound for Icewall, or one of them places.  Don't much mind where, as long as we're away from there" Elean continues, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, to indicate some place back along the road.  Her father and brother say nothing.  The older man, in particular, looks tired.  Elean doesn't seem to notice, "We could stay here, I suppose, but we heard some bad things about it.  We wouldn't have come here, if there was any other road to travel."

"Oh... hark at me, rambling."

She reaches under the bench and hauls out a knapsack.  "Are you hungry, Miss?  Only I noticed you haven't got much with you.  I've got a little bread, and some cheese, that I can spare some of.  A couple of apples too."

It’s almost disappointing, this lack of something happening. The stories circulating about Charyk and its caravans seem to be heightened myths. Yet, most myths have some basis in fact somewhere in Shadow. Trista’s nerves calm even though she still feels the attentions of someone in the tower. Her eyes lift to the riders in flight and the glorious eagle sailing overhead. Beautiful.

Above the birds, the sky swirls and darkens. Odd, considering the lack of air-flow at ground level, but then again weather can be unpredictable in Shadow, particularly where Shadows meet.

Then the girl unexpectantly speaks. Apparently, she’s not as nervous as many in the traveling troupe. Courageous or oblivious? It doesn’t matter, either way the girl takes an interest in Trista. The sad-eyed woman offers a gentle smile, “It’s good to meet you, Elean. I’m Trista. I’m just… traveling for the sake of traveling, you could say.” True on some levels; false on others.

Her eyes flick to the pinnacled city before them, before meeting the girl’s eyes once again. “This is my first visit to Charyk,” her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper as she dips her head closer to the girl, “I’ve heard the same stories I suspect you’ve heard.” Straightening back up, her voice returns to normal, “I suppose we’ll find out if any of them are true soon enough. But so far, I’d say those magnificent birds flying through the air will do much to scare off any threats.” She manages to keep her voice uncharacteristically light.

At the girl’s rambling remarks, Trista almost chuckles, “Rambling is good; it keeps the mind entertained and far from unwanted thoughts. Feel free. As to the proffered food, an apple would be nice, thank you.” The woman's not hungry, but it will do good to make the girl feel she's contributing more to Trista's well-being.

After the girl produces the apple, Trista looks back to the men in the cart, somber and tired. Elean’s father needs rest, that’s clear to see. Perhaps after the wagons are inside the city proper and any unrest is put behind them, he can find a few days for himself. Although, that time may be better spent departing Charyk. Trista makes note to keep an eye on this family once inside and see them off safely to their chosen destination.

In the mean time, they still have this open field of spiked trunks to traverse. Talk might be best. Even if the men do not participate, perhaps their minds will be entertained in the ramblings of their daughter and friend. “So tell me, Elean, what do you hope to find in Icewall that will be different from,” Trista bobs her head towards the West, “back there.” With that, Trista takes a healthy bite from the shiny apple, her dagger still at the ready, but loose in her hand.

 

Spotting trouble, of sorts, the great eagle swooped closer to the latest addition to the Ormvråkar - the one carrying the man whom she met earlier.

Giving the wings a few powerful flaps it carried the eagle up and closer to the man called Aaron.

Coming in close enough to nearly touch him and the huge bird upon which he rode, but not close enough to bite his nose off, she let out a low shriek that sounded very much as a question as if everything was all right, especially when combined with the look in the eagle's eyes.

Hopefully she would not decided to try to land on his shoulder or wrist.

 

Tahirah walks silently behind those headed for the Gateway, as Charyk's deliberate layout and the prominance of the Gates make a formal guide unnecessary.

Berd, a shimmer of light hanging in the air, slowly turns away from the caravan (though part of him still observes it, watching an apple slowly give up its life to feed others).  He faces away from the direction of the clouds' flight.  They boil and churn as they pass by above him.  After a moment, it becomes apparent that even in passing they slowly begin to swirl, beginning to form a titanic, inverted whirlpool above the little dragon, responding to the increasing tempo of the energies he draws.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 22:10, Tue 12 Dec 2006.

Aaron was firm with Spite, and he banked the ormvråkar around, heading East. He hoped it wasn't a feint. He watched the caravan dwindle behind him as he moved in the opposite direction.


And then there was silence, his mental monitor active and only listening. Aaron took these last few moments to embrace this new feeling, flying high with an insane ormvråkar as his mount.

He flexed his hands, the right first, then the left.

"Been nice knowing you," he whispered to them, his words sucked into the wind.

"They come from the east.  In force.  I suspect the direction of the attack will soon be meaningless."

Still, James feet led him towards the east gate, if those with him agree.  Even before Berd's warning, he had thought it the best ground.  The crush of people watching the caravan strengthens the defence at the same time it hinders re-deployment.

James sighs heavily.

James turns to those questors that remain nearby.  "I have to say, I'm tempted to go looking.  Set my heart on what is needed to defeat this army and let the Pattern lead me.  But is that a forlorn hope?  Do we have time or would that merely be running away?"

Luke shook his head, but with a smile.  "No time, James, I would guess. But who can say?"  He looked up into the sky.  "Running away?  Not hardly.  No one, no one questions your courage, or your resolve.  And frankly?  Even with Jonnee's strength added to what is here, our odds are poor.  It may be, in the past, mind, we have been counting too much on the easy paths - using brute power and quick methods of travel - when the slower, more introspective method of travel through the Pattern would have served us better in discovering what we need."

He reached out one hand, placed it on James' shoulder.  It seemed heavy, even to James' titanic physical power.  His eyes were dark pools.  "If you go, take with you my blessing, poor as it may be.  As long as I stand, I shall hold here and await you."  The weight lessened, and he grinned, a devil-may-care expression.  "Oh, and you might want to take Chancey with you...assuming you agree, Chance old boy.  It's just a guess, but his ability, properly used, might aid your hellride.  And maybe, just maybe, what you seek is closer than any of us suspect."
This message was last edited by the player at 12:16, Wed 13 Dec 2006.

Chance scowls at Luke. "First you tell me to be careful, and then you want me to leave. You know something your not saying, Luke? Because if there's some reason I shouldn't be here, I'm more than happy to leave."

Dorian turns towards the East gate, the one he'd been avoiding.

Luke slowly turned toward Chance, and for an instant the expression in his eyes was murderous.  Then it faded.  "Know something?  I've been telling you.  What's coming, we can't fight."

He slowly reached out and placed a hand on Chance's shoulder.  The fingers tightened, and he drew the man closer.  "Aaron says an army is coming - the Army at the End of Time.  I've seen that army, Chance.  You were there.  They're not coming, oh, no."

In his eyes, stars burned.  Below lay the glow of the Underflow.  And within it, a massive bow-wave, as if that of an enormous serpent swiming below the surface.  Then fire blazed over the image - fire, burning forever in Luke's eyes.

"Cyan leads the Seraphim against us, Chance," Luke whispered.  "Berd held firm against twelve.  How many do you think he can stand to fight?  Will Dorian summon every drake to the slaughter?  Shall James and Aaron smash their way through a dozen danioti, in the midst of an army?  Will you watch them blast this fortress to rubble?  I have seen too many friends die, Chance."  Now his eyes were empty, bleak.

"James has the right of it.  There is no fighting this army.  There is only delaying.  And you...unless the one-eyed master of this place is Odin himself, with plans beyond our ken, you and he may be our best hope."  His fingers loosened.  "Our best Chance."

Chance shrugs. "Is that all? For a moment I thought you'd seen my demise or soemthing. But yeah, not being here sounds like a good idea. Care to go for a ride, James?

Spotting the moving party, Morgan's group joined them. With a nod for his new companions, he gestured backward. "Got a bit of a message, strange that there wasn't anyone around to say it. Have to say its better than sending runners, though. Roman and Banglen have gone flying, so I came back."

Cocking his head, he listened attentively, and followed them.

Dorian glances at Luke.

"It's not so much what I'll find," Elean replies, quietly, "as who I won't find there.  There was somebody at home, and my other brother, Calen, owed him money.  So this moneylender said he'd forget the debt if I agreed to marry him."

"Calen stayed there, to work off what he owes, but Da said we should move away.  If we... " and her words are drowned out by a thunderclap, loud as the sundering of worlds.  People scream, as their hair stands on end, crackling with electricity.

To the east, beyond the city, the clouds bulge downwards and start to spiral tighter, and faster, until sky and ground meet, and trees are torn from the earth, roots and all.

And now the wind grows, gale-force gusts blasting past the wagons, and startling the beasts.


Time has, it seems, run out.


As the storm winds rise, Aaron finds it increasingly difficult to control his mount.  The bird struggles to fly towards the tornado-like funnel of dark, howling air.  At the top of the twister, light grows, a circle of brilliant whiteness, almost impossible to look at.

Banglen-Yp follows Aaron, but being somewhat lighter and smaller than the ormvråk the winds force her to turn aside.  Brightness bleeds down the sides of the vortex.

Above the city, Roman and Berd watch.  Above them the sky boils, a miniature replica of the storm growing to the east.  They too, despite their own power, have difficulty maintaining their positions, in the face of the raw elemental fury being unleashed around them.


Inside the city, the group gather at the East Gate, preparing to do battle with an enemy that most of them know well.

There is a rippling in the air around Dorian, and twelve, sleek reptilian shapes wink into existence around the man, hissing and snarling, as their attention is drawn to the increasing howl of the wind beyond the outer gate.  Fortunately there are few citizens in the area, to be startled by this sudden arrival, and those that are about seem oddly calm.


The brilliant light flows downwards, enfolding the column of rotating cloud, and then it shimmers and... freezes.  The wind drops to a dead calm in a moment, and a pillar of light towers above the forest.

For just an instant, it is blindingly bright, and then it bursts, sending a wave of force outwards.

The Archons are there, swarming outwards in the wake of the wave.  Wheels of fire, steel, and lightning, howling as their sheer numbers blot out the sun.

Within the blinding light, impossible to see with the naked eye, armor of jet and gold refracts the brilliance.  Supported by her guard, the Warrior hangs within the cataclysmic tear.

"Seraphim."  The General's voice echoes within their ranks.  Protected by the minds of the Archons, she has dispensed with the aegis.  Should any wish to try their strength against the massed minds of the Host, they are more than welcome.  "You have your tasks."

"Carry them out."

Roman has no illusions about the magnitude of the task.  It was certain that there would be more than a dozen Archons, but even with Luke's warning the number is far greater than he had feared.

Only one tactic suggests itself.  Infiltrate.  Kill quickly and by surprise.  Try to eliminate key personnel if they can be identified.  Protect Banglen-Yp and Berd if possible.

The Danioti are most obviously vulnerable, they can be grasped by Logrus tendrils, their cutting blades pose no threat to the wind and the rain.  But the others may not be invulnerable.  Wormwood has another form, and the deadly Chaotic energies she carries may prove to be adequate to the task.

Roman moves to slip into the Archon's ranks.  Now the killing begins.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:34, Wed 13 Dec 2006.

Tahirah remains where she is; if she has any reaction to the shuddering Gate, it's well hidden in her robes.

The sleek black forms appear around him, calming him in a way no one else will understand. Though mere shadow-constructs, they are a piece of Samhain, a piece of himself. For a moment, he places a caresses one along its flank, his hand gliding over sleek black scales. He closes his eyes and he is home, standing on the cliffs of Triantafyllo with the wind whipping his cloak like a dark flag fluttering in the wind.

Then he hears it and his eyes open.

The numbers don't surprise him. This is how it will be for all worlds. The only surprise is that it took this long for it to come to this. In truth, he has but one stratagem to execute. All else is just stalling the inevitable. This world will die, as he knew it would. The temptation to do to this world as he did to the breeding world was great. The enemy losses would be great, but likely only fractional in the overall scheme, just like the breeding world.

But no, he would not destroy worlds. Not for her. Not for anyone. No. He did it once in rage. If he were to do it in cold calculated blood, he would be no better than... Cyan. This Cyan, that is.

"Prepare yourselves," he says. "It is now." He sends the same orders to the drakes. Should she appear, they have their orders.

He worked on the spell like an artist works on a masterpiece, the capstone of a career. It was sleek, like the scales of the drakes the hissed at this side in expectation. It was razor sharp like their claws, teeth and bony ridges.

The spell had only one lynchpin, and he spoke it, slapping into place the bolt on a rifle and metaphorical coin was flipped- his coup de maitre done. Lose or succeed, he had done his best.

And even in success, it was the first step in a harrowing series of steps required to truly achieve success here. One coin had been flipped. Nine more would need to be flipped. One success was fifty-fifty. They needed ten in a row, and the odds of that were laughable, but he wasn't laughing. He had set out to do the impossible and he meant to give it every ounce of his being.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:04, Thu 14 Dec 2006.

Anger flashes across stormy eyes at the thought of this girl being forced into marriage. Thank the provincial gods her father didn’t choose to accept the moneylender’s conditions.

Before further discussion ensues, the girl is cut off by the crack of a thousand thunderheads. Wild sparks fly as electricity fills the air. Trista’s protective hand comes down on Elean’s shoulder, firmly but not to hurt the girl. The forming funnel cloud beyond the city grabs the woman’s attention, pulling Trista to her feet.

Wind whips the traveler’s hair and tugs at loose clothing of those around her. Holding her own against the wind, Trista’s narrowed eyes widen as the cyclone freezes and a pillar of light envelops the stillness. The woman wobbles under the sudden abatement of winds. Her eyes almost shut against the brightness until she feels a pulsing energy move through her, attempting to knock her off her feet.

But it is what she sees next which drops her jaw and sends fear up her spine: machines of metal and fire pouring out of the brilliant column. Even at this distance, she can see them. Massive in size, at least those she can see, the frisson echoing up Trista’s spine tells her Charyk is being invaded.

After what seems an eternity of gawking, but in reality is only a moment in time, Trista’s attention turns to the first wagon which seems to be spiked at an awkward angle. The frightened animals have gotten their charge stuck in an attempt to turn away from the Eastern calamities.

What to do. Charyk certainly is not a safe haven from the invasion of whateverthosethingsare. Yet, the woods behind hold their own dangers. Perhaps deep within the pinnacled city lies safety, but getting there would prove dangerous, at best. Trista’s eyes turn behind them, to the woods. “Safer there, the better choice between two evils.”

She thumps down on the seat again, her arm folding over the back of the wooden seat to gather the attention of the family, “If you have any weapons of any kind, ready them. All of you,” Trista’s eyes includes Elean in the order, “There’s some sort of force up ahead which does not bode well for Charyk or for us.”

She eyes the caravan again and the birds which had fought the wind and now abandon the West for the East. Looking back over her family, she adds, “Stay together. There is strength in unity. We should head back into the woods, but we need to get everyone to safety, so I will see if I can help that first wagon get unstuck.”

She looks at Elean and sadly smiles, “I’ll be back.”

Trista once again stands and sets out toward the first wagon, the discarded apple rolling on the ground.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:03, Wed 13 Dec 2006.

When the universe is full of possibilities you never imagined, you see the birth and death of worlds and universes in the flowers, the rocks, the smile of a child and the night sky.

To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour.

Chauncey had alrady died. They didn't understand that. Ten years ago the boy had left his world and tripped into a dreamscape reality where he was a muse shaping reality by chord and note.

He had seen more than he meant to see, and done more than he thought to do. He had become action without thought, because he'd gone beyond thought and even dream.

None of this was real, until the archons showed up and brought him back to reality, to a place where he wasn't the musician who danced through scenes and interludes like a child in a room of infinite and inexhaustable toys. Today he was real again, mortality tasted like a fresh water to a mouth dried out on stale and bitter pondscum.

He heard the Archons. He saw death, the destruction of worlds and lives.

And he smiled. Happiness at last.

"I guess we missed the bus, James."

Armor flutters again with the sound of ruffled chainmail, and the black composite plate armor oozes over his form like refined oil. It rolls over his head and hardens into a helmet with a reflective faceplate. A display based on technology that might not work here comes to life before his eyes. The weapon in his hand melds into a blast weapon and powers up with a low hum.

"No worries. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Aaron whipped his beast around in a tight arcing turn, now controlling Spite unconsciously. If he had any doubts about whether the animal would attempt to flee in fear when their enemy arrived, those fears were put at bay.

The bird, it seemed, was just as mad as he.

For a few small moments, Aaron and Spite (and Banglen, he noted somewhat absently in his constantly-active mind), hung in the air, watching their enemy carve a hole in reality and crash down upon this sad, hopeless world.

"We are here, now, you and I, Cyan. Now comes my final test, now is when the shell breaks and I realise the truth." He turned then, and spoke aloud, and his voice was not only his own, but that of he and his sword together.

"Banglen-Yp. They will strike us from the sky as soon as they realise we're a threat. If we are to strike, we must strike hard, fast and with utmost fury. I may have a plan."

He turned Spite so he drifted in the space between the Army and their eventual target. He did not yet feel the inevitable descending of the power of Broken God that would disable the majority of his abilities.

Aaron figured he'd have to make time. When the Army descended, he would hit them harder than he'd ever hit anyone or anything. Aaron wasn't even sure he'd be able to do it... but he was willing to test the theory, if it was at all possible. In small doses, if necessary.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:53, Fri 15 Dec 2006.

Shock, awe, or both, Morgan froze in place, mouth gaping at the sky darkened with the enemy host.  Out of habit, the panthers surrounded him and the group, though he was sure they, too, were stunned. Almost idly, he spared a thought to be grateful that with the enemy's choice of weapons, the panthers would survive the damage when left for dead.

Berd hovers in the sky beneath the whirlpool of his power, nothing more than a bright shimmer in the blinding glare of the Seraphim Host.  He studies them, one of his minds keeping a rapid tally as they continue to pour forth.  Thousands, literally.  Inside, the parts of his mind not desperately running through their tasks are utterly horrified.

So...many.

They had not counted on this, had not figured the response would be so vast.  Perhaps they should have - when have the Archons shown any knowledge of subtlety?  To date, their idea of a complex battle plan was to pour more power into their attacks.  They had not needed more, until now.  So why would they bother to change their tactics?

Impossible.  How....

Luke had been correct.

All the while, though, parts of his mind continue to prepare, siezing hold of energies.  And then others enter the fray.  His allies prepare to attack...foolishly, perhaps, against thousands upon thousands of the enemy.  Perhaps they do not comprehend the power of the Seraphim.  Perhaps they, as he, look down below, and see a world about to die.

That cannot be allowed.

One of his minds reaches out, forms a bridging between all who choose to accept, including the newcomers, Morgan, his 'associates', and Roman of Chaincut.  The choice is theirs.

Aaron, Banglen-Yp cannot hear you.  Coordinate with another - Roman of Chaincut is in the air.  Luke - hold this bridging, and keep me separate.

They know me.  I shall draw their flames, and the ire of my daughter.

Fear grows.  Like the world, Berd does not wish to die.  But he has little choice in his actions, here - there are innocents, below.  And so....

I AM HERE, SERAPHIM.  FACE ME.

As if they feared to do so.

And another mind, slipping in on a different level of the spirit, crying out a name amidst the aetheric roar.
<sub>Cyan...my daughter.  Please.  Do not do this.

I am here.  Leave the others.</sub>

*flicker*  And he moves.

Dorian's hands dropped. It had done no more than expected: fail. Good. He took a deep breath, dead eyes fixed on the gate before him. Charyk was lost. He knew that. He would execute his escape route now save that his companions had not. This was not cowardice, but a tactical retreat before superior numbers. He'd seen this on the way to this gate. This was the enemy's battle. It always had been. He had just realized it too late. He should not have encouraged the others to make a stand. Where else could be better? The answer was that they should not be standing in this manner against the innumerable hosts.

He should flee now, save only that his companions had not fled.

What was left but to make a perfunctory show of resistance until the last moment and then make an escape?

That was idiocy, but that is what they would all do. And the enemy's plans had not been revealed, yet.

Berd had finally bridged with the newcomers, too. Good, he could drop his own weak bridging he'd extended to those new to the conflict, no more laboriously conveying thoughts between the two bridges so neither side was unwillingly exposed to the other.

His sense sweep and examine the battlefield. It was a show of power, their entrance. They meant to intimidate, a psychological move. It was not yet clear if they meant to capture or destroy the questors, but this was an unlikely opening move if they intended to capture. Even with greater numbers, Dorian would have favored a tactical strike. Capture was likely. Cyan intended to subvert them and their cause.

She would not have him. This assault was an affront to sensibility. Standing face to face in the club, he could forgive her of so much, even though he could not join her. He could feel the pain and see the tears, guess at what they had done to her. For her, he would destroy worlds, but not all of them.

Now, on the battlefield, she had brought world-destroying force to bear, and he would not forgive her. Whatever had been inside, whatever had cried and struggled, it was dead. It had allowed this. He would not destroy worlds. She would. This was not words- words he could forgive. This was action, destruction in progress, brought against him.

Would the questors survive? He did not see it happening. He saw them holding out until the end, when all hope was lost, and then trying to escape when all alterative was lost. Even worse, he saw the enemy would anticipate that. Escape routes would be caught off in silence- that was where the tactical strike would be. In the moment of escape, they would be surrounded and cut off.

Cyan wins.

He would not suffer this foolishness. He'd given so much of himself for the sake of a Cyan that used to be. This was no longer Cyan. This abomination wore her skin like a costume. For her, he would destroy worlds. Against her, he would destroy all of them, if need be.

To his drake companions surrounding him, he says, "When I fall, defend James. If James falls or is gone, find and defend Aaron or Berd." He sent pulses into their brains identifying the companions.

Across the bridging he said, This is madness. This is the enemy's battle. It always has been. This is how they want us to fight them, and it is not the correct way. I urge you all to leave immediately.

And he began casting another spell.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:39, Thu 14 Dec 2006.

 

Turning cartwheels across the sky, although not with too much grace, the great eagle could not escape the sight that meets it.

          It's the end of the world as we know it

                                                            _Echoes...

So many.

          So many.

                              And I feel fine

                                                                                                                              _{...of a fractured mind}

Letting out a loud, heartbreaking cry, the eagle regained control of its flight - and plumpeted towards the nearest surface on which it could land, not knowing anything about the silent communications.

It was not need to realise this was madness.

But the screen had shown this, many times, in different forms.

It could not be fought in the shape of an eagle, but perhaps in another form a difference could be made.

Try is all anyone can do, because without try there can be no do.


                                                            <sub>Amidst the ruins a flower will sprout

                                                                      Amidst the ruins hope will arise

                                                  Amidst the ruins
                                                                      are you</sub>

 
This message was last edited by the player at 06:25, Thu 14 Dec 2006.

"There's no need, Dorian.  The bus may have gone, but I'm going to try and catch it anyway.  There's that many Seraphim out there that going toe-to-toe is futile.  Either I find what I'm looking for or, at worst, I'm a couple of worlds away when they break down the door."

Over the bridging James sends Stand, yes, but nothing suicidal.  Hurt them, get away, hurt them again.  James worries that the others are contemplating a last hurrah.  He can feel the seductive lure of Armageddon himself.  It would be glorious to die here; a hero's death.  But dying doesn't get the job done.

With that James focuses, leaving only the faintest thread of attention open to the bridging.  He sets his heart on something, anything to stop the Army and his will on the arcs and lines of the Pattern.  Then he sets off at a deliberate walk.

Chance is smiling behind his faceplate. It's not the brimming grin of madness, but a strange quiet content smile. He's watching the gates when it dawns on him that James has been talking... and walking away?

"Uh..." he looks at Dorian and his drakes. He'd rather stay, but Luke had given him a job to do, and impeccable reason to do it. "Looks like I have to catch a bus, guys."

He turned and trotted after James, intent on staying close and in his footsteps.

"Wouldn't be the first time for that bus, would it James?  Go."  Luke offered Chance a tired smile, and waved after James.  "The two of you will likely do more good in the long run than we do, here."  He watched them walk, and raised one hand in farewell toward their retreating backs.

There really wasn't anything else to say.

Then he grinned at Dorian.  "Looks like it's you and me," one dark man said to another.  "Who would have thought...I'll ward you, Dorian, and keep up the bridging for the others."

With that, he took the reins of the bridging from Berd, slipping into its control expertly and constructing a 'circuit-breaker' for Berd.  Don't you die, you old bastard.  I'm not done with you, yet.

James and Chance have left to seek assistance.  We're to hold out.  That, to everyone, and there really wasn't much else to say there, either.  Within his dark eyes, a pale light began to burn.  "Fiat lux,", he whispered.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:25, Thu 14 Dec 2006.

James' words are the first reassuring thing Roman has "heard" since Luke sensed the Archon's approach.
At least someone approves of his tactics.

Strike kill, move.  Repeat.  Cause as much disruption in the attack as possible.  Try to stay alive.  Try to keep the others alive.  Little enough in the scheme of things, but still a major task for one man, even a Chaos Lord.

Morgan's reason returning, he fumbingly 'spoke' into the link.  "If you two are going to scamper, would you mind mounting up? I'd really feel better about all this if the ones who chase you find out about that damn jungle in person before they catch up. Seems the least I could do, not being one of you magical types.

Brandon, Ahmad? Ready for a rematch?"

The accompanying assents sounded strange to Morgan's ears. But he'd think on their mental voices later.  Four feline forms bracketed the leaving pair, leaving a generous 35 with emtpy saddles to circulate about the new drakes and remaining men.

Left studies the opposition.  'She' knows the strength of their forces, and has a hint of the power of the enemy.  The Despised One is here, as are others of the Enemy.

And more.

She considers how the General has operated in the past.  Replays earlier battles in her mind.  Thinks on certain words, certain phrases recently heard, that she begins to comprehend in a murky fashion, as if seen through a veil of smoke.  Then finally speaks.

+ GENERAL...THAT BUILDING CONTAINS NONCOMBATANTS +

Right doesn't bother thinking about his response.  Consideration on such things demands time, and time, in this circumstance, is not efficient.  Left has noted something of import.  Right reacts, sending a pulse of information out to the Host.

+ BUILDING DESIGNATE *image* REMOVED FROM ACTIVE TARGETS IMMEDIATELY.  CONCENTRATE UPON AREAS OF RESISTANCE; IGNORE EXTRANEOUS STRUCTURES +

With the, somewhat unexpected, strike on the eastern front, it takes a little while for the defenders of Charyk to react in force.  Precious seconds are lost for the troops, as they reposition themselves on the battlements, bringing the their weapons to bear on the bizarre new enemy which confronts them.

The sky darkens again, as over ten thousand Archons blot out the morning sun, shrieking like a million sets of fingernails scraping down as many blackboards.  Most of them are the terrible, bladed danioti, but there are many of the burning eshurianti too.


As the first bolts of green fire from the city start to blast into the swarming horrors, with minimal effect, since it is hard to strike a target which is mostly empty space, Roman moves into the edge of the assault.  Logrus tendrils reach out, ensnaring the nearer Archons, holding them, preventing their rotation, and causing their eventual deaths.  Unfortunately the method is not the fastest, and for each one the Chaosite slays, there seem to be two more, and he can't reach all of them.


Dorian speaks a word, as the drakes move out to take positions around the gate chamber.  At the sound of the word, they turn inward toward the centre, then hiss in frustration as nothing happens.

Dorian himself, shows little reaction to the lack of spectacular results.  He simply snaps orders to the drakes, and starts work on another spell.


On the western road, Trista takes charge.  As she jumps down to the ground, two men run past her, dressed in the uniforms of the caravan's guards.  They are heading away from the battle, back towards the comparative safety of the forest.

Ignoring them, the woman moves on to where the driver of the lead wagon seems to be struggling with the choice between trying to coax the beasts back out of the trap they've wandered into, or simply jumping down and fleeing for his life...


Back inside, where Dorian works his spells, Chance laughs aloud as metal flows across his body, encasing him in armour which looks far too heavy for any mere mortal to stand in, let alone fight.  And yet he moves as if bearing no more weight than his usual clothes.  He carries a weapon which bears no blades, no spikes, no flanged or barbed edges, but which somehow manages to exude menace.


Aaron manages to Spite, turning the bird back in, towards the heart of the enemy, driving inwards, trying to push past them with raw shock value.  He issues instructions to any who will listen, seemingly incaring whether anybody can even hear him.  One of the danioyi spins in towards him, deadly wetal gleaming in the dull light, and green flame suddenly spreads across it, a lucky hit from the tower, which sends it plunging towards the ground.


A voice booms across the battlefield.  Berd.  Challenging the Archons.  The sky starts raining sparks.  Brilliant darts of light, weaving through the air, striking at the danioti like a swarm of angry wasps.  Many Archons are struck.  Some are damaged, to varying degrees, and in the midst of battle, the merely injured dart aside to cannibalise the dying, absorbing their substance to repair the destruction.


Dorian suddenly stops speaking, seeming to falter for a moment, before his voice becomes stronger again, and he starts work on another spell...


Cut off from the mental chain of command, Banglen-Yp is, literally and figuratively, flying solo.  Probably without a parachute.  She drops to the earth, realising that she is not able to fight the fast-moving airborne attackers on their terms.  As her clawed feet touch the ground, she shifts, and the familiar blonde form stands there, now clad in red leather.

There is something wrong with her right hand...


Overhead, the storm clouds gather again, and lightning starts to dance across the sky as the first heavy drops of rain start to fall...


James, for some reason, starts to walk, making his way around the perimeter of the gate chamber.  As he walks, he seems to flicker in and out of existence fom time to time.  Eventually, to those observing, he assumes a state of flickering translucency, like a fading ghost on the edge of perception.

Chance, clad in his exotic armour, follows close behind him, and becomes just as translucent, as do Morgan and the panthers which have joined them.


Left behind, Luke stands watch over Dorian, though with the drakes present, the sorcerer surely needs no bodyguard.


Banglen-Yp stands alone on the field, east of the city, watching the battles in the sky, and a little way from her shapes start emerging from the forest.  Most of them are human.  All of them are armed and armoured.


Behind Trista, on the western road, there is yelling and screaming, and the caravan guards are suddenly running towards the battle...  There are things moving among the trees.


The Warrior in Jet and Gold watches the start of the battle from a good vantage point.  The green fire from the tower is interesting.  An impressive weapon.  Berd is, of course, trying to draw her forces into a direct assault against him, as she'd warned them he would.  Just as he had done on Prime's world, and on Nairans.  Clearly he is becoming old, and set in his ways.  Predictable.

When the rain starts, six of the herenethi are sent to deal with it.  Their brilliant forms rising to slide into the storm clouds, where the lightning increases dramatically.

The green fire stops, and the weapons fall silent...

The Logrus attack proving too slow, Roman moves to direct confrontation.  It requires getting close, but Wormwood's lethal energies should prove a quicker death.

 

Craning her neck and bending it to the side, Banglen-Yp raised her right hand, or where there used to be a hand at least, and looked with grim determination at the new threat that emerged from the edge of the forest.

The neck cracked.

Clad in tight red leather the blonde remained immobile for a couple of seconds before she withotu warnign began to sprint towards the nearest of the enemies with incredible speed.


                                        <sub>Someone's son.

                                                            Someone's daughter.

                              Someone's offspring.</sub>


Remembering the word of the little dragon, Banglen-Yp stopped abruptly, lifted her right arm towards the advancing army...

                                        ...and fired.


Blue electric bolts of some description shot forward towards the closest of the adversaries in a cascade of light and crackling noises.

 

Tahirah steps forward towards Luke, though the suddenness of the movement is greatly softened by the flowing movement of the robes.  "Luke," she says, using his name in hopes of catching his attention amidst the tumult.  "It is the Staff you seek here; that which you can use.  Lord Ferenc has ceded command of the Bearers to you and yours, for a time.  Use it."

Dorian shakes his head to clear his concentration. The plan- he focuses once again, checking the position of his drakes. Good. With everything in place as it should be, he continues to cast his spells, though they lack visible effect to observers.

He is no longer in the bridge, guarding his mind to the utmost.

Morgan had spent the last several months learning how not to be shocked, but for a second time in minutes, his mind short-circuited. They were turning into...wait, he was turning into...

Trying to put a hand on Luke's shoulder, he asked, "j-just what's that?"

Aaron tore through danioti and </i>ashuranti</i> alike. He had unsheathed Ilsefranvir, identifying himself as a target. If they converged upon him, he would surely die.

But Aaron was not in the mood to die today. He had plans.

Aaron pulled Spite upwards, urging the beast on and on and on, higher and higher into Charyk's skies. He needed time that he did not have. And yet, as they moved, Aaron was making small shifts to his Reality. The Archons would miss him because he was making it so. Shifting here and there, adjusting this and that.

"I am not here. That is a shredded corpse, flying high. A cloud. The true enemies are beneath you..."

Reality was perception was belief was truth was Reality.

And Aaron was very, very good at altering his personal reality.

As he ascended, he closed his eyes and let himself go completely. He surrendered himself to himself. He flung himself into the Pattern's embrace, using Spite's upward and forward movement to direct him into the flow.

Aaron had remembered the one thing that had been bugging him in the back of his mind since he'd arrived on this world. Charyk was the most malleable world he'd ever come across in all of his journeys. Aaron figured he could use that to his advantage.

He figured all he needed was the right currency.

When Morgan placed his hand upon Luke, there came a curious sense of solidity, as if Luke were anchoring him.  "Calm, Morgan.  Your friends walk with James, in the spaces between the worlds.  If you wish to follow him, do so - no harm will come to you by the doing."  Luke's white, even smile seemed to indicate harm might come from staying.  "It grows dangerous, here."

"Or stand with me, beside Dorian."  A faint, sad expression crossed the man's face for an instant, and his eyes blazed as he turned them skyward.  "Hold as long as we dare, and I will try...very, very hard, to bring you out of this if we need to flee.  He glanced at Morgan.  "Many things have been said of me, but I never abandoned an ally."

His eyes sharpened, and he turned them toward Tahirah.  His tone was urgent.  "Do you have knowledge of the staff?  For if I do not miss my guess, that is precisely what James, all-unknowing, seeks at this moment.  And who are these 'bearers'?  Did I miss something important?"

"Never mind," he grunted after a moment.  "The staff is broken, and the shards are the weapons the bearers possess.  Which begs the question of 'What's James After?'"

He turned and faced the walls.

The ghost of James slows for a heartbeat before turning and stepping through the wall to one side of the gate.

Aaron had wanted it be be dramatic.

When he found what he was looking for, he almost scared himself shitless, to be honest. Sometimes the very fact that he could, quite literally, find anything within the Myriad Worlds still surprised him.

"Your enemies are here," he told it, guiding it towards Charyk once he'd found it. Above him, the sky turned gray, then black, a swirling mass of stormcloud being drawn into the wrath of the beings purely mental energy. Aaron felt it before he saw it, its psychic presence resonating like a spike through his own mind.

It was stupid, but blatantly powerful. It wasn't the Great Tentacled One specifically, but it seemed to be one of its elder children or something in that regard. Aaron felt that it seemed to act not so much on intelligence as pure instinct.

So Aaron helped it along, guiding it gently with a calm, waiting hand. It was scared, for it wasn't used to such things, but it understood base subjects.

"These are your enemies," he said to it, "pinging" each Archon in their mental connection. "Ignore these." he said, painting his friends, the defenders, the defeseless.

The first great tentacle split the sky above him, and Aaron had to wheel an extremely pissed-off Spite out of the way. He saw its great body begin to descend, and Aaron grinned.

Berd, remaining invisible, let the shimmer on his former position drop.  No sense, now - the Archons had other things on which to fix their attention.  And they were different this time.  More of them, different kinds.  The storm would not suffice against the ashuranti - it would only give another kind a weapon to use.

Worse, yet, one of his allies had moved into their midst, and Berd could no longer precisely distinguish him.  Well, at least he knew the area.  So much of this battle was being fought by the seat of the pants, that mistakes were inevitable.  He only hoped it would not cost any their lives.

And what on earth was Aaron doing?

No time.  The danioti would be the responsibility of others attacking them.  They were many, but not the real threat.  The Broken God had manifested, and he knew its location.  Cyan would be at the heart, there.  He could never reach her.

But the fiery wheels...many of those were open.  Vulnerable.  Berd opened his mouth.

Magnetics formed a 'bottling' effect immediately, lancing out in cone and spreading to a hundred meters in width before stabilizing.  The beam lanced forth, sparking from bladed forms (not the target) and penetrating into the the ashuranti visible outside of the reach of the Broken God.  Before, Berd had summoned a Gravitational Shear.  Now, he upped the ante.

Within that cylinder gravity went wild, bending and distorting a thousand separate ways to a thousand or more gees.  It wasn't pulls and pushes, it was blades, blades forged of gravitational slopes of terrifying strength.

Roman has little time to be shocked by the power on display.  Still, it gives some hope.  If a delaying action is all that is needed, it may be possible.  Lightning strikes,another of the danioti a sickly green after-image betraying the presence of Wormwood's warping chaotic energies.

Despite the chaotic circumstances, the veiled form simply waits quietly before Luke for the moment, watching as his mind leaps to the right conclusion.  Then she responds, "Yes."

After another, shorter pause, she adds helpfully, "They await your command, now."

Luke's lips twisted, and he glanced after James.  His eyes jumped to Dorian, and an amused expression crossed his sharp features.  Then to Morgan, and his cats.  To Chance, with concern.  Finally, back to Tahirah.

"Until James gets back, I will act in his stead.  We stand in defense of this city.  Tell them...strike at anything that threatens the city.  Focus on them, and them alone for the moment.  My people have taken to the sky to bring the battle to the enemy - leave that to them.  We have innocents to defend, here."  His grimace became a grim smile.  "No matter that they are human."

"I hope you're listening, Old Man."

He turned to where James disappeared.  "We'll hold, James.  As long as we can.  Get back here soon."

He looked up into the sky, studied the Archons' formation, and searched for Archons moving on the city itself.  "'When beggars die there are no comets seen;  The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.'  I'll wait for my tribute, Old Man."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:03, Fri 15 Dec 2006.

Reassured by James, and no longer fading out, Morgan's eyes lost a bit of their wildness, though not quite all. Pulling a flask from his pocket, Morgan looked at the aerial battle one more time, and decided he had a bit longer.  No need to die completely sober.  An expert twist of his thumb freed the stopper, and a gulp drained a quarter of the contents.


He brought the hand up to offer it to Luke...but dropped it. He was in charge, and busy. It turned toward Dorian, but there too, the man was doing something sorcerous.

Corwin's Horns. No one to share a drink with, either.   Another gulp, and he traded flask for sword, the diamond blade glittering with the fractured green light. "Defend the magicker, I think we can do that."

His voice grew louder, bracingly cheerful "Here's a fight to set our story in our mother's books, friends. We'll see how many of them we can make die, and a stain upon us if we don't earn at least a regiment's tukrom guard!"  The roar that followed, both vocal and mental, brought a greater flush to his cheeks, and if Morgan's grin was somewhat manic, it was there.

"Berd has a physical form," Cyan notes to the Archons around her, trusting them to pass along the message to the others.  "He won't be down amoung the others.  Too dangerous for them.  He will be flying, to use his mobility.  As he uses his power, his body heats.  Seek the trails left behind."  She considers.  "He may use the Underflow.  Detatch a dozen to guard."

She studies the defenses, hunting not for weak points but for strong ones.  There is Aaron.  There are the towers, oddly silent now.  Something on the left flank is killing her people, invisibly.  Where was Dorian?  James would be below, amoung the defenders.  That one...Chance.  An unknown quantity.  Devlin could be anywhere.  He could even be among her own people by now.  Serena would likely operate in conjunction with Dorian, but not from the same position.

It seemed probably they would have found additional allies by this point, a fact upheld by woman's odd attack upon her forces.

There was a caravan, too, far below.  Curious.

"Scan for uses of a non-archon power along the left flank.  We may have an invisible opponent, or an infiltrator."  Berd was holding back, she saw.  Trying to draw their fire.  "Once you have located the Despised One, have a combined force of twenty-five of each herenethi and ashuranti attack him.  They must keep their minds together."

"Ignore the caravan beyond the fortress.  It is of no import at present unless it proves a threat."

Orders continue to spill from her mouth from under the helm.  They hesitate, though, as Aaron...succeeds? in his task.  "Information on that being.  Now.  And prepare an attack force of one thousand danioti.  Have them surround it at a distance, but make no move as yet."

The weapons have ceased to fire for the moment.  The Warrior nods with satisfaction.  "So long as the weapons do not fire, do not attack the fortress."

Fragmentation.

She slowly begins to move out toward the battlefield, her 'command area' encroaching on its edge.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:37, Fri 15 Dec 2006.

With a small bow, Tahirah hurries over to pass Luke's command on to the rod-bearers guarding the inner Gate, with orders to relay them to all the rest.

He had succeeded, so far. He and the Young One (for that was how it identified itself to Aaron, mentally - it considered itself 'small' in comparison to its siblings, but not as frightened with Aaron in its proximity, apparently,) descended into the lower atmosphere of Charyk, with Aaron circling its tremendous girth.

But it was only one, and Aaron knew it would die. Still, Aaron had needed it only to make time, only to take the attention of the Archons away from the world itself. That fact bit into him, hard, but there was little he could do but direct it onwards and hope that it gave his comrades enough time.

Aaron was a filter-fish to the Young One's Great White shark... or Massive, Trans-Dimensional Octopus, if you wanted to get technical. He had a small lull in the combat for the moment, and he used it to contact his comrades.

"We will cause as much aggravation to our enemies as we are capable of handling. I don't think we'll last long. If you guys have a plan, I hope you're working on it."

The Young One's tentacles were miles long, already swatting and striking out at Archons as it flowed down into the atmosphere. Its one, great ovoid eye stared into the cloudbank of yet another foreign world.  Its hide was tremendously thick, but Aaron knew the potential and power of the bladed Archons, and he feared for the great beast.

He hoped that its eventual death would take a few of those bastards with him.

"Child, do not approach this one," he said, indicating Cyan's tight group. "Strike, awesome one." Two great tentacles darted out like spears.

As the Young One moved onwards, Aaron began to shift Shadow once again. He wasn't done yet.

Roman gives up on using the Logrus, deciding that it's just not quick enough.  He is a rotating vortex of wind and hail, and a writhing bolt of green burning within it.  He moves to intercept the Archons that come closest to him, and the lightning flickers out repeatedly, slashing through fast turning blades in a blaze of green incandescence...


Firmly stationed on the ground now, and moving quickly, Banglen-Yp reaches out what used to be her right hand, and sprays blast after blast of lightning into the approaching troops.  The blasts are not lethal, intended to stun, and they do their job well.  They attempt to get closer to her, to use their own weapons, but she is too fast...


Left moves high above the battlefield.  The General has ordered that a message be carried to Soqed Hezi, privately, and none but another danioti could do it so efficiently.  The order has been delivered, and Left is returning.  But something is happening below, among the ground forces.  There is time to investigate.  A decision made, the Archon descends rapidly, shrinking down to minimise the chances of being spotted.

Behind her, Soqed Hezi leads two thousand danioti upward...


A ball of blazing energy erupts in the air, far off to one side.  It ensnares a group of danioti dragging them towards its core, slowing them, holding them firmly in a magnetic field which eventually tears them apart, scattering jagged shards of metal in all directions.


Tahirah acts as a go-between, liasing between the defenders of Charyk and the stranger who has been given command of the city's forces. 


Within the chamber, Dorian continues to cast spells.  For some reason though, his efforts seem to have little effect on the battle...


Hanging high in the air, but not in the actual position where he seems to be, Berd studies the forces arrayed against him.  They are not taking the bait.  The Archons have, it seems, learned from previous mistakes.  Or maybe they are more obedient to Cyan than one would have thought.

It doesn't matter.  An actinic beam of glaring white force scythes out across the field of battle.  Archons explode when it touches them, and those that it misses closely are pulled into it to die, anyway.


The herenethi howl across the storm-tossed sky, tearing apart the rainclouds, and desperately trying to evade the tentacles which reach down from somewhere beyond the world to capture them.  Not all of them are successful.  A number of them fall, to strike the earth with a sound like thunder.

But against a full two thousand of the danioti, even Aaron's strange ally can do little.  The bladed Archons tear at the thing's flesh, and the reaching tentacles start to bleed streams of black ichor.

But still it fights, and the Archons die by the dozen...


Behind Trista, figures emerge from the forest.  Strange creatures, man-sized and man-like, but covered with scales and barbs, unlike the red-haired human who leads them.  This leader pauses to study the trapped caravan, then starts, empty-handed, towards Trista.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:54, Sat 16 Dec 2006.

"WOOOOOOOOOEEE..."

Aaron's ally wailed from across the Myraid, its voice as much a psychic resonance as a vocal cry of pain and rage. He saw a cluster of tentacles spear out, smashing into a group of Archons and crushing them beneath their titanic weight.

But still it bled, and Aaron knew their time was short.

"Thank you, my friend. Your time here is over."

And he began to shift, pulling Reality into his beck and call. He would need to save his energy if he had any plans to leave this place.

But as he moved, the Young One began to change... it still bled, it was still wounded, but the tentacles shifted as Aaron moved the powers of Shadow, becoming armored in scales of silvery-green. The ends grew heads, each of the twelve tentacles growing fangs and eyes. Its floating girth, high in the atmosphere, grew wings and shrank until it fell to earth.

Varied breath flew out from the many-headed hydra that Aaron had swapped with the Young One. Aaron had run into one such beast long ago, a Hydra with breath weaponry was a frightening thing indeed, and Aaron would leave it to defend itself. It was already wounded, already had a dead head or two, but it would take many an Archon down with it. Aaron had wished to spare the Young One such a demise, and had replaced it for that one reason.

For now he turned Spite sharply and made his way back towards Berd's direction.

"I'm returning to you, Berd, if I'm capable of doing so."

Some of the guards prove cowardice, not that Trista places blame; they are what they are, after all. With green lights flashing over Charyk, the woman reaches the front wagon. The driver’s in a desperate situation and shows signs of wanting to abandon his charge. Again, he is what he is.

“Stay calm; I’ll help,” with that Trista sheathes her small weapon and moves around to the front and uses her own strength to force the beasts beyond the traps they find themselves in. As she works, the cowardly guards turn tail and run towards Charyk. Behind them, movement. Desperate times.

Once the beasts are free, the who man lays soothing hands on their flanks and coos soft words before turning to the driver, “Towards Charyk, there’s no turning back. Inside find the Inn and get these people to safety. If the animals get stuck again, abandon the wagons. I’ll loose any stuck animals to find their own way out of here. Now go. Fast.” Then she’s running back along the caravan, yelling to those in line.

“Get to Charyk.”

“Find the Inn.” Or a deep cellar.

“To Charyk, fast.”

“Abandon stuck wagons.”

A creature of great size appears in the sky above the city, those rings of death swarm around it. Magic flows all about them.

Desperate times.

As she moves down the caravan, yelling for the people to get moving, figures burst forth from the trees. Lizard people emerge following a young man with cat eyes. Since the man is unarmed (visibly), Trista leaves the dagger sheathed, ready if needed. She keeps her fast pace, her hands reaching up to help those who need to hop down, and giving visual directions along with her verbal instructions to seek safety in the Inn. Her eyes flick between the passengers, Elean further down, and the man with the lizard army.

When in shouting distance, she calls out above the din, “Are you here to help or hinder?” A direct question for desperate times.

"Hey, babe, if you, like, need a hand, or something, getting that wagon unstuck, I can have some of the brintizzi deal with it.  They're stronger than they look."  The young man glances past Trista, towards the distant battle in the sky, with its monstrous combatants.

"Looks like they're just getting started over there.  We can afford to give them a few minutes, before going over to show them how it's done."
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 21:15, Sat 16 Dec 2006.

Not what she expected, this stranger with the piercings and the strange eyes. Certainly, she hadn’t foreseen, ‘babe.’

“Yeah, they can’t lose their cargo or animals, so help would be great.” Her eyes follow the man’s glance back above the city before sliding here eyes over the Brintizzi and back to the man. Nodding her head towards the wagons, “Please, have at it.”

While he does whatever he does, Trista steps to Elean’s wagon, “The caravan’s going to make it into the city. Find the Inn, keep out of the way. Got it?”

The woman moves to the man’s side again, “So. You come to Charyk like a knight in shining armor to put these,” a hand indicates the circles of flames and knives, “whatevertheyare in their place?” Her eyes slide down the man’s clothing, “Well, replace the shining armor with a leather jacket and here you are.”

She almost grins. Odd.

“I’m sure Charyk will thank you. As will I. Me being Trista.”

Luke deftly snapped the flask out of Morgan's belt.  "Such sentiments," he remarked.  It could have been caustic, but his grin was more self-mockery than sarcasm.  "Drink to that myself."  He drained the remainder of the fiery liquid, then handed it back.  "If you get it full of water...well, the Old Man is more for the wine business, but I should be able to manage whiskey."

He stroked his chin with one finger, then nodded.  "Tahirah.  Tell the Bearers to bring their pieces to me.  Now.  There is no time to lose."

"Ganelon may have been even more skilled than we thought."

Curious.

A creature, a single creature, stands before the army and denies its passage.  Word is going out, even now, from Left to Right, to the General.  Responses are being sent, but this demands a closer look.

Left swoops down, a tiny sparkle in the air, to examine one of the 'bodies' of a soldier struck down by the female creature's weapon.

It is alive.

Not for lack of power - evidently the female creature has sufficient to strike to kill.

So why?

A tiny, buzzing ring, Left moves like a demented hummingbird, zipping through vector after vector to end up near the female creature with the weapon that blazes energy.

+ YOU DO NOT FIRE TO KILL. + she notes to Banglen-Yp, her tone curious...and urgent.  There may not be time for discussion, after the message she has sent, and this mystery must be solved.  Staying close to listen, prepared to dodge, the coin-sized Archon continues to follow the curious creature.

+ WHY? +

Dorian is unperterbed by his seeming lack of effect. He knows the real effect he is having and he is satisfied; he continues his work.

Chance's armor melts back into regular clothing. He's pondering ways he might try to help James' efforts, but stops when he sees what lies before them. His weapon is once again a guitar.

 

        Scanning
        Potential target aquired
        Target confirmed as hostile
        Calculation energy consumption
        Fire solution computed
        Firing at target
        Target neutralisation verified

        Scanning

Several instances a second electric bolts were discharged towards the seemingly endless army, but Banglen-Yp - clad in red - stood there with impressive efficiency.

        Scanning
        Potential target aquired
        Target confirmed as hostile
        Calculation energy consumption
                Unknown unit approaching
        Fire solution computed
                Scanning
        Firing at target
                Identified as primary target
        Target neutralisation verified
                Optimising fire solution for primary target
                Primary target attempts verbal communication
        Scanning
                Assessing threath
        Potential target aquired
                Engaging communications

•• Be•cause • I • can ••

Still firing at the army withotu interruption, Banglen-Yp barely seemed to glance at the miniature Archon that had addressed her as she answered in a somewhat metallic sounding voice.

 

Roman is full of the joy and the fury of the storm.  The wind blows where it wills.  The lightning strikes as it wills.  There is a beauty in destruction.  If it should bring harm to others, what of it ?

Still his rational mind retains some control.  His kill count might be considered impressive in other circumstances, although it is certainly less than Aaron's monsters have achieved.  And even they might be considered easily acceptable losses to a force of this magnitude.  Still, it is only a matter of time before the enemy notice him and take action.  But what is the enemy doing ?  It seems that any delay has more to do with the enemy strategy than the efforts of the defenders.

The remaining troops have become aware of the ambush now, and are attempting to stay back, out of range of the energy discharges.  The female is faster, though, and is still managing to catch a few of them.

+ INTERESTING. +

+ HOWEVER, SINCE EVEN NON-LETHAL ATTACKS HINDER THE PROGRESS OF THE ARMY, I CANNOT PERMIT YOU TO CONTINUE THIS ACTION.  UNFORTUNATELY I HAVE ONLY ONE MEANS OF ATTACK AT MY DISPOSAL. +

The Archon expands slightly, and sparks flash from the edges of her blades, as she plunges straight through Banglen-Yp, almost cutting the woman in half.  Left circles once, generating a low hum, before darting away to rendezvous with the Command Group.

Banglen-Yp remains on the ground.  Oddly, despite the damage, she does not lay in a pool of blood.

 


_{The rest...}


        Alert
        Primary target moving into attack position
        Target confirmed as hostile
        Calculation energy consumption
        Fire solut ---


Banglen-Yp began to fall, nearly in two pieces.


        System critical
        Activating backup

The ground came closer, fading into blackness rapidly.

        Back.p s.stem fail.re
        S.st.mw.d. f..l.r. .mm.n.nt
        ... ---

The remains hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Unseen and unregistered the army moved on before the Archon darted away.


                                                                _{...is silence.}


 

"Trista?  Nice name.  I'm Jonnee Kay, formerly of Las Angelos, Kingdom of Califonia." the young man says with a half bow, and an easy grin.  He turns to the nearest of the reptile warriors, and murmurs a few words, waving one hand in the general direction of the trapped wagon.

There is a blurring in the air, and the warrior is gone.  A moment later, a large group of them are helping to drag the wagon backwards, while others persuade the animals to back up also.

"I don't know much of anything about Charyk, I'm here because some friends called me.  Said they totally needed my help.  I'm thinking they were right... there must be, like, a gazillion Archons over there."

His strange, yellow eyes flick past Trista for an instant, before coming back to her.  "You scared of wolves, Trista?"

Aaron swooped down, laying upon Spite to hover before the great Archon who'd just devestated Banglen in such a fashion. He swooped around the danioti once, twice, then halted again.

"You, bladed one. You serve the Bard," he said, gesturing to Left with the point of Ilsefravnir.

"I saw you break off from her defensive formation. Tell her that if she remains on this world, she will most certainly die. Tell her Jack has forseen it."

"She is not invincible. Neither are you."

And then they were off again, up and up and back towards his comrades.

“Kingdom of California? Sounds nice. In my world, California is nothing but a wasteland after the Republic destroyed it.” She falters and her eyes empty, pushing away memories. She dismissively mutters, “Well, my old world. Long time ago.”

Then the creatures are helping the wagons and the man with the fascinating eyes continues. She learns the names of the death circles: Archons. His friends are fighting the enemy, but they are not of Charyk if she reads his words correctly. Perhaps some of the magic she feels comes from them.

At his odd question about wolves, her brows squint down, “No, at least, not that I know of. Why?” She turns to look in the direction he had glanced, expecting to see a horde of wolves bounding towards them.

In fact, there's only one wolf behind Trista.  A big male, regarding her with eyes as yellow as Jonnee's own.

Jonnee himself makes the introductions, "That's Hunter.  He's a friend.  Don't worry about him, he's getting old and fat, and probably couldn't keep up if you ran more than a yard or two." he laughs then, and steps past Trista to scratch the wolf behind the ears.

The animal certainly doesn't look old and fat.  It looks, rather, to be in peak condition.

The reptile men manage to get the lead wagon, and its draft beasts, back on to the roadway, and they stand clear as people start to climb back aboard the wagons.

Not a pack of wolves, but a single grey stands before the woman. A large animal with thick fur and intelligent, yellow eyes to match Jonnee’s, the animal immediately wins over Trista. Jocular humor in the man’s introduction indicates a long friendship.

Trista bends her knees, though refrains from dropping too far down. No knowing if this beast takes kindly to the attentions of strangers, she refrains from reaching out to stroke that luxurious grey fur. Instead, she let’s her left hand loosely hang outward, palm up. “You’re beautiful, Hunter,” her head leans forward a touch, “and I don’t see an ounce of fat on you.”

Rising again, the lizard men have set the wagons aright. “Thank you,” spoken to encompass all, though she’s uncertain whether any of the warriors understand her.

Trista shifts her attention to the man beside her, “Your friends need you, Knight in Leather Armor,” one corner of her mouth barely quirks up. “Thanks for the help…and for not being more of these ‘Archons’ coming through the woods.”

Her eyes turn toward the sky of thunderous battles, “I don’t know what I can do against such creatures of twisting knives, but I’ll find a way to be useful. First off, getting these people to shelter.”

As the wagons begin to move, so does Trista; Charyk beckons.

Left pauses in the air and gives the distinct impression of eyeing Aaron thoughtfully.  When he flashes away, she follows him, easily.

+ YOU, FLESHY ONE.  YOU WERE WILLING TO SERVE THE GENERAL.  HOW CURIOUS THAT YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND AS SOON AS IT BECAME CONVENIENT.  IS THIS THE NORM? +  A hint of scorn lies in the tone, but true curiousity as well.

+ INVINCIBILITY LIES THE MOMENT, NOT IN PROPHECY.  FORTUITOUS FOR YOU THAT SHE HAS BOUND HERSELF - YOU ARE TO BE CAPTURED, NOT SLAIN.  HUG YOUR SMALL VICTORIES CLOSE.  THEY SHALL NOT LAST SO LONG AS SHE OPPOSES YOU. +

Oddly irked, Left vectors away from the man, utterly ignoring the laws of inertia to complete a knife-sharp ninety degree turn.  She accelerates to maximum velocity in an instant and burns a silvery line across the battlefield on the way back to her General.

Despite the exchange, a message has been given by the enemy, and must be delivered.  Even if it's contents disturb her.

Concern.  The battle does not go as Berd expected.  Cyan holds back.  She -

She does not attack the city.

Instantly Berd makes the connection.  Inform the city to take no hostile actions!  She may ignore them completely if they do so!  The aetheric roar echoes through the bridging.  Again, he strives to bespeak Cyan.  It is of no use.

Broken God.  It's barrier has risen around the core of the Archons.

Now Aaron's creation, a many-headed Hydra, battles the archons.  Roman is a dervish-wind in their midst.  Banglen-Yp...she falls, cloven in twain.  Perhaps her mysteries will never come to light, now.

Curse the Broken God.  And curse this situation as well.  Berd narrows his eyes.  Dangerous to use his greatest strength against the archons with allies around.  Aaron is rising toward him, now.  If Berd is 'seen', he will become another target (if he is not, already).

One chance.  One mind roves down secret pathways, into the Underflow, seeking, hunting.  Others continue the war, battering the Archons with winds, with fire, with lightning, turning their own powers against themselves.  A rain of nitric acid sleets across the front of their formation for an instant.  Magnetics drag Archon toward Archon.  Pinpoint holes erupt around eshuranti to the deep, airless chill of space.

Distractions, all.  Now Berd has a purpose.

There is only a momentary pause as Tahirah's intuition flashes, and she decides Luke already knows what she is about to say.

Turning back to the captain, she says simply, "Gather all of the rod-bearers here.  Immediately."  Her voice comes out calmly, but with the imperative of fate.

"Capture the strange being," Cyan notes, glancing out to where the creature battles her people on the flank.  "But do not lose people to it in the doing."  She considers.


"Destroy the creature on the ground," she notes, pointing her blade at the Hydra.  She smiles, thinly.  "Coordinate attacks for the present - small bombardment of lightning and flame."


Her hand comes up, and she points to where Aaron rises into the sky.  "There," the General orders her bearers.  "Take me there."

A silvery line appears in the air, coalescing into Left.  + GENERAL.  I BRING A MESSAGE FROM THE AARON.  HE AND I HAD WORDS +

Right, around the General's wrist, seems affronted.  + YOU GET ALL OF THE GOOD JOBS + he sulks.  Quietly.

Cyan listens with a growing smile under her helm.  "Jack was ever full of predictions," she notes.  A cottage on a mountainside, somewhere.  "Shall we see if he got this one correct?  It would be a first."

The two archons 'eye' each other, considering.  Something passes between them for an instant, but Cyan, lost in memory and the ebb and flow of battle, does not notice.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:49, Mon 18 Dec 2006.

The herenethi tear the storm clouds apart, then turn their attention towards an anomaly which seems to be at the heart of the enemy forces, a strange ripple in the air...


Aaron swings back to rejoin Berd, as his monstrous ally continues to fight.  That particular battle cannot last much longer, as trenchant blades driven with inhuman force and inconceivable precision carve through flesh again and again.


Seemingly stranded in the open, Trista receives help from an unexpected source.  The young man, with his alien allies and companion wolf, seems friendly enough.  His troops set the lead wagon back on the road, and the caravan continues its journey.

When she glances back, she sees no sign of those who aided her.

The caravan continues forward, and at the last possible second, the gate opens, admitting the wagons into a large chamber, guarded by internal battlements, and with another huge gate at the far end.


At the Eastern Gate, Luke takes command, snapping orders to Tahirah and Morgan.  One to order the guards with weapons containing fragments of the staff to converge on Luke, the other to defend Dorian, even though it seems it isn't truly Dorian.

Tahirah relays the instruction, and the guards start to move down towards the Eastern Gate, carrying their seemingly useless weapons.


Outside, Left, always the more curious of the two, pauses on her way back to the General, as she notes a human female ambush a group of the ground forces.  After a brief exchange regarding the use of non-lethal force, Left almost regrets punching an eight inch diameter, circular hole through the female's abdomen.  It is, however, an efficient way to deal with her.

And then Aaron is there, with talk of prophecy, and vague threats.  The two go their separate ways, Aaron climbing higher, and Left returning to her duties.


The fake Dorian, watched by Morgan and assorted panthers and drakes, continues to perform his vital task as a decoy.


Half a dozen eshurianti, close together, suddenly fall, their flames diminished by some unknown force.  They strike the earth, hard, burning fitfully, and howling, though there is no sign of what attacked them.


Aaron's creature is driven to the ground, at last, and the danioti swarm through it, finally finishing it.  In the moment of its death, it screams strange words in a thousand voices...


Chance, James, and their panther companions, take stock of their new surroundings.


The danioti pull back from Roman, their blades have little effect on the vortex of wind and green lightning, though the latter has an all-too-obvious effect on the bladed Archons.  Ten of the burning eshurianti rise towards him, instead, expanding their forms to surround him at a safe distance, and then angling themselves, until he is contained within a spherical cage of flame.


Elsewhere, the Archons are suddenly struck by a downpour which blasts down upon them.  The metal blades of the danioti hiss and fume as the rain hits them, pitting them, searing them.  Then the eshurianti start to wink out, in ones and twos, and chaotic winds begin to whip about the battlefield, throwing the scorching rain in all directions.  But still the blades are not damaged fast enough to make much difference, and the freezing and suffocating of the flames affects too few at one time...

And Aaron draws close to Berd, just as one hundred arcs of lightning, cast by the herenethi strike a single point in the sky where the drake hangs hidden.  Spite shrieks angrily, as the stench of burning feathers fills the air, and then the great bird is falling.



The city guards are moving now, down towards the Gate and their new, temporary, commander.  Barely have they started on their way down, when the humming of the staff fragments, in the weapons they carry, rises in pitch, rapidly reaching a painful level.  Then it stops, and the sudden silence is shocking.  In the instant of that silence, a spherical pulse of energy spreads out from the citadel, fading as it expands.

And in its wake, the piece of Broken God at the heart of Cyan's army, is consumed by green flame.

Howling, Roman whirls in circles within the sphere of fire.   He cannot permit himself to be confined, contained, kept from the battle.  Perhaps even herded into captivity.   Time to test the power of the storm against the fire.  A storm enhanced by the power of Chaos, shielded by the Logrus, killing Chaotic energies channeled through it's lightning.

Hoping that the enemy do not yet know what they are dealing with, Roman moves.  He accelerates to top speed, turning unpredictably. aiming to punch a way out of the containing sphere, lashing out with Wormwood's lightning to clear the way.

Without another word, Jonnee & Company vanish. The caravan moves and Trista with it. Strange, the man and wolf with matching eyes. She doubts he’s gone for good since he indicated he had come to help his friends. Perhaps he’s already in the thick of battle. “Take care, Knight,” she whispers into the tumultuous air. Most likely, their paths will not cross again.

Trista slides into her roll as self-appointed Caravan Protector, walking alongside the wagons. She keeps her eyes roving and her body tense. The skies alight with green fires and monstrous beings.

Fortunately, the front driver keeps his team on track this time, guiding them through the newly opened gates. Trista does her best to help guide them all in.

From inside, surrounded by frightened travelers, she can no longer see the battle raging above her, but the high pitched squeal brings her hands closing over her ears. Bending at the waist in an instinctual protective motion, the shock of the sudden cessation of sound brings her up and headed towards the Eastern Gates.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:42, Thu 21 Dec 2006.

Spite and he spiraled in a loose, wobbling leftward arc, descending earthwards. He braced himself, and whispered words of stern comfort to the crazed, pained beast.

"This is going to hurt."

He didn't respond, merely prepared for the inevitable landing. It came, and quick, and Spite almost made the landing. One foot struck a rocky outcrop and folded just as they landed, flipping Spite head over tail and sending Aaron flying.

Curling into a ball, he hit the ground hard on his right shoulder, barely acknowleging the sound of his arm dislocating as he did so. Ilse flew from his hand, to embed itself in the earth a foot or two away from him.

And Spite screamed and screamed, as Aaron slowly rose to one knee to behold a shattered battlefield. Blood trickled into one eye, and he smiled slightly.

"I didn't know you were a prophetess, Arianne."

Gritting his teeth, he set his shoulder back into his socket with a grunt of pain and impatience. He rose, removed Ilse and proceeded back towards Spite.

"Bird," he said, "I doubt you can continue on. I can make it quick, or put you elsewhere."

Perhaps it was because Spite had done him well that Aaron walked in a circle around the beast, shifting Charyk as he did so. This would be his last shifting of the stuff of Shadow before his hoped departure, and soon the two of them were within the walls of the Citadel itself.

He whistled high and sharp, waving with both arms to alert nearby guards. He turned then, to his mount, and placed a palm on a head that snapped and hissed at him.

"Fair tidings, Spite. I hope your caretakers can help you in ways I cannot."

And then he was off, bolting across the open expanse between great wall and high tower, seeking Luke or James or any other of his group.

Worlds away in a deserted clearing between giant trees, Dorian casts spells that affect the battle his friends are engaged in. Threads sweep the world with great precision tracking the movements of both sides, seeking the right times and places to execute his spells.

The argon gas had seemed to work well against the first group eshurianti, and Roman now found himself in the midst of more. Dorian pondered the options. The man had proven a decent combatant so far, and the more they dealt with him, the less they'd look for Dorian.

Yet, he also noted the green pulse of energy and the consumption of Broken God. He was now sure that was what had countered his first spell. It seemed prudent to return to their plan now, and attempt the spell again. He had another he could try, though it was also not as refined. He did have his old standby, which he'd never yet used, but he doubted he would need it.

He returns his attention to Roman. So many burning archons provided a tempting target. He decided to wait and see if Roman could deal with them, before acting.

Cyan - he dreaded what might lay ahead. It made his heart sick to think of such a task. He'd actually felt relief the first time it failed. Yet, she was the objective. He had little choice. He felt sick.

Chance keeps his expression neutral and serious, as his mind works quickly, flitting over the possibilities, scanning each quickly and moving on to the next. He inhales deeply, mustering every once of persuasive ability he's ever possessed. He begins to speak, employing a tone that is at once confident and imperative, but not threateningly so. He allows just enough of a smile to reinforce the confidence without ruining the tone. He keeps his gaze steady moving to each listener, but watches critically for reactions, prepared to adjust his approach at a moments notice.

Berd watches in satisfaction as the acidic rain and the wormholes opened into the depths of space wreak havoc amidst the Archon forces - not destruction, but disorientation.  Wounding.  Aaron rises toward him, and -

His shielding holds.  Barely.

The explosive impact slams him down, away, his shielding a flaming sphere around his tiny body.  Fully visible now, Berd levels off only a hundred feet from the ground, one mind frantically repairing the damage to his protection.  He's hurt, now, tasting blood, feeling the burn of the flash-heat that penetrated.

Almost.  Had there been twice as many Archons, he might well have been killed.

Aching inside, body seared, the drake rises again into the sky, and his body flares like a dying star.  Baleful eyes seek out the group which attacked him - he knows full well it is but the prelude.  Visible, now, he will quickly become the focus of more of the Seraphim.  Now he jukes through evasive patterns, enhancing his already-considerable speed of flight.

Suddenly he seems to split in three, and two more Berds swoop about him, peeling off to hold a distance, continuing the evasive patterns, their own shielding at full force.  Decoys.

He must continue to harry the Seraphim.  Keep their attention on him.  Diffuse attacks to draw them, rather than potent, pinpoint strikes.  But at the same time, he cannot simply allow them to hammer at his shielding until it fails....

A terrible thought grows in one of his minds, the one controlling the offense.  He makes it happen.

"Well, enough of that," Cyan states with some satisfaction as the Hydra finally falls.  And yet power continues to strike at her forces, some of it Berd's, some of it not.  Dorian.  I sense his hand in this.  She narrows her eyes as Left scoots up.

"Find Coil.  I have new orders.  Tell him to seek out the targets I've given him before.  Someone is playing games."  And not just one - she smiles, as the strange being in the middle of her formation is isolated.  Trapped.  But still it fights.  "Triple the forces against that one," she notes to another, nearby messenger.  "And subdue it - do not merely contain."

A flare.  A blinding crack in the sky.  And the little dragon burns.

"Berd."  Cyan's obsidian eyes shine under her helmet.  "There.  Strike with ranged fire upon him.  He has his wish - our attention.  Make him work - he has limits."  Every erg of energy spent in Berd's defense is one not being hurled in the face of her forces.  "And remember - we are not trying to capture him."

That uneasy feeling is back in her chest.  Something is wrong.  Pressure is building up within, again.

Then the battlefield is lit by the citadel, and suddenly her command core is naked, the Broken God's protection seared away.  The General blinks, and one eyebrow rises.  "Well, is that not a treat?" she murmurs.

Not naked.  Not at all.  "Right.  Summon Left.  We shall utilize other messengers."  And her hand comes free of Right's grip, the Archon settling in behind her as she draws Gurthang.  "Pull the Army back, but have the Seraphim continue to fight.  Have half the herenethi reserves strike at the towers, immediately - bombardment only."  She stares for a long moment, then makes her choice.

"Take me there."  And her blade points toward Roman.

Jonnee moves fast.  Even so, he can barely keep up with his army.

He notices enemy ground troops, ahead, and to the right.  Twin blades of gleaming bone slide out, one from each arm, and he points towards the infantry.  "There.  Block their advance.  And watch out for Archons, down near the ground.  Remember what I taught you - Archons don't look like it, but they are people.  There is no shame in using weapons against them."

"Use the new swords to pin them down.  The quickest way to hurt one is to stop it spinning.  Oh, and - "

"Jonneekay.  You worry too much.  We have trained for this, and we remember." one of the brintizzi interrupts him.

"Then why are you wasting time talking, Ech'hisst?" the human replies, grinning.  "Go do it!"

The brintizzi blur, as they accelerate away, towards the enemy, and Jonnee glances up at the sky, where all Hell seems to be breaking loose.  "I hope ten thousand is enough for you Berd.", he mutters, before moving on himself.

A little way behind, Hunter follows.

"That was somewhat unexpected."  Luke turned a dubious look on Tahirah.  "You didn't, by chance, know that would happen, did you?"  He reached out, took the flask back from Morgan, sucked back a long pull, then handed it back.  Strangely enough, it seemed just as heavy as before.

"Keep them coming here, Tahirah.  They've broken the Broken God, and that might have been their purpose all along, but I'm going to see what we can accomplish with them.  Together."

Still holding the bridging together, Luke turns his preternatural vision upon one of the approaching men, his spirit examining the fragment, delving deeper into its workings, seeking understanding.

<I>Chance...James.  You'd better get back here, fast.

Tahirah replies simply, "It was one of the possibilities."

Clearly.  It had happened, whatever it was, so it must have been.

Though her voice remains steady and calm, within her robes, she's reeling.  She'd love to ask just what he meant about having just broken Broken God...but she couldn't do it.  Not...in her professional capacity.

Barely, she catches Luke's further instruction.  Her arm simply raises to the nearest captain, hand extending from the sleeve for a brief `keep it coming' gesture before vanishing again.

As Jonnee's troops flow across the field, striking at whatever enemies they find on the ground, they drive back the the infantry of the Army of the End of Time, pushing them back towards the forest's edge.  This has the effect of attracting the attention of the Archons, who swoop down on them, hammering into the brintizzi in a rain of lethal metal and flame...


High above, rising to meet Roman, the General looks down, and something in the way the new army on the field moves, or rather, something in the speed with which it moves, looks very familiar...

Then she finds herself hovering before a cage of living flame, and something moves within - a whirling vortex of wind and lightning, which strikes repeatedly at the cage, even as the Archons which form it tighten their hold.


Trista is inside the city proper now, in what appears to be a vast, roofed market.  The caravan is moving down a ramp towards underground stables and warehouses, leaving the passengers standing in the great chamber.  There are few people about, and many of those that are nearby seem to be making towards a flight of steps which spiral upwards arouns a huge pillar.


Lightning slams into the upper parts of Charyk, destroying the ramparts and battlements.  The troops though, have already moved, for the most part, descending into the depths of the city, following Tahirah's command.


There is a dull roar, and a crash, from somewhere above, and Trista finds herself almost choking on dust, as part of the chamber roof falls, some distance away.  Around her, the other passengers start to panic...


No sooner has she answered Luke's question, than Tahirah hears the roar as part of the city collapses, but it sounds distant enough to present no immediate threat...


Finding himself on foot, and outside the city, Aaron seeks any of his allies.  None of them are on the ground outside the wall, at least, not in this place.  He hears a noise from behind him, and turning, he sees a wolf watching him.  The wolf wags its tail, uncertainly, and sits, still gazing at him...


Jonnee moves on, catching up with the brintizzi, who have discovered an oddity.  A number of the enemy soldiers are down, unconcious, rather than dead, with strange burns on the breastplates of their armour.  Nearby is the body of a young woman, dressed in red leather.  There is a wide hole straight through her abdomen, but no more than a few drops of blood.

She looks very dead, but he checks anyway; no pulse.

Off to his right, the brintizzi have encountered Archons, and they've started dying.  He runs off, fast, to take command...


Within the city, Dorian pauses in his casting to peer up at the roof of the gate chamber, as dust and grit start to rain down on him from up there...


Roman smashes against the walls of his prison with all the force he can muster, but the Archons contract about him, restricting his movement, burning brighter with each passing moment.  These are stronger than those he has fought previously, and more resistant to the touch of Wormwood.  And more of them arrive, pouring gouts of flame into the cage.

And then the human is there, held aloft by Archons as she studies the spherical prison, and the thing held within.


Rising, Berd, all three of him, bombards the Archons with explosive sparks, breaking their formations, even as they rain fire and lightning against his defences.  Space twists and the nearest Archons fold out of existence, as the drake's defences blaze brighter than a sun.

Then they reappear, all across the sky, adding more energy to the assault on the three drakes.  Instead of trying to focus on them, they simply pour vast amounts of power into an entire segment of the sky.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:12, Wed 20 Dec 2006.

Aaron skidded to a halt and turned, staring at the wolf.

"I know you... don't I?"

Doubling back, Aaron approached the animal and crouched, reaching out a hand. He smiled slightly.

Dorian smiles toothily from his spot so many worlds away. He loved the game of cat and mouse, especially when the distinction between cat and mouse blurred. If they were seeking him, he would give them something to find. These seekers were no less a part of the enemies forces than the archons. He would merely shift his focus and show these amateurs what was cat and who was mouse.

Chance smiles at the compromise suggested. He nods. In the same voice and practiced manner, he speaks again...
This message was last edited by the player at 08:15, Thu 21 Dec 2006.

Orders are released to deal with the Brintizzi and pull her Army back.  Jonnee Kay.  He's down there, somewhere.  She can feel him.  He wasn't with the others, before - tactically, it makes perfect sense for him to deal with the Brintizzi.  Who else could, in truth?

And now that shockingly potent army is arrayed against her.  The Army at the End of time, prepared, might be able to defeat them.  It has resources against which they have no defense.  But unprepared?  Never.

The Seraphim, on the other hand....

She returns her attention to the matter at hand.  Gurthang before her, she eyes the whirling being, trapped within the force of the eshurianti.  "Surrender," she suggests.  "Or die."

This one, she does not know.  It is a threat.  One way or the other, it will be contained.

You wouldn't think that a creature of fire would be so solid.  Nevertheless the eshurianti seem to be an impassable wall, and there are too many of them.

Still there is a possible escape route.  Roman draws on his power, to take it.

Then the black-and-gold armoured human arrives, surely the one who was spoken of, the one who commands Archons.  The sorceror has failed, then.

In reply to her demand lightning flashes and thunder rolls, seeming to carry words.  Those who listen carefully may make them out  "Murderer"  "Of"  "Worlds"

Still there is one throw of the dice that may be worth trying.  Where the sorceror failed Roman might, possibly succeed, at least in part.  The Logrus is already with him.  Tendrils reach out for Cyan,  She comes with me.

"Indeed?"  Luke raised a skeptical eyebrow at Tahirah.  "But this is interesting."  He pointed to one of the men, closing in on them now.  "The weapon he carries...its emmanations are far too similar to those of the Broken God to be coincidence, especially given what we know.  Only, one might say they are the...inverse."  His lips formed a wintery smile.  "It would seem we stand on the verge of solving one of the great mysteries of this quest...while simutaneously about to lose the entire game."

"How typical."  He raised one hand, beckoned the men closer.  "Bring them here.  Bring them together."  He glanced around at the thunderous crash.  "The General has begun the bombardment of the city...it was only a matter of time.  She will force its defenders to concentrate where she chooses, or lose the city entirely.  And it'll work, too.  She knows Berd, knows he cannot ignore this."  He shrugged.  "At least, that's how I read it.  It's what I would do."

Tahirah turns to face the outer gate, silently thoughtful.  "The city of Charyk is already lost," she says, quietly.  "Without that," she indicates the gathering group with the fire rods, "It will not stand to the creatures that threaten it daily.  You and yours accomplish miracles in short order...can you take the people of Charyk somewhere safe, before it falls?  Tell your friend to ignore it indeed, and let their assault fall upon the empty shell?"

"Ech'hisst!  Hsht'kaah!  Pull back.  There's too many of them!"  Jonnee issues his command as swarms of danioti burst up from the earth itself, spinning out of the ground right in the midst of his troops.

Should've seen that one coming.  They don't breathe, and can cut through anything.  Damn!

The question now is whether the brintizzi will obey his order.  Retreat is not part of their code.

Morgan frowned. Waiting was irritating, but there was little else to do. That, and watch what some of the others did.  "Well, if they think some of our forces are in the woods, you'll soon enough lose that problem, Tahirah. I don't suppose anyone could make an illusion that we're hiding something there with an illusion? If nothing else, it'd buy us time."

The rain of destruction falls upon the city.  For now, it 'only' upon the towers, the defenses.  But still, people come under its effects.  Buildings begin to collapse.  The caravan is endangered.  Berd's attention, at a critical point, is even more divided than he can manage.

A mist begins to grow over the battlements, a white, transparent haze that absorbs the attacks.  Growing fires snuff out.  Ceilings hold for that critical instant longer for troops to flee.

He struggles to save all he can, and in doing so, neglects his own defenses, leaving them to and the battle to a bare trio of minds.

One throws up shields, deflecting, absorbing, and shunting the archon assault.  A moment later, rather than face the blinding force of it directly, the drake opts for a different tactic.  They have made a single, critical error - they all strike at him from close to the same angle.  He is not yet surrounded.

Another head of the hydra reaches out.  Space folds again, this time in the sweeping path of that destruction.  Berd opens a gap in the air before the eshurianti's fire.  An instant later, a similar gap opens, behind a concentration of the herenethi, and that self-same flame vomits forth.  Let them burn one another.

But he cannot even cover all the angles around himself.  Shielding buckles.  The heat sears him, the force batters his small, flying body about.  Berd cries out and spirals away, a leaf in a whirlwind.  His body shines from within as he struggles against the power levied against him, and against the power he, himself, pours forth.  This frame about him was never meant to control such forces.  One wing flares into flame.  He struggles to reinforce his shielding, and barely holds against the maelstrom about him.

The third mind sees the plight of Roman, and that of Jonnee Kay's army.  Which to defend?  Trust Roman - he knows his business.  The Brintizzi, however, are beleaguered.  With that thought, Berd strikes.

+ GENERAL, THE ENTITY PUTS FORTH THREADS - IT SEEKS TO ENSNARE YOU +  Right's voice is a blare of noise, even through the roaring fury of the eshurianti.

"So?"  The Warrior in Jet and Gold raises Gurthang a hair, and astral fire flows from the blade's edges.  "A chaoslord, then.  I was wondering."  Prepared, she awaits the touch of the enemy.  "If it persists in its attempts to fight, destroy it.  And prepare to follow - no doubt it will shift itself using its particular powers.

The instant the first tendril touches the armour - the armour, no more - the the black sword sweeps into motion.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:36, Fri 22 Dec 2006.

The sky itself seems to ripple and waver beneath the forces at work here...

The wolf studies Aaron for a long moment, then stands and trots past him, close enough to give his hand a perfunctory sniff.  A couple of yards past him, it stops and looks back, its golden eyed gaze fixed on Aaron's face.


Coil considers the reports he is receiving, "Track him, but do not approach.  He's too dangerous for that.  Use a Worldkiller, instead, anywhere you suspect he may be hiding.  I suppose we should be grateful to him, for showing us such a useful tactic."


Cyan lashes out with the blade Gurthang, moving it about her in a complex pattern of arcs and sweeps.  When she is done, she still holds her position outside the now-empty cage of flame.

Of the three eshurianti that follow Roman, two return almost immediately, injured.  + GENERAL, IT HAS FLED TO A PLACE WHERE WE CANNOT CONTINUE PURSUIT, BECAUSE OF THE CONDITIONS.  JEHOEL IS DESTROYED.  VOHU MANARAH OF THE HERENETHI FIGHTS IT STILL. +


Inside the city, where Luke, Morgan, and Tahirah, along with Dorian and his drakes, await the return of James and his companions, dust and rubble continue to fall, as flame and lightning bombard the upper portions of the city.

The bearers of the weapons which seem to have neutralised the Broken God, are gathering before Luke, leaving the city with no adequate defence, even if the weapons still worked.

And Tahirah proposes an unusual solution... abandon the city.


In the upper portions, the eyries of the ormvråkar burn.  Many of the great birds still circle above the city, but the green fire weapons held by their riders have ceased to function.


Berd, struggling to defend himself, burns.  The Archons are not even trying to target him, choosing instead to make attacks upon a sector of the sky.  Then the drake makes an error, though it is one which is forced him - he diverts valuable resources to the defence of the brintizzi...  Fields of magnetic force fold around the danioti holding them still, and dragging them to the ground, long enough for the brintizzi to get clear...

The brintizzi do retreat, though their losses continue.  If five or six of them can take on a single Archon, then the brintizzi can win, and even with four of them, they stand a chance.  But there are two many Archons, and the odds are too heavily stacked against the reptile warriors.

They start to regroup around Jonnee, while Cyan's infantry pulls back a little, and begins to move around their flank, making for the city's eastern gate.


And in that instant, as he focusses power elsewhere, Berd becomes clearly visible to his enemies.  The energies of a thousand Archons lash out, and the air around the drake burns.

He falls, battered, burned, and broken.  It is a known fact, in many world, that mass and energy are interchangeable, and Berd holds a lot of energy.  He crashes through the upper levels of Charyk, adding to the destruction of Cyan's bombardment, and does not stop until he strikes the solid base of the city, which cracks under the impact...

Trista gets to her feet, her ears ringing.  The floor, solid stone slabs, is broken, as if struck with a great hammer.  Above her, a hole leads up through the ceiling and, far above that, almost obscured by clouds of dust,  is a tiny patch of daylight.

Something lays on the shattered floor, something red-hot, surrounded by rubble, and with strange electrical discharges flowing out of it.  People are scrambling up from the floor, and with a start, Trista realises that she must look like them.  She raises a hand, and finds that her hair is standing on end, and  she feels the sting of sparks as her fingers touch it.

The thing on the floor looks like a small dragon, though it's seen better days.


_{Edit: Fixed typo.}
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:29, Sun 24 Dec 2006.

The sky roars, the earth shakes, and Aaron follows the wolf.

"God, I must be addled. Sorry I didn't recognize you, Hunter."

Though, he had to admit, it'd been a while since he'd seen Kalika's, and now Jonnee's, four-legged friend. A long while.

But if Hunter was here, that meant Jonnee and his army of Brintizzi were also.

Aaron didn't think it would matter even if they were here. If they didn't do something fast, this world was definetly done for.

"Send out a general call for the surrender of the city," Cyan states with cold satisfaction.  She regards the eshurianti who followed the Chaoslord.  "You two - retire to safety.  You have done well.  Dispatch another nine herenethi to support Vohu Manarah."  She considers.  "Ensure Aka Manahah is not one of them."  It wouldn't do to have two lifelong enemies battling side-by-side.  The Archons didn't tend to have epiphanies about such things, instead choosing to take opportunities where they could find them.

Then a god's hand of flame slaps Berd from the sky, and the General gives a little cry of triumph and pain, a sick twisting within her gut even as her mind sings with joy.  "We have him!  Pursue and destroy, but with pinpoint precision.  I do not wish the city obliterated to hunt him down."  He has done his work well, though, if predictably.  She looks down at the army of reptilian warriors, and that nausea increases.  A black curtain is drawn across her eyes for an instant, but she blinks it away.  "One hundred of the eshurianti and herenethi to bombard the Brintizzi warriors - press them back from the Army, but allow them room to retreat.  Do not push them into a corner."

And the commands continue to go out.  All the while, Left and Right watch.  Conclusions are drawn, separately.  Left twists in place, uncertainly.  Right hovers at his accustomed distance.

Chance nods solemnly, glad but mindful of the sacrifice he'd chosen for himself....

Dorian continued to move swiftly, employing tactics he'd prepared in advance for this fight. It didn't startle him to see their counter-tactics. A good strategist didn't rely on a single tactic, but looked five moves ahead. Each step they took revealed a little more about themselves, their abilities, their motivation.

How far they were willing to go...

Only, in this case, the battle with the Archons faired about as badly as he had suspected it might. He could continue to fight to the bitter end, but that end was frighteningly close. It would do little good to continue his battle with the sorcerers unless things took a drastic turn for the worse.

It was time for the the last plan he'd made.

Within a crumbling grave, Trista realizes that perhaps there is no place safe within, or without, the walls of Charyk. The thought proves true when the roof crumbles and electricity fills the air.

A small dragon wrapped in red heat lies on the floor.

Forgetting the hair dancing above her head, Trista slowly steps towards the injured dragon. As she comes closer, she senses his powerful mind; in her experience, a rarity in any but especially in creatures such as this. Her body slowly lowers into a crouch as she gets nearer and stops a couple of feet away from the battered form. Energies swarm around him, sending currents up and down Trista’s skin.

Still, a compassionate hand migrates out towards a shoulder. Through the red heat, two fingertips gently touch scales so as not to frighten the poor thing. “Are you awake, little one?” Looking for consciousness before she further looks to help, she endures the heat and charged air smothering the dragon.

Once Aaron starts to follow, the wolf moves on, maintaining the fastest possible pace consistent with not losing the human amid the jagged stumps which cover the landscape.

Every so often, Hunter looks back, to ensure that Aaron is keeping up with him, then forges on.

Finally, he reaches his destination...

Jonnee glances back, as he hears a sound behind him.  Hunter is there, and the young man grins at the wolf.

"What kept you?  Getting too old for - " he trails off as he sees who follows the animal.

"Aaron!  Looking good, man!  I thought, for sure, you'd be dead by now.  Probably from doing something extreme." he calls out, his expression removing all seriousness from his words.

Then he does grow more grim, "I heard about Cyan, and I think I just saw Berd get shot down in flames.  Listen, I brought ten thousand of the brints, I've been here, like, ten minutes, and about a quarter of them are out of the game."

"This is a bad place.  You got a plan?"

(NPC'd)

Morgan's head snaps up, and he turns to face Luke, "They're coming back.  They've found something, but Chance isn't coming with them.  I'm not sure exactly what's happened, the connection is a little... hazy."

 


_Death...


        ..b...i..
        R...i.. .n..r.ay
        Sy.tem .per.tio..l at 3%
        A.tom..ic rep.ir en.aged


The eyelids open and a red light shows in the eyes for a moment before fading away into the darkness of the pupils.


        Syst.m still cr.tical
        Utiliz.ng full pow.r reserves

The eyes twitch, turns to the side, attempts to focus.  They grow wide briefly before narrowing in determination.

        Backup systems restored
        Intitiating primary repairs
        Now opertating at 8% of maximum capacity

Banglen-Yp rolls over on her belly and begins to drag herself towards the rear of the ground troops, faint sparks appearing in the strange looking arm that had let sparks fly before.

Where her belly once was there is now a gaping hole, but no blood or guts, only the occasional spark.


                                                                _{...cannot hold me.}


 

(NPC'd)

Roman circles warily, a whirling vortex of of rain-filled air, lit by the lightning above him, and the flickering form of the Archon he faces.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:51, Wed 27 Dec 2006.

Berd hacks out a sooty cough, and staggers blindly for a long moment.  Heat warps the air about him, and he shunts it away, frantically bleeding it off...somewhere.  Into the abyss, for all he cares.  His eyes burn, his vision blurred from at least one of them.  He closes that one...ahhh, better.

Something touches him.  A quiet, honest voice disturbs the chaos of his mind.  He senses no threat, save possibly to the toucher - his body is a furnace.  One glittering eye (the other remains closed) seems to focus, and then there is a face.  His daughter?  Then memory returns, carrying with it the details of the woman before him.

No.

But certainly, she is not from around here.  Not with that sword belted on over her jeans.  Curious.  He warbles something uncertainly, then looks up.  A hole...pointing straight down, at him.  Oh, lovely.  And...there are people in this place.  Many people.

The Seraphim will be coming.  He cannot shift into the Underflow - they are there, as well.  He cannot render himself invisible, not with so many around him.  Berd slams up a barrier above himself, hundreds of feet up, hoping to hold them off.  Necessity beckons - he detests speaking to people he does not know, but....

There may be another way.

The little drake reaches out with two, razor-clawed forelimbs, and gently takes ahold of the touching fingers.  His long toes wind around her finger, her palm.  He breathes, and a cloud of rainbow light settles upon the rocky surface - when it dissipates, the stone is etched with words.

The enemy comes.  We must flee.

Not like he hasn't pulled that trick before.  It has just...been a while.

Aaron spotted Jonnee and smiled for the first time in forever.

"Good to see you too, friend." He sighed, took a look at Jonnee's bleagured forces and ran a hand through his tangled mess of hair. When Jonnee asked him if he had a plan, he raised his eyebrows.

"Plan? Jonnee, I never plan. I just do."

But he'd had a change of plans, as it were. He had thought he was done with the Pattern. He wasn't. Something had changed. The hole in space that was usually representative for the usage of Broken God had disappeared.

"Cyan was using Broken God to shield herself from the brunt of our Power-based strikes. That absence of power has vanished, however, meaning she is vulnerable."

He turned, facing the direction he'd come.

"It is a small vulnerability, however, and when we strike at her, her allies strike back ten times as hard. I was in the area when Berd was hit, and they nearly killed me in the attempt."

Closing his eyes, Aaron sought a bridging, seeking Berd.

"I don't think Berd is dead. Injured? Most assuredly. Dead? No way. As long as Cyan lives, Berd lives also." He smacked his fist into his hand. "We will have to retreat, and soon, but I will not leave until I'm sure all is lost."

He turned back and faced Jonnee.

"We're not done here. Cyan... she will regret this day. I'll make sure." Approaching Jonnee, he placed a hand on the man's shoulder and smiled slightly.

"Now, tell me of your trepidation. How have you and your army fared since you arrived at this most beautiful of vacation spots?"

The Warrior in Jet and Gold stares about the battlefield.  The Brintizzi are in retreat, harried by bombardment and kept from her army by the danioti.  Good.  Caught off guard, the Army of the End of Time would have found that end coming that much more quickly.  Berd has been slapped down, and Seraphim are in pursuit.  The mysterious chaoslord is harried by the herenethi - should he switch to a local inimical to them, well, the eshurianti can certainly play tag.

Devlin, Dorian, James, Luke, and Serena are nowhere to be seen.  Dorian's presence has been noted - she isn't certain of the others.  The green lights from the citadel have ceased.  And then...

Aaron.  Jonnee Kay.

"Take me down," the General whispers.  "There."

"Now."

Luke raised one eyebrow at Tahirah, considering.  "Abandon the city?  Certainly.  It would make life that much easier in many ways.  The Old Man would be able to cut loose, for certain.  So, too, would the others.  How would you go about doing so, Tahirah?"  An honest question, not a barb.  "I cannot take them," Luke admitted, watching the men draw closer.  "My paths take me through an area frequented by archons - certainly it is under observation at the moment."

He hoped she had an answer - it would be far better than fighting to protect them.  An impossibility, he feared.

"Gather around."  He motioned the men over.  "Produce your weapons."  Luke's eyes narrowed as he studied them.  "Something like the Broken God.  Proof.  So much proof - in this land once lay the seeds of the war we fight.  Unless it has proven dangerous in the past, bring your weapons together in a pile, if necessary."

He continued to examine the artifacts, searching for interlocking pieces (doubtful), resonances, matrices.  "Good show, Morgan.  Now, let's hope it will be enough."

His father fell.  Every instinct in him screamed to move to Berd's defense, but he held them at bay for the moment.  Trust him.  Even though you have little cause to do so.

Aaron meets up with Jonnee, in the midst of a forrest of tree stumps, all of them cut off seven or eight feet above the ground.  Some distance off, a danioti tears its way out of the ground, expanding as it does so.  A dozen brintizi fall, cut down before they realise the enemy is among them.

Others move in quickly, using their curved swords to pin and slow the Archon as it attempts to leave.  Once it can no longer spin, it is helpless.  Eventually it dies, as a pack of brintizzi tear it apart.

Jonnee sounds disgusted as he speaks to Aaron, "Twelve for one... that's way above average.  If I can keep the brints more spread out, it maybe drops as low as four for one."

And then fire and lightning start to drop from the heavens, tearing into the brintizzi, and pushing them further back.


Berd tells Trista that they must flee, and high above them something flares brightly.  Charyk shakes, trembling like a wounded animal.  Thunder rolls down the passage created by dragon's fall, and dust and gravel drop, adding to the almost choking clouds which already fill the air.

Elean approaches, coughing, "Trista?  I Tobe's hurt, and I can't find my Da.  What'll I do?"



Far across the field, beyond the city, a dead woman stirs.  She rolls onto what would, under normal circumstances, be her belly, and starts to drag herself towards the smoking, broken city.  Behind her, she leaves a smouldering trail through the dry grass.


Luke studies the weapons with their broken fragments of the Staff.  They show no sign of wanting to spontaneously reassemble. 


Above the city, and to the west, the ormvråkar regroup, screeching angrily as their riders bring them back under control.  In frustration at the destruction being wrought upon his home, one of the riders points his, now useless, weapon and triggers it.

Nobody is more surprised than he is when a dart of green flame springs forth, and one of the eshurianti suddenly burns a different colour as it starts to fall.

The ormvråkar are back in the fight.  A hundred weapons spit their energies, and the Archons die in their dozens...

Through the searing heat, Trista’s fingers hold steady. The wounded dragon cracks open an eye and the woman knows she’s being evaluated, but to what length she cannot guess. Oddly, recognition flames for an instant then snuffs out. Perhaps hope, too. He isn’t as easy to read as other animals, though she certainly hasn’t come into contact with dragons too often.

Philosophical debate on whether dragons are always intelligent will have to wait.

Sounds emanate from his throat and his eyes shift to the hole he created. Trista can plainly see he either works magic or shifts shadow or somesuchthing to stop his enemies from pursuing. Enemies for this small dragon?

Then he performs another trick: he etches words into the stone floor. Understanding brighten’s Trista’s stormy eyes. She withdraws her hot fingers, ignoring their discomfort, and from her pack, she draws a large beach towel in tones of the SouthWest. She folds it once and readies it to protect herself from the heat.

Elean interrupts the process, pulling Trista’s eyes toward the girl. “I told everyone to find the Inn, perhaps your father is there. As for your brother,” the woman pauses. There’s so much going on around her, she only hopes she can be of some help. This dragon is special; it’s plainly written in the burned words. But Elean and her brother deserve safety, as well.

With a new determination, she continues as she looks back at the wounded dragon, “Where is Tobe?” In a softer voice, she directs her speech to the creature, “Don’t be alarmed, I’m going to pick you up and you can find a way to tell me where you need to go.” She knows he can, somehow, someway.

With an ear open for the girl’s response, Trista gently envelopes the tiny dragon within the folds of the heavy towel and scoops him up quickly. The heat radiates through the fabric, but she can certainly endure the little furnace with the buffer between them. “Where?” A question for both human and dragon.

                    I've got a hole
                    Where my stomach disappeared

                                                          _{- Bob Dylan, On the road again}


Crawling along, Banglen-Yp attempted to get up on her feet, but her legs appeared to not quite be working the way they should and she fell down again.

No expression or noise suggested that any kind of pain was present, but the smoking hole in the stomach was still there, although the sparkes were slowly dying out.  The hole itself looked somewhat smaller even.

Or maybe it was a trick of the light.

Still struggling towards the city, she seemed in no condition to fight where she was dragging herself along with one hand, the other still in the form of the odd weapon that did not kill.

 

Roman decides to risk it.  If it is a trap it seems too subtle for one brought up on the spur of the moment, and the thing is probably right.

The lightning and thunder booms as well

"Do" "it." "Fell" "into "sea." "Must" "return" "soon."

Berd nearly panicks when suddenly enveloped in warm, fluffy softness.  But it's only a towel, and his head (on its lengthly neck) is free to protrude and poke about.  He doesn't bother with that, instead lying limply in Trista's arms - his mouth opens again, and he breaths out another gust.  This one is pure heat, expelled to release it; the self-same towel that allows Trista to carry him prevents the bleed-off of excess thermal bloom.  It doesn't matter, though; he's well and truly capable of venting it through his nostrils as steam, if necessary.

Amusing as that image might be.

Father.  Brother.  Little girl's lost family.  Heading for the Inn.  Berd's dim eyes begin to clear.  With a surge of strength, he puts forth his power to the barrier, holding it.  It buckles, but withstands the tempest.  For now.

Words pass between he and his renegade son.

Another gasp, another scintillating breath, and this one coalesces into a tiny pixie, glittering with faerie dust.  It shakes itself, then zips off before the trio, waving its hand for them to follow.  Berd sags again.  Too much.  He should...wait.  Perhaps there are other allies he could have summoned, he should have summoned.

The little drake sends one mind winging away through the Myriad worlds.  He looks up at Trista and gives an encouraging warble...even if it wavers, dangerously.  That she is a World Walker is uncontested.  Another, here?  It cannot be coincidence.  Berd doesn't play that kind of dice, has never believed in such things.  This one looks...weathered, inside.  Something about her reminds him of James, in that instant.

The poor.  The hurt.  The empty ones.  The limping, walking wounded.  These are the people their group gathers to battle against the Seraphim, it seems.  Berd wonders on what razors this woman has walked, in her path across the Myriad Worlds.

The battlefield stretches before her, in her own eyes and in her mind, and Cyan's lips are tight.  She holds the field, but...things could still swing either way.  These people, the questors, they bring too much to the table.  Too many different abilities and allies.  And now, Jonnee Kay....

No response is unpredictable, but in the face of so many unknowns, even the best strategy and tactics may bend.

And there.  The weapons begin to flame again, and danioti begin to die.  Cyan examines the state of the Army of the End of Time - it is close to its goal.  The brintizzi, however, are more than 'adept' at crossing distances in a short time.  No doubt the weapons in the city will commence their own fire, too...but for now, they do not.  She makes a decision.  Whatever reserves she has will now be thrown against the enemy's 'air force', with the intent of destroying them.  Utterly.

The city is a fortified position.  The great birds are a mobile force.  They must be obliterated.

She removes her helm.  In a situation where the brintizzi and Jonnee Kay exist, peripheral vision is more important than protection.  Jonnee and Aaron are far from the World Walking rogue's army for the moment.  They have only Hunter to back them up.  She has Left and Right, and whatever is left of her bodyguard.

Cyan gives herself good odds.

"Aaron!" she cries over the wind of her passage, approaching at speed.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:15, Sat 30 Dec 2006.

Aaron sighed, hearing his name screamed from some distance, Berd's warning a timely but inevitably irrelevant statement. Aaron looked towards the Brintizzi and then at Jonnee himself.

"Get them out of here," he said, unsheathing Ilsefranvir for the second time and turning to gaze back up at his descending foe. "Get them as far from Cyan as possible."

Aaron focused completely on the Pattern, eliminating all other obstacles from his mind.

"And I looked, and beheld the brightest of them falling from Heaven."

He began to walk, drawing if not on his knowledge of the Pattern, then of the enhanced strength he had in this place. Aaron was leaving, and he was going to take Cyan with him.

"Come, Cyan," he said quietly. "Let us talk, you and I."

The cry from the sky made Morgan look up, and he shook his head in disgust. "I think our fake failed, Luke. No one seems to be coming, and she's found the real one. Can everyone be ready to move, once they get back?"

Tahirah sighs slightly at Luke's answer.  "It was a hope.  We have no such means; escape was not a part of Charyk's philosophy."

Chance smiled and nodded. He began to speak....

Dorian ground his teeth like millstones, as the psychic feedback from his clones registered in his mind- through a suitable number of relays and filters, of course.

Unthinkable.

Such unthinkable means, for such a tiny goal. The death of so many innocents over one man- formidable as he may be- was beyond reason, even for one with Dorian's history. For a moment, the urge to strike back in kind lingered in his mind-- the urge to call a retreat from Charyk, and then obliterate it and ever archon and... Cyan.

No. He wouldn't let himself take that path again, especially not with innocents involved-- unlike this cadre of sorcerers. Lines had been crossed. He would tolerate no such actions. They would know terror. Each of them would live out the destruction they had caused in an endless loop, if he had his way.

If not- death.

When he destroyed a world, he'd taken precautions that no innocent lives were present- only Archons, the enemy. Young they may be, but the enemy they were by breeding and destiny. He suffered enough guilt from that act, for even the Archons had shown themselves able to choose a different path.

This was wanton destruction of innocent lives. And he knew the source. This was Cyan's vision of worlds wiped out.

This stopped now.

Cyan would pay for this. She would know the consequences of her actions, from the inside, as a witness.

But first- The sorcerers would die. It was time for them to learn which was cat and which was mouse in this game they had been playing.

The strain of so much activity had grown on him, but he could shoulder it a while longer. His arsenal of spells grew thin, but they had served their uses. Now was the time for a more direct approach. He gathered his psyche to himself, withdrawing his tactical threads. He honed his will into a single battering ram of thought and launched it towards Charyk.

"We were doomed from the beginning," Luke said quietly in response to Morgan.  "A final cast...we simply hadn't expected this many of the Seraphim.  With or without Cyan, we would be rolled over by numbers."  He looked to Morgan, a twisted smile on his face.  "I can move swiftly enough, even move people with me.  But I can't move all of the people of Charyk.  Ironically, Cyan might have done so - she could create gates to other worlds.  But yes, our people in particular would have no trouble fleeing...save for the fact that we would leave those here to the tender mercies of the Seraphim."  He sighed.  "I suspect we're about to re-enact the Alamo."

"Faint hopes are better than none, Tahirah.  And yet, our hopes are not yet crushed."  He studied the weapons in the hands of the people before him.  "These may yet give us time.  Time for James and Chance to return.  THERE lies my faith.  Not in escape - we cannot succeed.  Not in our power.  Not in this fortress.  With the two who have left to find something better."  He turned to the guardians.  "Your weapons are recharging.  Go, now.  Fight in small groups - a large group is too vulnerable to a single attack.  Strike and move.  Support each other.  Harry the Seraphim, force them back."  He clenched his fist, holds it up, and suddenly his voice rang clear and strong.

"Bleed them for every inch of ground.  Burn them from the skies.  We may fall here, but we will fall defending this - the last bastion against the darkness.  Stand upon the walls until they crumble, fight amidst the rubble until it, too, is reduced to ash, and drag as many as you may into the burning light before they bring you down!"

He returned his attention to Morgan and Tahirah when the men left to their task.  "Something my brother said, once...unfortunatly, he was talking about me at the time, but the words ring true, regardless.  Perhaps the same thing will transpire here as it did before...Tahirah, Morgan.  If you have anything to offer, any plan, any power, anything, now is the time."

Morgan nearly snarled at Luke's despairing tones.  "I've lost many to reach this fight, so doomed or not, I'd as soon earn us all an escort when I go! Can't you hear the enemy dying? This fight is not yet lost! When they get back, I suggest we move to where the fighting is! They can hardly be far away, so would everyone willing to fight find one of my friends and mount up, so we don't leave you behind when James gets back with whatever he's found? In fleeing, an army is at its most vulnerable, but in pursuit, the same holds true! When blood runs from our bodies like the crimson rivers of Tharanox, we make them chase us into the rotting hells!"

Trista carries the small dragon in her arms.  The creature is panting, hard, which would perhaps indicate that it's in some difficulty, save for the fact that it still seems very capable.

One expression of that capability is currently leading the way through the vast, dim, dusty chamber.  Ahead is a structure, running from floor to ceiling, massive and solid, carved with complex adornments.  A set of heavy wooden doors are closed, and high above them light beams out through the dust-laden air, shining through the remains of a triptych in stained glass.  Parts of the windows are missing, and there is broken glass on the ground below, but there is enough to see that the subjects are two men, who fight each other on the central panel.

Elean, supporting her brother, whose pants are stained with blood from an injured leg, clears the choking dust from her throat.  "The fairy spoke to me, Tobe.  She says that Da's in the cathedral, there, and he's... " her words are drowned out as something not entirely unlike thunder roars overhead, and more small debris falls from the roof.


In another place, where storms rage across the skies, A lightning Archon rushes at Roman's whirling form, blazing brightly. 


Berd hears the explosion from far above, and knows what it signifies.  Archons howl as a wave of pressure expands through the air, knocking them aside.  Far below, Jonnee seizes the opportunity to rally the brintizzi, ordering them back towards the city.  "Ech'hisst, spread the word.  That place is the royal palace of the people who live here.  Get as many of the troops inside as you can, to defend it!"

He glances at Aaron as the brintizzi warrior runs off, "Plus it'll give the brints a little more protection.  I think that little sonic boom means that Berd's still with us, and..."

"Oh crap!  So's Cyan."



Tne ruined form of what used to be a young, attractive woman continues to crawl across the battlefield, moving only by the power of her arms, since her legs appear to be little more than dead weight.  She pauses, as something like a clap of thunder booms far above her.

With a supreme effort of will, she manages to roll over and look at the sky.  Just in time to see a burning hoop crash into the earth nearby.  Others are falling too, knocked aside by the shockwave which is expanding out from above the city, pushing the clouds back to reveal a blue so bright it hurts the eyes.


Cyan, without her helm now, but flanked by a pair of the danioti, one of them with its blades painted an incongruous bright red, interspersed with the gleam of chrome, lands before Aaron and Jonnee.  Hunter starts to snarl, and his hackles rise, only to drop again as he realises that this woman should be a friend.

"Hey, Babe.  Long time, no see."  Jonnee's tone is calm, but there are twin clicks as a pair of blades extend from his forearms.

Brintizzi move to assist their leader, then halt, uncertainly, some distance off...


In the chamber of the East Gate, where rubble continues to fall from the broken ceiling, Morgan suggests a daring plan, as two panthers seem to appear from a blank wall.  One is ridden by James, and a man on horseback follows close behind.  The stranger carries a loaded crossbow, and at his saddle is sheathed a blade which, if the scabbard is anything to go by, would take somebody of James' strength to wield effectively.  Confused, he looks about the chamber, taking in the chaos of falling rubble, men collecting heaped weapons, and hissing drakes.

"What is this madness I've been brought to?"


In several different areas of the forest surrounding Charyk, a dozen, or more, members of Coil's cadre of sorcerers fall, frothing at the mouth, their eyes staring into emptiness.  This leaves more than a hundred, still working on whichever tasks they were assigned to... but whatever the fallen ones where doing, that has now ceased.


With Luke's words ringing in their ears, the protectors of Charyk retrieve their weapons and seek places to defend their city, their homes, their families.  Some move to the outer gate, and force it open, against the resistance of buckled hinges, to move out onto the field.  Others make their way back to their posts.

The ormvråkar weather the shockwave, riding the fringes of it, and their riders shower energy upon the Archons.  The shots are weak at first, but growing in strength as their weapons recover from the destruction of the Broken God.  Where the bolts strike, they cling to the Archons, and green fire flows across their forms, burning even the eshurianti.

Still, there are too many of the Archons.

Inside, Luke turns to see that James has returned, with a stranger, but of Chance, there is no sign.

But now, far to the south, the sky darkens, as if another great storm approaches...

The blaze catches Roman, and when it passes, nothing is left.

"This, sir, is our Charyk.  Or what remains of it.  And those,"  James indicates the rapidly dispersing guardsmen, "are the remnants of your brother's staff."

James surveys the gatehouse, taking in the fallen stonework, the dust in the air but most of all the presence of his friends.  They may still be in time.  A dull headache is blossoming behind his eyes from the effort of will needed to shift worlds.  In time it promises to be a pounding migraine, but for now the hope allowed by his new companion, the faint possibility of victory, brushes the pain aside.

"Luke, Morgan, Tahirah, allow me to introduce the elder brother, Swordbearer.  We need an update.  Now."

"Sir, I don't know what power you have, but I urge you to use it swiftly and fully.  The enemy outside is more powerful than I can easily explain.  Do not underestimate them."

Real pleasure suffuses Cyan's sharp features, and she bows.  "Hello, Jonnee Kay!"  Her eyes fall on Hunter, next, and she gives the Wolf a nod of respect.  "Hunter.  Indeed - far too long since I have seen either of you.  Far, far too long."  There is a faint longing in her tone, and she cocks her head to the side with an impish smile.

Jonnee always dragged smiles from her, whatever the situation.  Even here, even now.

Her arm comes up, and describes an arc, indicating the brintizzi.  "This is a point of honor, brintizzi.  Ech'hisst, keep them back."

Right grates out a laugh.  + AND THERE IS ALWAYS THE FACT THAT AN INTERRUPTION WILL RESULT IN A SIMPLE SATURATION OF THE AREA +

Left, however, seems to be studying Aaron.  + MESSAGE DELIVERED.  QUID PRO QUO, AS THE SAYING GOES.  SHALL WE KEEP THIS PRIVATE? +

+ QUID PRO QUO?

+ DO YOU EVEN PAY ATTENTION TO THE WORLDS THROUGH WHICH WE PASS? +

+ I WATCH THEM BURN FROM TIME TO TIME.  THOUGH LESS SO, NOW +

Cyan's smile hardens when she looks on Aaron, her obsidian eyes catching the flares and flashes of light.  "Talk?  We have most certainly finished with that, Aaron.  This time I have no desire for converse.  Jonnee, take Hunter and go."  She shoots a warning glance at the cocky World Walker.  "Left and Right will remain outside of this, so long as the brintizzi keep their distance."

Left disappears, plunging into the ground.  Right rises until he hovers out of reach of even the highest jumps of the lizard warriors.

Both remain prepared to act with the same, blinding speed as the brintizzi themselves.

"Then let us find a more suitable place to assuage our differences," Aaron responded, lighting a cigarette. He looked at Cyan, but kept moving, stepping back a few feet here and there.

"Don't worry, the brints are moving out." Jonnee checks to make sure that they are, in fact, still obeying that command.

"They don't regard this as a matter of honour though.  For them, there's no honour left in somebody who switches sides during a war.  No, they're backing up just because I ordered them to.  They don't like it, but they see the logic."

In an uncharacteristic gesture, he bows then, before turning to walk away with his troops.

"Here will do as well as anywhere, Aaron.  Do not seek to drag me elsewhere - Right and Left will hold me in place."  Her smile is hard as her once-diamond eyes.

But then Jonnee turns his back.  Walks away, as she requested.  A surprise, to be sure...as are his words.  Cyan's dark eyes narrow - the jester is serious, now, and his words are sharper than his blades.  "You speak of things you do not comprehend, Jonnee Kay," she snarls.  "You...Jonnee!" she stutters, her voice failing her for a moment.  All of the discussion with Dorian, the letter he sent, roars back into her head, propelled by that little voice inside, and for an instant she sways, the Purpose fighting for control.

The ground next to her shoots a fine spray of dirt as Left rises, ever so slightly, to 'watch'.

"Jonnee Kay!"  Aaron.  Jonnee.  Before that Dorian.  James.

It hurts, inside her head.  Jonnee's scorn and disgust, so foreign to him, echoes and richochets.  The Purpose screams at her to destroy him, destroy Aaron, grapples with that frantic shard within that whispers other words in her ears.  Blind with confusion, Cyan moves to the attack.  A sweep of her sword cuts through the rocky ground, throws a hail of pebbles toward Aaron to distract, and she breaks into a run, sprinting across the grass toward Jonnee.  Not nearly his speed, but fast.  Very fast.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:41, Wed 03 Jan 2007.

Activity blazes behind those shining eyes; clearly, the little dragon is no meek passenger within Trista’s arms. The Shielding and the sparkling Pixie, certainly, but the sad woman guesses there’s more being done as they find their way through the chamber.

Not much takes Trista off guard, but the Pixie coalescing out of Berd’s breath adds a sparkle to this dreary cavern and thus warms the woman’s heart. She hadn’t realized Tobe was with Elean and was pleased to find he doesn’t need to be sought out. Instead the little fairy gives the family hope of reuniting with their father.

She waits for the latest of thunders to pass, ducking from falling debris, “If the church is where the people gather, there will be somebody to look after your brother’s leg, Elean.” Trista had been wrong; she had thought an Inn the best place for shelter. Her eyes flick ahead to the war-torn cathedral and back to the light leading them, “Somehow the fairy knows and won’t lead you astray,” her eyes gaze down at the bundle of heat and wonders again at his power.

“You have a name; I hope to learn it before we part company. Mine is Trista.” Her whispered words know she won’t get a reply, but it’s good enough to impart her desire.

When they reach the large, solid doors of sanctuary, Trista reaches to pull them open for Elean and Tobe to enter first. “Find your father, he will be most happy to find you.”

Again, the woman looks into the dragon’s eyes and speaks in low tones, “If you need a safety of a different kind, I would help you. Just say the word.” Of course, she doesn’t refer to speech for the dragon either is incapable or chooses other paths like the Pixie.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:44, Wed 03 Jan 2007.

Luke gave Morgan a feral grin.  "Oh, well said.  Well said indeed.  And, in truth, I have no intention of simply rolling over and dying.  But your words inspire me; there is enough of the fire left within me, apparantly, to allow an exit from this stage with a bang."  He took a deep breath, as though preparing himself...then let it out, surprised, as James reappeared.

James rattled through the introductions with aplomb, but Luke barely registered them.  Instead, his eyes looked behind the pair, studying their backtrail through the Myriad Worlds.  His lips thinned.  He gave the Swordbearer a polite enough nod, then turned his dark gaze on the amberite.

"James.  Well done, and in the very teeth of time...but you return one person short.  Where is Chance?"

Tahirah is quiet for a moment. 

"Greetings, Swordbearer," she says to the newcomer, with a deep curtsey.  "The City is falling.  We hope only to save as many as we can."

Aaron slid easilly to the side, removing his concentration from the Pattern at finding it useless. Her scattered distraction flew past him, impacting with his right side and tinkling against Ilse's blade.

Cyan moved, and fast... but Aaron knew that Jonnee was faster than she. But Aaron? He had nothing but his wits and his blade, now.

Aaron moved, speeding across the dessicated landscape as he whipped Ilsefranvir through the air. Perhaps Ilse could cleave through Cyan's armor... possibly not. The end result was now an either/or situation.

"Stop being distracted, Cyan! Or are your masters the ones telling you to strike? Face me, Slave!"

Ilse sang as Aaron roared his challenge, her chain-like blade rending the air as it bit twoards Cyan's retreating side.

The dragon warbles something incoherent, then chimes loudly, like a rung bell.  Ahead, the fairy beckons furiously as they approach the Church, and zips to the front doors - poor barrier against Archon attack that they are.  Trista urges the children inside, and Berd's eyes shine for an instant, brilliantly.  He judges, something he rarely does, and comes to a decision.


Inside, his minds regroup.  The shield cracks above where he and Trista once stood - he lets it die.  Let them enter that area after him - his mind delves deep, and stress points break in the rock, fracture points created by his own fall widen.

Simultaneously, another mind abandons the pressure eruption that forced the Seraphim down.  Word has come from Luke, through a certain channel of their own.  Help has arrived - Berd needs only to slow the Seraphim.  He can do that - he can assist the defenders.

The hydra-mind studies the energies released by the weapons of the Guardians, those on the ground and in the sky.  Then it reaches out.

Aaron strikes at Cyan, but the woman is ready for such a move, and is not easily caught out, especially considering that Aaron has yelled a warning...  Gurthang sweeps out, around, and back, the blade's edge burning with the faint death-glow of air molecules as it moves.

There is a clash of metal on metal.


Ilsefranvir snaps back, becoming a solid blade once more, but now there is a notch in that blade.  A corner has been neatly cut off one of the segments... a triangular piece of metal, the cut edge slightly curved, but perfectly smooth, lays on the ground.

Jonnee, quick on his feet, and twice-warned, stands a little way off, blades extended.  "It's come to this then?  Turning on your friends?" he shakes his head, and his yellow eyes hold something that might be pity, or scorn.

Archons, danioti mostly, attracted by the commotion, are circling around them now, keeping a respectful distance, though, as Left and Right howl orders at them.

Far off, in the south, the sky is the colour of a fresh bruise, and there is a constant flicker of lightning there...

Morgan cast a feral grin Luke's way, and took another swig from his flask, willing to wait a few moments longer for introductions and explanations. The inactivity, when his blood was up and moving, made him impatient, but not stupid, yet.

Ilse snapped back together, a neat curve taken out of its once-smooth length. Aaron sighed. He and Arianne had prepared one-another for such an occurence, and though he felt her pain like a flaming thorn in his mind, he felt something else from her also.

"We must stop her - At all costs - There can be no hesitation!"

Aaron fell to his knees then, but not out of defeat, nor frustration. He sheathed Ilsefranvir and placed his hands upon his knees. When he spoke, his voice was full of disappointment. His eyes shifted colors like an indecisive storm of radiation.

"Yes, Jonnee, it has come to this. Cyan has become even more of a tool than she assumed she was during her time in Berd's company. She has lost the one thing that made her her. Perhaps, however, the Cyan I knew and loved didn't understand the one thing that made her her."

Raising his saddened eyes, he frowned.

"She has forsaken, or perhaps never even known her right, her ability, to choose. Before she was just in the dark, unfortunately - Berd was wrong by not letting her know the truth from the beginning. Now, though? Now she's an aimless robot, directed by hellish forces that care nothing for her brutal acts, and care even less for Cyan herself. Robot. Tool. Toy. Slave. Doll. It's all the same - they've just dressed her up differently. Her accessories are just far more powerful than usual."

Sighing, Aaron lit the cigarette he'd dropped. He inhaled, the ash glowing red.

"That's the great difference - the difference between the Cyan nobody has ever known, the Cyan that we've seen and the Cyan that we see before us. I doubt, highly, that Cyan has ever made a decision, a desire, for herself - save, perhaps, choosing to love Jack. That, I suppose, was her greatest action."

"Oh well," Aaron said, as if casting it all to the wind. "We're screwed anyway, and Cyan's a fucking shell." He waved to Jonnee and smiled slightly. "Been nice knowing you, Jonnee."

"Chance pledged himself to the defence of the other Charyk in exchange for this gentleman coming with me.  An impulsive act, perhaps, but I think correct.  Two of the panthers stayed with him.  If I'm any kind of guess, I'd say he's safer there.  So as long as our guest stays safe they can always switch back."

"Now will someone please tell me, how goes the battle?"

+ THERE'S A NEW DIRECTION +  Left continues to whir, half-submerged in now-sandy soil, blended into dry soup by 'her' blades.

Right, however, dips and bobs higher up, obviously restraining 'himself' from the attack.  + ARROGANT SOFT-THINGS.  BE THANKFUL THE GENERAL HAS CALLED FOR YOUR CAPTURE, RATHER THAN YOUR DEATHS +  The clashing voice now rings with fury.

Cyan grinds to a halt half-way between Aaron and Jonnee, the tip of her sword touching the ground.  She slowly turns her head to regard Aaron, and pushes a lock of hair from her mirror-obsidian eyes.  Back to Jonnee.  And now to Aaron, again, as he breaks into solliloquey.

"Turning on my friends?" she whispers as he speaks.  "They turned on me.  Stayed with Berd."

_{...THEY turned on YOU?...}

James, bleeding in the rain..."Look into her eyes, Aaron.  Looks like she beat me to hell."

Cyan winces, her mind catching up with Aaron's words.

"Nothing," she grates, "of what I had was me.  It was all him.  Him!"  Her hand stabs out toward the city as the Purpose whispers in her thoughts, reminding her of Berd's crimes.

*flicker*

I ceased controlling you, Cyan, save in the matters this touches upon, directly.  My past.  Your past.  And, once, in a reflexive reaction that I wished I could take back, instants later.

The Purpose rises again, like a tide, drowning out the fragments of memories, spinning wildly through her reforged mind.  "What I do is right!" she cries, raising the blade.  Aaron's words, Jonnee's accusations, they hurt.  But she's right.  She is right.  She knows it.

Again a twist in her head.  Darkness, bodies in motion, and the scent of raw sweat.

"I promise I won't fight you. I won't hurt you. I'll never manipulate you."

Now, his knuckles go white with ferocity as he grips her hand. The other pulls her close.

"I give you everything; all that I am."

Then, his voice lowers to a hiss, a coiled snake. His lips curl into a sneer. "Now," he whispers. "You want to destroy everything-- then start with me. Slay me now. End me. And while you do it, tell yourself you're not meddling! Slay everyone in this room, Cyan. It'll be easy for you. And tell yourself you're not meddling in their fate. Tell yourself that you're somehow better than the Amberites-- that you're better than Berd!"

No, the Purpose states.  Dorian was wrong.  Dorian -

_{...listen to them...listen...}

- was wrong.  IS wrong.

"The one choice I have made, Aaron," she begins, slowly pacing out the distance to the man, "that I know I can trust, is the one I took against Berd.  Because he would never countenance -"

That stops her in her tracks.  He would never countenance what she does.

...Berd, hiding in the crook of her arm from the forces he unleashed upon the warring armies...Berd, teaching her of the Myriad Worlds, not Shadows, no, not ever.

Cyan...I am sorry.  I have always tried to do the right thing, even in my madness.  I did not know, then, what the right thing was.  I did not know, recently, how I might offer redress for this.  But I have always tried to spare you pain, foolishly so.

Memories of fire and blade carve those thoughts away, and Cyan leans on her sword for an instant.  Her ears keep her prepared for Jonnee's movement, and she eyes Aaron's sword warily.

"I make my own decisions now," she says quietly.  But it sounds hollow, even to her ears.

"Do you see, Cyan? You just made a choice to save me. That was your choice, despite the strings they have tried to lay on your soul. Why save me? You seek to burn away the Myriad Worlds in fire, purge them and all things in them-- yet you save me. You would see everything dead-- yet you regret simply wounding James. We will die in the fire, Cyan."

Another step.  Closer, now.  Her eyes fall on a fragment of metal, between herself and Aaron.  A clean-carven piece of a blade.  She studies it for a moment, confused.  That...Cyan never forgets a blade's shape.  She supposes she has Berd to thank for that, too.  And she knows that edge.  What could have injured Ilsefravnir so?

But she knows the answer - only one thing here could do so like this, and she holds it in her right hand.  Had she hurt Arianne?  Like she harmed James?

"You have nothing to fear from me, 'General'."

And now he sits calmly before her, blade sheathed upon his back.  Unarmed.

With a wild scream of purest frustration, she carves a divot from the ground, Gurthang's edge cleaving the dirt and stones like tissue.  The black sword's ghost-fire tip trembles as she brings it up and points it at Aaron.  "Draw.  Your.  Sword," Cyan hisses through gritted teeth.

_{...and then what?}

The Purpose.  She will end the pain of the Myriad Worlds.  Let something new grow in its place.

"You will have achieved nothing. Your goal is an illusion. It doesn't exist."

"Shut up!" she screams in fury.  Then, back to Aaron.  "Draw it!"  Close to another outcry, there.  The blade swings back toward Jonnee, and a spasm of pain crosses her face.  "Babe."  She never, ever once argued with Jonnee.  Why can't he understand her now?  Why didn't James, the other man she thought could comprehend?  She hoped would comprehend?

Aaron shrugged. "Gotta do what you've gotta do, dear."

She does not realize she whispers it aloud until Left speaks again.  + BUT GENERAL - DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS? +

Aaron exhaled, smoke curling before his face.

"My sword?" He shrugged, frowning. "She's dead, I think. Silent, for the first time in a long, long time." He snorted, tasting something odd. Metallic. "Kinda worrisome. Kinda... pisses me off." Aaron hocked and spat once before looking up at his foe.

"Cyan... the one thing that nobody can really understand about me, the one thing that gives everybody the fits, is that I always make my own path. I never let anyone pull me one way or another. I choose to do what I want."

His hands didn't move. They were still resting upon his knees... and his head hurt. Blood started to trickle from his nose, and he smiled slightly.

...She got you good, didn't she, Princess-Priestess...

No answer...

"And I choose to love you, lady," he said to Cyan. "Because I can. Screw your Cuisinart bodygards. Screw Harbonah and his godless Hell Army. They can kill me, they can rip all the worlds I care for to pieces. Since you've already started on Arianne, I guess they can probably kill my dearest Niece..."

Aaron raised a single finger to Left and Right, then, in that universal gesture of contempt, and chuckled.

"But they will never be able to take my choices from me. Tear my body, crush my mind to whatever extent they think they reach. I will endure." He reached up and flicked the cigarette towards the shard of Ilsefranvir.

"I was going to join the Enemy... not for Harbonah, not for his stupid war, but for you alone, because I care about you. Because I wanted to keep you safe, at any cost. Can you believe it? A choice I made about someone other than myself! What a hypocrisy!" Aaron laughed sadly as blood began to flow from his nose. His right eye reddened. "When everyone else said 'she's gone' I STILL believed in you."

...Man. That's some sword...

"You have nothing to fear from me, Cyan," Aaron coughed, clearing his throat. "You have everything to fear from yourself. I understand your position better than anyone, not being able to control your actions - the only difference is that I chose to be a little nuts, while you... well, you're being led like an animal. You can sit there and rot in your own selfish loathing, you can sit here and take crap from Harbonah for the rest of your soulless existence. Beast of burden. Mongrel dog. Worthless tool."

"Shadow," he spat blood, the word a clear expletive.

...I wasn't born with enough middle fingers...

"Or you can stand on your own. Tell everyone else to fuck off, and breathe easy in the knowledge that no matter what happens, you made your choices because you wanted to. So go ahead and choose, 'General.' Choose to rip another world in half at the behest of your beloved Harbonah, or... well, choose the fact that you can choose." He coughed again, and then he noticed the blood.

"I'm about done, here..." he said quietly. He didn't even think about how he was hurt... just that his head was seriously bothering him, and that he was having trouble breathing... and how Arianne just wouldn't talk to him anymore... had he been mean to her again? What did he say this time... he couldn't remember... "...sick of rants..."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:34, Thu 04 Jan 2007.

Luke relaxed.  Somewhat.  "Best news I've heard in ages, James.  What's going on here?  We're losing.  The Archons are pounding the city to gravel.  Berd is in retreat, somewhere nearby - they'll be following him, and likely we'll have to get physical."

He made a gesture.  "Out there, the brintizzi showed, only to get caught in a particularly vicious ambush.  They're starting to fight back now, but it's not looking good.  The Broken God is gone, but the Archons still outnumber us and outpower us.  'The Warrior in Jet and Gold' - or maybe Cyan, I'm not sure which - is facing Jonnee and Aaron, and Aaron isn't looking too good for a fight.  Or perhaps better than ever.  Truthfully, it's hard to tell.  Dorian is conducting some kind of running battle with the enemy mages, and making a royal mess of them, and I have no idea where that invisible woman and the Chaoslord have gone.  Myself?  I'm sitting here with Morgan, drinking, waiting for you to return so we can ride off together."

He raised one hand.  "Take your pick, gentlemen.  I can send you there.  Myself?  I plan on facing the Seraphim, now.  It's do or die time, and I feel that if we throw our entire weight out there, we might be able to assist."  He glanced at Morgan.  "Your little army might prove useful to the brintizzi, and in holding off the Army of the End of Time.  Though they have to be tough - fighting against Blade Archons with no weapons is close to suicide for flesh and bone."

His eyes suddenly burned with a brilliant light, deep in their depths, and he seemed to grow in stature as a shadow passed over him.  "Tell me your preferences, Gentlemen, and I shall provide you with the way through.  Free of charge, this time."

A glance to the side.  "Tahirah, that goes for you as well.  If you need transport, I can provide.   Chose quickly, though."  He reached out toward Morgan, wiggled his fingers.

"One more for the road?"

 

<sub>Blue sky.

                                        But it was raining.

                    Curious.</sub>

Banglen-Yp turns over again and starts to crawl.  Then there it is.  A twitch in one leg.

With a bleak grin the Lady of the Holey Stomach pushes her weight from the ground using her arms.  Slowly the legs twitches in an attempt to get in under her so that she can stand on her knees.

One of them goes limp and she falls sideway.

Another attempt and she succeeds.

There is less of the hole in her stomach now, even though it is still there.

With a shift of the body weight one leg is brought forward swiftly and she now stands on one knee, as if about to propose to the bladed Archon that falls within arm's length in front of her that very moment.

The changed arm comes up and a charge begins to build when it is confirmed that the Archon is alive, only disorientated.

It continues to build, like never before, as the Archon stirs and attempts to get back up.

With a bright light the arm discharges, the blueish light striking it squarely.

The Archon falls down on the ground along with Banglen-Yp and for a heartbeat all is silent as neither moves.

Then, with a twitch, Banglen-Yp once more begins to struggle up onto her knees, this time moving more swiftly and with determination.

No more talking.

 

The sorcerers were like babes playing with catapults, barely comprehending even the basic nature of their tools, and likely to get themselves splattered by carelessness. One by one, they realized the true nature of the enemy. One by one, the mice realized the cat had merely been toying with them, letting them think they had a chance. One bye one, Dorian burned the image of horror into their heads and left them drooling and gazing, unable even to think. Their nightmares would never end.

Yet, it was a tedious task; there were too many of the sorcerers for him to continue picking away one at a time like this. Time was a critical essence, here.

Long ago, when he'd first talked to the Archon 'Gaz', he had pondered some fundamental questions about the Archon's nature. Sadly, fate had never given him full opportunity to test a theory he'd developed at that time. Yet, it might just prove to be the tool he needed to finish the task quickly.

A few tweaks in the battlefield, a moment to observe the effects... Yes- it seemed possible, but he would need help. He turned his thoughts to Jonnee Kay for assistance, and....

Jonnee Kay. Aaron. Cyan.

His teeth grind again. A tremor runs through his psyche. Two more sorcerers collapse into convulsions and nightmares, a froth drooling from the side of their mouth.

Entrenched as he was in the battle, his mind was operating on too clinical a level to give it more thought. Luck to them. Save her if you can. Yet...

Perhaps...

Precious seconds are spared. A thin sheet of paper flutters down from the sky, aimed precisely to flutter in front of Cyan, headed for her feat. It's a small square of paper. It bears only four words.

Another sorcerer collapses. His hands claw at invisible things before his eyes.

Back to the campaign, Jonnee was obviously occupied. He would undoubtedly resist any attempt at communication, and justifiably so. Dorian would have to 'borrow' some Brintizzi, nicely though. He would no longer use beings as playthings, just because he could do so, even in warfare. He would be persuasive, though. Very. A thread reached out for the minds of the Brintizzi commanders, quickly unfolding his plan- especially why they would be protected from the Archons this time.

The scrip of paper materializes from nowhere.  It begins its fall...only to be rudely intercepted.  A blinding streak of metallic red and chrome, reminiscent of a fast-moving muscle-car, blurs past and confetti is the result.  Right is on the job, and he never misses a trick.  Not even a piece of paper, now a small blizzard in his wake.

But the message has been passed on.

Right falters in the air, wobbling, and draws in upon himself defensively, compressing to the size of a silver dollar.  Imagery explodes upon him, imagery explained by a familiar (hated?) voice, and overlaid with something the danioti has only witnessed before, and never felt: the feelings of the dying creatures, in their last, blazing instant of comprehension.

Words in the air, fluttering away in shreds.

_{+ IS THIS...YOUR PURPOSE...? +}

He struggles with concepts, knowledge, emotions.  Better that Left had received this 'message', but Right is a dutiful soldier.  A message delivered for the General - but was it safe?  Might it be a trick of some kind, a weapon hidden in the underlying message?  For an instant he enters communion with Left, the one who better comprehends These Sorts Of Things, and shares the knowledge, desperately uncertain of where to proceed, of what he should do.

Unaccountably, Left does not mock.  Left merely absorbs, analyzes, and concludes.

+ YES +

And so it comes to pass that the message is delivered, all of its parts intact, by a shaken, confused danioti.

The stranger dismounts, starting to move towards one of the troops.  "Please, call me Parcifal." he says, over his shoulder.  He puts out a hand and takes one of the weapons, studying it, "This is part of my brother's Staff, yes?  And in this world, the Staff killed him, because he was attacking me?"

"Interesting.  And probably a good thing that I came, and not him.  This portion of the Staff is still active, and I suspect that it does not easily let go of old grudges."  He hands the weapon back, then returns to Luke and the others.


Left rises a little higher, interested. 

Jonnee turns to face the nearest brintizzi, "Honour doesn't matter here.  I've ordered you back to the tower... now.  Obey your commander.  GO!"  Reluctantly, the brintizzi start to move again, avoiding the circling Archons.

Then he faces Cyan again.  "We didn't just stay with Berd.  We tried to find you, but all we found, at the gate, was a fragment of your sword, lying in a huge smoking crater.  Berd searched for you, but you've changed so much that he couldn't even feel you."

He nods towards the distant sky, "Got more help on the way, I see?"


The cathedral, relatively quiet for the most part, shudders as something massive falls, back in the direction that Trista and her companions have just come from.  Something really massive.  Even denser clouds of dust billow towards the sanctuary, but people rush to slam the great doors, and keep the worst of it out.

Not before Trista gets a glimpse of brighter daylight out there though.  It looks like even more of the city has fallen.  And there are fires out there, dimly seen bright patches in the haze, moving about slowly.

"Da!" Elean's voice echoes through the cathedral, sounding excited and happy.


A shockwave rolls through the ground, a visible ripple in the earth itself... at the East Gate, the walls quiver, and the great valves themselves buckle.  The outer gate tears loose, and falls.  Outside, a group of reptile creatures, armed with curved swords, and their scaled hides adorned with a plethora of horns, barbs, and spines, is moving quickly towards the opening.
Parcifal steadies himself against the tremor, "Yes, I should hope it is falling.  I'd hate to think that it's normally in this condition.  It occurs to me that we might be able to evacuate the populace to my Charyk?  Would this be a suitable plan, if it could be done?"


Banglen-Yp moves, slowly, and a little clumsily, for now, away from the stilled danioti.  Completely stilled, that is, save for the sparks which leap and dance across the hundreds of shards and slivers of metal which compose its form.  Somewhere, out here, in this ruined forest, is her goal...

Above her, and a little to one side, the city errupts in a sudden, brilliant display of pyrotechnics.  Thousands of bursts of energy, lashing across the sky.  Some of them are the green fire, familiar from her experience with the caravan, but others are different... waves rather than bolts, slamming into groups of Archons, scattering and burning them, and beams which reach out, and cut them in half.  The wheels of flame and steel and lightning are dying in large numbers... but there are always so many more of them waiting to take up the assault.

Further away from the fortress city, the sky seems to tear, revealing blackness beyond... and thousands more of the wheels drop into the world...

A lightning Archon swoops past her, and deposits what appears to be a small, angry, tornado...
+ FARE WELL, DEFENDER OF WORLDS!  REMEMBER VOHU MANARAH! + it calls, in a voice like thunder, as it soars higher.


And far above, the Archons are fighting among themselves...

There was a strange pain in the back of his head, like a migraine, only wrong. A few scattered images
sunlight through a window
her blood
but it all went away when he heard her voice again.

"Scared the shit out of me, lady," Aaron said quietly. "The hell was that?"

"We are more than sword and wielder, you and I. Remember that. The pain will pass in time, as will your minor injuries - your fall from Spite was harder than you believed it to be..."

...then his eyes focused, watched as a piece of paper fluttered to earth, and he smiled slightly. "Yeah. I'm done, here." The paper is intercepted by a Cuisinart, and Aaron watches as the Archon is... disturbed. Perhaps remade, in the image of something else. Who had sent that message?

Aaron slowly rose, on slightly unsteady legs. He reached into his jacket and removed a final, half-crushed cigarette. He lit it, began to smoke, and exhaled in Cyan's direction.

"Whenever you're ready, dear." For what? He didn't know. Perhaps they would soon see. He turned, looking skywards, and laughed, long and loud.

She watches him sit, watches him bleed.  The world begins to crumble around her, plans failing, alliances shattering.  What transpires?  She doesn't know.  Works fall from his lips like the drops of blood from his nose, his mouth.  Ilsefravnir, Arianne, dead?  Impossible.  She can't be.

And yet...the Iron of Death.  The sword in her hands flicker with astral flame, indifferent to pain, sorrow, or guilt.  It is a tool, possibly the greatest of its kind, but nothing more than that.  A guided...tool.

"Jack said the same," Cyan snarls, angry suddenly.  "Chose his own path.  Do not be so quick to glory in such things, Aaron.  One's own path oft tramples those who stand before.  You..."

_{...who tramples now?...}

She stutters, stumbles on.  "You joined me before you knew my identity, Aaron.  Do not hide behind-"

_{...hide behind?...pot and kettle...}

Shut UP!

"-behind your..."  That chain of thought breaks; she fumbles for the ends, befuddled.  Loves?  He loves her?  Dorian...him...both spoke of this.  And yet where were they, before?

Where were they when the wheels of fire and blades tore me -

That memory freezes her, and the Purpose roars up to conceal it, press it back.  Cyan stumbles again, her thoughts in disarray.  Did they...what was that?

The light within the cell grows.  Shrill screaming begins as gleaming blades cut air.  Shadows dance under the light of a ring of flame.  And the broken creature on the ground finds it has the strength to move after all, enough to claw the ground with savaged fingers, to push with twisted, crippled feet, to strain its bloodied, burned body in a pathetic attempt to flee.

Hopelessly, of course; even if it could run, there is nowhere to go.

She does/doesn't remember this.  It flickers in and out, as the purpose grapples with that inner voice, suddenly not quite so little.

"You may be surprised at what they can take, Aaron."  Was that her, speaking?

And then he piles on the vitriol; it soaks her, and she stands before it, mind whirling with conflicting memories as the battle rages around this little bubble of emotions.  "I made my choice," she whispers.  "I chose to stand against Berd...proof he no longer controlled...."  Shadow?  That hated word, and her fingers tighten upon the hilt of her blade.

...am one of these 'Shadows' of which those connected to Amber and Chaos banter.  I...dislike the term, shall we say...Choice is the matter....This, I suppose, makes me one of these shades, less solid...no one controls me, I am real...

...I am real...

"We always have a choice, Cyan. Even the old Dorian knew that. In one of his campaigns, an old man was locked away in the worst of concentration camps. I won't go into the details, but Dorian couldn't break him, no matter what he tried. One day, the man said to him that Dorian could take away every freedom and privilege he had, but he could never take away his choice of how he reacted to Dorian inside himself. That choice always exists...."

Perhaps Dorian simply did not try hard enough.

Aaron sways, and Cyan blinks, looks at him.  Aghast, she sees the blood.  The pale features.  What...what could have caused this?  Jonnee's voice behind her.  He searched.  They searched.  They...

_{...has Jonnee Kay ever lied?...}

Lies, lies, lies, LIES, LIES! +  The purpose howls within her, raging against the Voice.  It burns hot, like a star within.  The Voice weeps scalding tears, struggles to hold its own.  It burns away, but more bleeds from deep within her spirit, through the cracks begun by James' blood, chiseled wide by Dorian's words and letter, and now dug even deeper by Aaron and Jonnee Kay.

But the Purpose holds.  Forged by not one, not two, but by dozens of minds of appalling strength, led by one who shines as a baleful star, the conditioning is overpowering.  Cracks exist, leaking water, but the dam holds.

A cloud of paper shreds.  A drifting rain of confetti.  The message arrives from Right, as Left looks on with eager curiousity.  Imagery.  Feelings.  Suffering, oh, so brief yet so potent.  Horror spikes through the war within, and Cyan's eyes open wide, slate-grey.  "Coil!  NO!"

Worlds die....

"Right!" she screams.  "Stop the Mage Cadre!  STOP THEM!"

Right is a blured chrome and crimson dynamo, his voice an echo as he passes one of the other nearby danioti, hungrily awaiting their chance to commit mayhem.  + PROTECT THE GENERAL AGAINST ALL THREATS! +  Perhaps a particularly poor choice of wording, but Right has always been quite literal and all-encompassing in his dealings.

Gurthang's uncaring tip drags a furrow in the ground as Cyan staggers first forward, then back.  Shockwaves make the ground an ocean under her feat, as unsteady as the thoughts in her mind.  The war continues, the Voice fueled by rage...by even now, Cyan is not a creature of fury.  She never has been.  It weakens her, strengthens the Purpose.

Jonnee indicates something, and she looks to the sky.  Her soldiers battle each other, now.  Or...not.  Who are these new Archons?  Nephillim?  Shockwaves ripple outward...Berd she realizes.  Aping the green strikes, and concealing their users simultaneously.  She should...she....

Aaron's blood stains the grass, what's left of it.  The grass and blood, both.  He rises before her.  Jonnee Kay seems to await an answer of his own.  And Cyan finds herself caught, frozen.

Is he dying?
^{Is he dying?}
This message was last edited by the player at 14:36, Thu 04 Jan 2007.

Right screams low across the ground, flying 'nap of the earth' to avoid the hellish fire lacing the sky with emerald.  He increases his speed, doubles it, doubles it again.  brintizzi warriors wisely melt from his path, a danioti with a purpose - at this point, on a straight run, they would be hard pressed to keep up, much less engage him.

Past.  Now heading toward the hidden area of the mage cadre.  They have defenses, no doubt, but not primed toward him, or any other of the danioti.

Within, he burns.

Their world, cindered.  The excitement that brought amoung the danioti, that they might all, as one, lash out against those who delivered such a hell upon their doorstep.  Nephillim, Seraphim...danioti were danioti.  They had a Purpose of their own, and that purpose was to fight.  To use their composition against the enemy, whomever it might be.

The destruction of a world had triggered an almost orgasmic release of fury within their ranks.  Their world.  Finally even those left long-idle, sitting stable, bored, in defense of the Havens of the Nephillim, had soared free, the rage in their hearts like the shells of the eshurianti.

And now Coil unleashes the same lethal power upon other worlds.  Cause for laughter, no doubt, among other danioti.  But Right has seen the results.  Right has felt what they felt, upon the worlds who fell beneath that mighty torch.  The note released that into him, a flood of imagery accompanied by the last thoughts, the last feelings of those who fell under the star's fury.

Is it so different from what he, himself might experience?  What they knew upon the world of Archons?  That moment of panic, the pain...and the knowledge that life, in whatever its form, was over?

Was that what Left attempted to understand?  The similarities, not the differences?

He shifted once, into the depth of the Underflow, crossing distance before rising again, the mage Cadre before him, some of them down, some of them conducting a desperate defense, others striking out -

+ AGAIN +

- with that terrible sword.  Right sees Coil.  And that focused hate, the pure rage at the heart of every danioti, their Purpose, finds an outlet.

+ YESSSSS +

A howling gyre of blades, Right stoops to 'stop them'.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 16:11, Thu 04 Jan 2007.

Lost in those small orbs surrounded by scales of heat, Trista’s own eyes flick back and forth between those of Berd. Intelligence lures her in and keeps her bound. Her lower jaw slowly drops as surprising concentration takes over. Unused to dealing with the strong, the little dragon startles her, but she finds a willingness to be open for a change. Strange.


The woman comprehends, though only fractionally. This one is involved in so many ways with the Seraphim. His need to continue is strong and desperate. Yet, his body is weak. Perhaps she can be of help.


Behind her Elean and Tobe find their father. Relief. But the rubble outside and the glimpses of pure daylight Trista had seen gives concern. Grave concern; this could be their tomb. Not for her, nor the dragon, but for the others… Trista winces. She must aid in what ways she can, even if it’s just protecting Berd as he fights with power.

He watched, his hatred simmering in stew of old, stale rage and fresh wounds. The letter had erred in its course. How could he be so naïve; of course, her shining bodyguards would intercept the letter. From his perch atop a cliff top far away, he watched. He measured and thought.

It mattered not. Let the Archon laugh at the display. It gnawed at the insides of his stomach, but let the Archon laugh. In truth, the letter had been yet another dart, calculated for its effect on her- on the thing she'd become. Perhaps it was better that it missed its mark. He'd learned the folly of such tactics the last time they were face to face.

Stop them- he pondered the implication. It was good. Cyan hadn't been so aware of the destroyed worlds, perhaps. Had the cadre acted on its own in that regard? Such callousness amazed even him-- odd, given his own history of destruction. His anger flared, as the Archon went off to deal with them. They were his to deal with. He had his own punishment for their treachery.

He sneered, prepared to reach out and snatch them from the Archon, protect them. It was a mad thought, protecting them so he could destroy them. Let the Archon have them. Let it save him the effort.

An idle thought reaches out to the Brintizzi; the mission is aborted. Go back to the others of your kind- find shelter.

His attention swayed like a listing ship back to Cyan. Words had been spoken in his absence. She seemed distant, haunted. Perhaps too much had been said. It was difficult to tell, just like that last time.

The battle forgot, he closed his eyes and drifted through the rave club. The music pounded, but not a word was lost. Each movement absorbed. Words and body language flowed like a symphony of emotion and longing, clambering for meaning and reason. They only found madness and pain.

Unthinkingly, like so many times, he produced it from the inside pocket of his robes.

   I lost the love of heaven above
    I spurned the lust of earth below

Like a sacred object, a relic of a saint martyred for a cause, he brushes his hand over it. He had never even dared open it; such a violation would be like sacrilege, desecration. He remembered her in every form, every moment. Scornful words spoken from across a table, darts meant to wound and test all at once. Perched on the arm of a couch at Mum's, telling a tale. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds under the stars. Balancing a tray and performing a delicate gesture for him to precede her. Dinner.

   I felt the sweets of fancied love

The gate. Dead? Desolation. Desperation. Lies! Searching for her. Finding only emptiness. Rage.

    And hell itself my only foe

Rage. Destruction. A world full of archons sacrificed on the alter of her memory.

His eyes dropped again to the relic, her sketchbook. He'd carried it so long. So many times, unthinking, it had been his companion in darkness.

  I lost earth's joys, but felt the glow
    Of heaven's flame abound in me

His fingers brushed it, smoothed it. Smiles. Glances. Delicate movements. Eating. Talking. Telling stories.

If only, if only she could see herself the way he saw her. She would have to understand.

His heart broke a little more thinking of this thing she'd become.

   I loved but woman fell away
    I hid me from her faded flame

This monster, this antichrist of hate and destruction, bent on undoing creation itself, how could it exist? Irony. How different was this thing from the thing he had been after her death? How easily destruction came to those who would be saviors.

This was Cyan. It was the good and the bad. She had crucified him with her touch. Her breath had pounded nails through his heart. Her soft voice had broken all his bones.

He had nothing left to give her, nothing more to live for. No more blood to bleed.

His gaze dropped to the sketchbook. If only she could see. If only she could see herself in the mirror of his memories and emotions. If only she could see the old Cyan, and the new Cyan too. The contrast of black and white, care and hate, creation and destruction.

If only....

  I snatched the sun's eternal ray

If only... did he dare? The sketchbook, the part of her he had kept to himself after her death. Dared he violate such a artifact? She would see. For better or for worse, she would see.

His teeth came down on his lip, hard. Fool. This was another calculation. Another barb, aimed at her heart. How dare he frame such a weapon? It could wound her, hollow her out.

No, he thought. It was not that. It would wound him. Of all things sacred to him, only one other thing was more sacred to him than his memories of her. To open himself up like that, give away his heart, his soul, his essence in such a gesture, was madness.

He could do it. He could etch everything that she was upon the surface of the book, away from the powered palanquets found on the pages. He could do it. He could avoid them; etch the memories and emotions around them-- there, on the cover, elsewhere. He thought he could do it. He could do it.

Calculated? No. Honesty. Truth. Lying down naked on a slab of cold stone, exposed, waiting for the knife to pierce him. No armor. No defenses. No manipulations. Nothing left. No breath in his lungs. No voice in his throat to cry out with. No bones left to break. No blood left to bleed. No soul left to feel.

Totally exposed. Naked. No armor. No defenses. This would be to take everything he was and give it to her, more totally than even in the rave club. There he'd had his armor, his defenses, his weapons. He had been the sleek raven, and she the dark harbinger, the end of creation, the antichrist of hate and destruction. The apocalypse. Death, Pestilence, War and Desolation all in one. And hell followed.

This would be his death, sacrificing himself, spreading his ashes from a cliff over the rocky terrain hoping to fertilize dead soil.

For her, he'd destroy worlds.

Could he do this, though?

Could he do it?

Would he do it?

Would he do it... for her?

     ~Yes~

For her, he'd destroy worlds.

For her, he'd destroy himself.

     ~we must do it~
                    ~we must~

Determination, cold and gut turning, flooded his veins like a drug. Stolid, he stood, pulling his cloak about him. He gripped the sketchbook before him, eyes boring into it. He withdrew his psyche into himself, pulled back his threads.


    And wrote till earth was but a name

Worlds away, a clone of Dorian standing in Charyk gasped, and then fell flat, dead.

Surrounding the body, a dozen Samhainian drakes lifted their voices in a wail mourning the loss of one of their own.

  In every language upon earth
    On every shore, o'er every sea

If he couldn't etch the book, then he'd insert a slip of paper. He'd spring-load the damn thing to fly into her face, if need be.

Damn Archons.

His psyche bore into paper like a laser. Cyan. All that she was in his eyes. Snapshots- that was all he had time for. Glimpses, Glances, motions, smiles, looks.. a slight pursing of the lips during a pause in a story... a flick of tongue to wet them when the story dried them out.... a glance his way as she approached a part of the story she thought he'd enjoy... Mum... A tray-- his food-- balanced like a serving girl... and that smile.... a tilt of the head... the flow of her hair, brushing that delicate shoulder...

  I gave my name immortal birth
    And kept my spirit with the free

He brushed a tear away. Swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

Done. Nothing held back. Naked.

He lifted his head.

He flung out his thread, snapped off the spell-- one of his precious few left. His escape teleport--


-- and appeared on Charyk in their midst. He had already erected his cloak of psychic shadow to prevent, hopefully, any instant execution by her guards.

Then he saw her. Would it be the last time? His voice caught in his throat. He brushed at his eye again, just in case. Look at her. She looked... in shock.

Forgive me, Cyan. For both of us, I have to do this. I have to let you see.

He stepped forward, knowing he should say something. His cloak trailed wide behind him. He had no defense here. She could strike him down. He had to accept that. He had given that to her. But.. no... he had to first deliver the message.

He held it out with both hands. His knuckles white. His mind swirled. The world spun. How could it have come to this? How could she have changed so much? Even angels fall.

He took a deep breath. He should say something. Now, before she kills him. Or her body guards.

"I--"

But, what to say?

                                                    ~I've missed you~

"I kept this for you," he said. "After you... died. We weren't sure what to do with your stuff. We intended to find you. We knew you'd want..."

He swallowed again. A single tear threatened to run amok down his cheek.

"I have missed you, Cyan," he whispered. "Forgive me, I only wanted to return this. There was a message for you, and I...."

Speechlessness hurt. Each word was like a Brobdignagian boulder dredged from the depths of a salty sea, and grated, crunched and shattered down to a size he could fit through his throat.

"I said some things last time. I didn't have time to say it all. I needed you to understand, if only just for me. I didn't think I meant it, later. I need you to know."

He holds the sketchbook out to her, his face pale, ashen, drained, hopeless.

"I said I'd never lie to you. That still stands. More importantly, you know I'd never lie to myself. This is me." The last words were pain.

    ~done~

A small voice inside him said.

                  ~it'll be alright~
  ~it's over~
This message was last edited by the player at 02:36, Fri 05 Jan 2007.

Morgan tossed the silver flask to Luke's beckoning fingers, a quick, underhanded pitch.

Then, the walls crumble about them, and danger appears. Almost laughing, Morgan whips his head around, seeing the troops in the now fallen wall. "Corwin's horns, someone's heard me, it seems!"  A mental nudge, and Leareth is clinging, ten feet up, to what remained of the wall, soon followed by all those without passengers, save the two returned with James.

"Anyone know these folks?"
This message was last edited by the player at 18:01, Thu 04 Jan 2007.

Hoping that the bridging is intact, Roman attempts to send out word "We have new allies, archons, they call themselves Nephilim. Archon fights archon now.".

Then after briefly surveying the scene, seeing the citadel bombarded, penetrated, under attack, he drops to hover around Banglen-Yp.

Lightning flickers and thunder rolls out words "Go" "to" "Charyk." "I" "protect" "you." "Again.".

Luke snaked the flask from the air with a simple, underhanded catch.  "Parcifel, then?  A pleasure.  A drink, sir, or not - whichever your fancy."  He took a quick sip of the strong spirits and offered to first their guest, then to Tahirah, next James, and back to Morgan if none partook.  "So.  The remains hold echoes, do they?  Curious."  They would need the whole story of this, and soon.

But for now...he waved toward the gates, and the warriors.  "Those are the brintizzi, and they're with us...driven back, it seems.  With loss.  It's tough to fight a ground war without air superiority, but that situation is changing, rapidly.  I might be able to do something about that, myself - the Old Man seems to be working on it, too."  He shot a glance at James, then at Morgan and Tahirah.  "Could you turn them around?  Get them back out in the fight, and go with them yourselves?  Atop the panthers, you might be able to try to keep up to them.  They're...rather quick," he finished, dryly.

"In the meantime, it looks like there's a war up there, in heaven.  Our enemy battles against itself.  Now would be a good time to turn around, press out for a sortie.  Myself and my father will struggle to clear the heavens."  He clapped Morgan on the shoulder, shot James a wry look, raised an eyebrow at Tahirah.  "Perhaps, Sir Parsifel, you could tell us where best you would fit in this arrangement.  If your weapon holds the power of all of these together, perhaps you might be best suited to strike those in the air.  Which reminds me...."

"Guardians."  His voice rang with power yet again.  "Strike only those who descend upon the city.  The Archons battle among themselves, and we do not wish to turn possible allies against our cause."

Then he awaited the input of the other four.

"Stop the Mage Cadre!"

He knows his way around the army.  Knows all the places where there are clusters of mages, spread out to make them harder to target.  Knows where to find their leaders.

"Stop the Mage Cadre!" the General had commanded.  And now he reaches the first group, and Coil turns to face him, and asks, "What is it?  Do you bring a message from the General?"  Right doesn't speak.  Instead he moves, blindingly fast, and ten mages, includimg Coil are dead in less than half as many seconds.  There is some blood, but only a little.

The Archon always has, after all, prided himself on his precision.  Even in his fury, he holds on to that.

Coil himself had not even realised he was dead, at first.  Standing quietly, until misfiring nerves had caused his muscles to spasm, and his already lifeless body to topple.

The danioti moves on to the location of the next team.

"Stop the Mage Cadre!"

Parcifal  James registers the name with a sense of gratitude.  He had been so focused on the task at hand that he not thought to ask either brother's name.  Strange that the embarassment over such a little thing could still be felt over the mass of emotions stirred by the battle outside.

Luke's story, together with the evidence before him, fills in some of the gaps.  Doubtless there is more happening here besides.  There will be many stories to be told, should they survive.

James still doesn't know how the Swordbearer, Parcifal, fits into all this.  Do they take the field, strike from here...or something else?  Events unfold in quick sucession.  First, the wave of dust as more of the citadel falls in upon itself.  Then the gates burst open.

"Yes.  Brintizzi.  Friends.  Stay calm everyone, we're on the same side!

Then the drakes start wailing.  James scans the room seeking Dorian.  His heart skips a beat at the sight of a black cloak amongst the rubble.  He leaps nimbly from Ahmad's back and runs through the morass of dust, rock and people.  Dorian lies there.  He looks remarkably unscathed.  A quick check, two fingers pressed to the side of a neck.  No pulse.  Farewell, sorceror  "Damn, he's gone."

"Morgan, Luke, Parcifal.  Get out of here.  Fight them outside.  There's no point dying here when the roof comes down.  Morgan, I need ten panthers.  And ten guards!"

For a thought has occurred to James.  He's never done it before, but he knows it can be done.  When Bleys and Corwin assaulted Amber they led a mighty army, many thousands strong.  Numbers should be no problem to a Prince of the Blood.

When ten guards have assembled, James briefs them.  "Gather as many of the citizens as you can to the cathedral.  I can get people out of here but they need to be close to me and they need to know they are following me.  Understand?  Ride the panthers if they will take you.  They can get you through this mess faster and safer than if you walk."

"Tahirah.  It is not safe to stay, it is not safe to go, but I could use your authority amongst these people.  Will you come?"

"Morgan, Luke.  In a way I envy you, it would feel good to crack a few heads together, but if Aaron is outside then I am the only one who can get these people to safety.  Godspeed and happy hunting.  If all goes well I'll join you for a drink after."

With that, James spins on his heel and stalks off in the direction of the cathedral.  Already he has the Pattern firmly in his mind, but he puts off the exertion of his will.  He doesn't want to risk leaving this world before the refugees are gathered.

Aaron let Dorian's words hang, and bolstered them more.

"So we stand before you now, dear heart. Are the devestating forces of Harbonah so great, the awesome, mind-crushing power of our enemy so foul, that not even we, those who love you, Cyan, can't stand against him?"

He unsheathed Ilse and flung her at his feet, the blade spearing the earth and tilting at an angle. He would not even allow the possibility of being a threat. He strode forwards, standing beside Dorian, placing a hand on his shoulder as much to support his friend physically as emotionally. Aaron was drawing upon his last remnants of endurance, for his head was bothering him horribly.

"Truth? Truth, in certain cases, kills." Aaron said it, wielding the word like a blade. "Harbonah will never dominate me. He can place all of his power upon me, his combined effort of him and his sycophants, and I will not be crushed. Because I choose it. That is the truth for me."

He reached out, extending his hand to Cyan.

"We will not let them have you. We will not let them take you. If they attempt it ever again, we will hunt for you. We will not stop. Harbonah has made a mistake by underestimating us in this, and he will burn for it."

"To them? You're a tool. A beast. A Shadow."

"To us? You're a leader. You're Cyan. You're real. Not because we say you're real, but because we know you are."

His hand still extended, Aaron smiled.

"Anything they have done to you, we can work to undo. We will not stop until you are safe again."

Berd gasps for breath, and it blows hot and dry from his mouth.  The heat intensifies, even through the padding.  He has put forth an enormous effort, mimicking the energies of the weapons, firing volleys into the air to both strike and conceal the users, generating waves of it to assist the air forces...his energy reserves are all-but gone.

It's too much.  He is almost finished.  His delaying tactic, the collapsing of the tower upon his pursuers, proved to be too much for the structure, and he has opened this fortress to invasion...by the creatures of the forest, in the future.  At present, the fallen wall means little against the Seraphim.

A new bridging is formed.  His desires have been communicated.  His glittering eyes grow more dull, and he goes limp for an instant, his head hanging low on his serpentine neck.

And then he grins.  She has a name of her own, for him.  How...novel.  With that, he forces his head up, stares back into her stormy eyes.


The drake squirms, and pushes his way partly out of the blanket.  His wings unfurl, and it is though an oven opens; heat bleeds from them as from a kiln.  He shifts them away from Trista, breathes out a sparkling cloud, and an instant later a curtain of cool air seems to fall upon her.


Berd turns to face the door of the Church, waiting.  Something touches the back of his mind, one of them, and he sends it winging out to seek the source.

One of the drakes, slightly larger than the others bends serpentine neck, lowering its head as James approaches. It hisses a cautionary warning, but lets the man approach. That one had been designated a member of the Flight. It watches James check the pulse in silence.

When James heads towards the cathedral, the larger one squakes to the others, and the entire group head off after James forming a wide half-circle.

 

Only giving the fireworks a brief look, Banglen-Yp moved on towards the city, each step becoming steadier than the previous.

As the Archon sweapt by and dropped off its load and message she nearly fired - but shocks would not work well against such a creature, and before she could implement anything else, it was gone.

Left behind was what came to her mind as the Tasmanian Devil, and she half expected to see it stop spinning and stand there drooling with its big tongue hanging out and its big eyes staring through the haze of its mind.

"Go" "to" "Charyk." "I" "protect" "you." "Again."

It was not the Tasmanian Devil, but it was not far off.

For a moment, a thousands of a second or so, her mind calculated what had been said.

•• Pro•tect • a•gain • re•qui•res • pre•vi•ous • pro•tec•tion •• she enlightened Roman, picking up speed even as she spoke to him.

After a short while she was walking.

A while later she was jogging.

Shortly there after she was running.

Then sprinting.

Next, she was beyond even sprinting, moving as fast as she could towards the city.

 

As they speed up, Roman's outline changes, reverting to a vaguely manlike form.  Banglen-Yp is fast, but who can outrun the wind ?

The thunder answers her comment "Protect" "on" "road" "to" "Charyk." "Again."
Hoping that this time is successful as the last, when there were only monsters to fight.

Bundled Berd exudes more heat, but Trista doesn’t flinch; she endures it without sign of her discomfort. He’s obviously exhausted, and the last thing Trista will do is provide more fodder for his worries. Yet, through it all, he grins, amusement playing in his eyes as they converse.

Slight doubt crosses her eyes at his request. It’s not that she doesn’t want to acquiesce, but she can provide comfort for the beleaguered dragon. Yet, Berd seems sure, so she nods and loosens the towel at his motions, allowing him full freedom to stretch his wings. Once the cooling veil kisses her skin, she further understands and silently thanks him. Shifting the towel out from under him – and enduring the greater heat – Trista folds the towel, pauses, and considers which shoulder would best suit. The right feels more natural, yet she would be less impeded by the left. The left, it is. After snuggling it across her left shoulder, her hands perch to lift him up when he indicates his readiness.


Trista’s face hardens as does her body, every muscle taut. With deliberate movements, she slips a machete from a strap: simple, plain, sharp. She holds it up to glint in the light, the past darkening her eyes.


Her head turns away from the entrance to take in the people behind her, the ones with hope still in their eyes. She softens and her body relaxes as much as it can when facing war. Naturally, there’s little doubt in her mind that a small blade such as this will do no good against the spinning wheels of the sky. But this is hers, hewn diamond hard with blood, and she will use it to protect those around her.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:35, Tue 09 Jan 2007.

 

•• That • was • Gabe •• came the reply.  •• You • off•erd • to • kiss ••

There was either a grin the flashed across her face, or just a grimace as she dodged another Archon that fell from above, giving it a zap for good measure.

The hole still present in her stomach no doubt reduced the drag at the speed which she was moving now, although it did seem slightly rounder around the edges now.

•• I • will • pro•tect • you • too •• she mentioned.

 

And suddenly he was there.  Another side of the figure they were creating.  Dorian.  Hands open, staff nowhere in sight.  The Purpose howled in fury, and her hand tighened further, white-knuckled on the Deathiron's hilt.  But she raised it not.

Left remained a whirling cloud of debris some five paces distant.  She twitched in her trench, but waited.  Something had come - she could sense it, from the General's reaction.  Something she could not see, but it did not threaten.  Not...physically.

Cyan's eyes, like gleaming hematite, stare into Dorian's as he steps forward.  Gurthang still sits with uncaring tip against the soil.  And now his hands raise, and he proffers a gift.

Her sketchbook.

Simple.  Virtually unadorned.  One could likely buy one in a thousand stores through the Myriad Worlds, yet to Cyan, coming from a land where paper was dear, and inks the moreso, it is a treasure beyond compare.  Within it are memories of her life, of people, of everything in this quest.

Something shines on his cheek, catches the light.  A tear?  From Dorian?

He drags out the broken-glass words, stumbles over his lines like an amateur performer.  But with feeling.  With life.

With feeling.

Another memory stirs.

I would spend hours watching the sunlight move." James points again, this time indicating a brilliantly-coloured oval of light.  At the moment it seems cramped and awkwardly-shaped because it lies across an angle of the floor and the right-hand wall of the apse.  It is possible to follow the light backwards to a huge stained-glass rose window set into the wall behind the balcony on which James and Cyan stand. "Daydreaming about my parents."

And the Choir begins to sing.

Aaron's crumbling dissolution before her.  Jonnee's disgust and pity.  Now Dorian's agony, barbed wire less painful than the words in his throat.  But he offers.

As they all have.

He said some things, last time.  His own words.  She struggles with the memory.

"I promise I won't fight you. I won't hurt you. I'll never manipulate you."

"I give you everything; all that I am."

Shall she listen?  Cyan stares into his forlorn features, his sorrowful eyes, and suddenly there's a song in her mind, heard on a radio far, far away.  Heard in a car driven by Jonnee Kay, with her head out the window, wind in her hair, wild laughter spilling from her lips.  The quiet chime of a piano, and the woman's voice, slowly rising.

How can you see into my eyes
like open doors?

She glances to Aaron, blinks at the blood.  He looks...stronger, now.  Alive.  Ilsefravnir is in his hand, and he flings it with a twitch of the wrist - her eyes divine the target before the blade leaves his hand, and she does not move.  He stands, and paces toward her.  He speaks of things...ever the optomist, Aaron, to assume he could not be broken.  But perhaps he does not lie.  Perhaps he might have held, where she failed.  Perhaps...the Purpose hammers at her, and Cyan blinks.  Her shoulder twitches, held back, not in preparation.  If Gurthang strikes, it will be without warning.  But she keeps it still.  Did he say I am a leader?  I have never led...have I?  Did he say he loved me?  Why?  How?

"And I choose to love you, lady," he said to Cyan. "Because I can."

"When everyone else said 'she's gone' I STILL believed in you."

The Voice battles the Purpose, hands locked about each others' throats.  The balance is precarious, driven to the edge by memories and words.  And Dorian holds out the book like a sacrifice.  Aaron's hand extends.

_{...take it...please...}

leading you down into my core
where I’ve become so numb

Her hand reaches out, carefully, wavers between them.  But the book calls from her past, and while her other hand twitches about Gurthang's hilt, it cannot easily release to clasp Aaron's.  The steely gauntlet closes around the book's cover, oh, so carefully.  Not to tear, not to rip.  To hold.

"Thank you, Cyan. I am moderately more informed than I used to be... on many levels. I will try to be less expedient in the future. Forgive my weakness, but I am not used to oiling my conversations since I have been away from Amber for so long. However, if you feel it is necessary, I can guide you to an entire shadow just teaming with polite people where you can feel quite special; but they cannot help you save Amber. I can, and I have offered my assistance freely, unhindered by hints of either politeness or insult."

He gritted his teeth in anger and shame, not at Cyan, but at himself for indulging in such digression. It was unnecessary, and likely only to cause more emotional bantering, which he would have to work twice as hard to extricate himself from. However, he could not let her dictate to him how he should act and speak, just so she could feel more loved. He was not responsible for her emotional wellness, no matter how hard she tried to lay it on him.

And the memories explode within her, bursting from the book into her spirit.

If it were another member of the party, he might let them make their own choice. He'd worry about the cause of the feeling later. He only knew he wouldn't let them touch Cyan.

.....

Cyan. Perhaps it was their first conversation, back in Fiona's presence, or perhaps it was the Ancient One, Berd, but he always found himself treating Cyan differently than the others, gentler, perhaps. Strange, since he'd been so harsh to her in that first meeting....

....And then here he was, performing sorcerous acrobatics trying to see to Mum's needs and baby-sit the redhead's emotions, as well. Why?

.....

Yet, she was somehow different from the others; soft, but not weak; sensitive, but not vulnerable. He certainly couldn't say that of the others in their group-- excluding the newer ones, maybe.

No, it was more than those things. It had begun back with Mum and the cabin. It felt like a need being fulfilled, but in a distant way; like home, or a letter from a sibling. In an odd way, one he almost hated, she evoked the same feeling as Mum's food.

There was no need for differences. She was an ally in a battle. He loathed that he had grown to see her different than the others. He would squash it.


His memories, a whirling, immersive gyre of them.  Of her.  Cyan's head comes up, and she stares blindly into space.


A slow knot formed in his stomach, apprehension. It caused the frown to grow and expand. Somehow, he guessed there wasn't any trouble. She'd come to speak to him about something, but he couldn't fathom the topic. Oddly, in the deepest recesses of his mind, for a fleeting moment, that thought made him feel somewhat like a child about to be scolded for his uncharacteristic behaviour earlier. He felt somehow caught.

.....

It was because she'd taken the time to offer the invitation that he found himself grasping for an explanation. It was there again, her sincerity, the gift she didn't know she had. How many others, he asked himself, would have bothered to confront him in this way?

.....

Rambling indeed, but.... Dorian nods slightly. Why did he suddenly have trouble expressing what he wanted to say? Perhaps it was too many things fighting to be spoken, and he didn't trust any of them to do so-- not without thinking first. He felt he'd already said too much, as it was. Better a fool hold his tongue than reveal himself a fool. He felt very much a fool, too.

.....

The portal, Aaron's connection. The world was fading. The portal collapsed because it no longer had a destination. Logically, she couldn't still exist. Part of him couldn't accept that, the part he didn't like. The part that believed the impossible.

He couldn't let her go without trying.

"I'm going."

.....

In his mind, thoughts of mum's house, of the room above the inn, casual glances, brief words, all imploded. A cold, stiff wind swept them away into a bottomless chasm, where they tumbled, abandoned and forgotten, for the rest of his life.

He should, he knew, honor her memory-- of what she suggested in the room above the inn-- be that man. Be warm, take time to dine among friends, trust, love.... Never! It hurt. It felt like betrayal; it felt like being stabbed in the back and heart at the same time, by the same person. He should be the man she encouraged him to be, but he can't. It hurt too much. He would never open himself up like that again. He was vulnerable, foolish and weak-- like all these fools who stood here with him.

His heart was a maniac in his chest and his throat felt swollen. With a quiet sniff, he brushed something from his cheek and pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head.

Memories, fading into nothingness. They fought, struggled with tooth and claw, to rise from the pit. He wouldn't let them. With wrathful curses, he beat them down into nothingness. He wouldn't let himself dwell on such emotions. He would never be weak again. He would never be the fool again.

.....

He turned slowly, eyes narrowed. His black eyes swept her body up and down quickly, wildly. He suppressed a shudder that ran through his body. This was a trick. Was it Drusilla?

He pressed his lips tightly together and swallowed, trying to decide on which of the thousand things running through his mind to vocalize first.

Who are you?

Who sent you?

How dare you...

Is it really you?

Of all the things he wanted to say, the one thing he didn't want to say came out. "Cyan," he whispered. "I've missed you."

.....

His pulse skips a beat as she touches him. He wants more. He wants to be held. He takes it as an invitation and moves closer to her, looking deep into her eyes, searching for answers that she isn't giving.

He should be doing so much right now. He should be getting answers. He should be trying to penetrate that psychic cloak. He should take her back to… no.

Never!

It was enough that she was here.

And I don't want to lose you, again.

.....

Her hand is on his chest, and he can feel his heart beating against it. He looks deep into her, searching for the young woman in the upstairs room. Where was the smile that melted the iciest of hearts with an invitation to dinner, a tray balanced on her hand and a flourish of something he couldn't explain? He steps closer to her, soaking up her pain and softness. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he has one final javelin to throw. This one will strike them both. He opens his mouth, and it's dry. He inhales. The words are hard to speak. He's not sure he's ever said these words before. He's never said them to her. He never meant them before, no matter whom they were spoken to. He told Berd, but he meant something not quite so...

"I love you, Cyan."

Something changes.  Something about Dorian.  The Archons shift slightly, seeming to notice him for the first time.

Their orders are to protect, but not to interfere in the business with the other two humans.  There is no such order regarding this third, dangerously close, human.

The situation has changed...

+ PROTECT THE GENERAL! +

A pair of danioti surge forward, their myriad blades cutting the air with a rising, keening, howl.

Others are close behind...

"I love you, Cyan."

without a soul
my spirit sleeping somewhere cold

Cyan gasps, a slight, indrawn breath.  Shimmering charcoal-grey eyes widen.  The tip of the Iron of Death grates along the ground as her fingers twist, spasmodically.

until you find it there

With Aaron before her and Dorian suddenly appearing, the galvanized Archons spring into frenzied action.  Two of them blink to their full speeds, velocity rising like a lightningstroke, and fall toward the two men, wind howling about their blades.  They ignore Left's outraged cry, fixed only on the chance to shed blood.

Cyan hears them.  And as she stares at the two men, her book held loosely in hand, she knows their death approaches.  Locked by Purpose and Voice, she cannot move, cannot cry out.  Lost in the memories and their words, she can only study their faces, Aaron and Dorian both.

They will die, here and now.

With that, a swelling tide rolls within her.

and lead

It builds, a vast pressure beneath the war within, something she has not felt since the agnoizing revelation of her past.  Not for herself.  Not now.  But for them?  Oh, yes.

Fear explodes within the Warrior in Jet and Gold.  Fear for the two before her.

it

And as before, as every time before, the fear is fuel.  It ignites, flaring in her spirit to enshroud the battling pair.  The Voice screams in agonized triumph.

And the fury erupts.

back...

As Cyan stares at Aaron and Dorian, the dim light catches like a rainbow in her eyes.  Her diamond eyes.

...home.

The Iron of Death burns an arc in the air as she turns.  It meets the first danioti side-on, one edge against a thousand.  The air fills with the scream of shattered metal and a cloud of dancing fragments.

The baresark smile dances on Cyan's lips as she twists through the cut, powering the galvorn blade into the second Seraphim.  Steel bits bite her cheek, razor three vicious cuts across her forehead and slice a shallow wound along her neck as it explodes into a myriad glittering shards.  Behind her, Left rises to hover protectively nearby, as close as a threat, but unmistakably a guard.  The danioti sends out a silent call.

Cyan ignores her, continuing the spin to shift around the two men with three quick footsteps, turning to the next target for her blade.  All the while, her diamond eyes burn in the crackling, flickering light of Charyk's war.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:13, Thu 03 Mar 2011.

Again, the lightning and the thunder. "Gabe" "only" "said."  "I" "did"

An oncoming blade-wheel suddenly halts, snared by Logrus-tendrils.  It has only time to confirm it's hostility before the green-tinged lightning strikes.  A pile of twisting, changing scrap metal falls to the ground.

"I" "do" "again."

Agonizing moments passed as he stood before her, helpless but deliberately so. He had known that to do this and he had to do it exposed, undefended. Death loomed on all sides of him. He had cloaked himself against the Archons- his first nerve-wracking field-test of that trick. Any moment they'd realize a threat stood roughly where he stood and do their best to split every molecule within twenty feet of him. He had to accept that. He had to be open to death itself, after a thousand years of life, in order to deliver a simple message.

It hadn't been a good life. Without Cyan in his life, he wouldn't miss it.

What was that message again? A memory? Drusilla would mock such an act. She had always called him sentimental. Saving your child's life was not sentiment. Not if you were there, doing it. That's what this was- something indescribably beyond sentimentalism.

He knew what it was. He knew the word. The memory was etched on the book, waiting for her hands to reach forth and pluck it.

Twice, he had told Berd he shouldn't have said those words. Twice Berd had chastised him for the denial. Too soon? Perhaps. False?

False?

His own memories resonated through his body; even now more bled into its soft cover.

The answer was undeniable. How else could he have brought himself to death's doormat undefended and accepting of fate's decree?

He loved her. It hurt to admit it, but he couldn't deny it.

He's watching her, her face, and she hangs in a balance. He doesn't even look at the sword. He doesn't need to look at it. Its light flickers in his peripheral sight. He knows it could cleave him with an ease and grace like no other blade. He has accepted that. He must keep that acceptance foremost in his thoughts or he'll die.

His eyes slide along the black and gold gauntlets. For a moment, he fears if the psychic charge will be enough to penetrate the armor. What properties does the armor contain? Will it block the aura completely?

With the sketchbook delivered, he knows the Archons will know he's there. He drops the cloak.

He sees the answer on her face. It registers. The immersion apparent on the blank expression, but it softens, he thinks. It sees. Does she see? Does she understand?

His breath catches in his throat. His heart hammers.

Then he hears it, the crescendo of blades ripping the air. They are coming, as he knew they would. He cannot interfere. He must let them come. He has accepted them. He has but one defense against them, and he knows it won't be enough to save him.

He doesn't look. He doesn't have time. He watches her face. He watches the eyes. If he knew how, he would pray, but he has no gods with which to plead. He can only wait and hope.

Something seems to stir within her. Passion.

Diamond Eyes.

Hope rings within him. He cannot move. The eyes could be for him, or they could be for the death-dealers. He would step back, give her room, but he cannot betray that acceptance. He must be fully and completely here.

Metal is torn asunder and an archon dies.

Relief baptizes him. A palpable tingle washes over his skin. Now he steps back.

It was time to fade again, and he concentrates on hiding once more. He could hide the whole area, but that would be dangerous. Archons would fly through the area slicing anything in their path. Perhaps not, with Cyan also in the area. It's too risky. And perhaps even then. He doesn't know them enough to predict it.

He hides only himself and he moves. He looks for the least likely place to move, but one where Cyan has plenty of room. It sickens him. Capable as he is, he wants to hide her, too. He cannot. He must let her do this, and he must let her do it on her own as long as possible. He won't let her die. His last few spells are ready to launch in a moments notice. They were finely honed for this battle.

Diamond Eyes.

Thank the gods; whatever gods might exist. He hasn't felt so good in a thousand years.

Belatedly, James realises that he is being followed by a cohort of drakes - each large, absolutely lethal and utterly useless.  Frustrated, he spins on his heel.

"Dammit.  I told Dorian not to order you to me.  I don't know if you understand me and I very much doubt you'll follow my commands, but don't follow me.  Fly with Luke and Morgan, give air cover to their cavalry, but don't follow me.  Where I'm going you'll just cause panic and that's the last thing I need.  You can't protect me here!  Go!"

Against Cyan, Jonnee can do little.  Against Archons, he can, with a little luck and some support, do something...

First he needs to get that support.

Moving fast now, he heads back, passing brintizzi who are, reluctantly, falling back, he calls them to him.  Grinning insanely, he issues new orders, "Change of plan!  Find the others, and let them know, we're still going to retreat, but now we're going to retreat that way, straight into the enemy's faces."

One of the brintizzi looks back at him, approximating a grin of its own, "Death or glory was always a good plan."

Then Jonnee is gone, still followed by Hunter... still looking for a fight.

Soon the unlikely pair skids to a halt...  Somebody, and something, is coming the other way.  The woman he recognises, the gaping hole in her belly is a definite distinguishing feature.

The other looks like some sort of elemental creature.  For a moment Jonnee is unsure of its loyalties, until he notes the scattering of dead, and smouldering, Archons behind the unlikely pair.

Still, it can't hurt to make sure...

"Attacking the city, or defending it?" he asks.

 

•• No • I • did ••

Banglen-Yp points out the fact with a smile even as she speed towards the city.

The next moment they meet a stranger who asks them a question.  Skidding to a halt, in case it is an enemy looking for a fight, she answers him even as the dust catches up with her where she stands, holey tummy and golden locks framing her face.

•• De•fend ••

A statement.

•• And • you ••

A question.

The strange arm does not move, but she is ready to deliver a shock to the stranger if need be.

 

Tahirah has stood, silent, though she raised one arm in a holding gesture to add her own authority, in case any of the guards needed the emphasis as monsters entered the fallen Gate.

To James, she says, "Of course I am willing, but..."  She stops, and the shrouded form turns to the Swordsman.  "My Lord Parcival.  How quickly can you evacuate our people to...your Charyk?"

Lightning flashes within the storm-creature.  Thunder brings words.

"Defend" "city" "from" "Seraphim".  "Nephilim" "come." "Archons" "fight"

There are those who will claim that the Universe constantly strives to dissolve into Chaos... that Entropy is the only truly omnipresent force.

With the arrival of about four thousand Nephelim in the vicinity of Charyk, those who believe in the ultimate triumph of Disorder would feel vindicated in their beliefs.

Even moreso, when a considerable number of the Seraphim, including those loyal to Cyan's allies Jehoel and Soqed Hezi, suddenly turn on their former colleagues...

In the air above Charyk, it becomes apparant that the Nephelim have finally decided to act...


As the gate falls, Morgan regards the appearance of the strange reptile warriors with some concern at first, until James looks up from his checking of the fallen Dorian, and reassures him that these particular strange creatures are not dangerous.  At least, they ate not dangerous to those at the Gate.

The city duards take James' orders, obviously backed by Tahirah, with no qualms.  They are used to commanders who make decisions their troops don't fully comprehend.  Obeying those commanders has long proved to be the best option.


Archons screech across the sky, their voices chanting songs in tongues that no other creature could ever hope to utter.  Right whirls in on the fifth group of mages, killing several before they can react... and then he misses a cut, and the human falls, bleeding but not dead.  Left had distracted him for an instant,   she needs him.  Urgently.

The danioti, a mass of crimson and chrome and steel, moves away, accelerating as he goes.  Behind him, the ground explodes upwards in a cloud of dust, dirt, and debris, torn up by the wind of his passing.  The roar which echoes across the battlefield is, for many inhabitants of Charyk, the first sonic boom they have ever experienced.


Dorian, Jonnee and Aaron find themselves the sudden targets of Archon aggression.  Aaron is unarmed, Dorian is spent, from earlier exertions, and Jonnee realises that his chances against the danioti are, at best, non-existent.  Fortunately, the three have protection from an enexpected quarter...

Gurthang reaches out, and cleaves through metal, and the spirit which binds it into the Archon form.  Broken shards, thrown out by the spin of the creature, slam into the earth, or are hurled skywards.  Aaron feels something tug at his arm, and blood seeps across his sleeve. 

Jonnee doesn't hesitate, he takes the opportunity to get clear, as Left rises from the earth, drawing fragments of metal into herself, and prepares to assist her General in any way that she can...


James makes to move further into the city, but finds himself being followed by Dorian's scaly allies.  It seems that they want to assist him.  Desperately he commands them to leave, to follow Morgan and the troops out onto the battlefield.  Somewhat surprisingly, they turn aside. 

He is free, now, to continue with his own plan...

From the cathedral, Trista has seen the burning lights moving in the distance.  It can only be a matter of time, now, before they find this place, and Berd seems utterly exhausted. 

The doors of the cathedral start to smoke, a great, charred, blackened ring appearing in the heavy wood.

Then small flames start to sprout across the surface...

Berd regards the door grimly, his eyes holding nothing now but resolve, as in the distance, more rubble falls.


Right, briefed by Left on his way here, and easily recognised by the brilliant red finish of his blades, barges through the other danioti, scattering them, and stops instantly alongside Left.

+ THAT WAS QUICK. + Left remarks, + VERY QUICK. +

+ YES.  DON'T YOU PAY ATTENTION TO THE WORLDS WE VISIT?  THE HUMAN, WHOSE VEHICLE I TOOK THE METAL FROM, WAS CLEARLY CORRECT.  RED ONES REALLY DO GO FASTER! +


Tahirah is free, it seems.  The Lords of Charyk are fleeing, those who are not dead, and their seer is all-but forgotten.  Sadly it seems that her first act, as a free woman, may be to die in this city which is fast becoming a tomb.  Unless these strangers that she's allied with can prevent it.

The one called Parcifal speaks of saving the people, and is quick to answer Tahirah's questions.  "It can be done, and with speed.  The walls of this world are thin, and my Brother and I can open a doorway with ease, if we so desire.  Then it is simply a matter of how quickly the people can walk through it."

"That Charyk is not so large as this one, and things may be a little crowded for a while, but they can get there, and they <i>will be safer."

Turning to Luke, he continues, "Which would you have me do first?  Defend this city, or open a gateway to take its people to safety?"


Beneath a sky torn assunder by battling Archons, three strange creatures meet.  Jonnee regards Banglen-Yp and Roman warily.  Behind him, the brintizzi are starting to appear, seeming to wink into existence among the tree stumps.  "Defender!" he finally answers, shouting above the noise from the sky.  "I'm Jonnee, the wolf is Hunter, and those funny-looking guys, over there, are with me."

He doesn't seem to be concerned that he just described the brintizzi as "funny-looking" to a woman with no stomach and an anthropomorphic storm...

"Wonder what got the Nephelim so stirred up?  They never wanted to fight before."


Cyan cuts down another of the danioti, and Left and Right move to defend her flanks.  They give her plenty of room, though, recognising her condition for what it is...


At the doors of the cathedral, the heat rises constantly.  They have been barred, but now the metal fittings are starting to glow...  Beyond, Archons can be heard howling, and the crash of falling rubble is almost constant now.  The cathedral roof cracks, and gravel rains down on the refugees within.

Then the wood burns through, scattering burning fragments and hot iron across the cathedral floor.  An Archon hovers in the doorway, blazing like a sun, terrible in its magnificence, and its voice booms out to the hundreds of people hidden in the structure.

+ COME WITH ME, IF YOU WANT TO LIVE! +