The interior of the inn is immaculately clean, and brightly lit by numerous lanterns, improving the illumination from the rain-filled sky beyond the windows.  A fire burns in the hearth, and the room is warm.

The common room is not crowded, containing only about half a dozen other customers, all of whom look as though they might be seafarers - clothes which don't match the styles worn by the people in the city's streets, and two of them have bare feet.  They are all sitting around the same table, which bears six tankards, and the remains of a loaf.  At the arrival of a group of strangers, they all look towards the door, then turn back to their own conversation.

There is no sign of anybody who might be the innkeeper, though there is a clanking sound, coming from an open doorway behind the counter at one end of the room.

James decides to join those stopping at the inn.  Pushing the door open he steps in and immediately to one side to let those behind him enter as he surveys the room.  Six men are seated together and James instinctively checks for any obvious weapons.

A moment later James is mentally berating himself.  Pull yourself together, James.  Stop looking for conspiracies.  There's nothing wrong with a ship's crew drinking together.  Probably known to Donovan, too, if he'll leave them the run of the common room.

Cyan enters the inn tentatively at first, Berd perched on her shoulder like a pirate's parrot.  She steps in beside James and takes a deep breath, glancing around the room with topaz eyes, searching for the familiar.  It has been two years, nearly, but she can still see Morgan and Duncan at a table, with the tall form of Otandal joining them.  Lexy and I sat there and traded thoughts on music, she realizes.

A quick glance at James, and she raises an eyebrow.  "I hope the innkeeper has changed as little as this room."  One hand pushes back her rain-soaked cloak - upon their arrival at the city, Berd has been forced to release his protection.  It might, after all, attract attention; a little rain could hurt far less than the wrong kind of observation.

Berd chirrups, staring around the room with wide, burning eyes.  The rain steams from his body, drying at record speeds.  He squawks in irritation as Cyan abruptly walks for the fire, then stands, turns about several times, and lies down again.

Roman follows James and Cyan, content to let others take the lead in this strange city.  Too close to Amber.  The presence of the seafarers is less suspicious than the absence of others.   If this place is so good then where are the locals, the crews of other vessels ?  The more so, since the damage to the city is likely to have lead to the removal of at least some competing establishments.

The suspicions go unvoiced, for now.  Wait and see

From the open doorway, a voice calls out, "It's nearly ready, lads."

"Just a couple more minutes, and then... "  A man wearing a white apron, steps through into the room, and stops speaking as he notices that he has more customers.

"Good day, my friends.  I'll be with yer in just a moment."  His attention goes back to the group already seated, "Like I said, lads, just a few more minutes, and yer pie'll be ready."

He turns back to the newcomers, and looks them over, smiling broadly, "So, then...  What'll it be, my friends?"  His eyes lock with Cyan's, and he adds, "Though I'm sorry ter say, I've got none o' that fine brandy left just now, Miss.  Hopefully yer'll forgive ol' Donavon fer that?"

Relief washes over Cyan.  With everything that had befallen this city, she had feared something amiss had occured with Donovan.  It seems it is not the case...and better yet, it seems his memories of her are pleasant ones.  Cyan bows to him, and slowly straightens.  "Sir Donovan."  Her amythest eyes are bright, as is her smile.  "A pleasure, a true pleasure, to see you again.  No mere brandy could compare to your hospitality.  With your words, your kindness, sour mash is pure honey-mead."

She hurries ahead with the introductions, giving each of her compatriots their due*.  "I know not how long we shall be in the city, Donovan, but I am certain we would appreciate a meal and, if you have time, news of what has transpired in the-" two years "-half-year or so since I last laid eyes upon you."  Of course, she has been to the city since, but only briefly, and does not know how that situation had been viewed.

"Only if you have time," Cyan repeats, with a quick glance toward the waiting sailors.

*OOC - I didn't know who exactly is coming to the inn.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:32, Mon 23 Apr 2007.

Trista remained with the group at the Inn, entering that building behind the others. In her travels, she had been to many Inns such as this, though certainly this one maintained a warmth above many others. It was one of the pleasures of World Walking; participating in lands out of time and so alien to her own.

Trista remains back, eyes roaming over the room and toward the door. This place holds special significance to Cyan, and Trista will not be the one to interrupt. The Innkeeper finds Cyan, and warm greetings are exchanged. Good, Cyan needs positive experiences.

The woman waits to see what comes of Cyan’s invitation to talk with Donovan. Perhaps Trista will join them or possibly walk back outside to keep an eye on both groups at once. Then again, the sailors could have information...
This message was lightly edited by the player at 22:14, Mon 23 Apr 2007.

Roman sees no gain in drawing attention to himself yet.   Not until there is a question worth asking, so he restricts himself to a non-commital noise, acknowledging the innkeeper's greeting.  Let the others take the lead, for now.

"Well... it's been a strange time, and no mistakin'" the innkeeper says, answering Cyan, while setting glasses out on the counter.

"The treaty were signed, and all, spite o' what 'appened.  So now we's got a trade agreement with Amber, though events delayed it a mite.  Them same events led ter some trouble in town, as yer may recall.  Things settled again, but there were odd days when things'd flare up again, an' times were a tad 'ard, which is why I've no brandy."

"Last two months it's been quiet, mind.  Though I reckon we's seen more warships from Amber than merchantmen, and whenever one o' those comes in, folks start ter get a bit... excited.  That's why it's so quiet in 'ere terday.  There's an Amber warship in, and a lot o' people are stayin' 'way from the docks."

He smiles, and starts pouring drinks as people order them.

"Yer friend were 'ere 'bout a fortnight ago, Miss.  The other young lass who played some tunes with yer, that day when yer first came 'ere.  I wondered if yer'd be in yerself."

Roman says nothing but racks his brain for memories Friend ? Does this place match her pictures ?  Her descriptions of her travels ?  If only I'd paid more attention

Cyan moves up and leans against the counter, interested in hearing what Donovan has to say.  Berd hops from her shoulder, floats up to the rafters.  From there, he runs along them for a short distance, much like a cat or rat, and then silently descends to lightly land on Trista's shoulder.

"I remember much of that," Cyan returns quietly.  Her sapphire eyes are dark, brooding.  "At least you have had quiet, here, and the Blue Rose has survived.  A pity about the brandy...I shall have whatever you reccomend."  She traces her finger through a drop of water on the bar, making an empty symbol with it for an instant before wiping the wet away.

"And the trade agreement went through.  That, in itself, is a relief."  Her eyes rise to the innkeeper.  "Is there royalty in the city at the momement?"  Then her brow furrows at his continued explanation.  "Lexy?  Here?"  She straightens, and Berd glances over with glittering eyes.  "Did she stay long, say aught of where she travelled next?"

James relaxes at the exchange between Cyan and Donovan.  All is well, it seems, barring the lack of brandy.  He crosses from the door to the bar and stands there for a moment apparently lost in thought.

"A wine please.  Red.  I don't know the local varieties so I'll take your recommendation as well."

James' ears perk up at the mention of Lexy.  He'd never met Lexy of course but it was strange that she had been here so recently.  And he seemed to recall Roman mentioning the name.

"No, Miss.  She stayed one night, then took a ship ter somewhere, though she didn't let on where." the innkeeper says, as he pours drinks.

"If yer'll excuse me, just a moment.  Them lads's been waiting' fer a bit o' dessert, an' it'll be 'bout ready now."

With a quick nod, he dashes out through the door, presumably into a kitchen.  The sound of clattering metal echoes back into the bar, and the group of seamen immediately become more alert again, glancing towards the door where Donavon vanished.  One or two actually get up from their seets, craning their necks to peer through opening, and there is much laughter, and slapping of backs.

A few minutes later, Donovan reappears, carrying a large tray bearing a stack of several small plates, and two large baking dishes.  "'Ere yer go, lads.  Sorry yer 'ad ter wait fer 'em."  The sailors themselves don't seem to be at all concerned about the supposed delay, but are instead happy to get their food.

Donovan returns to the bar, and half whispers, "So much excitement over a bit of apple pie.  Still, they said they've not 'ad any in a while, so I s'pose it's ter be expected."  He pauses, and collects his thoughts, "What were I sayin?  Oh, yes, Amber... "

"One o' them Princes's 'ere, in Cadiniagart, I means, not in the Blue Rose.  Can't recall 'is name, somethin' outlandish what starts with a 'C', I think.  Sailed in day 'fore yesterday, 'e did.  Official proclamation is that it's ter settle the last details o' the treaty.  'Twixt you'n'me, though, I reckon as it's got more ter do with that man o' theirs turnin' out ter be the one what attacked our king.  An' a spy, ter boot."

What happened here?

Talk of treaties, war, memories; had Cardiniagart been at war with Amber? And they survived… if that’s the case, there’s much more to learn of this city. By all accounts, whatever happened here, it’s in the past. Amber now parks warships of another ilk. Perhaps the Archons have already reached its mythic shores.

Trista’s eyes follow Berd’s inarguably ‘cute’ movements as he floats up, scuttles across, and drops down on her shoulder. “Hey, Little Wing,” her voice is quiet for just him.


Her eyes shift to take in the Chaosist, curious if he knows this Lexy of which Cyan and Donovan speak. James moves to the bar and orders a wine. Trista knows little of the finer alcohols. When she drinks, she drinks, Whiskey most often. Otherwise, she generally sticks to water and juice.

The silent woman continues her vigil by the door, her ears open and her mind absorbing the newest information concerning one of the Family in Cardiniagart at the moment. A contact, perhaps?

Cyan frowns in consternation, glances back toward the others.  Here, then gone.  Wouldn't say where.  It makes no sense unless...

Two possibilities leap to mind.  The first is that she's following them.  Hunting them, or shadowing them.  Trying to catch up, perhaps.  Time works oddly in the Myriad Worlds - perhaps her power touched on where they had been in an investigation close to Amber (daring, that), and Lexy headed off to find them, starting in the most obvious place.  The other possibility....

She came here looking for something, and possibly found it.

The Enemy has touched this place twice.  It is a gateway to Amber.  Did Lexy find something they left in the past?  Did she discover something they planned for now, or the future?

Impossible to say.  It could be either.  Both.  Neither.

Then Donovan returns, and Cyan listens attentively.  One of the royalty...wait, what was that?  "Your pardon, Donovan, but...of what do you speak?  What man of theirs?  What treason?"

Now worried, she looks back at James, flicks a glance to Roman, arches an eyebrow at Trista and Berd by the door.  This is...serious business.  She has a sudden, worried inkling that she knows the identity of the man for whom the gibbet is planned.

Roman catches Cyan's glance.   This is more important to her than Lexy.  Unfortunately.  But why ?  It is an embarrassment to the Amberites that their man is caught.  But naught else is surprising.  Or likely to be of concern in the war against the Seraphim.

Too little information.  It is best to continue to watch and listen.  Wait for the right time.

"Well, it seems that Amber had a man livin' 'ere, fer a couple o' years.  Jus' ter keep an eye out, they reckon, in case any o' their own folk got in trouble 'ere.  It turns out as 'e might've been spyin' fer them too."

Donovan shakes his head, "There were nearly more trouble over that, but Amber sent some diplomats, an' everybody were so desperate fer the treaty ter go through, that things've been sorted out without so much trouble this time.  I 'eard from one o' the Watch terday that the spy were also likely an assassin."

"Anyways, they's tried ter get their man back, but 'e's ter be 'anged, in the mornin', or so we've been told."

Roman leans forward with a quiet warning.  "We're not here to get involved with local politics."
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the sailors, to see how they react to the bartender's words.

Not a good situation, and Cyan has a bad feeling she knows who is up for the gibbet.  "I see; unfortunate for him," she says, nodding sagely and shifting away from that line of discussion.  Externally.  Internally, she rapidly exchanges informtion with Berd, who settles down on Trista's shoulder.  His eyes flicker and dance like candleflames in a breeze.

At Roman's warning, she glances back to him, lifts an eyebrow, and offers a sleepy smile in return.  It isn't meant to fool anyone.

"So, many things have transpired here since I last stepped into your Inn," she continues, and at that moment Berd's presence becomes apparant to any of the Questors in the Blue Rose - he hovers at the edges of their psychic defenses, not testing them, and offers a link to a newly formed bridging.  "I'm pleased to see that at least this Inn was spared the destruction.  Have you heard aught about wars?  We have travelled through many places to arrive here, and it seems that everywhere we go, there is conflict."

"Wars?  Aye, yer might say that." Donovan replies, with a rueful smile.  "I sees a lot o' sailors in 'ere, even with the recent difficulties.  Most o' them's got some tale o' trouble in foreign parts.  Take them lads... "

He indicates the group who sit laughing and joking, quietly, as they savour their apple pie, "Seems that, where they come from, there's been a war goin' on fer the las' year an' a half, or so.  Some time las' summer, some bugger, beggin' yer pardon ladies and gents, fired their city's orchards and fields, and most o' the food stores, in the middle of a hot dry spell.  That's why they'd not 'ad apples in a bit."

"They's been tradin' like crazy fer grain an' veggies... but some folk've started bumpin' the prices up, jus' fer them, so all their money goes on cheap, simple stuff, an' things like apples, an' pears, are right out o' the question."

He shakes his head, and sighs, "It's a shame... they're good lads."

Roman accepts the bridging, and wonders about wars. Has the fall of Charyk echoed across Shadow ?  Or is it the Archons' Shadows cast across the many worlds ?  Or is it an echo of the conflcit still to come ?  The ways of Shadow are strange.

James stands silent, happy to let Cyan ask the questions and willing to wait for Donovan to spare the attention for their drinks.  In the bard's absence, James had acted as spokeman for the group from time to time, but it wasn't a role he particularly coveted.

He was curious, however, to know why the accused assassin was still associated with Amber so long after the treaty was concluded, so he accepts Berd's bridging with alacrity, hopeful that the others have some insights to share.

She hears Cyan and Donovan clearly from her post a few paces away, but the words Roman speaks to the Bard go unheard. Trista’s not concerned, she will hear what she hears.

Though Berd settles on her shoulder, she senses the dragon’s divided attentions. Glancing at him, she marvels at the eyes burning bright. He and Cyan make a pair with their ever-changing eyes. She’s not surprised when Berd offers a bridging for the group, though whether it extends to those at the docks is unknown. She accepts it, much more settled with this type of communication than yesterday.


While Donovan goes on about the sailors – no wonder they’re so exited for apple pie – Trista’s eyes float about the room, always checking the doorways. She realizes Cyan carries the burden of information gathering and wishes she could contribute. Unfortunately, she feels like a kindergartener in high school and so keeps to absorbing what is said.

The bridging opens to all those here, at the Blue Rose...for now.  Perhaps more will be added later, but Cyan works by the 'fight your fight' principle - they're busy, and this isn't urgent.  Yet.

Her psychic voice comes clearly over the bridging.  Beldrin was a man who claimed to work for Prince Caine of Amber.  I am somewhat concerned that this man, this assassin, might be he.  He certainly was a spy, and connected with Amber - and carried a palanquet of Prince Caine.  He slew Cylla, the bearer of the 'cube' that allowed the Archons to catalogue world after world...at least, that is the assumed purpose.  Berd, can you recall the images upon the cube, and try to trace a path through the Myriad Worlds?

Beldrin had a palanquet tattooed into his forearm.  I wonder how they hold him?  Perhaps...no, I hope they did not 'remove' it.

If it is Beldrin, I must succor him.  Berd searches this world even now for his spirit.

A series of images follow - memories of Beldrin*.

"Poor fellows," she replies aloud, though quietly.  "War makes victims of us all, and there is more than enough of that in the Worlds."

* OOC - for more information, please reference Chapter 6 - The Cube, for a taste of 'President's Choice - Memories of Beldrin'.

Donovan continues taking orders, pouring drinks, and pushing them across the counter to their respective owners, while keeping up a quiet conversation with Cyan,  "Aye, poor fellers is right enough.  One o' them told me as 'ow 'is 'ome town were burned ter the ground by an invadin' army, afore their own boys managed to push 'em back.  I'm tellin' yer now, I've been 'ere more years'n I care ter 'member, an'there's always been tales o' wars... but lately there's been a lot more goin' on."

"It doesn't seem to me that you owe this man, who might even be guilty.  Even if he told the truth about working for Caine, Caine could be the traitor.  I would rather try to find where Lexy went.  That would be less risky, and I do have a duty to try...
This message was last edited by the player at 18:33, Mon 07 May 2007.

Donovan finishes pouring the drinks, and asks, "So... is there anythin' else I can get fer anyone.  Perhaps a bite ter eat?  Oh, an' will yer be wantin' rooms ternight?  It shouldn't be a problem... as yer can see, I'm none too busy terday."

As the bridging forms, Trista moves further away from Donovan and Cyan and closer to the door, peeking out down the docks. After a moment of hearing the voices within her mind, she responds in kind. We have yet to claim a ship so I see no problems with searching for this Beldrin. If the questors who have come before feel an obligation to the man, then they must do what they can in the time given to us. I will help, though I don’t know what I can do just yet.

Many images from the Cube, they traveled far. The Archons are our first worry, as far as I can see. But each path put before us must be considered in the grand scheme; perhaps even finding Beldrin will aid us in our ultimate goals.

Perhaps.

Somewhat distracted, Cyan examines her cup to see what Donovan has poured for her.  "An invading army?  What sort of army would this be?"  She doesn't think the Army of the End of Time reached anywhere near this close to Amber, but the Myriad Worlds are an odd place, with 'tunnels' under and over to provide shortcuts where none should exist.  "But yes...there has been a terrible upswell of war."  She remains uncertain of how much she should tell Donovan.

"As for food, should you have a small plate of vegetables and fruit, that will be sufficient for me."  Berd, upon Trista's shoulder, let's out a disgusted huff.  "For lodging?  I know not - my associates seek a ship at the moment, and will return to us their opinions shortly."

Within, her mind races.  Berd has located Beldrin, and it is as Cyan feared.  Trista has summed up my position eloquently.  And there is more - the situation here was much in flux, when last we walked this land.  Their royalty had been replaced by a shapeshifter.  Was this man, in truth, an assassin?  Is it the death of that royalty of which they speak?  Or another?  And was this one another shifter, or something worse?

I must know.

Donovan does not appear to know to where Lexy left.  Perhaps you might discern this by methods arcane?  I certainly understand your duty - it is, in part, duty that drives me to assist Beldrin.  Which I most certainly shall.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:09, Thu 10 May 2007.

[OOC Anyone got a reference to the local royalty being replaced by a shapeshifter ?  I don't remember that]

Over the bridging, thoughts flow. I smell politics in this execution.  It can be a deadly game - the more so when you know neither the players nor the rules.  Be careful.

For myself, I will stick to mundane means.  The talents I have offer little help in this matter and  I do not wish to be identified in this place.  Not by suspicious locals let alone the Amberites.

Through the door, a long way off, Trista sees Morgan leaving the docks with Banglen-Yp in tow. Perhaps they’ve procured the shift, after all. The woman lets the door softly swing shut as she turns into the room once again. As the silent conversation continues, her eyes drift from person to person.

In years past, she would have seen James’ need for a drink and gone behind the bar herself to grab a bottle, leaving a goodly tip for the ‘keeper. Or sat with the rowdy posse of sailors, drinking them under the table. But now she watches, silently.

Berd has already broken through some of the woman’s barriers, subtly and kindly enough to have almost gone unnoticed by Trista. She’s emotionally linked to him, now. Perhaps it’s just a matter of time before she finds connections with others, as well.

Meanwhile, decisions are being made. Decisions wrapped in uncertainty. But what world is certain in these times? Amber? Hardly.

Shifters… seem to be everywhere. Of course, including with us. The thoughts flow but without emotion attached; she shows no signs of her distrust of shape-shifters. As for your former companion, Lexy, if there is a way I can assist with finding her, I will. Beldrin seems to be here, though. With Berd’s help, perhaps we’ll know our next step.

Morgan and Banglen-Yp have left the group on the docs. I do not know yet if we have a ship.


Trista’s a woman who does not fidget; she has great control over her own body. But in minute ways, her body tenses as her eyes leave off their roaming and stare at a place far removed from reality. I’ll be back. Within a heartbeat, she’s outside, eyes darting to find the way to the center of the market place.

To the gallows.

Cyan ponders her drink and awaits Donovan's answers, while she continues to communicate over the bridging.  Politricks.  I have little time for them, I fear.  I am justly wary of them, but if I spent my life trying to account for each and every possibility, I would never act.  I will take your advice, Roman, and find a way with which to aid Beldrin that leaves - hopefully - no finger pointed back at us, or Amber.

Berd, for his part, is conveyed out through the door by Trista - he looks longingly back at the food with wide, sparkling eyes.

Indeed, Trista.  Beldrin must be assisted, for many reasons.  The group at the docks splits apart?  Curious.  Surprised when the woman leaves for a moment, she turns to stare at her departing back...then nods, slowly.  <blue>Please summon us, should something demand assistance.</blue

Trista, outside the inn, moves back to the main street, and turns right, back up the hill, towards the market place.  Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles across the sky, like the wheels of a tumbril on a cobbled street.

Back at the inn, the sailors are growing a little louder now, as the finish their meal, and settle for drinking instead.  Their words are, for the most part, in some tongue, far removed from the dialects of Thari generally spoken around the Golden Circle and, indeed, across most of the Myriad Worlds.

Eventually they start singing, but not too loudly, some song that they all seem to know, which starts slowly and speeds up, the incomprehensible words accompanied by faster and faster sequences of complex hand movements, some of which are a little too comprehensible...   Eventually one makes a mistake on the rapid, somewhat vulgar, motions, and the others fall into gales of laughter...

Donovan looks to his new guests apologetically, "Would yer want me to ask 'em ter quieten down?"

The song begins again, slowly at first...

"No, Donovan, leave them be; let them have their fun."

James reaches down.  By some quirk of happenstance - Pattern - some customer has dropped their coin purse between the bar and a stool.  James retrieves it.  He pulls several coins out and places them on the bar.

"Let them have what they want.  I remember some of the hardships of war - and the pleasure of fresh food after months of rations."

James takes a small risk touching the Pattern this close to Amber, but feels strongly enough to chance it.  A supply of local coin may be needed soon regardless.

I have no love for politics either, but if we need to find this traitor that is what awaits us.  I'm afraid that short of a palanquet I'll struggle to find Beldrin.  With only a description I'm more likely to lead us to some bystander who just happens to look similar.  The same goes for Lexy both...pre-date my involvement.

As to the assasination, I assumed that the shapeshifter was killer and substitute alike.  James tone betrays some uncertainty and ambivalence.  He isn't sure of Beldrin's importance yet.

Cyan nods at James' thoughts, both on the matter of the sailors and of Beldrin.  She considers the purse he picks up fortuitous, before remembering who sits before her.  Laconic James - scion of Amber, immortal shifter of worlds.  Sometimes it's easy to forget, just as it's simple to forget that the comparatively pedestrian-appearing Roman is a Lord of Chaos.

I believed the same - the shapeshifter slew the Prince, took his place.  I still remember Berd's vision of its 'eggs'.  So many of them....

Berd could call to Lexy, as could I, if only I had my palanqueti.  But they, along with my equipment, are gone.  Berd knows Lexy, but she might well be shielding herself, as she has done in the past.  As for Beldrin...Berd searches for him as well.

I believe your talents will be called upon, James, when we greet your Uncle.  *weariness*  I doubt he will be predisposed to listen to one as young as myself.  Especially since I am not a citizen of Amber.  You, on the other hand, are not only of his land, but of his blood.  I understand that the Royalty of Amber look upon each other with suspicion, but a crisis looms - one would think they would band together against a common threat.

Donovan breaks into an even broader smile at James' offer.  "That's very kind o' yer, Sir.  I'm sure it'll be gratefully accepted."

He makes his way around to the other table, and starts collecting the empty dishes, as the sailors continue their game.  He says something, quietly, when they reach one of the drinking pauses, and all heads turn, their eyes locked on James.

As he takes the empties through into the other room, one of the sailors gets up and walks across to the group.  He bobs his head to the women present, then turns his attention to the men, as he speaks, haltingly, "What one of you... were most... kind... enough to be maked... ah... buying... of drinkings for me and my mates?"

It’s a new skill Trista develops; keeping track of various conversations at the same time. But she does so with only a little inner confusion.

Her voice stretches out across the bridging. “I go to seek Beldrin, hopefully with Berd’s guidance. We have met… an old friend of yours: Devlin. We are currently in the Market Square with him.

Short and sweet and to the point. Trista requires movement, not talk. And this is her way to assist Cyan’s current quest.

Cyan perks up, he amethyst eyes glittering.  "Devlin?" she whispers, raising an eyebrow toward James.  Then she swings her legs off the stool and stands.  "Thank you, Donovan.  Should we be staying in this city, I will certainly return here for the night.  But I regret," she continues, capturing the innkeeper's hand warmly and clasping it between both of her own, "that I must step out for a time.  I am to meet an old friend."  She digs out some coin of her own - thank you, Berd... - and places them upon the bar with a wink.

"Save three rooms for us tonight - should we not return, the gold is yours."

She shoots a quick look to James, then Roman, and Chance (and any others in the room, of course, who may or may not have spoken up yet!), then nods toward the door.  Her thoughts echo through Berd's bridging with the others as she does.

I come, Trista.  Gentlemen, I fear the time for action draws near; Beldrin's life hangs in the balance.  For whatever the reason one chooses - information, compassion, alliances - I believe we must succor him.

His time is close, and I believe he is held by bonds stronger than iron.  If we are to save him, it must begin now.

With that, she moves from the bar.

Roman shakes his head and sighs.  If the Amberite Prince wishes the man saved - and not simply silenced then at least we might hope for thanks from that quarter  Trying to make the best of it.
The thought that the only way to stop the finger of suspicion pointing to Amber is to point it somewhere else, goes unspoken.

Thunder echoes through the inn, rattling the glasses on the shelves behind the counter, and the sailors turn their eyes to the ceiling, and make signs to ward the spirits of the storm.  The man who had approached the group at the counter, lays a hand on Cyan's shoulder...

"Wait, Lass.  If you must be make to out now, be take this with."

He reaches to his neck and lifts a length of cord from it, before holding it out to the bard.  There os a bunch of what look to be gull feathers attached to it, and several small blue beads, each with a tiny white mark upon it.  "For luck, if you understanding me.  One of your... people was buying drinkings for me and my mates.  I will not seeing you goes out in storm with no... charm."

James raises his hand, palm out, to shoulder height, which serves to draw attention if nothing else.  He felt a bit awkward about the attention given to his gift and so had hesitated to reveal himself.  Now, though, he is smiling, pleased by the result.

"That was me.  But the gift of your charm to the lady is better than any thanks you could give me.  It seems we have to leave for now.  May you have good winds and fair sailing."

With that James moves to follow Cyan.

A fine point, Roman.  If the Prince wishes him saved, then we do ourselves a favour.  If he wishes him silenced...I care not a whit.

Cyan pauses at the door.  That lightning...it seemed a touch too strong.  And then the man intercepts her, and she raises an eyebrow at the hand on her shoulder, so near the ugly weapon she carries upon her back.  But there is no threat here, and Cyan turns to the sailor with a questioning expression.  Her topaz eyes wide, she takes the necklace.  "This is beautiful," the bard whispers, then turns to offer it to James.  "But it was James who-"

James, it seems, has other ideas.  She holds the gift for a long moment, debates disagreement...but she owes James.  She owes him a great deal.  With a small bow, Cyan slides the lovely, primal charm over her head, and settles it at her neck.  "My thanks," she whispers to the man, clasping his hand.  "Clear skies for your journeys."

Then James moves up, and she turns to clasp his shoulder.  It's like gripping oak, but she squeezes anyway, staring directly into his eyes, a small smile on her lips.  "And my thanks to you, James."  For so many things, not the least of which was faith.

"Gentlemen?"  A question to those who will accompany, and a farewell to those who remain.  And then out the door into the wind and thunder.

As Cyan, and those who would follow her, step out into the storm, Donovan calls after them, "Mind 'ow yer go.  The weather's not bein' too gentle out there terday."

Meredith, almost unnoticed while all of the group had been present, steps out from the shadows behind the door, and approaches the counter.  "If you're not too busy, might I ask you some questions?"


Making their way through the street, which is clearing rapidly in the face of the storm, the rest of the group from the inn make their way back to the marketplace, where they soon spot Trista and Berd, and a man, dressed in shades of darkness, who is all too familiar to some of them, discussing something with one of the men who is working on the gallows.


OOC: Those of you who have followed Cyan should now move to Part 59d - The death tree

Donovan looks up from his quiet conversation with Meredith as his recently departed customers return.

"Back so soon?  Weather's too mis'rable, I 'xpect.  Still, yer'll al'ays get a warm welcome 'ere at the Blue Rose.  If yer goin' ter get wet, then it's better that yer only get wet on the inside's what I say."

"Same again, all 'round, is it?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:28, Mon 21 May 2007.

Devlin moves into the common room first. A drink... The reply outside was only meant for those that might be listening, as he knew Cyan's words were.

Now confronted with the innkeeper he realizes how long it's been since he's had a drink and that it suddenly sounds like a very good idea...

Turning toward Cyan and the others behind him, Devlin notices that Trista has not joined them inside. The man knows that with Berd on her shoulder there isn't really a need for her to be there, but he is disappointed nevertheless. He manages to not let his disappointment show, something else that he has gotten better at in the time since he last saw this group.

...A drink, and a strong one, might taste good, but then again might not be a good idea right now. "Anything will be good" he says to Cyan, since she was the one that offered.

Short and simple comments, he wonders if he's that unused to being with people  for just a moment and lets it pass. Part of him wants nothing more than to relax, let this be an emotional reunion but again that part of him is suppressed as he looks around the inn, discovers the place that is furthest from everyone else in the room, and heads in that direction.

Devlin takes a seat that places his back against a wall and calmly waits for the others to join him.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:56, Tue 22 May 2007.

Trista hears the downpour before she sees it or feels it. Her eyes spring open and a smile catches her features, a surprisingly joyful smile at the rain flooding the streets. She cants her head and eyes Berd, “Now if only I had been standing two feet out, you would have gotten your sudden deluge on me.”


The woman toes off her boots and slips off her socks. The socks tuck inside and the boots set against the wall where, hopefully, they will remain dry. Her backpack also finds itself on the ground, against the wall. There’s nothing valuable in the thing, so she doesn’t worry over leaving it unattended.

The blade remains strapped to her thigh.


Trista looks to the brilliant eyes of the small dragon sitting in the rain, “Well then, we’ll see how much you like being wet.” With two steps of her bare feet, the woman stands in the rain. Her face lifts with open mouth to catch the water. Arms stretch high and wide and then in one motion, she’s running down the street and to the left, decidedly in a different direction from the Market Square.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:06, Tue 22 May 2007.

"Same again, most certainly.  And for my friend."  Cyan waves outside, where the downpour continues.  "Apparantly the weather turned to the worse."  She shrugs, a 'what-can-you-do' smile on her face.

Inside, her stomach is knotted like a sailor's rope.

They don't have much time.  Devlin's plan best work, or...well, that leaves the alternative of power use.  And this close to Amber, she imagines it would garner them a great deal of attention.

Her thoughts open up over the bridging.  And so, Devlin.  You have a plan - will you not share it with us, that we may debate it endlessly?  *amusement*  No.  None of that, no more.  We have little time, and I am weary of committees.  Should it be sound, I would say to put it into action immediately.

She looks down at her hands as they tug a chair out from a table, then rise to give a friendly wave toward the sailors.  Cyan needs to move, needs to do.  She lost two years of life to the Archons, and desires nothing more than to regain that time.  From them, if necessary.

Berd, on the sigh, blows a long, fork-tongued raspberry at Trista.  The rain, falling down upon him, evapourates into steam as it strikes.


The little drake launches himself from the sign and glides through the rain after the running woman.  Behind them, a pair of tiny faerie begin to fly a patrol pattern about the backpack.

When the group is settled Devlin looks at each of them, his head tilted to the side in that odd way he has, collecting his thoughts. He takes a sip of the drink that arrives and says aloud, "It is good to see you again, especially you Cyan. I apologize for not staying longer after, well..." he shrugs.

"Berd tells me that it has only been a short time since you have seen me. It would seem that my road here was a bit longer."

Then through the link he explains his plan as quickly as he can.

"This is what I have in mind:

"There is a major in the guard that is out of town and not expected to return until tomorrow. I can impersonate him, I believe well enough to get into the dungeon of the castle to see Beldrin.

"Cyan, Berd says that you do not want to allow this man to be hanged, so I'm assuming that we'll be trying to free him and not just get in to talk.

"I need an excuse for why this Major, his name is Bers, why he has returned early and why he needs to get in to see Beldrin. Trista, ..." Devlin turns to look briefly at the door and then turns back to Cyan, "...or Cyan, this is where you come in. The story will be that someone killed your family. This major Bers heard the story while out of town and investigated. He believes that Beldrin is responsible. You will be there to identify him as the killer."

Devlin stops briefly here to look around at those assemble to judge the reactions to his plan thus far, but he only stops briefly before continuing.

"There is a tower at the north end of castle's courtyard. We can gain access to the dungeon there and be less conspicuous then trying to enter the castle itself.

"But there are things that I will need help with. The first is more information.

"Cyan, Berd tells me that Beldrin is tattooed. Are these tattoos visible to the casual observer? Or does he usually keep them hidden?" he asks her, but does not stop; He wants to finish before he gives anyone a chance to interrupt.

"And I will need help getting out. While I can get in and bring someone with me, I have no idea how we will get Beldrin out of his cell or the Dungeon once we get there. We can figure out how to get him out of the cell when the time comes, but out of the castle... that we need to have a plan for before we go in.

"Berd, if you go in with us can you do that traveling trick to get us out once we've located him?

"As I said before, we need to do this quickly, now, while we have the opportunity. There is no time to figure out every detail before hand.

"Any ideas?" and then he finally stops his mental comments, waiting to see what they have to say. But it is obvious from his manner that he is impatient and wants to be moving already.

Devlin knows that if Cyan and the others did not show up when they did, Trista, Berd and himself would likely already be entering the dungeon and he'd figure things out as he went. Not likely a good idea since he really has no idea how to get a comatose Beldrin out of the dungeon. He cannot draw people through shadow the way others can. One of the reasons he travels alone most of the time. It would seem that his way of moving between worlds was a unique gift...

Once again aloud he says, "When I departed I spent some time following what was left of..." His head tilts to the side as the looks at Cyan. There is a smile before he continues, "... the General’s army."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:39, Wed 23 May 2007.

Roman uses the bridging to offer his thoughts on the plan "Any use of power, will draw suspicion towards Amber - and draw suspicion from the Amberites.  If not for that I would suggest use of the Trumps, which some here call palenquet.  Perhaps best would be if Cyan were to go, to draw a palenquet of Beldrin and rescue him by that means after we have left the city, if that can be arranged.  Or at least on a ship about to set sail."

"I hope that this major is not likely to return before we can leave."

It feels good to have someone with whom to banter once again; odd that it should be a small dragon found by happenstance. Perhaps Devlin was right; there is no such thing as coincidence. Perhaps Trista had been drawn to Charyk to meet Berd and the others. Either way, she felt laughter nipping at her throat, along with the shards of rain.


Her mind stays with the bridging as both Cyan and Devlin speak. The woman is also not one for endless planning and so she nods as she runs with Cyan’s wishes to be brief.

The man explains and it hits home. If Trista should go, she would not have to act the part of having her family killed; she’s been there. She still feels the sting of death, but allows the water to flow those unproductive emotions away to concentrate on what all has to say.

After Roman finishes, she adds a brief thought, He will die at sunrise. There’s little time. I am with Cyan in my wish to keep him from that death. He is also being either drugged or magically bound; it’s doubtful he could respond to a Trump calling. If he is magically bound, we need a way to deal with that. That’s all she has for now, her mind begins to explore possibilities for Beldrin’s extrication. She waits to hear from Berd and his methods of travel.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:36, Thu 24 May 2007.

Roman shoots a reply back "Which is it ?  Drugs or magic ?  It matters greatly to any plan"

"Indeed, not so long for us.  I can see it has been longer for you."

Cyan listens to the plan as she sits, keeping expression from her face.  Simple, which was good - simple was best, when encountering unknowns.  She glances to James, wondering what he thought of it - level-headed, James seemed better than she at discerning flaws in strategy.

But Devlin's spoken words throw her, completely; the colour drains from her face, and she looks down at the table.  Outside, flitting from sign to sign, Berd pauses for an angry hiss, and brief anger vibrates through the bridging  "What," Cyan asks quietly, her jade eyes dull, "did you discover?"

You...are correct, Devlin.  I wish to succor Beldrin, not garner information.  The plan seems sound enough, and Berd informs me he is more than capable of removing us from the cell once we have the man.  Transporting us there and away might gather more attention.

Though in truth, I am poor with deception.  In warfare, certainly.  In personal business...I am an actress, but on stage.  Is there another who might be better for this circumstance?  You mentioned Trista.

Beldrin is tattooed, and there, Roman, is why we cannot simply create a palanquet.  The drawings on his skin perform much the same function - if he cannot utilize them, he likely cannot latch onto my call.

Berd...can break magic.  Whether he can break this magic remains to be seen.  I would rather someone with a more solid method of doing so accompany Devlin.  Are you capable of such things, Roman?

Berd continues to 'keep up' with Trista, flitting ahead, waiting, watching her pass, then repeating.  Flight makes certain things so much easier, though the woman is very quick.

"There are any number of ways that would prevent him utilising his tatoos while allowing him to receive.  It requires greater concentration - and sight of the Trump - to invoke it.  And if they are using drugs we may have an opportunity shortly before his execution."  A note of disgust enters his "voice" "It makes for a poor spectacle if the criminal is drugged to the point of stupefaction"

"Shifting through Shadow often cancels local magics.  I have no other means at my disposal that I would trust.  Maybe the touch of the Logrus would disrupt the magic here, but there is no way to tell and even if it did it is likely to be...obvious.

Devlin sees Cyan's reaction to his spoken words and he is immediately sorry for how he chose to speak. He moves the upper part of his body closer to her and says quietly, "I did not mean to upset you, and I apologize if I did so. Please know that I hold no blame with you for things past." Then his voice drops to a whisper, "Let us forget about those things we cannot change."

From what I have seen of Trista, it would be best if she accompanied me. There is something... He suddenly breaks off that thought, almost forgetting that she was with them, in mind if not in body.

...It really needs to be someone that can play the part. I doubt that the male members of this group could fill that role. No offense, but the best choice, that would raise the smallest doubt would be a girl.

Sitting back again he says aloud, "The army scattered, most of the officers are dead, many just slipped away, or become bandits. Some tried to find their way home and some just settled where they were. They are not really of any concern.

"As for their Masters...", the emphasis on the word can only mean the Archons, "... they are too busy fighting among themselves to worry about what happened to the army. And likely too busy with that to pay much attention to this group, at least for the moment."

We do not have the luxury of waiting until the morning. If I am to use this majors appearance it must be before he is expected back and that means now.

Devlin shakes his head and it is not clear if it is about what he'd said verbally or mentally. To himself he thinks that there are still some that will debate until it is too late to act, as it was when he first met them.

I can get us in and Berd says that he can get all of us out. Beldrin's condition will matter little if this is the case.

Trista, Berd, are you ready to go?

While Devlin's patience has grown, it is still short. For him it is past time to react. They need the cover of this storm and it is not likely to last forever. Cyan believes this person must be saved, and with what is at stake, in the end, means that risks must be taken.

Devlin picks up his drink and downs what is left of it. We will contact you shortly and let you know how we fair.

Then he stands, preparing to leave and says, "But I must leave you now as I have an urgent appointment. I will return here later if this is where I can find you. We still have much to catch up on."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:34, Thu 24 May 2007.

She doesn’t know the answers to Roman’s questions, and so she remains silent. In the end, it would seem Berd can break the magic as well as remove them. If it simply mundane drugs then the little dragon should still be able to remove him with Devlin and Trista’s help.

The woman’s eyes keep to the road before her, though she’s certainly aware of Berd’s flitting from sign to sign.


Following the conversation, Trista halts her forward momentum and turns around to head back to the Inn. Her feet splash in cold puddles more quickly. We will be at the Inn in a moment.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:33, Thu 24 May 2007.

Cyan waits for their chosen drinks to arrive at the table, while continuing the conversation in silence with the others.  She remains silent after Devlin's earlier comment.

My main concern with the palanquet is that while it may work, it may not.  And for a fully-functional card, it will take me a solid twelve hours of work.  Should it fail, we will have little time to put another plan into action.

But you make a good point regarding the possibility of it functioning, Roman.  A good general...keeps at least one plan in reserve.  I will commence work on a palanquet once Berd summons sufficient implements to carry out the craft.

I know little of the Logrus - are there risks using it so close to Amber?

She glances up at Devlin, offers him a wan smile and a small nod of the head.  The shock is wearing off, now.  With half an ear, she listens to the discussion of the disposition of the Army, and part of her mourns the loss.  All of those people, torn from their worlds and dragged on her say-so into wars not of their making.  Then abandoned.

A poor, poor general she has been to them.

But it is welcome news regarding the Archons themselves, in any case.  Fighting among themselves.  Perhaps it is too much to hope for that her former liege has fallen.  <i>No.  That one is a survivor, and a powerful one at that.

Devlin, it appears, has made his decision.  Cyan closes her eyes - apparantly the die is cast.  Only physical means will restrain Devlin now, should she so desire (and in truth, she does not).  It is one of the man's great strengths, and in turn, a great weakness, much as all strengths and weaknesses are flip sides of the same coin.

"Good day, sir."  Cyan rises.  "I trust your appointment will go well."

Trust.  Trust Devlin.  Trust all of them to carry out whatever tasks they see fit.  Trust is something the Archons do not have.  It is the questors' greatest weapon against them, in fact.

Outside, Berd sits on a sign, watching as Trista pauses.


Then the little drake begins the flight back toward the inn, following the running woman.

Roman mentally shrugs.  "As far as I know, nobody has ever tried it.  It might be dangerous in Amber itself.  Here, there might be some danger if power meets power.  And it might be detected.  If the Princess Fiona were in the vicinity, for instance, she would probably sense and recognise any major working.  Others might not recognise it, but the more sensitive - locals or Amberites - might feel something"

Devlin has made up his mind. The little meeting served to assure him that his plan was mostly sound. There were a few holes, but nothing that was going to be filled by further planning. Without further questioning those that know the security measures in place within the castle there was nothing to do but go in and see what they would see.

Before moving out of the inn he stops next to Cyan, bends down and puts an arm around here and gives her a hug. While his face is close to her ear he whispers, "It Is good to see you again."


Devlin stands back up and without saying anything else moves across the common room and back out into the storm.

Cyan considers Roman's words.  If there might be danger, best we avoid that particular attempt.  As for Princess Fiona...I suppose that is something to be avoided.  Theoretically I quest in her name.  But who knows how much time has passed, and what the situation may be now?

Besides which, by this point the quest has gone beyond a single member of the royalty.

She returns Devlin's gesture, but stiffens slightly mid-hug.  When he draws away, she touches his shoulder, once, and her face is thoughtful.  Then he is gone, and she sighs, turning to James, Chance, and Roman (and Tahirah, if she remains here).

"I suppose we should relax."

Is there aught else we might do while we await the conclusion of this?  I could make palanqet, so my time will be well-used.  But if there is something we might do, together, I would certainly be up for it.  There's a reason Cyan never had many palanquet, despite her skill at the creation.  It takes time - time that could be better spent 'doing' something.

"Shapeshifting should be safe, so long as it isn't observed.  My elemental form is at home in these conditions.  I could follow the rescue team, see that they get to the prison and inside safely.  Maybe help if things go wrong"

James stands by the door, unconsciously taking up the position he had first taken on entering not so long before.  He stops there for a minute as Devlin put forward his plan then ducked his head back outside when it becomes clear that Trista is not following.  Though there is none about to see it, one eyebrow rises in surprise at the pack leant against the wall.  The other follows at the sight of Trista's shoes.  As an ex-army man, James' regard for good footwear borders on the pathological.  He makes no remark, however, and withdraws once more into the comfort of the inn.  He has every confidence in Berd and, after Charyk, he holds Trista to be very competent, barefoot or not.

Though Cyan seems to invite comment, James makes none until Devlin is away and his plan is begun.

It's a good enough plan.  There are too many variables but we don't have time to check everything out.  Devlin is adaptable a hint of dry humour and Berd and Trista can look after themselves.  Whatever comes up, they'll cope.  Still, it might be best if you, Roman, stay nearby in your elemental form.  I wouldn't worry too much about using powers as long as they're reasonably discreet.  If Bleys is anything to go by, most of my family think so highly of the Pattern that they pay little attention to other powers.  Fiona's the one to worry about.  All this over Berd' bridging.  James' opinions of the others are no secret.

A pause.

Speaking of my family.  I was wondering.  Since we must play at politics, might it not be better to take the bull by the horns?  I could go to the palace and announce myself to Corwin - play the high-profile decoy.  Or am I being melodramatic?

James finally squelches his way to the bar, looking only mildly embarassed at the small pool of water he leaves behind.

Cyan nods slowly - it would seem that Roman's offer of his own shapeshifting talents seems to hold merit with James.  She is inclined to agree.  I support that.  If they can detect Roman, like as not they can do so with Devlin as well.  There's no point in telling Roman to be careful - the assumption is that everyone will be as careful as they possibly can.

All of these people are older than she, and haven't reached that age by being reckless.

"Well."  She turns back to James, dripping James, but it would seem he is not yet finished.  Cyan listens thoughtfully to his offer, then slowly begins to nod.  It seems a fine idea on several levels, James.  Consider - it provides a solid 'decoy', as you point out.  Additionally, should Prince Corwin look favourably upon you, it garners us a powerful ally.  Finally, it might give us solid news of Amber itself - preparation, knowledge, these things are important.  One of her fingers makes spirals out of a wet ring upon the bar, and she gives a rueful shrug.  We can hope you do well with your relatives...would it be better if you went alone, or with an escort?

"Very well.  If everybody else could keep an ear out for news of Lexy, I'd be grateful."

With that Roman steps out into the storm.  As soon as he is sure that he is not observed he makes the transformation and ascends to the level of the roof-tops, heading for the fortress.

Hardly a minute passes between Roman leaving, and the door bangs open, admitting a blast of rain and hail, along with two women, dressed in similar outfits which seem to consist mostly of dozens of mismatched scraps and fragments of leather and fur, stitched onto a homespun backing, with heavy red twine.  Both wear heavy cloaks, and several assorted knives apiece.

They look around the room, taking in the innkeeper, the sailors, and the mixed group of Questors.  Then there is a brief whispered exchange, and one heads for the counter, throwing back the hood of her cloak to reveal blonde hair knotted, twisted and bound into a hundred thin braids.

The other, her dark hair, shaded with grey, but otherwise braided like her companion's selects a table as far from everybody else in the room as possible.  Before she has even had time to sit, Donovan raises his voice, and speaks to the other one, "I've told yer afore... I don't want yer in 'ere.  Nor any of yer kin.  I'll not serve yer, an' we don't keep what yer orderin' anyhow."

Though Trista stands at the fortress, she’s still connected through the bridging, We are at the Guardhouse already. So if you want to be a decoy, you probably want to go now, James. Either way, I would think renewing your ties could only help us in Amber.

After Roman informs them of his nearness, she adds, Thank you, Roman. Be careful. She had not witnessed his transformation the previous day, but James had introduced him when he was in the form of a storm cloud.


ooc: Posted here and in the other thread for continuity.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:29, Wed 30 May 2007.

Cyan slowly stands.  "Donovan," she inquires, her voice quiet.  "Is there a problem here?"  Her eyes flick to the newcomers, then back to the innkeeper.  She isn't certain - is wildly uncertain of the situation, in fact - but none of that shows on her face.

"It's these 'ere Kanchis, Miss.  I've told 'em afore that they's not welcome in the Rose, but they keeps comin' back.  Sometimes one, sometimes two, an' sometimes a dozen or more." the innkeeper stoops a little, and the woman who faces him bares pointed teeth and hisses, "Not Kanchis.  Chanactarsa.  We desire no trouble, but we have been told to meet somebody here.  We have never given this innkeeper cause to bar us from this place."

A meat cleaver thuds into the wooden counter top, as Donovan straightens again.  "Yer blood drinkers!  That's why I won't serve yer!"

The woman spares the cleaver a brief glance, and flashes an amused look at her companion, "We would not drink blood if this one served it.  We have no way of knowing if he is aware of the correct forms.  None of our people has ever requested anything, other than water, from him."

The other woman raises her hands, placatingly, and moves towards the disagreement, "This is so.  He probably doesn't even possess a shethra, and he is a man.  For us to drink blood, served by him, would be a breach of our most revered laws."

James watches the situation unfolding in the Blue Rose with only mild interest.  Even after he has taken a moment to suppress his revulsion at the practice of blood drinking, he sides with Donovan.  As the innkeeper it's for him to serve or not as he chooses.

James is considerably encouraged that both Trista and Cyan support his idea.  He had proposed the idea to act as a decoy for the activities of the others in Amber and had thought to consult the others before deciding, but if there was a chance to help Trista, Devlin and Berd he saw no reason to put it off.

Better if I go alone, I think.  If I am forced to leave the bridging have Berd check on me every quarter-hour for an hour and every hour for six hours after that.  I'll try and get a message through if I need to change the check-in times.  On contact...Fangmir sheathed means all is well, Fangmir drawn means I'm in trouble.

"I'd best be off." James says aloud, "Things to do and I can't wait for the weather.  Farewell."  He clasps Cyan companionably on the shoulder as he passes and makes a point of saying goodbye to Meredith.  He pauses for a moment on the doorstep and gives an inaudible sigh before pushing off into the rain and towarsd the palace.

Cyan's eyes darken at the discussion of 'blood-drinking'.  But she calms herself, uncertain of the situation.  On the one hand, it sounds grotesque.  Horrid.  On the other hand, most people in the Myriad Worlds are flesh-eaters.  Sometimes it's all in the presentation.

Should these people drink the blood of animals in their sacred ceremonies, it's a horrifying thing.  But if it is part of a sacred feast, where every bit of the animal is consumed, how is this so different than, say, eating a Yuletide roast?

Sometimes it's best to know the whole story, first.

Regardless, it's Donovan's choice in the matter.  Until she knows more, all Cyan can do is try to head the problem off.

Her hand comes up to hold James for an instant longer - not that she could, if he desired to pull away.  "Good luck," Cyan says, amethyst eyes concerned.  And be careful, James, she elaborates over the bridging.

We shall certainly keep our eyes upon your blade.

Letting his hand slip away, Cyan watches as the soldier leaves into the driving rain, then turns back toward Donovan.  "Perhaps, Donovan, as they are to meet someone here, they might sit quietly at a table by the door?  Somewhere out of the rain?"  She shoots a warning look at the women, wary of their skill.  They're better than most, a cut above the crowd at the very least, and the last thing Cyan wishes to do is pull steel.  She's suddenly fully aware of the blade she carries, and the implications.

Things were so much more simple, so less lethal when she held Kirilindë.  An errant thought comes to her, then.  I should have asked to trade Gurthang for Fangmir.  Too late.

"Should that not be acceptable," she says, still standing at ease, "I fear that you ladies must wait for your acquaintance under the eaves."

"A place to sit, is all we have ever asked.  Also water, and I don't believe this place has a shortage of that.  None of our people has ever asked for blood, anywhere in this city."

"We could not drink it.  It would be tainted.  Unclean."

Donovan suddenly looks a little shamefaced.  "Aye, that's so.  They've never asked after blood ter drink, but I were tol' that they do drink it, so I never geve 'em a chance to order any."

"I suppose that, if all they're after is water, an' a place ter sit an' wait, out o' the rain, then there'd be no 'arm in it."

The woman at the counter lays her hands, fingers spread wide, on the wooden surface, and waits.  After a moment's hesitation, Donovan goes to fetch a pitcher of water.

The other wovan performs a half-bow in Cyan's direction, "Our thanks for your help in easing this difficulty.  We were requested to wait here for our employer, and not waiting here would likely mean that we would miss him."

Dorian slipped into the inn, hood still up. However, his scarecrow form was easily recognized by those who knew him. He scanned the room, noting newcomers and familiar faces. He eyes lingered on Cyan noting a certain tension in her demeanor. Not the kind when she faced combat, but something else. In fact, the innkeeper seemed a bit uneasy, too, with pitcher of water in hand. Attention seemed focused on the women near the door. Whatever it was didn't seem important enough now, perhaps just lingering feelings over some misunderstanding. If that were he case, he guessed Cyan might have played mediator. She was good at that. The strangers looked strange for this region, but not so much as to cause alarm, in his view.

Whatever the reasons, he put the matter aside and removed his cloak letting it hang-dry on a hook. He did his best to wring out his hair, and slick the water from his face, feeling the stubble around his cheeks. Travel had kept him from grooming for a couple days. A room would be welcome.

Unsure if the lingering tensions had been resolved or not, he decided not to approach Cyan directly and instead took a table nearby.

Chance had taken a table near the hearth and sat watching the embers crack and pop, rising on waves of heat. He did no more than glance at the pair of women as they entered. After that, he merely watched the leaping and playing flames, looking for familiar shapes and themes among them. Blood drinkers, he thought. Now there is something with bite to it. He smirked at his own play on words, though it wasn't a good one. He mused about the effort some civilizations put into rituals and ceremony. He had always found faith such an odd thing. So strong. Strong enough to shed blood… or drink it. Yet, universally, there was always this lack of evidence to support it. It was fascinating in its foolishness, yet he knew there was something behind it. It might not be empirical evidence, but there were always reasons, support for faith. No matter the psychology of the thing, it was nothing to be trifled with. He knew that much.

So, what about the blood drinkers? Why was Donavan unworthy? Because he was an outsider, an unbeliever, an infidel? Or was it because he was a man, perhaps. Was this only reserved for females of their society--or religion.? Perhaps there would be a certain sense to that on some level. He had seen societies were females led in matter of religion and men led in matters of state. The whole conversation also raised the question of whose blood they were drinking: the blood of the men? Animals? Even the best-cooked steak had blood in it, still. Why dilute it with meat? He smiled at the twist.

He hooked a nearby chair with his ankle and pulled it closer so he could prop his cowboy boot s up on it. He did his best to recline in the chair. Conversations bounced around in his skull. The questers were off to save someone, again. This sounded like an individual job. That was good. He was in the mood for peace and quiet these days.

He watched as Cyan played the diplomat, soothing the conflict. He had given up on his suspicions a while ago, soon after they left. He just didn't want her to know. She had a natural charm and grace he found enduring. Perhaps it was folly, being the only one yet suspicious of her, to give up so easily, but it would have only alienated him from the questers--he wasn't sure if that would have been good or not. Perhaps he just wanted to be alienated. He could say he tried and go back to his old ways with a clean conscious. They just wouldn't listen. That would be his excuse.

No, the truth was she wasn't playing games. He didn't know how he knew, but she just wasn't. She was Cyan, not the general, no matter how much he wanted her to be the enemy. He lacked evidence, but he lacked the heart to demand it. It was his nature to follow his heart. Heck, it was his nature to trust a pretty face.

The real problem was that the questers were lacking a member: Luke. Luke had always given him the perspective he needed to get along with the group. Now, he had to reach his own terms with them--all of them--a daunting task considering how often the roster changed lately.

He folded his arms across his chest, turning his attention back to the flames. Yes, he knew Cyan wasn't evil. He just didn't want her to know he had accepted her, yet. There would be a time for that. Now, it was time to just sit and be near the fire.

Cyan breathes out, relieved.  It looks as though things won't be coming to a head, here.  No bloodshed is a good thing.  She shoots a quick look at Donovan, disappointed - the man had only been told they were blood-drinkers, and reacted immediately at the sight of them, without bothering to set up his own opinions on the matter - but smiles as he comes to the proper conclusion.  No harm in allowing them in, until they prove themselves the enemy.

Cyan may not share their beliefs, but she is more than happy to leave such things to the women...in peace.

A glance to Dorian as he enters.  The dark man is moody, withdrawn again.  Hardly surprising.  It is his nature.  He sits nearby, and while she would join him, Cyan is still caught up in a conversation.  "It was my pleasure."  True - fighting was the alternative, or turning them out in the rain.  Cyan gives them a short bow.  "I wish you the best with your employer."

The two women take their water, and sit where they can have a clear view of the door, side-by-side, with their backs to a wall, and both facing the entrance.  Although they appear to be holding a quiet conversation, their eyes are fixed on the door, and their gaze never deviates for a moment.

The darker one reaches into what seems to be a pocket inside her cloak, and pulls out a long-stemmed pipe, which she proceeds to fill from a pouch at her belt.  The procedure is performed solely by touch, since her eyes are fixed straight ahead, but the movements seem to be well rehearsed.

In moments, she lights the pipe, and starts smoking.

Gradually the tension clears from the air, to be replaced by smoke.

Now Chance, Dorian, and Meredith remain.  Chance sits by the fire, watching it burn.  He glances her way, his eyes unreadable, then back to the flames.  She wonders about him, wonders about his thoughts, his opinions.  She has vague, muddled memories of meetings with him before, and something inside warns her that this man is dangerous.

But that is for the good, she thinks, pushing away from the bar.  We need dangerous people.

Quick steps take her to Dorian's table, where she swings Gurthang from her shoulder and plunks herself down in a chair.  Cyan handles the great, alien weapon with some distaste, but doesn't release it.  It's like carrying the button to a nuclear weapon - one doesn't simply lay it down beside one's seat.  She leans an arm on it, balancing the tip against the floor, her elbow across the hilts, and raises an eyebrow, turning her inquisitive, ruby gaze on Dorian.  "Well?"  Cyan inquires.

The tensions, whatever they had been, dissolved like vapor. That was good. Cyan also seemed to relax, which put him at ease, too. He glanced at the strangers. Odd behavior, to be sure. He guessed they must be foreigners from a culture that regarded unfavorably around here. Barbarians, perhaps.

He looks back to Cyan as she takes a seat, and a flicker of a smile crosses his lips at her presence. Her question perplexes him. He had thought Berd would update her on his findings. Where was Berd. It wasn't like the Old Man to be in his room so early, not without Cyan there also. Maybe he had ventured into the kitchen searching for more food.

"There is a notable dearth of seaworthy vessels at the docks, currently," he says. "A ship that flies Amber's flag is there, however. The guards say that Prince Corwin is attending the castle, but he has chosen to stay the night. We may try to contact him before he leaves and see if we could transport on his ship--not the best solution, in my opinion. Morgan and Banglen-Yp investigate land routes and Tahira and Aaron--I am uncertain as to their actions. Aaron went his own way, as is his wont, and Tahira lingered at the docks."

He thought the light in here favored her complexion, but he tried not to stare too much--even while looking at her to speak. Amazing how things had grown so complicated. It was not in the feelings, but in Cyan knowing of them. Somehow, he never felt comfortable with her, now. Too casual, too formal, too close, too far... he could never tell for certain. His experience, so much of it, had been dealing with individuals with emotions beneath the surface, hidden and tucked away neatly. Yes, the perspicacious advice was to be himself. With that, the devil was certainly in the details. He wasn't sure what himself was these days. That being the case--how could he venture close to anyone. Know thyself--I prime principle in both love and war, then? Fascinating.

Satisfied that his report was thorough and accurate, he tried to become more casual, settling into his chair. "I'm sure everyone will return to the inn shortly. Have we rooms?"

Drinks are served, for those who want them... food too, if it's requested.  Some sort of meat for most, vegetables or fruit for others, and a soup whose main ingredients seem to be onions and pepper, mixed with a little of something else.  Donovan calls it firebroth, and promises that it'll warm even the most bone-chilled and rain-dampened spirit...

The sailors resume their odd singing and drinking game, though carefully keeping their voices down, and there is a sudden tension, when the blond chanactarsa suddenly produces a wicked looking knife, with a curved blade,  viciously serrated along the inner edge, and thin as pain.

The tension evaporates somewhat, though, when she starts using the unserrated outer edge to carve a small piece of wood, drawn from somewhere beneath her heavy cloak.

The two keep their eye on the door the whole time.

"We know of Corwin," Cyan says quietly.  "James has taken it upon himself to head for the castle in the hope of securing a discussion with the Prince."  She shrugs.  "He is, after all, the only 'confirmed' royalty among us.  It seemed to make sense.  Indeed, if we can arrange it, one thinks we could do worse than travel into Amber at the side of one of it's Princes."  She rubs her eyes, trying to stave off a small headache.  So many things to consider...spirits above, why doesn't Aaron get back here?  They need their leader.

"As for Berd..."  She offers a wan smile.  Dorian's regard is more contemplative now, and Cyan shifts in her seat, somewhat embarassed by the attention.  "He - thank you, Donovan," Cyan interrupts herself, standing slightly when the innkeeper brings her vegetable stew.  "It and the firebroth are much appreciated upon a night such as this.  Berd does not know what he misses."  Sitting back down, she continues to Dorian, a rueful smile on her features.

But her voice drops - just a hair.  Not to a whisper, that would attract attention.  "Berd left with Devlin and Trista - you recall Devlin?  We have encountered him, yet again.  We have reason to believe that Beldrin - you never met Beldrin, Dorian, but he was an agent of Caine as far as we could determine - is being held preperatory to his hanging.  This is unacceptable."  Despite her light smile, her emerald eyes are grim.  "They have gone to remove him from the prison.  Devlin has a plan, and it seems sound enough."

She leans back, and her clever fingers drum the table for an instant in a complex rhythm.  "So, no rooms as of yet."  Another smile, this one quirky and bright.  "You seem in a contemplative mood, Dorian.  If you think too hard, those lines will set...ah, too late.  But they lend themselves to your scholarly look."

Dorian had been craving drink, something warm or even hot, after his time in the weather. Now inside with a fire near, he was drying nicely on the outside, but not on the inside--yet.

And he was hungry from his travels, despite the small knot in his stomach due to Cyan's presence. Vegetables, as usual, were all he desired. Firebroth? No thank you. He didn't handle fiery food well. But mulled wine, if you have it, with thanks.

Glimmer Wine, they called it back on Samhain. In other places, glühwein or glintwein. So many places, but it was always so similar. They always had wine that would go bad after time, and spices, honey, and heating would make it drinkable again.

"That is good," he says. "I did not want to introduce myself to Prince Corwin. James is a much better choice. It is his family, I suppose, though I'm not sure how much he knows them. Confirmed royalty...." Bad topic, perhaps. Certain revelations bothered him. still. There had been a spark of hope once, a connection, but it had been washed away. To Dorian, James was just another quester among them. What else had he hoped for? What else could he have been. Let the matter lie. He looked down at his plate. "We are fortunate to have James among us." Truth.

Devlin--the man was a valued ally. Dorian was not one to begrudge a little mystery in a persona. Devlin was mysterious and subtly talented, but not suspicious. It was good to hear the name again. Another one not entirely lost to the cause.

And a jailbreak? Risky behavior here in the shade of Amber herself, wasn't it? Beldrin--no, he didn't recall the name too well. Cyan had mentioned it in her detailed accounts of the quest, of course, but the details escaped him. There were so many details. If the others thought this man worthy of rescue, then he wished them well. He wondered if someone had contact with them, in case things should go badly. Perhaps he should--No. If there was trouble, nothing could keep Berd from contacting Cyan.

Her smile warmed him. It always did. He could lose track of time inside that smile. He could forget the quest and the universe and just spend time with that smile, away from Amber and all of the other problems the quest offered. It was good to see her smile. The edged, obsidian gaze of the general gone for some time, now.

Scholarly? He returned the smile. If only she knew. If he had been born somewhere peaceful, somewhere other than the storm-torn world of politics and machinations, he could have been a scholar, perhaps. "Too late?" A small laugh escaped him.

But how to answer her? Contemplative--yes, he was contemplative. He could dismiss it, pretend it was nothing of import. It would hardly be honest. And she would know he had steered around something. He wouldn’t lie to her.

He was out of his element. Uncharted waters. All of his past and experiences--Dorian the Conquerer--were moot now. So he flailed and splashed, gasped for air.

Dorian, the Old Dorian, the conqueror would say to go for what he desired, take it by the throat, win it no matter the cost. But this was Cyan, not a prize or a victory. However, in his mind there were only two things: Conquest or Surrender. To her, he had surrendered.

I give you everything; all that I am.

And in surrender, he had pulled away from her. She knew his heart, so what more was there to say or do? Hence, he found himself in limbo, waiting, uncertain. For Dorian, in the absence of Conquest--what else was there?

A small voice pierced his mind then, a whisper of an ancient child, wise yet innocent, peeping into his psyche, and giving... advice.

~giving~

Not conquest. Not surrender. Giving. Offering. Inviting. Conceptually, these were not new things. In practice, they were something else.

The small laugh returned, as he realized he had lapsed into reverie again. So what was there to give? He would not lie, so there was only the truth. Give her honesty.

"Yes," he says with an ironic smile. "I suppose I was contemplative. But the object of my study was worthy of great attention. And, in addition, I was contemplating my folly. You see, I feel lost at times, rudderless in an uncharted sea. So, my folly is merely that I have missed the most direct route."

It was not the full answer. It was the start. And it gave him peace.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:15, Thu 07 June 2007.

Dorian, for an instant, seems lost in memory.  She recalls his own parentage, of course - perhaps he could have gone with James to speak to...his Uncle?  Or perhaps, she decides, studying his face as it rises again, he has made his decision in that matter.

Family was important to Dorian - this she knew.  But did he regard some distant passing on of life, over a thousand years in the past, to be his family?  Without any contact since then?  Doubtful.

At least, she reflects, he finds her witticism amusing.  Something to crack that stoic exterior - not shatter it, no, for without the granite features this would certainly not be Dorian.  But it is a fine thing to see a genuinely amused smile every once in a while.  Cyan ducks her head, tastes the food.  It's good, of course - she doubted not that it would be.  Donovan sets a fine table for his guests.

And now, riddles.  Elbow on the table with a shocking lack of ettiquette, Cyan casually waves her fork at him, drawing lazy spirals in the air toward his face.  "Welcome," she says at last, finished chewing.  "You find yourself in a great company, then."  Another grin, her amethyst eyes sparkling in the dim light of the inn.  There are many possible meanings to his words.  Pick one, and be a fool.  Ride the waves of the conversation, and let it continue.  An easy choice.

"I suspect we all wander, lost, from time to time."  She gazes at the fire, raises an eyebrow toward Chance, sitting alone.  "He seems...lonely," Cyan whispers, then sighs, returning to the conversation at hand.  "And so you are a scholar, Dorian.  Studying everywhere, everyone."  Her grin turns wistful, and she reaches across the table, touches his wrist.  "Know that if you flounder, there are always those who might take your hand."

She still cannot be certain of what he speaks, and if it is of what he spoke before...well, Dorian is not the only one in dark waters.  Cyan finds herself lost as well, and uncertain of the stars above.  "Sometimes," she muses, "I think my own boat has sprung a leak."  A small smile.  "Rudderless, indeed.  But Dorian, is the direct route the safest?  Or the best?"  She leans back, takes a sip of her wine.  "Sometimes," Cyan notes, "the best of life is found upon the winding roads.  And laughter, too."

Something brushes her ankle.  She starts, looks down.  Surprise upon surprise, and Cyan blinks several times before letting out a glad cry, her eyes suddenly filled with tears.  Bending over, she brings up a thick, battered pack, scarred and stained.  "Berd!"  Her fingers work at the buckles, and then dive within.  The leather case atop of the gear, worn by the touch of her hands.  She opens it, stares upon the quill pens.  A heavy, black book she sets upon the table between her and Dorian - obviously a mass-produced artist's sketchbook, from some other World, but to Cyan, coming from a World where paper is laboriously crafted by hand, it is more than gold.  Then an even smaller leather case, this one the size of a woman's hand, fingers out.  She opens the case, trembling...and her fingers touch ice within.

"My palanqueti," Cyan whispers, placing it down.  She looks up to Dorian, takes his hand suddenly for a squeeze, mindful of her own strength.  "He found them.  Thank the Lords of the West, for..."  Her lips thin.  "There are palanqueti within of James, of Aaron.  Of you, Dorian."  Cyan shudders at the implications.

Something else nudges her ankle.  The pack, she settles upon the other side, leaving the book, quills, and card case upon the table.  A large, hardened leather case is the second item, and Cyan slowly raises it up, unclasps the alien buckles of silvery metal, cunningly shaped as vines and leaves.  Opens it.  A rainbow shimmer fills the air about her with light, and Cyan slowly brings out what lies within.

Silver and other, dull grey metal form much of its body, inlaid over natural wood of splendid grain.  The strings are also of silver, or so they appear - in truth, they are of ithilinaur, the same material that comprised kirilindë's blade.  "Were we under the moonlight," Cyan whispers, bringing up the harp and tracing the tip of her finger along the patterns of dull grey metal, "the ithildin would shine like the stars."  More tears stand in her eyes, and she speaks a quick, lyrical phrase in an alien tongue.  Then, "Gone now, under flame and scale, and foamy waves," she whispers.  "Now only in this might the music of Menegroth be heard."

Bittersweet this greeting; her fingers are clumsy now upon the harp, from lack of practice with anything but blades for over a year.

"I do," Dorian says. "The best company of all, in fact." Playful, he is, but with only the barest hint of a smile. He could perhaps turn the conversation to a more serious note, but he senses now might not be the best of times for it. Best, he thought, to just enjoy the moment and her smile. Why make the smile go away?

He glances over his should at Chance. The man always seemed so irrepressible at first. Now, he seemed glum, wallowing in some misery, turmoil or perhaps even sorrow. Dorian guessed the sorrow must have always been there, roiling beneath a calm and carefree surface. Perhaps this turmoil is merely a manifestation of some deeper trouble. Then again, torn from the lifestyle he loved, perhaps he merely had no desire for the quester's life. "Indeed," he said. "Truly unfortunate." He turned back to Cyan. He didn't want to stare.

"Me, a scholar?" A distant look, a faint smile crosses his face. "A scholar or a philosopher, even--someday, perhaps. Now, we have our quest. If we succeed, then yes. I would like that. A nice world where they do not know the word 'war'. Someplace with mountains, I suppose, and sea too. A quiet cabin; a telescope of course; a place to publish some papers, maybe?" The thought seems almost ridiculous to him. Could he stay in one place for so long? Given the right things in his life, maybe he could. Just maybe, he thought. But he was looking at Cyan. Without her he was restless, and near her he was nervous.

A touch at his wrist. Navigation and rudders. Roads. "If I know what I want, is not the straight course the only choice? The speed may be quick or slow, but why meander? Winding roads? I do not favor them, save when there is no goal in mind." Maybe that was the thing he was missing in his vision of retirement--a goal. Life without a goal, for him, seemed painful.

But Cyan? Cadinigart? Here. Jack. She said so little of the man. There were only the barest hints of their connection when Dorian first joined the group. And where was Jack, now? What thoughts of him still lingered in her mind? Plenty, Dorian guessed. But he had known Jack so little the thought didn't cross his mind. And it should have. It really should have. "But Dorian, is the direct route the safest?  Or the best?" And here he was saying the direct route was best, ignoring what she, perhaps, might have really been saying. He knew so little of her past, what other people had left caution signs in their wake as they crossed through her life?

Caution, the daughter of circumspection, always outgrows its mother eventually.

And what to make of this? Was it true hesitation or just idle chatter? Was distance the correct stance?

Best to be clear, he thought. No matter the course, let her know your thoughts. Honesty is the stance.

He leaned forward. Any playfulness replaced by sincerity. "Between two people, such as you and I." Best to be very clear. "There can be no knowing what lies behind us or ahead or us, or what things grow in the other's heart. No--more than that--we don't always know what is in our own hearts. Thus, it is a journey, and marked by risk. So yes, caution is prudent but I won't let caution turn to inaction on my part. I think, maybe, that I had begun to do so and I did not like it."

He felt there was more to say to her. It wasn't really as clear as he had wanted, but it was a good introduction. What else to say?

But then, there was movement, and surprise. Old things are returned, complete. Palanquet--images of power she uses. They were a mystery to him, even still. Her joy warmed him, though. Her hand in his, a firm but not painful squeeze, captures his attention. Her joy is infectious.

And then: "Your harp?" A twinge of disappointment surfaced, but he tried not to let it show. It was not that the things had been returned. It was-- "That is good," he says, pushing a small smile to the surface. It was good. "He found them. I--" Nevermind. It was good. "I'm glad he found them." In truth, he was surprised more than disappointed. He was happy for her, only frustrated--somehow--that Berd had done a better job at it than he. Of course he had, Berd knew the items better, and had resources more vast. Dorian's methods of searching were slow and tedious. He should have expected it.

It was selfishness. That was all. It had caught him off guard and brought the worst to the surface for a moment. "I am glad he found them." He meant it.

After a bit of walking, Tahirah recognizes what she thinks of mostly as `Cyan's Inn.'  The city looks very different in the storm, but coming from the three-dimensional maze of a city that much of Charyk had been, she was good at remembering routes on a more reflexive level, independent of landmarks.

The door pulls open, and along with a blast of cold wind, the white witch steps in.  She lets the wind push the door closed behind her, and stands quietly just inside for a moment, while she takes in the room.  Her robes settle around her in the sudden calm.  She isn't dripping.

She recognizes Cyan and Dorian, deep in conversation; and Chance, who seems to be enjoying a moment of solitude.  Two strangers who, even as she stands there, are clearly staring not at her, but the doorway behind her.

She takes a moment to look for where she will find to sit, before moving away from the door and into the room.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:36, Fri 05 Mar 2021.

>>From the shape of the world.

As they reach the inn, Morgan hops down, and offers Banglen-Yp a hand.

Over the bridging Trista reaches out We have Beldrin up a hill from the city. He’s in bad shape. Very bad. Torture. Disease. I’m sorry, Cyan, but come quickly.


ooc: This is for whomever is still connected to the bridging Berd set up (at one time it was Cyan, Chance, Merideth, James, Roman, Devlin, Berd, Trista... it may be more now.)
This message was last edited by the player at 12:11, Mon 11 June 2007.

Over the bridging James replies, I'm at the guardhouse now, but if you need me I will come.  I have some ability with healing, but I've only tested it on myself so far.  If he is as bad as you say...well, it could kill him if it went wrong.

"Oh, buck up, Chance."  Luke's fingers bit into Chance's shoulder for a moment before he stepped around the table to seat himself.  It was a hard fall into the chair, and he immediately brought both feet up to rest the heels of his boots on the tabletop.  "It's not as bad as all that, is it?  We're alive and better yet, we won.  I've been in far too many situations where I could only count one of two."

He looked pale, washed out, almost ethereal - solid, to be sure, but not strong.  But he was there, and his grin was as coldly amused as ever.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:45, Mon 11 June 2007.

Cyan smiles at the dream Dorian puts forth.  It sounds familiar, this dream, but much more natural.  A pity most worlds with people in them have a solid grasp of the meaning of 'war'...but perhaps one might find somewhere within the Myriad Worlds where life had better sense?

'Publish some papers' - what a curious expression.  She wonders at it, considers asking him the meaning.

But her smile fades at his next words, and she grows more solemn.  "The straight path oft tramples over whatever stands in its way, Dorian, be it people, interests, or experiences.  Consider this - should you wish to visit a city, would you wander straight there?  Or would you, perhaps, choose to take a circuitous route, in order to enjoy the small towns and countryside along the way?"  She taps the table.  "Did your compass not bring you upon a meandering route through the Myriad Worlds?  Did you not meet many unexpected things upon the way?"

But he has more to say, more to think upon, and she waits for him to speak.  Finally he begins, and colour blooms in her cheeks as she listens, her sapphire eyes downcast as he speaks.  Risk - there is always risk, she has found this out herself.  Pain in the heart is slow to mend.  Caution - this is her, she knows, and perhaps Dorian as well.  And well it should be, for as he says, Cyan does not know her own heart.  It is torn - wrenched by a not-so old lover, torn by Berd's betrayal, still sick from Harabonah's plague.

Were it anyone else, Cyan would consider fetching them a swift kick.  Or she would have, two years before.  Now...she knows a touch better.  Sad songs are built upon foundations of experience, and while they may be hyperbole, they contain strong seeds of truth.

Then her harp, sparing her the need to reply.  It is a welcome distraction, as she attempts to find some place for his words within her, some answer that will satisfy him.  She examines her harp, slowly, carefully checking the tune.  Perfect, of course, even after all of this time - the palanquet within the harp holds true its tone.  Images graven with Power generally do - it is the others, the people of whom the images are created, that change.

He is...disturbed.  Her lack of response?  Her sudden shift toward the harp?  Soemthing has been lost, and how Cyan wishes to kick herself.  Inaction - the very thing against which Dorian has set himself.  She glances up as Tahirah enters, gives the woman a quick nod.  Then she turns back to Dorian, hugging the harp to her chest like a shield.  "Dorian..."  A small, helpless laugh.  "I must seem a fool, leaving you alone to speak so.  But I know so little."  She closes her eyes.  "This journey of which you speak - part of me leaps to begin.  But another part..."  She looks away.  "So many things call to me, and while your voice is strong within them, I find myself buffeted to and fro."  Too much metaphor - she lapses into her bardic ways, Cyan knows, to better avoid giving a straight answer.  Enough.  He deserves better than this.

The bard closes her eyes, sets the harp upon the floor.  She reaches out, blind, and grasps Dorian's hand across the table.  When her eyes snap open again, they are dark rubies.  It is Cyan, but...more.  Focused, in a way she has not been since her rebirth.

"Dorian," says the Warrior in Jet and Gold, "I do not know myself.  You, all of you - yourself, Aaron, James, Jonnee - dragged me back to my life.  And I find it like old clothing - familiar, yet ill-fitting.  I search for a place for my being.  Perhaps -"  she squeezes his hand "- this path I will walk will parallel your own.  Certainly it calls to me.  I do not deny the pull."

Releasing his hand, Cyan leans back, closes her eyes.  "But it is the journey, the meandering journey, that will show me where I am to be.  I walked the straight path once before.  It led nowhere.  I have have always known the journey to be more important than the destination - why not so in matters of the heart?  How else will I truly know what my heart desires, Dorian?  And yourself, how would you know?  This is what you were saying, I believe.  And inaction..."  A small, shy smile.  "One cannot begin a journey without taking steps."

Then Trista's call washes over the bridging like a wave, and Cyan's eyes widen.  She begins to stand, preperatory to rushing from the room.  A pause, and she offers Dorian a quick look of apology.  "I must go - it is a great distance, and time is of the essence."  She concentrates, sends a call over the bridging.

If there is any of greater skill than myself...I come, Trista.  But it will take me... *pause*  Ah, I forget so much!

With a sailor's curse, Cyan snaps up the leather case from the table, withdrawing a single card from the deck within.  All by feel - she knows these cards, estranged as they are from her spirit.  And as she focuses, the bright eyes upon the card begin to glitter.

Berd!

One hand snatches up her pack, leaving her harp and its case behind.  Then a rainbow shimmer dusts the air, and Cyan is gone.

From her own quiet table, Tahirah glances up from her cards to watch the fading glow where Cyan sat.  She lays another card down on the table, bending to study the new configuration in silence.

She is gone. Perhaps in many ways, he wonders. He should have known. What other path was there? One either approaches their destination or they do not. It doesn't matter if the path varies by a few degrees or a hundred; it is not the same path.

Her words were strange to him. He could not be sure he understood. He spoke of himself, of his own journey, of decision and realizations in his own mind. So, what did her words mean? Trample--a warning? Circuitous--a caution? Trample. A warning. Circuitous meant oblique, not parallel or perpendicular.

But Cyan's mind was not always so literal as his.

Parallel. Parallel was not connected; it required at least some distance. Was that what she meant? Was that the only option, then?

Obviously, navigation and geometry were bad analogies for him to choose.

He had been wrong. His decision had been wrong. Again. In fact, when it came to Cyan, all his decisions were wrong. Always. They spoke on different levels, abstract and concrete. He ventured into abstract and she ran circles around him. He spoke on concrete terms and, well, she ran circles around him there, too. It wasn't top of the ladder versus bottom of the ladder; it was two different ladders.

Was he over-thinking her meaning?

I have have always known the journey to be more important than the destination. Strange thoughts. So familiar. Who had said it? The journey is the adventure.

Journey.

And what did his compass have to do with... this? Did he meet unexpected things along the way? Of course he did; and he conquered all of them with ruthless efficiency. He knew that wasn't her meaning. She had brought the abstract down to concrete levels, and had lost him nonetheless--where he should have been most comfortable.

But the other part of what she said, it seemed so close and yet so far away, too. He had been correct, in some part at least, if only the realization had come too late. She had advised caution. His words probably sounded like putting caution aside, if she had taken them that way. If she saw it the way he suspected, it was not the same thing.

Perhaps there was hope in her words. Perhaps, but the intent, to him, seemed clear. To take any other stance on it would be folly, now. The decision had been wrong. Directness had been the wrong choice. He should have not thought it appropriate to be so forthcoming with his thoughts. It was like handing the enemy his battle plans. He had adopted a new policy, for her, and had seen the error in it.

And it came from talking, from trying to invade territory he understood so poorly. All of his decisions were wrong it when came to her. He didn't need a tactician's mind to understand that it would continue to happen. Thus, he knew, it had been lost before it began. In this effort, he had lost.

In terms of geometry, direct meant face the objective. Indirect was nothing, ignoring the objective, inaction. That then was what she wanted. Circuitous. Indirect. Inaction. Nothing. Parallel. Distant. Don't trample where you're not wanted.

He didn't like it, but it was what she wanted. The matter was, sadly, settled. He had worn the jester's hat long enough. It was time to put such childish affairs aside and focus on the present task. Such things could be thought on after the quest.

Perhaps it would be good. Eventually. To have it settled. And out of his mind. For now.

Dorian pushed the plate away from him a bit and stood, looking at the place where Cyan had been just a few moments ago. And where had she gone in such a hurry? Surely Berd and the others could not be in trouble. Someone would have told him. Had the conversation been so uncomfortable for her?

He approached the innkeeper and leaned close to avoid being overheard. After speaking with the man, he left the inn.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:32, Tue 12 June 2007.

"We won," Chance says, smirking. "I heard it was quite a show, too. I'll have to catch it on DVD when it comes out. You look a bit thin around the edges, mate. Forget the booze?"

Conversation would be refreshing. He perked up a bit, slipping his boots off the other chair and turning to sit in a more normal fashion, facing Luke. Cyan was gone, as quickly as if she had clicked her heals together. Tahira sat alone. Dorian, now, sat alone. There was too much alone-ness in the party, these days. Sad.

 

Pondering for a moment what Morgan was trying to do, Banglen-Yp recalled things and smiled at him as she accepted his hand to allow him to dismount the big cat.

•• Thank you • Morgan ••

She nodded to Morgan.

•• And thank you too • it was wonderful as always ••

Turning back to the big cat for a moment she smiled at it as well.  Below the coat the kitten stirred and then popped its head out between two buttons to let hear a loud and clear meow, aimed towards the big cat.

Banglen-Yp laughed and allowed the coat to fade away, leaving her and the kitten in the rain, if close to the inn.

•• Rain can be nice ••

A simple statement, and another smile at Morgan; a smile that by all right should have dried up the clouds a little.

 

"Quite welcome."  Morgan smiles, holding the door as they enter the inn.  "I agree.  But I've had enough of it today. "

Morgan spies Chance and Luke, and cheerfully heads over, followed by a pair of his  large, damp, fuzzy bodyguards after Banglen clears the doorway.

Noticing Tahirah at her table, he waves, but doesn't divert. When friends are about, he figures being alone probably indicates a desire.

"Hi!"  He exclaims, pulling up a seat and falling carelessly into it. "Not a little wet outside.  Aaron back yet? And do I need to arrange rooms, or did we do that as a group?"

Luke sighed and brushed imaginary dust from his lean shoulders.  "Every time I lose a bit more of myself, Chance.  And I'm not getting much of a chance to build it back.  That one made a good run at reducing me to nothing."    He made a flick of a finger toward Dorian, currently on his way out of the Inn.  "Then there was that mess with the Vhuul.  Then the Warrior.  Then this."

"I'm getting a little tired."  This said with an easy smile that belied the truth of the words.  "Rather pleased we won, though.  Fought a war for a long, long time.  Every time it looked like I was winning, one of my brothers turned things around on me.  It gets tiring, losing.  I'm hoping to break my streak with this one."  His feet came off the table and he leaned forward to clap Chance's shoulder.

"So why the long face?"

Just then, Morgan arrived at the table.  Luke raised an eyebrow, but waited until the man finished.  "Hadn't noticed," he muttered, looking over his own (dry) sleeves.  "I just arrived myself, Morgan.  Sorry - not much to say about rooms.  I don't know if the innkeeper will appreciate the smell of wet cat, though."  He studied Banglen-Yp warily.  The woman was difficult for him to pin down - like others in the group, he relied on more senses than sight, and she was a blank space in the air to many of those.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:25, Mon 18 June 2007.

All of these people, and their assorted animals, are apparently friends of Cyan, which pretty much means that they are always welcome here.

The latest arrivals may be pushing things a little though.  They are as big as horses, and Donovan doesn't allow horses in the Common Room.  Besides, they seem to be disturbing his other customers.  The group of sailors are in the process of moving to a different table, while trying to find a route which does not cross paths with the giant black cats.

The blood drinkers seem to be talking excitedly about the animals... one of them even takes her eyes off the door for a moment...

The innkeeper tries to attract some attention, waving a hand in Morgan's direction, and is mortified when he realises that he only succeeds in attracting that of the cats.  He lowers his hand, hastily, as the creatures gaze at him curiously.  Perhaps a better opportunity to talk about them will present itself... later.

Then his eyes light on Banglen-Yp, and he smiles... She looks nice and normal.  "Can I get yer anythin', Miss?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:44, Thu 14 June 2007.

 

Stepping inside Banglen-Yp picked up the kitten and put him on her shoulder where he surveyed his domain, such as it was.  He was much higher than the other cats, or anyone else on the ground floor, so therefore he was currently superior to them all.

Laughing softly at the kitten, the young and strange blonde turned to regard the innkeeper as he spoke to her.

He asked if he could get her anything.

•• Do you have a rubber•duck ••

A straightforward question, coupled with a beaming smile that would make the sun nearly green of envy - but only nearly, which was a good thing, since the world was used to yellow light and not green.  Beside, it would look mighty strange, everything, in a green light.

She caught the glance from the man who vanished and appeared as he willed and smiled at him too, even offering a small wave.

•• If not • perhaps a small fish for my friend and some warm soup for me • please ••

Best make another suggestion in case he had no rubber-ducks, she reasoned.

 
This message was last edited by the player at 18:04, Thu 14 June 2007.

Morgan grins. This kind of reaction, he has a bit of experience with.  "Thanks, Luke. I'll ask, since he's here."

"Sir! Could you tell me whether my friends arranged rooms for everyone already or we still need to talk? I've myself and roughly two-score bodyguards"  he pats Leareth's shoulder to leave no doubt as to who he means, "and I'd prefer as many of bunk under a roof as can."

The smile freezes on Donovan's face.  He has no idea what a "rubber duck" is... unless it's one of those strange drinks that foreigners sometimes ask for.

Then Morgan comes to his rescue. with a question that does make sense, "Rooms were a'ready arranged fer yers, Sir." and then his business mind kicks in, "But the Rose is a big place, if'n yer prepared ter pay fer the extra rooms, an' can cover any damages an... y'know... mess, I'll see 'ow many o' yer friends we can get inside too.  Though some'll likely 'ave ter take the stables fer ternight, Sir."

He looks back to Banglen-Yp, and decides to ignore the things that he doesn't understand, which might, in fact, be a good policy to adopt for the rest of the evening, "I can get yer a drop o' soup, Miss, an' a bit o' fish fer yer pet.  It'll take jus' a few minutes."

Having returned to human form just outside, Roman enters the Blue Rose and surveys the changes in occupancy.  Making a decision he moves over towards Morgan and Banglen-Yp, but waits for them to finish their discussions with the inkeeper.

Grinning at the grumble from Catherine, Morgan fishes out another golden coin and offers it to the keeper.  "The only mess will be water."  He explains, "So please just leave the doors open."

 

Looking a little sad, for almost the whole length of a heartbeat, Banglen-Yp wondered if she ever would find a rubber duck.  For a moment she pondered if she perhaps should try to describe on to him, but something his expression made her not do so.

Instead she smiled again and nodded.

•• Make it a big drop • please •• He is not a pet • he is a cat ••

First a gentle request - she felt like having a bit more soup than just one drop, after all - and then a correction.  Her little friend was a cat, not a pet.

The little kitten appeared to nod solemnly at this, but perhaps it was just busy trying to chew on the blonde's hair.

Turning a little, that same blonde spotted Roman approaching, so she waved happily to him with another dazzling smile.

•• Hello • Roman •• Have you seen a rubber•duck ••

A simple statement and a simple question, one after another.

 

Roman shakes his head.  "No, I haven't seen any rubber ducks here.  DId you find passage to our destination ?"

Realizing after a moment that Roman can only be speaking to him, Morgan shakes his head.  "Ships are trying to keep their schedules erratic for safety. I've bought some good descriptions of the land route, and some information on what the archons have been doing, though."

Chance smiles, but he doesn't answer the long face question. It was too complicated to respond to, anyway. In truth, he wasn't even sure himself anymore. It had started in Charyk, a nagging dissatisfaction that he had not been there coupled with lingering doubts about his bravery. Then Cyan had entered the picture. Both of those things had faded into the backdrop, still present, but not pressing. So, what bothered him?

Not much, now that Luke was back. That had also bothered him for some time. Berd's assurance that the man was okay helped, but seeing him made a bigger difference.

Now, he probably just needed a good, drunken, sleep.

He lifts his glance to Luke, smiles, and then drinks deeply.

Roman hadn't meant Morgan specifically but it seems he's uncovered something of interest.  "So what did you find out?"

 

Banglen-Yp only smiled and shook her head to Roman.  She had not looked for a passage, after all, only on the ships.

•• Rain is wet all the time • and right through ••

An answer to his second question, sort of.

 

The door of the inn bangs open, admitting wind and rain, and figure stands there, on the threshold.  He wears a long, hooded cloak, wrapped tightly around him, which reaches down to the ground.

His eyes seem to burn in the shadows of the hood, as he scans the room, and the group of sailors who have been there all along, avert their eyes from him, and make odd hand gestures.  The stranger sees what, or who, he is looking for.  He steps inside and walks towards the pair of Chanactarsa blood drinkers, who stand to greet him.  The door still stands open.

As he walks into the inn, whisps of steam rise from his cloak.  Donovan calls out to him, "Hey!  The door!" but without even looking at the innkeeper, the newcomer simply replies, "Mead."

Loosening his cloak, he reveals a suit of mail beneath it, and a broadsword hanging at his belt, the blade of which looks to have been blackened by fire.  Casting back his hood, he bows to the two women, and the light glints upon the two short, polished horns which project from just above his hairline.

At Morgan's request, Catherine slinks over to nudge the door closed again, getting herself a whiff of the demon's scent.

Roman takes a long, curious, look at the new arrival, trying to figure out if it's anyone he knows from home.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:43, Wed 20 June 2007.

"Going to stay mysterious, are you?"  Luke shrugged.  "Your call..."  He gave Morgan a quick nod in return to the man's comment, and went back to relaxing.  It would not last long, of that he was certain.  Sooner or later, something would happen.  Then the door opened.

With a sigh, Luke put his feet down and gave the newcomer a quick once-over.  The horns purchased a raise of an eyebrow, but physical phenomena weren't what Luke was interested in.  He swept the man with his mind's eye, hunting for traces of Power.

The door barely closes before it's forced open again by a new hand. A left hand, it seemed, soaked nearly to the bone by the whipping wind and rain outside.

"Sorry, Cat," Aaron mumbled wetly to the massive feline behind the door, carrying himself as he was into the Inn. Immediately his eyes sought a familiar face, finding one in Luke. The people he wanted to be there, Cyan and Dorian, weren't, and that agitated him just a tiny bit.

Still, he greeted Luke with a "Ho," and the slightly more recent additions to his ragtag group with a nod of acknowledgement. He swung the door a bit wider to admit the individuals he'd met upon the docks, before sliding it firmly shut.

Now he would inquire of recent events, and see if his new friends would cook up some news now that he'd brought them to a more familiar and comfortable environment.

Approaching the innkeep, Aaron gestured to his new friends.

"Anything they order, as much as they want, can be placed on my tab, which will be paid in full before my departure." He glanced behind him, at Pey't and his friends, nodding in affirmation. "Anything."

Then he strode away from the bar and moved to Luke, gesturing mostly with his eyes for a desire to convene. His voice was low, but loud enough for even Roman and Morgan to hear. "Sorry for my tardiness. Any news?"

Luke flicked off an absent salute to Aaron as he entered the bar - interesting how the man had new company - and went back to studying Chance.  The man seemed more subdued than his wont, though that could be Chance thinking - something he did fairly often.  It was one reason Luke enjoyed his presence.

Then Aaron stepped over for a chat.  Luke glanced at his new friends, then down at himself.  "I've managed to put myself back together for the moment, Aaron.  I see you're in one piece as well - remarkable."  His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and echoed strangely around Aaron.  It reached no further than their table.  "Let's see...the old man informs me that Cyan, Dorian, Devlin - I hadn't realized he returned - and someone named Trista have broken Beldrin out of prison and are currently tending to his plague.  Pleasant; suddenly I'm glad to be here.  Plague is noxious."

The horned newcomer approaches the two women in their odd patchwork learher armour.  He bows to them, not a deep bow, but a bow all the same.  "Foul weadher, bud id keeps dhe streets clear, yes?"

Removing the cloak, he reveals mail of red and black links, arranged in a cnequerboard pattern across his powerful torso.  His arms are bare, and heavily muscled, with scars over much of their surface.  Those scars look more like ritual markings than combat injuries.

Seating himself on a chair which creaks dangerously beneath his weight, he accepts his mead from Donovan, with little more than a grunt of thanks.  The two women sit, and the stranger speaks, "You speak Teriki or Baarakunchan?"

At the shaking of their heads, and muttered denials, he sighs, and looks about the room.  "Dhen id can nod be helped, I suppose.  Led us make dhis quick.  Name id nod, bud have you found dhe item?"

The two women look at each other, then the older seeming one replies, "Do you have the payment?  Our clan has spent considerable time searching for this thing.  We were promised payment in exchange for an honest attempt to find it."

"Yes... dhat is so.  And I have dhe agreed fee.  Do you have dhe item?"

Morgan's eyes widen at this news. Though he doesn't know the name, the rest of the sentence is enough to cause trouble.

He adds his own tidbit, "And tales of the Archons have come through here as well, though the one who passed on the information thought them fanciful. I collect the full transcription tomorrow."

 

As interested in people's reaction to the horned newcomer as she was in him, Banglen-Yp stared in fascination at others more than she did at him.

The kitten seemed to care little about it and played with her hair where he sat, making her giggle a little and ruffle the fur on top of his head.  To this the kitten sat down to try to wash himself and make himself presentable once more, having been so roughly handled that it almost was visible on his fur, which always seemed to be in a state of disarray.

She did turn to study the one who did not know how to close doors as he spoke, appearing almost stare at him.

 

"Prison break," Chance nods. "Glad they got him out. Any idea who this Beldrin fellow is? I caught on that he was important, but not really any context. I couldn't remember if you mentioned him, Luke--such a long tale to keep track of all the details."

He checked the two woman and the horned man from the corner of his eye. No problems yet, but he wondered if the situation there might get tense. It seemed the big guy wanted an item. From the women's response, he didn't think they had it.

From the way Chance saw it, Horns probably had a temper. Unless he had really paid for an attempt, he was likely to take his frustration out on either the women or the inn. Either one would be a problem.

He smiles as he turned his attention back to the table. One hand pulled his guitar a little closer, just in case. The other hand lifts the glass to his lips, again.

"Yes.  We have the item." the woman replies, "Not here though.  This is not the safest of places to make the trade.  If you insist, we will have it brought here, within the hour.  Otherwise we would propose another location."

The horned man considers her words, and glances around the room, "Very good.  Dhis place has become more... busy... since I make suggesdion dhat we use id as a meeding place."

"And others have used half truths to make us unwelcome here."

She pulls a scrap of paper from her belt, pressing it out flat, and sliding it across to the man.  "This is where we would meet, in one hour."

He leans closer, and peers at it.  "Dhat is agreeable."  Downing the rest of his mead, he stands, "One hour, dhen."  Then he walks towards the door, leaving the two women to pay for his drink.

Tahirah flips over another card, setting it precisely alongside the others, studying the results.

"Tales of Archons...now they reach Amber itself.  How long will it be before the skies of that great city burn with the light of the Seraphim?"  Luke shook his head. "Good work, Morgan - those stories may prove precious.  Information is critical."

Then Luke straightened slightly in his seat, and suddenly he opened a bridging of his own to those in the room of their quest who accepted.  Banglen-Yp was too far away for a whisper - one of the others would inform her, no doubt.

Listen to them speak, that group.  They have an item, for which they have searched.  This area has been the subject of Archon attention in the past, and it is a gateway to Amber itself.

I don't believe in coincidence.

Someone should follow them.  I would send my awareness after them, but the horned man holds a power within him that I cannot quantify - it may be he would detect me.  Thus, it might fall upon more mundane methods of surveillance.  Are any here skilled at the art of shadowing?  Those women are...dangerous, and highly perceptive.  It would be difficult, to say the least.

Aloud, he continued - quietly.  "Beldrin...keep the name quiet, of course.  But he was an agent of Prince Caine, as I was told, and slew a spy of the Archons, stealing her transportation device - a tesserect of Trump energies."  His smile grew sardonic.  "I had to tell Aaron and co. that it was a beacon to the Enemy about ten times before they finally chucked it."
This message was last edited by the player at 12:18, Mon 25 June 2007.

"Thanks. I was lucky, seeing them drawn on a map." Morgan demurs.

As the bridge forms, Catherine looks up.  He doesn't smell like demon/Roman. She remarks, tail twitching. Anne-Marie and Ahmad have been bored. They can follow him. is Leareth's input.  At a gestured agreement from Morgan, Catherine heads outside to bestow the duty. In a night sodden with rain, the panthers can likely pass unseen amongst the rooftops. Indeed, she expects to find them lounging there.

And so it is that anybody mad enough to be out, and looking skywards on this dismal noght might see the bizarre sight of horse-sized shadows, dark as the space between the stars, moving silently across the rain-slicked rooftops of Cadiniagart...

Inside the Blue Rose, Tahirah continues to play her game of Solitaire, though the rules seem to have shifted subtly, and the layout is more intricate.


The blonde Chanactarsa woman, her employer having left, allows her gaze to wander from the door, until it comes to rest on Tahirah.  After a few moments, she mutters something to her companion, then gets up and makes her way to the table where the white robed woman sits, dealing out increasingly complex arrays of cards.

"Have you the gift to see what will be?  Would you tell me what my tomorrows hold?"

Donovan calls across from the counter, "Don't yer be botherin' my other guests, now!"

Aaron rubbed his face in honest embarrasment. "The Cube. Yes. Don't remind me."

A heavy sigh followed him, and he attempted to show as little interest in the rest of the room as humanly possible.

"You're right, Luke. I'm curious as to what they seek, and have apparently found." he spoke across the bridging. His gaze followed one of the women as she moved towards the seer, Tahirah. "One of them apparently wishes a glimpse of her future. Let's hope both of them exhibit such a lack of wisdom."

He found a seat and dropped himself in it, resting Ilse in her sheath beside his chair. Aaron feigned relaxtion, more intent on his surroundings and his comrades than on any sort of casual rest.

 

The kitten had run out of energy and fallen asleep in the middle of a wash, the tongue sticking out and the head resting against the arm of the strange blonde.

She, in turn, turned to look around the room at the people talking, whispering and seeming to share things she knew little or nothing about, whether it was those she had come here with or the others.


                Outside.

                                                Different.

                                Alone.


She sighed, quietly, and turned to look at the nearly snoring kitten - and smiled gently.



                ...but not completely alone.

 

Tahirah goes still for a moment, and then gathers her cards in a single sweep, squaring them quickly and integrating them back into her main deck.  Silently, she indicates the opposite chair, and then sets the full deck down just to her left.

"Do you have a Question?" she asks the woman.

"A question?" the woman looks a little puzzled, for a moment, but then her face clears, "Ah... as with the Fadenja, your spirits need to hear my voice, so that they might know me, and find the right tomorrows... I understand.  Thanks be that you don't ask for a song, the way the Fadenja witchman did."

She falls silent for a few heartbeats, and her eyes close.  Then they snap open, and she asks, "How soon shall I see my son, Graif, again?"

Tahirah considers correcting the reasons, but...the woman asked for a glimpse into her future.  Not a dissertation on how glimpses into the future function.

So instead, she turns her own focus to the question at hand, and turns over a triad of cards...

Donovan, satisfied that the blood-drinker's presence is not disturbing Tahirah overmuch, returns to his attention to his work behind the counter.  Most of it, at least... he still keeps a wary eye on the two leather-clad, knife-laden women.

A little way from Tahirah's table, the group of sailors notice what is going on.  Their drinking game fades into silence, and they watch with interest as Tahirah lays out the cards.  One of them makes what looks to be a warding gesture, and starts to speak, but the one who is, apparently their leader, punches him on the shoulder and hushes him.

Aaron's former gambling companions also watch, though from a greater distance.  Two of them are deep in conversation as they observe, but the third never speaks.

The Chanactarsa leans forward, peering at the cards, as if she had some skill in interpreting them.  Her companion, the older woman, leans back, drawing on her pipe.  Her gaze finds Aaron, Luke, and the other Questors, and she shakes her head.  Removing the pipe from her mouth for a moment, she says, quietly, "Always she seeks tomorrow, never thinking that, if she just waits a little while, tomorrow will find her.  Without fail."

 

Looking over at the woman speaking, Banglen-Yp smiled and spoke with a gentle voice, possibly so not to disturb either the kitten or the fortune telling.

•• Tomorrow never yet • on any human being • rose or set ••

Then she looked down at the kitten, pausing for a moment, before she spoke anew.

•• Tomorrow is the day so many wait for • long for • wishing for changes • and yet • it will never arrive • for comes morrow • it is already today ••

Hugging the kitten gently to her body she nuzzled it before speaking yet one more time, this time a question, perhaps not aimed at anyone in particular.

•• If we knew tomorrow • would we really want to be there ••

 

Tahirah nods quietly, and lays out the first triangle of cards.  "Voice in the Wind," she names it, and after a short pause, clarifies.  "You have asked the wrong Question."

She doesn't stop, however, instead quickly laying out two more triangles, off the lower corners of the first, making a triangle of triangles.  These she studies in silence for a moment - part of the moment, actually, spent smiling her secret agreement with Banglen-Yp's overheard statements.  Hm.  A Wall In Time.  That was rarely good...in Tahirah's experience, it usually meant the person was going to die.  She lays another card atop the Time Rune itself, and looks at the corner.

The person is going to die soon, she amends mentally.  Evidently, tomorrow might well fail to find her afterall.  A Question for herself, then, and another triangle, this one quickly swept up and returned to the deck.  Yes - the person with whom she is sitting.  She looks to the right-hand corner set, and frowns slightly.  The Seeker Within?  An odd combination to find here...she crosses, and finds Source.

Another Query, another triangle.  Oh, well, there's a bit of good news, anyway.  "Your son is well," she begins.  "But you are unlikely to see him.  You are fated to die.  Tonight."  She used to try to work her way around to things like that, but it never helped in the long run.  "No such fate is absolute, but yours is strong; it will draw you in, if it can.  The source, if not the cause, of your death, may already be upon you, though ridding yourself of what you carry will not so easily suffice to escape it."

She gathers the cards, and begins laying down anew.  "If I may inquire upon your behalf...?" she asks, and it seems to be a real question, ready to stop if the woman asks, or has another question of her own.

The door swings open once more and James enters, dripping wet, again, or perhaps still.

"I've got to stop tramping off through the rain like this.  I'll freeze."  James announces to no-one in particular.  "Something hot please Donovan."

James scans the room and spys Morgan, Aaron, Luke and Chance together.  He moves to join them.  "Any word from the liberators?"

James enters the inn at that moment, and orders something to warm himself up.  With a wave of acknowledgement, Donovan sets to providing something which will fit the bill.

"I will die?" the woman's voice is quiet, shocked.

The other one is about to answer Banglen-Yp, but her head snaps around to regard her companion, "You and your foolish determination to see your tomorrow!  Did I not warn you that it would bring no good?"  She stands quickly, her chair falling with a loud clatter which causes the group of sailors, and Aarons former gambling companions to start nervously, and draws Donovan's attention, "What's happenin' there?"  "Do not worry yourself, shotani.  We are leaving.  What do we owe?"

"Leave if you will.  I await further words." the blonde snaps back at her companion, "Proceed, if you please."  This last directed at Tahirah.

"We make our own luck, Morgan," Luke said with a jagged grin.  He leaned back in his chair, to listen to the other table.  Foolishness indeed, Aaron.  'Knowing' the future never helps - sometimes it is that knowledge that pushes one face-first into what one would have avoided, ignorant.

Time is a fool's game, even for one that knows its ways.  He puts down his tankard of ale, and a wiff of it swirls around the table for an instant - flat, dead.  Spoiled with age.  Tahirah merely gives answers to what they ask.  They ought not do so.  A fly crawled from the mug, buzzed its wings, then flew away.  Luke waved his hand with some irritation.

Banglen-Yp's poetry bought a raised eyebrow from the lean man, and he shrugged.  "I count myself fortunate to not be human.  You show wisdom, Banglen-Yp.  I was happier today, and happiest in yesterday.  But yesterday is long gone, today was fleeting, and once one reaches tomorrow one can never go back."  He chuckled.  "I merely arrived there...early."  He eyed the kitten.  "Wisdom in your choices of companions, as well.  I have always like cats."

The mug's wood was faded.  Cracked.  Thick, tarry remains of ale began to leak from its base.

His eyebrows cocked at James' sodden appearance, and Luke raised a hand.  When James arrived, there came the offer of a mental bridging between himself and the others in the room.  "Beldrin is free, and sick," Luke said quietly.  "He receives quality care though, from our own concerned nurses, though the doctor's bedside manner leaves much to be desired.  Still in this World, even, and not so far away from the city.  I know nothing more.  Sit yourself there, James, closer to the fire.  What transpired?  I'm certain our fearless leader," and he rolled his eyes at Aaron "would wish to know."

At some point the mug had vanished, leaving only a small, circular stain on the tabletop.

Banglen-Yp's unaccustomed eloquence silences the prince. Unaccustomed to how he is used to think of her, at any rate. He chews the words over thoughtfully, merely nodding to Luke's  commentary.

 

Turning to look over at the lean man as he spoke to her, the strange blonde smiled gently and then laughed very softly and briefly.

•• One can be human without being human • and it is better than to be inhuman ••

A simple statement, with her shrug of her own to match that one of Luke.  Then she looked down at the little kitten and smiled gently once more.

•• I grow older •• I remember • at least a little •• But yes • he appears to be a cat ••

Several shorter statements, concluded by a rather cryptic one, in a sense.

 

The older woman waits, while Donovan tallies up what is owed, and then she tosses some coins on the counter, before turning back to her companion, "Continue with this foolishness, if you will.  I go to meet with the man who pays the wage this moon.  If you expect to see your share, you'll join me."

And she starts towards the door...

Leaning back in his chair, Chance let the conversation around the table fade into the background, a dull murmur. He cradled his drink and watched Tahira and the woman from the corner of his eye. Technically accurate, he thought, but fatally flawed. Kind of like Cats, the musical. He thought maybe he should go talk to the woman. News of ones death wasn't likely to be easy. Perhaps when they were finished. No good interrupting the fortune-telling in the middle.

Tahirah turns another card in silence, bent over the reading.  The one leaving does not ask; does not wish to know.  That choice is hers to make; but the trade that she sees is not Tahirah's.

Roman moves to intercept the woman who is leaving.  Quietly he speaks to her.  "You should wait a little.  Or are you in a hurry to die ?  Surely you understand that the danger to your companion is likely to touch your life, too."

The woman studies Roman with the expression of somebody who has just discovered half of a particularly unpleasant insect inside an apple they have bitten into, "The future will happen as it happens.  Knowing it does not change it.  If I am to die, then the knowledge of it will do nothing but make me unhappy for the rest of my life.  Move aside.  As yet, I have no quarrel with you, but I do have business to attend to."

 

Banglen-Yp moved off to the side a bit and whispered something to her little friend before she put him somewhere inside her coat.  After that she continued towards the exit with a small smile on her lips, moving as if with a purpose.

Unless stopped it is clear that she would step outside.

 

Tahirah says softly, to the one who has asked, "It is...very unlikely, that you will be paid.  Your respective survivals, or not, does not impact this."

Her friend doesn't wish to know, and that is, indeed, her choice.  But if the one who does wish to know wants to tell her...that, too, is part of her own freedom.

James takes the seat by the fire offered by Luke and accepts his mental bridging as well.

"There's really very little to say.  I went, said hello and made my report.  I think I covered most of the important stuff but I tried to avoid going into detail or giving too much away about the people...with us from time to time."

Benedict is here as well, posing as Corwin's guard.  He identified me to Corwin.  I volunteered to act as the bait to draw out the traitor, but Corwin preferred that we all keep our role as hunters.  I suspect the traitor knows too much about us already, so that won't be easy.  Also, it's a safe bet that one faction or another will have sent an agent to follow me from the castle.  Keep anything important over a bridging as much as possible.

Roman makes way, but continues to speak "If all is predestined, your knowledge and attendant misery are also inevitable.  Yet if it is not, you might still find a way to escape death.  Does that not interest you ?"

"Nobody escapes their fate.  That is why it is their fate." the woman snarls at Roman, "If they are fated to die, then they will die.  If a seer tells me that I will die, and then I don't die... then I have not evaded fate, I have proved that the seer was wrong.  Trying to dodge fate is not only futile, it is the sign of a coward."

"Stand aside, or it may happen that one of us will meet their fate this day!"

Donovan, looks up as he hears her words, "No fightin'!  Not in 'ere!"  He hurries around the counter, "Get out, blood-drinker!"

"That is my intent, innkeeper."

The younger woman, still sitting with Tahirah, nods, her expression grave, "I thought he could not be trusted.  The Rokt are often known to be less than honest with foreigners."  She sighs, "No doubt he intends to steal what he had us find for him, to avoid making the payment."

Aaron took a seat and leaned back, keeping an eye on Roman and the woman he was conversing with.

"Corwin and Benedict." Aaron repeated their names with a curious tone. "Did either of them toss out ideas on how we could ferret out this traitor? We'll need to take our next steps very carefully."

"Not really, Aaron.  Wait, hold on a second."

James' eyes become unfocused and he starts talking to thin air.  "Cyan?  Is this palanquet then?  Hi Trista.  I've just come back from the castle.  His high and mightiness reminded me that they are having issues with Trump, so we can't assume this contact is safe.  Let's keep it casual."

"And I," Luke replied to Banglen-Yp as she rose to leave, "will take inhuman and inhuman any day you should chose to mention.  And twice on Sundays."  That brought a short laugh, before he returned his attention to the others.

Hunters, is it?  I might almost be suspicious of Corwin, as we have been anything but efficient hunters until now.  The time for quick, bold action is almost gone.  Note well that swift, daring strokes are my last resort - after this, I fear, is only awaiting the inevitable.

We don't have time to piddle around as we have been so doing.  I would prefer your plan, James.  Bait.

The dark-eyed man stared at Tahirah and the woman as they poured over the fortune.  Roman's discussion with the other one was observed with bland interest - fate was something in which Luke believed not at all.  He glanced at Aaron when James began to speak, and commented over the Bridging.  Curious.  Both Benedict and Corwin have nothing to offer.  This, from a group famed for their machiavellian manipulations and politics.  Many possibilities present themselves.

The first, that all is as Corwin says.  I find this laughable.

The second, that Corwin and Benedict have plans of their own, and will use us for stalking horses in our own way, perhaps hoping our blundering will expose the traitor...when they move against us.

The third, that Corwin and Benedict are the traitors themselves.

There are, of course, other possibilities.  But the fact is that I am not enamoured with this plan, and suggest we simply fall back upon our own...whatever that may be.

 

Banglen-Yp has looked at Luke and shaken her head as he spoke.

•• I doubt that is anything but talk • because you are not inhuman • dear ••

This had been followed by a bright smile directed at him.

 

Chance pulls his attention from the women and Tahira to comment. "Nothing wrong with being human or inhuman," he says. "So long as you do it in private and wash your hands when you're done."

Chance had grown more used to the bridging used by the group, but his voice still came across awkwardly.

Nothing, that is problematic. It tells us nothing and sets us up for a fall. Classic, but not welcome in this case. I say we keep looking for an ally, and when we find one--that's our traitor.

He wasn't entirely serious about that.

Seems a lot happens here in this town. Maybe it is more related to our problems than we realize. I've got a feeling the answer is just beneath our feet and we're not seeing it.

Roman shakes his head in mock-sadness "There is no certain and inevitable future.  Only probabilities.  It is always possible to beat the odds.  But if you believe otherwise, by all means go to be cheated and murdered - probably."

Over the bridging a message to Morgan "Are you in contact with your panthers ?  If any of us chose to go to the rendezvous, could you guide them ?"

"Cleanliness is next to godliness, or so they say," Luke chuckled.  "Must be why I feel so dirty all the time, Chance."  Banglen-Yp he ignored; he figured that if she wished to make insulting assumptions, that was her own business.

Many of the 'things' into which we find ourselves bumping have import to us, either directly or indirectly.  When one travels via the pattern, I imagine 'random chance', save the the one who walks with us, is the exception rather than the rule.

As for answers...I have so many questions that were I to find an answer, it might take me a bit of time to determine to which question it belonged.

I believe Roman is correct - some of you should observe this meeting.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:41, Tue 10 July 2007.

I'm pretty good at blending in, Chance thinks across the bridging. No powers or anything, though. Just an honest face and a quick change of clothes. I suspect others might fare even better.

"Never understood why cleanliness should be next to godliness. Kind of makes godliness sound cheap and pretentious, like it never worked an honest day in its life."

"If tomorrow is unchanging, then knowing it is of little use, since you can do nothing about it.  But if, as you claim, tomorrow is uncertain, then knowing it is of little use, since what you know has more chance of being wrong than right."

The woman starts to push past Roman, "Either way, knowing what tomorrow holds is of little use."

With a last glare at Donovan, she yanks the door open, and steps out into the rain, ignoring Banglen-Yp, who stands outside, staring up into the sky.


Elsewhere, two huge panthers sit on a roof, observing the same sky.  Lightning blazes almost constantly, rain pounds down onto them, and the wind threatens to knock them from their precarious vantage point.

It is, all things considered, rather like home.

 

Human.

                    Inhuman.

          Misinterpreting.

If they misunderstood the meaning of the word, it was not her fault.  Perhaps they were stuck in too literal thinking.

The strange blonde stood outside, staring up at the rain and the cloud above, wondering if mind were too limited sometimes to understand more than themselves, if even that.

Perhaps in time they would know.

Perhaps in time she would understand what they seemed to share that she did not.

Perhaps in time.


Soaking to the bone, literally, the young humanoid was aware of the woman coming out and ignoring her - she ignored her back as well, focusing on the rain and her own intentions.


Absorbing the rain that fell on her she added to her mass and imagine before her inner eye the end of the change.  Maybe she would achieve nothing, maybe she would, but the only way to know for certain was to try.  There is only try.

 

"I'm out of the 'sneaking around' business by virtue of personality and attitude." Aaron said with a chuckle reverberating through the bridging. An exasperated sigh followed that, clear distaste framing the swordsman's face. "Our hole delves deeper still."

Rolling this news through his mind, Aaron had yet to latch onto a solid plan. It was generally agreed upon that if they waited any longer, either everything would blow up in thier faces, or they'd miss their chance to act. There had to be a middle ground. They had to be able to use all that was coming to pass to their advantage.

Above all, Aaron wished he had all of the minds of his group in the room with him. It may have ended up with them having even fewer answers... but he couldn't help but feel somewhat handicapped by the lack of certain individuals.

"Chance, who would you reccomend for backup in case things go sour at this rendezvous?" Aaron had an idea, but he wanted to see how far ahead the man was thinking.

One of those lounging outside responds to the question, over the bridging,  "One them will tell us in while. The city not big, and they fast"  The thought is slow, comfortable. Not one that has spoken overmuch to the others before.

Another pair rise from the roof, deciding to keep a whisker on the exiting woman, while three or four pad closer to Banglen-Yp. Road-weariness has been shaken off with the thoughts of action, and she is interesting.