Devlin is interested in the book, even if it is just a reflection on the one that was done here.

He smiles, and almost laughs, when Benich asks Cyan if she is a witch. He imagines that anything any of them did here would appear as magic.

Moving closer to Cyan he says, "Shall we have a look at what it says, then?"

The bard tosses a wink Dorian's way when he glances at her, making a subtle nod of her head to Berd.  "Interesting, Benich.  Things of import to the people who did the drawing, obviously.  Survival is...well, one needs to live, does one not?  Only after can one concern with such things as poetry."

An eyebrow quirks over an emerald eye.  "Your food burns."

Sitting down, Cyan cracks open the book.  "No, Benich - not a witch.  I know some tricks, nothing more, I fear.  Most of them are done with blades."  A small smile at that.  "It has been a long time since I have practiced anything but swordwork," she murmurs.  A long time since Cyan has inked a palanquet, or even sketched for pleasure.

She motions Devlin closer.  "Gather around, then.  Mirror this might be, but the Archons travel from world to world.  They might have travelled to both, and thus the accounts within these pages may truly be first-hand."

He lets a small smile play at Cyan's wink.

"Interestingly," Dorian says, "the scribe put more detail into the rings of flame and blade than actually exist in the cave drawings they were taken from." His eyes have returned to the dirt floor of the cave, having never looked at Cyan's copy so far.

"Not many individuals on this world have read it, and most of the details are now blurred by time."

He glances at Benich, one of the readers of the volume of course. "As you may have guessed, we are not ordinary travelers, but neither are we witches or anything of that kind. We merely have a unique relationship with the world, the results of which may appear as something magical, or witchcraft, to you."

Ironically, being a sorcerer, he was closer to witchcraft than most of the others.

Benich uses a twig to prod at the food near the flames, but he actually moves it a little closer, "Nah.  Has to burn a bit, to be sure of killing the worms as sometimes lives in the fish.  If it don't burn, and you's eating the fish, well then the worms's is maybe eating you."

"So... you's white witches then?" he finshes, with a shrug.

Cyan cracks open the book, as Benich goes back to looking at the ceiling and muttering the names of the various creatures depicted there, or the ones he knows at least.

By sheer luck, it opens to reveal two Archons, one on each half of the two page spread.  On the left, in exquisite detail, a danioti is drawn, the image so well realised that its blades almost seem whistle.  Opposite it, one of the eshurianti practically radiates heat and rage.  The artist has done an excellent job of capturing the very essence of the Archons.  Certainly, the image of the danioti is far more detailed than the crude depiction in the cave.

A person might imagine that the artist had actually met them.

The text is handwritten, suggesting that this world and its neighbours do not possess the technology of printing presses.  It is also a little... biased... in its approach to the subject.

In times long gone, before the Cisarran Empire extended its grasp to the very edge of Myras, and further, there were diverse tribes and clans of primitive halfmen living in Myras itself, where they eked out a pitiable existence.  They are long gone now, of course, proof that they were less than worthy in the eyes of the Demiurge, yet still the crude signs of their existence are to be found in many places in Myras.

Perhaps their unworthiness was tied to their worship of sundry Spirits, and even of Daemons.

The sketches on these two pages are copied from the pictograms left by the halfmen, augmented by information from other sources.  These creatures, called "seraphis" are not truly Daemons, but are spirits of the Upper Air.

They are the root of all the evils in the Empire.  They are the carriers of death, famine, war and pestilence.  And yet the halfmen placed paintings of these seraphis in many places, so that they could be worshipped.  It is said that by gazing upon a painting, one of the foul priests of the halfmen, well versed in the dark arts as they must have been, could speak to the creature represented there.

It was for this crime that the Demiurge wiped the halfmen from the face of the world.

Apparantly Dorian has already examined the work.  Somehow that doesn't surprise Cyan.  For a moment she considers his methodology - Broken Pattern?  Sorcery?  Some other, hitherto unknown arcane discpline?  It might be any of the above.  She lets out a small laugh, and turns to the pages.  "White witches...if by that, you mean we demand no blood sacrifice, that any losses come from ourselves and not from others, I suppose."

She glances to the fish.  "I shall remember that..."  ...should I have occasion to eat the fish.  Berd, on her shoulder, shifts uncomfortably, his brilliant scales taking on a slightly greenish cast.

But her eyes sharpen as she reads, and Cyan abruptly glances up at the paintings upon the roof.  "Foolish," she mutters.  "Arrogant, ourselves.  Benich, be wary of these sigils."  Topaz eyes narrow as she studies the images upon the ceiling.  Crude?  Perhaps.

But the creation of palanqueti requires a different skill than artistic ability.  It is the harmonic one wishes to capture, not a perfect reflection.

Benich waits a few moments longer, and then drags the smouldering food away from the fire.  The bread is blackened, and Benich removes the fish bone, before throwing the top piece of bread back into the fire.  Licking his fingertips, he breaks away a piece of fish, hot to handle, but protected from actual burning by the layers of bread.

Cyan's attention, meanwhile, is drawn towards the image...

"Oh, no."  Cyan slowly stands, moving toward the image that has caught her emerald eyes.  Berd lets out a small chime, his eyes still closed, and she shakes her head.  "Yes, I know."  Reaching up, she hovers her finger over the symbol, her lips thin and tight.  "Who are you?" the bard whispers, opening her mind to the scent of the not-quite palanquet.

"This is real," she murmurs, seeking to taste the resonance without opening herself to it.  "Not the same as palanqueti, but not entirely dissimilar...as with 'trumps'."

Berd cracks an eyelid again, studying the image himself.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:42, Fri 08 Aug 2008.

Curiousity drawing his attention away from the fish, Benich watches as Cyan rises and moves towards the image on the ceiling.  "I's been telled as there's magic in some o' they.  I's not beliefs it, mind."

"Magic indeed," Cyan whispers, abruptly jerking her face away from the picture.  "This one holds a demon."  Berd rises on her shoulder, back arching like a cat's.  His wings extend as Cyan rises, stepping away from the painting and putting out a hand to steady herself upon the cave wall.  The drake's eyes burn like twin suns.

Turning away, Cyan closes her eyes for a long moment.  When they finally open, the colour is washed away, leeched down to the barest hint of ruby.  As she breathes, it slowly returns, bleeding back into her irises.  Berd, however, does not relax, a fire-eyed guard over the painting.

"The...there is a gate," Cyan finally says, glancing up, through the rock of the island to its rounded 'peak'.  "I know not to where, but I would find out.  It lies above us, upon the ridge of this place.  Bide a moment - I will return."

She hurries from the cave, putting the awful painting behind her.

The path to the top of the pinnacle of rock is clear.  It's steep, and tricky, but somehow there are no insects in the way.  No venomous reptiles.  No dangerous mammals.

Three minutes.

That's all it takes, until Cyan stands upon the summit.

There is a circle of damp sand there, surrounded by rough slabs of stone, each about a foot in the largest dimension, and each inscribed with a stylised image of a flame.  None of the surrounding vines, creepers, or shrubs have encroached on the circle and, though the stones are covered with moss and lichen, the carvings themselves are bare of vegetation, standing out clearly, even though they have been badly eroded by the elements.

The carved flames are aligned so that they appear to radiate out from the centre of the circle.

Cyan herself, stands outside the circle.

Archons.  They made this.  Cyan crouches, staring into the circle, wondering if Harabonah himself was responsible for this effort.  Certainly it had been a shock to find him at the 'other end' of the palanquet in the cave.  Her old master.

"So many things they have created, hm?" she inquires of Berd.  "At one time.  Now they destroy."  If only she could 'read' the cave paintings.  Discern the truth of their story.  Were the archons demons?  Or gods?  Berd sniffs the air a few times, apparantly unconcerned.  But his attention - at least a part of it - remains upon the circle.

"And where does it lead?" Cyan muses.  She reaches a hand out, just to the edge of the circle, struggling to feel the vibrations.  Nothing.  The bard sighs.  "Shall I essay an opening?" she wonders quietly.  Standing, she runs fingers through her coppery hair, then narrows amber eyes.  Reaching with her spirit, she touches this remnant.

Very, very lightly.

Cyan had run out of the cave to check on some gate. Devlin was looking at the image that the woman had been staring at, but did not see anything. Her sudden departure takes him off guard and it is several minutes before he realizes what she had said before leaving.

He does not wait longer. Rising the man follows Cyan out of the cave, following the path that she had taken.

She is standing still when he arrives at the circle and he does not say anything for fear of startling her. He simply watches and waits for her to compete her study of the circle.

Dorian smirks, not looking directly at Benich. Perhaps such simple concept as White Witch was the best the man could fathom. That wasn't surprising. Look at this world. Eat or be eaten, the man had said. Here, one was either predator or prey, often both. The black-and-white perspective didn't surprise in that light.

"White witches indeed," he agrees. He reaches out a tendril to probe the food for anything that might still be alive. He would not be eaten, that was certain.

His eyes flick towards Cyan as she first studies the sigil, and then leaves. A gate? he thinks. He doesn't follow. He doesn't need to. Yet, he looks, watching her more than the gate or anything around.

He wonders at the purpose of the gate, having his own suspicions about where it might lead. If Archons made it, they must have had a purpose. They travel between worlds, through the Underflow, quite naturally. This then, must be something more. Could it be like the gate he discovered in the church of that other world, where the real Dorian is buried, waiting activation? Or could it be something entirely different?

Cyan studies the circle upon the highest point of the island.  The air is no cooler up here, above the great marsh, and no less humid.  But there are slightly fewer insects perhaps...

She touches it, her eyes fixed upon the centre, and a cool breeze suddenly seems to spring up, blowing into the heart of the gateway, though there is no other sign that anything has happened.


Below, Dorian still sits in the cave, watched curiously by Benich who eats his snack with obvious relish.  "There's more fish, if you's wantin' some?"

Dorian noded formally to Benich. "Indeed, I think I would like some," he said. "Fish was a staple back home. There was a lot of water there, too."

He helped himself to a small piece of fish. As far as he could discern, it was free of worms.

His mind was partially elsewhere, trying to discern what lay beyond the gate.

Berd glances back at Devlin, humming his approval of the man's tact.  Cyan remains focused upon the empty area within the circle for long heartbeats, then sighs, settling back on her heels, still crouching.  "Too old.  Ancient.  So old either it or its endpoint has degraded and now it leads nowhere.  Into the Underflow - a bleeding gash in this world."  Her amythest eyes flick back to Devlin.  "Berd and I should close it.  Forever.  Milennia from now, some foolish sorcerer might attempt to wrench open what he sees as a gate, shred the opening, and drag the entire world into the abyss."

Berd's eyes glitter as he turns them toward the gateway, studying, analyzing, synthesizing stitching for this injury.

Again, Cyan turns her head to face the dark wanderer.  "Devlin...the image below, upon the ceiling.  The archon.  It is a palanquet."  She swallows.  "The archon is Harbonah - our enemy."  The name nearly chokes her, but the bard gets it out.

Devlin tilts his head to one side as he looks at the circle. "It would be best to seal it then if it leads to the abyss, if it can be done without danger to yourself."

Then Cyan speaks of the image in the cave and it seems with difficulty. The man's head tilts the other way. He only partially understood these palanquet or trump, but he did understand that they could be used to communicate, and even watch those on the other end...

"And that image of Harbonah still works?" He asks, but doesn't wait for a response. "I think we should remove it if we can without damaging it. Perhaps it may be of some use.

"Horbonah could not use it to... no, that isn't how they work. Am I right in thinking that someone skilled in there use could use such an item to... to get an impression of... to see what the palanquet's subject is doing? Is there any way that we could use such an item to our advantage? Could we draw Harbonah through it against its will?

"At any rate, we should remove it or destroy it, but we should not leave it for others to discover."

Devlin looks down at the ground, picturing the cave below them and thinking about how he might remove the rock the image is on without destroying the image.

As Cyan breaks contact, the breeze dies, and stillness enfolds the circle of stones, with their ancient markings.

Berd turns his attention back to the gate.

"Yes," Cyan whispers, distracted.  Berd's eyes burn, then fade, and the little drake curls up on her shoulder, belching a small wisp of golden smoke.  It floats into the middle of the ring of stones, then slowly disperses.  "Shut forever," the bard whispers, a pang in her heart at the thought.  Poor, lonely palanquet, struggling to keep to your purpose...broken by time's hammer.

A mercy, I suppose.  Something she has ever resisted.

Standing, Cyan dusts off her hands, focusing her ruby eyes upon Devlin.  "Indeed it does," she says.  "Palanqueti are made to last, as the saying goes.  It is possible the subject of this one -" a flick of the wrist to the circle "- was destroyed."  She ponders.  "I believe we should remove it, yes.  Hold it, shielded, for a time.  Berd can destroy it, or we can place it where it can do no harm."  Her lips curl into a frown.  "Using it is another matter.  Any who open themselves to it, even for the purpose of 'spying', run the risk of attracting Harbonah's attention.  His might is...considerable."  She paces in a small circle, rubbing her biceps as if to warm herself.  "He is the leader of the Seraphim, and does not stand so by electoral approval.  He holds his position through guile and raw power."

Another glance at Devlin.  "It may be possible to use the palanquet as you suggest.  It is merely that there are potential dangers.  We should certainly keep it with us - we are far past the point where the potential of disaster should dissuade us from an attempt."  Her finger taps her lips.  "Indeed, we are far into the range of 'desperate measures only', I suspect."

Dorian withdraws from the gate as it closes, noting it bore similarity to the gate he discovered in the Church.

Devlin watches the woman as she speaks and remembers that is has still only been days since she was freed from its grasp. "I would not ask it of you, but you are right; the time for caution is long past. I'm sure that some of those we call friends would insist on the palanquet's immediate destruction. I'm afraid I have never, and perhaps I never will, see eye to eye with most of them."

The dark man looks Cyan in the eyes, her beautiful, at the moment ruby eyes, and rests a hand lightly on her shoulder that is not occupied by Berd. "You have always been different. Given thought to my words. Even when you do not agree, you have never dismissed my ideas out of hand. Which is one of the reasons that I trust you, and I can count on one hand the number of people that I truly trust, or should I say, the number of beings."

Devlin's hand moves slightly, almost in the act of embracing the woman, but then the motion ends as quickly as it had begun and instead he simple gives Cyan's shoulder a squeeze and releases her. His eyes linger on hers for just a moment more, "Shall we see to removing it in one piece. I can carry it safely so that you are not burdened with it."

As the man turns to head back toward the cave and the image that he wishes to remove he adds, "I wonder where ämi is. Hopefully closer to finding Trista than ourselves..." Suddenly he is in thought, flinging those thoughts out into the worlds where he knows ämi is to see how the little bird fairs. Still alternating flying and hiding, but growing closer to the place where it left the girl.

Turning back to Cyan he then says, "ämi grows close, soon I will be able to tell her that we are seeking her. Soon she will have additional protection." Devlin turns back to the path, "Did I tell you of ämi? She is much more than just another on of the birds you've seen me create; much, much more. She has all of my thoughts and knowledge and skils. She can even change her size and shape as I can, she can be whatever she chooses... I wonder what she'll choose...."

There is nothing now, atop the islet, but a circle of oddly inscribed stones.  Perhaps, in the future, some visitor will gaze upon them, only to decide that they mark nothing more than the location of a beacon fire, or the like...

Below, Benich regards his lunch guest with interest.  "Is the fish being right?"

Dorian nods. He is only half finished with the fish. "I believe it is the best fish I've had in a while. Thank you."

Cyan slowly shakes her head, responding to Dorian's silent message, verbally and within her mind.  "Expect, no doubt.  Harbonah will most certainly notice if we use the palanquet.  The strength, skill of his mind..."  She shakes her head.  "And he is no fool.  He sees traps everywhere.  We shall need to take care with its use, Dorian...but it seems we three are in agreement.  Use it or lose it."  Words from the World of her musical toy, and her lips quirk as she repeats them.

She slowly straightens, turning her amethyst eyes on Devlin.  When the man puts his hand on her shoulder, she covers it with her own, offering him a smile.  "Devlin," she begins, then stops, uncertain what to say.  Then she nods.  "You have been ever at odds with our path, ever questing for something different.  And yet, you have never been as others have - Kaelyn, Leo-"  Her voice catches on the name, but she breathes out and continues.  "Leonardo.  Jack.  You have always supported, always assisted, in your silent way."  One of her eyebrows rises for an instant, and she rolls her eyes when the man chooses the safer path.  Men.  Irked, Cyan throws her arms around Devlin's shoulders, giving him a quick squeeze before releasing him.  "Wise, clever friend."

Shapeshifter...a silent, watchful coyote this one is.  Aunt Nancy in her web, Raven who steals the sun.

"I shall take you up on that, Devlin.  Berd and I shall carve it free - you shall carry it."

Berd cracks open an eyelid, belches out a small cloud of smoke, and gives Devlin a conspicuous wink before returning to slumber.

"I have heard naught of ämi, in truth," she continues, beginning to pick her way down.  "But I would hear more.  From the sound of it, she might be a fair match for Berd."  The drake's eyes pop open comically for an instant, before narrowing suspiciously, thinning...back to sleep.  Perhaps.  One slides open, just a crack.  "I would gain Trista and Chance's company soon, myself - hear their story, join forces, and perhaps use what we have found for the betterment of all."  A glance to Devlin, then to Berd.  "Your ämi...she has knowledge of her own, skills of her own, can make choices of her own?  She is no dumb construct?"

Cyan's lips twitch slightly, thinning, as the partly cracked eye of Berd's snaps fully open - watchful, concerned.  "Your pardon, Devlin, for the question is impertinent.  You have shown no designs in the past to hold your creations close, barring them from their lives.  But - is she free?"

The embrace catches Devlin by surprise and then they are on their way down the slope.

"I forget, you were not... I created ämi just after you joined us at the hut and I sent her straight to Trista."

Devlin turns a smile at Cyan, "We are connected, but the connection is..." Devlin's head turns to the side and his brow furrows as he chooses the right word.

"... a choice? ämi helps me because I ask, though she is free to do so or not and may break the connection when it is time. But to be honest, she must still learn. While I imparted abilities to the creature and the importance of what we do as well as some of my own memories of our quest, I did not give her all that I am. She has much to learn is free to grow as she will.

"The question is not impertinent. I would say that she will be free when she is ready to be so, but she is free now to make choices... though... it is complicated, but then I expect that children always are."

They continue walking down toward the cave.

"But a match for Berd, I doubt that. I cannot impart any abilities to my creatures that I myself do not possess."