As they had been running, Banglen-Yp's strange arm had been seeming to seethe with built up energy, and as they stopped to listen to the creature of lightning for a moments she looked between it and her arm.


                                        _{The same but different.}


She listened intently to what it said, looking at the battle that raged and at Jonnee - Defender of Worlds as he was called by the Archon.

Then they came.

Three metallic Archons came up from the ground itself and sped towards the one who had spoken.

                                                                                _{No time for talking now.}

        Scanning
        Hostile target aquired
        Accessing stored energy
        Fire solution computed
        Firing at target
        Recharging

        Scanning

A massive lightning flew forth from the strange arm of the blonde girl, hurtling at the speed of light towards the enemy.

 
This message was last edited by the player at 19:33, Mon 08 Jan 2007.

Roman acknowledges the Archon's greeting "Vohu" "Manarah"

When the danioti attack, he moves to intercept them.  He owes Vohu Manarah something, for a swift return to the battlefield, if nothing else.

Ever vigilant, Arianne flicked her finger out within Ilsefranvir's confines, noting the approach of a group... of panthers. One of their riders was familiar.

"Luke approaches," she let her ward know. She felt him shift his stance slightly.

Eight whips made of razor-sharp blades surrounded her, for they were Arianne's servants within Ilsefranvir, indicating direction. These were her 'arms,' razor-sharp though they may be. Eight mirrors surrounded her also, giving her insight into the world outside. These were her 'eyes.'

The world she hasn't physically seen for many, many centuries.

But something had changed in one of her sharp-edged mirrors. One half of this particular reflection showed the dessicated landscape of Charyk, smoking and black with blasted trees and the scattered, metallic remnants of their enemies.

The other half... was something else entirely. This singular mirror, once a window, was black and dark. And yet... something glittered at its very edges.

For this was the half of the blade that Cyan's Gurthang had cleaved asunder. The half that her Archon companion had absorbed. It made Arianne curious. As she was mostly spirit and thought now, curiosity was a powerful thing within her magical confines.

Reaching out, she tapped a pale, delicate finger upon its ebon surface...

"Eh?"

Aaron turned from their last target and finally noticed Luke approaching. He sighed, but the grip on his sword tightened ever more.

"Cyan, make sure your Archon bodyguards don't slay Luke and our comrades, please," he asked this rather calmly.

Another.  And another.  The DeathIron's flame does not dim.  Cyan does not falter.  It has been less than a minute, yet - she might be no scion of Amber, but like those who trained her, she can fight for an hour, more.  The armor is no impediment, and might even slow or stop a danioti's blades, an eshurianti's flames.

Explosion.  Flare of power, too close.  Lightning...now, that is something against which metal armor is no protection.  Diamond eyes throw back the blue-violet tinged flash, and she looks up to see the herenethi beyond her reach, and near-invulnerable to Right and Left.

Those two...they will be consumed.  She will not permit it.

She flicks her left hand, free for an instant, to call them to her, shrunken.  Close, now, they fall under her aegis along with the Leader, and she protects them as they protect her, giving them time to cool.  Dangerous, but necessary.

And there is nothing she can do about the lightning-caster....

The Leader speaks.  Cyan glances.  Reinforcements.  A flood of creatures.  People she knows not.  And the Hated One - but an ally, nonetheless.  Her laugh twists into a snarl for an instant, but she turns her attention from him as he rises and Gurthang sweeps through a short, powerful cut at an Archon who has come too close.

Surrounded.  Where are the others?  Where has the Dark One gone?  The Strong One - does he live?  Why did the Quick One flee?

This is only part of a greater battle, of which she is dimly aware.  A greater battle she cannot see.  Pointless to question, as if questions held a long life, consumed by the fire in her mind.  Not encircled ground, nor difficult.  There is no time for strategy, no clever, fast movement that will extricate them from this lethal enclosure.  This is death ground, as the sage would say.

And in death ground, one fights.

The laughter scales higher.  The ends of her hair are singed, burned by a passing eshurianti, a touch too close.  Scoremarks on her armor - how long before Ares' potent protection is finally breached?  The heat rises, and despite her tenacity, she knows fatigue will set in more quickly than ever.  And the lightning....

But she is alive.  Alive!
This message was last edited by the player at 12:27, Thu 03 Mar 2011.

Once a few have passed through the wooden door, Trista steps carefully across the threshold into the crumbling city. She makes her way to the front, just behind the giant Archon which rapidly diminishes in size. Her eyes grow large as she watches the transformation and she barely nods her head as it gives an explanation.


But she follows, mostly leaning on the certainty of her companion. The entire lot of them files from the cathedral amid dust and debris, following one of the good flaming circles. Irony there, somewhere. Trista’s eyes never leave the darting dollup, but take in the chaos around her peripherally. The city is destroyed; where exactly are they going?


Through the generally sharp and tumultuous noises of war, a voice booms across the air, washing over the woman. The East Gate. Hope.

The good Archon suddenly zips in close with words of, what? Pride? Relief? Fact? Before anything else is said, the Nephalim expands and warns. Trista’s body tightens, knuckles burning white around the knife in her hand as she finds the image of a man in dark clothing. Her eyes narrow as she takes in his weapon.


The woman stays behind the large Archon until she assesses the situation, but she edges to the right slightly. She drops the Berd’s shoulder slightly behind and readies her own small blade. He will be protected. They will be protected.

Dorian's message flows to Berd, and the little drake stiffens on Trista's arm.  For an instant, the bridging with her goes haywire as excitement banishes the fatigue.  His back arches, and he sings a note of warning into the air, a crystal vibration that hangs for an instant.



He fans his wings, but remains upon Trista's shoulder.  Too weak to fly, yet, and he cannot abandon his charges or the brave woman who leads them in pursuit of Jeheol.


His eyes glitter again, as Berd pulls reserves of energy from...somewhere.  He stands on shaky legs on her shoulder, and glares warning at the dustclouds and broken homes around them.  He will not regain a daughter only to lose the ones he protects!  His tiny claws dig slightly as he keeps his balance, but never break Trista's skin - he is far, far too careful for that.  Instead, they are used on her shirt to keep him from slipping, while adroit use of the pads of his 'toes' clamp him to her.

Luke's voice comes, then, and Berd receives a short burst of information from the man.  He ponders it with one mind - the hydra-mind is exhausted, but he still retains the capacity for thought.


The woman is madly brave, prepared to tackle an Archon in her shirtsleeves, aremed with nothing more than a long knife.  But perhaps there is more than meets the eye - one of Berd's minds wearily rouses itself to study her, performing a delving in a search for power.

Then the warning.  Berd bugles with alarm.


Then the man appears, striding through the clouds of dust and soot like a force of nature, heavy blade in hand.  Berd's hiss transforms itself into a crystal cry of relief.


Himself and Trista.  Jeheol.  Now James.  Perhaps they have a chance, after all.

Time...she needed time.  Tahirah was a Seer, for Brother's sake.  She had always seen time as a gently flowing river, filled with soft whorls in which one could get a glimpse of what lay ahead...

Now she stood in the rapids, everything crashing down so fast she could hardly see what had just happened, let alone what was to come...

...and speaking of the Brothers.  She was unsure what she might add to HIS defenses, but she couldn't open a portal to another realm as he could.

Tahirah climbs quickly onto a fallen block from the ceiling, for a better vantage and to better be seen.  "Guard against that which comes from without," she calls, her trained voice ringing out to the remaining guards and to the newly arrived lizard-creatures that she can only hope will listen...or even speak the language.  Then she raises an arm, and begins rapidly tracing arcane figures in the air before her.

By the time James emerges from the shadows, dust has transformed his attire into a uniform dull grey.  His journey from the gate had taken longer than he hoped, being forced to stop and at times double back to avoid feuding Archons and teetering masonry.  Here and there he had come across citizens, now refugees, and, since they couldn't safely follow him, he had sent them on to the East Gate.

Now, though, he steps forth confidently, smiling broadly.

"Hello Berd, good to see you.  Ma'am.  I assume that Ember there is with...Oh, sorry, Jeheol.  Pleased to meet you.  I had thought to gather people at the cathedral, but I see it has been compromised.  What do you..."

Parcifal's command rings out, interrupting James.  "Ok. That's Parcifal, you'll remember him from the cathedral.  You know, the one with the sword.  East gate it is, back I go."

James is glad that others are looking out for the welfare of Charyk's inhabitants, but he does wish that Parcifal had mentioned his plan before James left.  He feels increasingly useless in the context of the wider battle.  Dammit, I could have been riding with Luke and Morgan.

Thus, when Jehoel announces the arrival of an enemy, James looks pleased.  Possibly not the most appropriate outlook in the circumstances.  "Berd, if you're here rather than out there,"  The implication of Cyan lies heavily on James words, "then I'm guessing you're pretty tired.  Can you and Mourningsoul keep the refugees moving?  I may be able to assist Jeheol to stop Israfil, if he is willing."

Edit: because it's fashionable, apparently.  And because I try to get names right.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:33, Tue 09 Jan 2007.

The first groups of sorcerers are downed with draconian efficiency, but there are more out there, in the forest. Dorian sends his own cadre of sleek, efficient drakes forth, splitting them into the smallest groups possible as they seek out their next set of targets. So far, this latest phase of his campaign against the cadre has boasted great success. They fall by the dozens, but hundreds more are out there, spread out and sparse. Archons run between them as messengers.

Drakes are far from soft, despite their sleek and supple appearance. When the opportunities are present, he sends larger groups of drakes against the messenger Archons, hoping to disable the lines of communication. He backs these fights with his remaining strength and spells.

As they soar to the next targets, he pauses, lowering his eyes from the skies. Cyan dances, blade in hand. Archons die like scrap metal before a junkyard thrasher- a beautiful and magnificent junkyard thrasher that is. He scorns himself for such an awful metaphor.

"I wished to inquire...why sequester yourself?"  It tumbles out quickly, as Cyan pushes herself to speak.  "Why not come down, and eat with the others, spend time with them beyond the dictates of the quest?"  She doesn't like prying, nor pushing her way into someone else's space.  But the hand should be extended.  She wants him to know.

He remembers the feeling. He felt caught, like a child, somehow. Yet, she was no condemning. He'd been in the upstairs room, alone, preparing his spells for whatever lie ahead. She came to him. He never quite understood why it mattered to her where he ate, yet... it did matter to her.

"There is work to be done. Sorcery is not without its price. The drakes of Samhain I conjured took hours of preparation, and they were with us only minutes. That is why I hesitated to call them forth; I had to weigh the cost against the need."

Foolishness!

"I know little of Sorcery but I shall remember this, so as not to interrupt you in the future."  Giving him a weak smile, Cyan shrugs helplessly.  "One hopes!  A good night to you, Dorian."

But it wasn't over there. Something about that giving in, the understanding had made him feel even worse. Was it being alone; or was it that she was leaving? One of many times she had left him. Yet, that time, he had sent her away.

The door opens more, literally and figuratively, as he half-turns to look at the platter, barely touched, on the small desk.

Alone.

He'd been so alone, ever since the loss of Galatea and Drusilla's betrayal.

"Well then!" she says brightly.  "We will enjoy your presence for as long as you can give it.  I do understand," Cyan continues, growing more serious, "that you have important tasks.  But I am pleased, very pleased, you have chosen to join us."

Very pleased...

Slipping past him like an eel, she darts to the dresser, catching up his platter and spinning it on the tip of a finger for a moment, to catch the eye and forestall objections to her sudden presence in his space.  The role of a serving girl suddenly cloaks her, and she looks perfectly natural entering to take the food, even with the spinning tray trick.  It is a subtle thing, all posture and motion.  Acting comes naturally to Cyan, trained in many roles.  Acting, of course - not falsification.  Taking on a role is one thing - deceit is something she has never mastered.

Very, very pleased.

The movement, the act, the enthusiastic immersion in the role, had stuck in his mind so clearly in the time since. It had replayed like some stuck clip from an old movie, over and over, silent.

Then she's past him again, the tray held high over their heads so she might fit out the door without losing the food.  "Come, then, Dorian - your food grows cold, exchanging position with the ale."  A mischievous grin touches her features as she bows him toward the stairs.

That pixie grin could melt hearts. How many times had he demanded thousands bow to him or suffer his wrath, and yet, she bows and he feels silly?

Defeat.

Plunking Dorian's plate down on the table with a flourish, she grins at Jonnee and James.

And that was that. He was one of them, now. Eating in the common room like some commoner, no less or more than he really was, he was just unaccustomed to it.

She danced. Occasionally, her eyes catch the flickering battle light and sparkle. She danced a dance celebrating Archon death and destruction. For a moment, a wild, berserk moment, she was one of them. She was back. Would it last? No one knew. If ever there was hope, it was here on this battlefield. Hope was enough, for now.

It was a foolish, desperate move, but he'd been desperate. Not for winning or losing, or having her back, he simply had needed to let her know how he saw her. The endless struggle against the Archons, against her, could go on once that was accomplished, really, but before it went further, he'd needed to let her see that.

It was foolish. Hope always is.

It was done. She had seen. She had understood. She now knew irrevocably, for better or worse, no matter the embarrassment, how he felt about her, how he saw her.

He exhaled. His stomach still felt queasy.

So, she had seen herself through his eyes. How did she see him?

He'd seen a glimpse of how she saw him.

The second is Dorian, dressed in his customary heavy cloak, staff in hand, other hand outstretched; on it lies a large, ancient compass.  The man stands at a crossroads upon a plateau, jagged, snowtopped mountains behind him, a green valley stretching deep before him, twin paths extending out to his sides.  It is impossible to determine from where he came, though.  A signpost stands beside him, ancient and weatherburned.  Dorian's sharp features are hard and set against the wind whipping his cloak, and his eyes carry a question in their dark depths as he surveys both compass and roads.  A man following a road to its end, now finding himself with choices where none existed before.

Crossroads. Which road did I take, then, Cyan?

Or was he continually standing at those crossroads? How long had he stood there? Had he now taken a step down one of those roads? He would never know.

Perhaps it wasn't so much about the roads, but about the steps taken. There were wrong roads of course, but he had stood at those crossroads a trifle too long. It was time to take steps, and take them quickly and with confidence.

Why?

The answer was obvious.

The answer danced his own dance along side her. The display had not been lost on Dorian, though he had not deigned to notice it externally. It was far from lost on Dorian. The implications bore many questions, many thoughts. He'd need time to think things over. He'd take that time, but when the time was right, hesitation would be a terrible idea.

Steps.

No hesitation.

He looked up. The drakes neared their destination. Wings folded back tight against squamous flesh and they free fell for a thousand feet, sleek scales offering minimal resistance to the wind. They accelerate to terrible speed, keen eyes locked on the unsuspecting sorcerers below. Many poems and stories written on Samhain featured the sound of their wings, the curt crack as they caught the wind, swooped and snatched. Predator or prey, it didn't matter, it would be the last sound they heard.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:11, Thu 11 Jan 2007.

New revelations from the small dragon intrigues Trista: he has a daughter. And she’s, apparently, the prodigal son returning. Good news in a bad situation. More reason to see to Berd’s safety: the two dragons must be reunited.


Further information regarding the Nephillim and Israfil fills her mind.


The silent introductions of Scarspirit concur with the man’s appearance, dust defining his clothing. Amusement plays in her mind at the dragon’s naming, knowing the man must have a more pedestrian name as well. Delight evaporates when she remembers the descriptive nature of the monikers. ‘Scarspirit’ indicates a hurt soul and Trista does not find any joy in that.

She nods her greeting to the polite man and let’s herself fall to the background, though she remains alert, tense, and ready. For what though?

For Israfil.

Berd’s friend seems pleased to encounter this enemy. Strange. Although she will allow Berd to guide her, she puts her two cents into the mix, “The line of refugees is long, I can keep them moving while remaining here to confront this Israfil. If he is strong enough to cause the reactions I saw in Jeheol, we should not abandon you.”

Conviction.

Berd wearily watches the interplay back and forth between the two, James and Trista.  He slowly nods his head to James' request, and listens to Trista's reply with one mind.  Another keeps a running tab on his own strength - it flows dangerously low.


He stares up into the sky, searching for an approaching enemy.  Scanning.  Hunting.  Then his silent voice rings out to both people - not in a bridging, for he has no permission to link their minds so, but separately.


They will have to fight.  He can only attempt to prevent the Archon, whatever it might be, from simply burning them all to ashes in an instant, or flash-electrocuting them.  He can try to be their shields, these two brave people, attempt to keep them alive long enough to fight.  But they must use the swords.

He may no longer have the strength for even that.

Two of the best of humanity, here and now.  He wonders at Luke's hatred, that he only sees the worst of people.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:23, Wed 10 Jan 2007.

His blade waving acknowledgment to Luke, Morgan crouched low over Leareth's neck. They flowed over the landscape, jumping pits where flame or blade had blasted the earth, dodging blasted tree stumps, leaving smaller divots of their own as they raced to the fight.

Luke directs Morgan and his panthers to assist in the battle between Aaron and Cyan, and the Archons at ground level, while he goes to deal with the herenethi which hovers above them, like some mockery of a halo.  Lightning strikes down from it, and where it touches, even the danioti are stunned or destroyed.

Luke rises to face it, closer and closer, and... the lightning stops falling, arcing instead towards the man, and then falling to earth in an incandescent torrent.  The herenethi dims, and dips in the air, its rotation slowing perceptibly, before it winks out of existence, leaving Luke still hanging in the air, his clothes ablaze.

Perhaps it is only a rising wind that draws those flames out into a semblance of great wings...


Elsewhere, Banglen-Yp and Roman, fighting now alongside an Archon, strike the approaching danioti with the energy of storm and chaos and electricity.

The blonde woman, the hole in her stomach already almost healed, discharges bolt after bolt from her oddly-changed arm.  Vohu Manarah uses either similar discharges, or merely slams against his opponents, sending sparks dancing across their surfaces.  And Roman of Chanicut strikes again and again, with his greenish blade of energy.

Those danioti that don't die immediately find themselves pinned to the ground by Jonnee Kay and his brintizzi troops.


Below Luke, the lightning stops falling, and Cyan and Aaron find that the numbers of their enemies have decreased considerably, due both to their own efforts, and to a certain degree of "friendly fire" from above.

There are still a few left however, when Morgan and the panthers arrive, to find a scene of total confusion.  Two Archons, clashing, howling maelstroms of metal, fight each other nearby.  One is torn apart, and the victor, brightly coloured, draws the fragments of its defeated foe into its own form.  Then it darts towards Morgan, pauses for a moment before him, before hurtling away to take position near Aaron and the laughing woman who fights alongside him.

Another Archon swoops close, and this one speaks, + YOU MUST BE HERE TO HELP THE GENERAL, AND THE ONE NAMED AARON, SINCE YOU ARE NOT PART OF THE ARMY? +


Inside the crumbling city, Jehoel speaks, + WE WOULD BE GLAD OF ASSISTANCE IF YOU CAN PROVIDE IT.  ISRAFIL IS STRONG, AND COMBAT MIGHT COST US LIVES. +, then suddenly speeds away, and there is a burst of brilliant flame and light as the Archon collides with another... and then both are moving towards James and the refugee group, clashing and colliding as one tries to force the other aside.  The heat in the area rises, and the shattered remains of nearby market stalls ignite as they pass.

A voice booms out, loud enough to dislodge more dust and grit from the ceiling, adding to the choking atmosphere, + FLEE, ISRAFIL, THE BATTLE HERE IS DONE.  THE NEPHELIM FIGHT NOW, AND YOUR PRECIOUS GENERAL FIGHTS WITH US! +

Behind Trista and Berd, people start to scream, and huddle down as wave after wave of heat washes over them.  A few start to run back, deeper into the city...


With only the commands of Tahirah to give them anything remotely resembling normalcy, the guards in the East Gate move quickly to obey her commands.  One of them, standing in the opening, turns back to her, "Mistress Tahirah!  Four of the fire wheels are coming this way!"

Around him, his companions start sending streams of energy out towards the attackers...


Elsewhere, and deadly black shapes move almost silently through the air... the screams of their victims the only audible sign of their presence.  The sorcerers of the Army at the End of Time die quickly, despite their being scattered throughout the forest.

Even a few of their messengers are intercepted and torn apart by groups of drakes, though that happens less frequently, since most of them are in the habbit of travelling through the Underflow...


High above the battlefield, a whole group of eshurianti vanishes... winking out of existence.  More follow moments later.  Then several of the herenethi...

Vohu Manarah hovers still now, suddenly without nearby foes.  + THEY FLEE.  THE SERAPHIM SELDOM FACE ENEMIES WHO ARE ABLE TO RETALIATE!  MORE AND MORE ARE RETREATING, COWARDS AS THEY ARE. +

The Archon moves closer to its human (and not-so-human) allies, + CONTINUE TO HARRY THEM, AS YOU CAN, DEFENDERS OF WORLDS.  THE TIDE TURNS HERE. +

They waver.  The Enemy begins to fold.  And, as always, Cyan chooses the direct path.

Her laughter scales higher into a scream of effort, and she redoubles her attack.  They cannot strike at the Leader's back if she presses out into them.  Gurthang is an arc of flame around her, nothing more, as she pushes forward into the enemy, moving from Wheel to Wheel, seeking not to destroy but to tear away pieces, to scatter them, to drive them away.  This is no crazed rush, but a brutal outpouring of power and speed, carefully timed and planned step by step on the instant of contact.

Their morale flags.  Allies strike at them.  Now is the time for attack.

Jumbled memories fill the back of her mind, a bag of broken glass tearing at her subconcious, but Cyan knows nothing of this.  Wounds burn her nerves, heat sears her skin, but pain is nothing more than an old friend.  It tells her she lives.

Here, now, all she is can be summed up by the blade in her hands and her diamond eyes.  Things will become more muddled later, but now her focus is pure.

I’ve been living a lie
There’s nothing inside
This message was last edited by the player at 02:14, Tue 01 June 2010.

Roman needs not be told a second time.  Filled with the joy of the storm he pursues the retreating Seraphim.  His victims are seized with Logrus tendrils, to prevent their escape.  Then caught and slain.

When the enemy arrived it had seemed that escape with the thing sought would have been the best possible result.  A victory, true, but one that would look like defeat.  The intervention of the Nephilim has changed that.  Although the loss of the fortress of Charyk is painful to the people of this place it cannot be doubted that the Seraphim have suffered a major defeat - despite the size of the force they had committed to the battle.

"Pfft."  Luke snapped his fingers and the fiery aura pushed out from his body, now feeding itself with the air.  "'Running away, are you?'" he asked with a mock-english accent, then brushed the charred soot from his shoulders.  His attack upon it had worked, but not quickly enough, and the Seraphim had been able to escape before death claimed it.

"'Seraphim'," he whispered, then snorted.  "Not hardly."

He studied the man and woman who battled against the danioti, watched as the two 'bodyguards' he remembered from the General's camp (vaguely) stood near to them.  One of them even greeted the incoming army of panthers.  Now there's a sight you don't often see.  He should probably join in.  But his hands shook.  Not from this one, short battle against the herenethi, but from the entire battle.  The pressure he had endured was extreme.  He was no Berd, to hold a bridging steady (even were it rarely used) throughout a battle, while simultaneously cloaking a small group from psychic attack and speaking to the population of a fortress.  And other, unseen efforts as well.

But Voh Manarah called to them, pressing them onward from nearby.  Luke wearily passed one hand across his brow, then turned his eyes to the battle above.  He could not distinguish the Enemy from Allies.  But danioti rose from the field to group with others, with eshurianti - perhaps to carry the fight to the Nephillim who had joined the quest's cause?  Those, he could make out.

This would exhaust him, perhaps for some time to come.  Of what was its worth?  We can only know that in the here and now.  His lips quirked.  "'...well hast thou fought the better fight, who single hast maintained against revolted multitudes the Cause Of Truth, in word mightier then they in arms....'"

His voice trailed off.  He spread flaming wings, and their fire burned from crimson, to orange, to yellow, to brillaint white.  He lay at their centre, a core of darkness with fiery eyes.  Luke carefully chose a small group of eshurianti, joined by danioti rising from the battle with Jonnee's forces.  The air around them shimmered and danced with the heat of their passage.

To battle lightning, one grounded it.  For metal and fire?  Well, they had one weakness in common.

He raised his hands.  "'There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm.'"  His smile faded.  "Welcome to Judecca," Luke snarled.

More than confused, Morgan nodded to the whirling ...thing...of steel, watching as it returned to its general. Then Leareth leaped forward again, and he snapped into focus again. Their momentum translated into savage strikes with his diamond blade and lightning gouges from his friends' claws as they struck and rebounded, looping around for another run.

Sweating, his breath and body cold and numb from the constant swinging, grasping, controlling the enemy.

They would hold them still. Cyan and her bodyguards crushing them once Aaron, arms straining, restrained the enemy. Sometimes he and Ilse would do enough damage with their attacks alone to warrant a minor retreat by some random danioti, only to have it crushed by the multi-colored blades of the larger Archon who fought beside Cyan.

He noted Luke. Was grateful for his assistance - but Aaron was beyond his limit, now. Drawing things to Charyk from Beyond using the Pattern... surviving the strike against Berd and his subsequent injuries from it (and the landing)... pulling the strengh of mind and spirit to draw Cyan from the will of Harbonah... and now, this fight.

But still he fought on. Here and now.

With the appearance of their enemy, Israfil, James focuses on the challenge at hand.  Unfortunately, the challenge requires a number of responses, all of them immediate.

"Berd, can you tag Israfil?  I can't tell them apart when they move like that."

"Towards the Gate!  Keep moving towards the East Gate, people!  Nothing lies further in but rubble and death!"

"Jeheol!  How can I assist you?  I can't approach your flames."

A necessary question that last.  As the Archons surge and struggle above his head, James is left feeling like a spectator once more.  He switches Fangmir to his left hand and hefts a fist size hunk of rock, waiting for a clear shot.

Jonnee laughs aloud, and calls out, "You bet we'll continue!  In fact, we were on our way to do that when you interrupted us."

He indicates the area of the battlefield that he'd previously selected, where the Archons battle among themselves, and directs the brintizzi that way.  The reptile warriors blur, as they dart past Jonnee and his new allies.

"I'm heading there.  Seems like there's plenty of action.  Feel free to join me if you want.  Or not." he remarks to Roman and Banglen-Yp, with a grin, "Word is, though, that the herenethi, like our friend Vohu, are immune to electricity.  So, whatever you decide, it might be a good idea not to tangle with them, unless you've got other weapons."

An odd hand gesture to Vohu Manarah, "Later, Nephelim." and then he is sprinting after the brintizzi, though he has no hope of catching them.  His voice drifts back to the others, "C'mon Hunter!  If you get the lead out of your furry ass, there might be something left for us to do, when we get there!"

The wolf stands, with an exaggerated sigh, almost as if it understood every word, and follows after him.

 

Having been zapping Archon's whenever the opportunity presented itself, Banglen-Yp listened to Jonnee as he suggested that they move on if they wished.

Defender of Worlds.  It was used for them all now, she believed.

She sets out at a pace that matches his, even though she can not seem to gain on him.  He was fast too, although The Funny Looking Guys were faster still.

Almost losing herself in the joy of mocing this fast she was soon pulled back by her highly structured mind as it spotted potential targets and began to calculate firing resolutions.

But how to tell enemy from ally?

The Archon they talked to, or the other way around, seemed to be named Vohu, and be a Nef Fel Im or something.

Best ask.

•• How • to • tell • en•em•y • from • al•ly ••

Definitely a question.

Then there was the question of what to use for weapon against thosee Herr Eni Ty he had mentioned.  A blunt fist would not do well, she suspected.

As she ran and waited for a response part her calculating mind settled on finding a resolution to that quandary.

 

Roman is not overly concerned that the herenethi are immune to lightning.  The lightning is like the edge of the sword - although deadly in itself, it is also means of delivering the true killing power.  The nature of the herenethi may make them more vulnerable to Wormwood's lethal power, not less.

The two ashurianti flare as they come closer and closer; Israfil obviously means to force his opponent back into the humans, both the warriors and the civillians.  Berd struggles to push himself up, then wilts on Trista's shoulder.  All of his strength is committed to a different arena of the battle, and he cannot drag it away at the moment.

He can, however, trust his allies.

As the flaming wheels fall lower, a small faerie flashes into existance amidst a cloud of sparkles.  Greatly daring, she braves the flames to dance close to one Archon and scatters a handful of dust upon it.  Where the dust falls, the eshurianti flares a putrescent green.

Then, smoking in the heat, she zip away into cooler orbits around the battling flames.

Concern for her little charge and the refugees behind her, keep Trista in the present. She chokes off the memories haunting the edges of her awareness; those Berd unknowingly coax further into prominence. It’s not the dragon’s fault; the woman habitually allows the past to rule the present, but now is not the time for dwelling. Now is the time for protection.


Then the Archons collide in brilliant hues of red and orange; a terribly beautiful site to behold. The flames would burn, but what was that to Trista? Lives would be lost, so declared Jehoel. Better hers than the dragon’s. Still, she’s not reckless, instead taking a few moments to study the dance, learning.

Then Berd illuminates the enemy archon through the magics of a pixie and debris falls in clumps to clog windpipes. The people panic. Berd’s friend calls instructions, but Trista fears it will not be enough. She turns from the fiery mass, and sets gentle but firm hands on shoulders, turning them to the right direction of the East Gate. “Go. The East Gate. There lies safety.” Several are touched, brought back.

But as Berd had instructed, she leaves the masses to heed her words and turns back to the Archons. She’s convinced they are not pure plasma, but have a solid core by the way they clang off of each other. She has a target if she can survive the flames.

If Berd can survive the flames.