"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.