Continuing to ponder, Cyan gently holds Dorian's fingers, slowly easing the chill from her own.  "A plateau would be nice."  A small smile touches her lips again, almost dreamlike.  "I have always wanted to give a speech from a plateau.  It seems terribly dramatic.  I believe I shall grant myself that little gift - it will keep the Archons from burrowing too much beneath us, if made of the proper material, and allow us to see them at a distance in the air...and face them on 'level ground' so to speak, off the edge..."

And also grant a clear line between them and her own forces.

"But it will have to be an enormous one, Berd," she reminds the little drake.  "Our allies must have room to move, should it come to that.  Something more like an escarpment than a plateau, I think - a sharp division between high and low lands.  Lengthly.  Can you...?"

Berd snorts again.

"Of course you can."  She smiles, sapphire eyes sparkling despite the dim, grey light seeping in through the windows.  Shaking herself, she turns to face her benchmate.  "Well, I believe I have my army, though Berd continues to seek through the Myriad Worlds for the Sencathi."  Her smile fades.  "He also reminds me that we are hunted.  The Archons have sent their Hounds upon us...we may find that battle reaches us before we reach it."

And still the servants avoid the area.  Unaware even that they are avoiding it.

Dorian nods thoughtfully at Cyan's explanation of their situation, "I feel more certain now than ever before that we can prevail.  It may not be easy, but I believe we can succeed."

He returns his thoughts to the present. Her description of plateaus and escarpments had caused him to drift back to Samhain for a moment. Some the landlocked realms, few as they were, had wonderful plateaus and highlands, massive and dramatic. He certainly couldn't choose that place for her, though. He never would, not with Drusilla's presence there to foul the waters, one way or another.

"I grow so tired of it," he says, soft-voiced, studying their intertwined fingers. "I know I've said it before, but all this war and warcraft, I can feel it eroding at my soul--and I have so little of it left, I fear."

He lifts his head an inch. "But if they choose to bring it to my doorstep, then I shall return it to them tenfold and more. We didn't ask for any part of this, but someone, somewhere set these events in motion, and we've been called to put an end to it."

He reaches for his cloak. The softer, gentler Dorian begins to fade. The Emporer is returning, slowly, an inch at a time. It is evident in the slow hardening of features, the sharpening of his gaze, the tension in his limbs.

Galatea sighs.

And then the Emperor halts his approach. Dorian turns to Cyan. "But let us not forget this moment, and steal more of them in the breach. I need them. I need you, if I am to endure this."

Cyan laughs.  "You have soul aplenty remaining, Dorian.  Look at yourself, you with your daughter, with your choices made; it is the war itself that makes you believe this."  Her smile is bright and sharp, like a blade.  "James knows this well, as does Aaron.  Wars beat one down until they believe they have nothing left, but you do, Dorian."  Taking his hand, she squeezes his fingers.  "You do," she repeats.

"And it is for this, I believe, that James fights.  And Aaron.  For the hope of peace, where one can once again find one's soul beneath the debris of battle."  Her eyebrows quirk above bright, ruby orbs.  "We might learn a great deal from those two, and the others as well."  Her eyes flick to Galatea, returned again from wherever the girl goes.  "There is your soul, Dorian - your daughter.  And she needs you.  Is it not so, Galatea?"

Rising, she pulls the Emperor to his feet, Berd squawking and scrambling on her shoulder.  "And so we fight.  And aye, steal our moments where we can.  While we can."  Her eyes brighten.  "You are immortal, Dorian, as is your daughter.  Remember this - forever is a long time to believe you have lost your soul, especially when the proof of it stands before you."

Her free hand rises, one finger touching her cheek speculatively.  "As for the land, Berd will find it."  A shiver passes through her, her gaze suddenly focused into the distance.  "I do not...wish to see it.  Yet.  We have much to do before I call the Seraphim.  Preparations to make.  The others have a world to defend - our plans boot nothing if the Archons break through here and shatter the Pattern."

Fingers tighening around Dorian, she studies Galatea for a long moment.  "Much to do," Cyan whispers.  "And remember - I will need you, Dorian, to stitch my memories as best you can before the end."

The ghost girl floats a few inches higher. A bright smile lightens her features (literally). "There is peace in death," she says. "When life is lived to its fullest."

She draws a little closer to Cyan, but not too close. She lowers her voice, though she knows Dorian senses everything she does anyway. "Father has been feeling the burden of his past lately, since arriving in Amber. It's a place of significance for him, having been told he was an Amberite. He intended to learn about his mother here, but decided against it once he arrived. He'll be fine. You know how he gets sometimes. Endless life is a lot to bear."

"It's nothing," Dorian says as he pulls his cloak over his shoulders.

"When I was a young ruler of Samhain, I was obsessed with finding out from whence I came. When Berd told me who he believed my mother was, some of that returned and lingered. It's really not important right now."

He glances at his daughter, the often too-eager narrator of his thoughts. "Soul aplenty. Indeed. As always, you're keenly aware of things I am not, Cyan."

Emperor or not, he puts his free hand on her shoulder and smiles. "Don't worry, I will not forget."

Peace in death.  A curious thought, but one that has been on Cyan's mind for some time now.  But she says nothing, nodding along with Galatea's words.  "I can only imagine," she quietly replies.  To live forever, with one's sins slowly piling up like a mountain - after a time, it would become all-too easy to focus on them, rather than the good one has done.

And they would continue to accrue, for who is perfect?  Not I.

"Well, we shall have to steal that burden from him for a time," she murmurs, smiling her crooked smile.  She glances up at Dorian, her amber eyes growing more serious.  "Roots are important, Dorian.  Very much so - to know from where we grow...perhaps something you will pick up again in the future."  His hand falls upon her shoulder, and hers covers it.  "Ah, sometimes it is easier for those outside the forest to be able to see it and the trees, both."

She rises to stand before him.  "And now...do we seek out our allies, or is their aught remaining here in Amber?"  The bard shifts her sword upon her back, grimacing.  "The weight of this grows.  Perhaps it is time I set it aside; it is not my blade, nor am I the one who stole it."

"In this place, I have genetics, not roots. Any roots I ever had grew in Samhain, and are nearly severed now. My roots grow where I step each day, and in those with whom I have connection. Galatea. You. Some of the others. It is not ideal, perhaps, but I accept what I am given. If the opportunity presents itself, I may yet inquire of the woman that was my mother, but I no longer yearn to know of her as I once did, this woman known as Deirdre."

He shifts his weight to examine blade. "I have wondered," he says, "The metal archons seem able to incorporate metal into their bodies. Do you suppose there is any risk of them gaining your blade? If it were an enemy, the results could be devastating. I would suppose, even hope, that this would be too much for them?"

Cyan nods her head to Dorian's explanation.  It makes sense, of course - and by the Lords of the West, if it did not, the decision would be his, and his alone!  Even so, she cannot help but wish he could find some root here, something that might spark his interest, bring him comfort when this is over.

It seems unlikely, though.  Sadly.

The bard taps the sword at her back.  "I have, in fact, considered gifting the deathiron to Left and Right.  A danioti carrying shards of gurthang could slice through diamond like paper, cleave through walls and prisons of pure magical force as if they were wood, and possibly even razor the magnetic lines making up their own people's 'bodies'."  gurthang, Cyan knows, cuts anything, even tendrils of the Logrus itself.  The everpresent flames about its edges are no magical effect, but merely the energies released by ionic and covalent bonds of the atmospheric molecules, coming apart upon contact with the deathiron's impossibly sharp edge.

"But no."  She shakes her head.  "It holds a powerful curse, one that will only be released when its owner, the Black Sword of Nargothrond, raises it in support of the Herald against the Lord of Fetters at the end of time."  Her amethyst eyes sparkle as she shoots Dorian an apologetic glance.  "A fancy way of saying it is not my sword to hold or break."  The smile fades, and her eyes stare bleakly into the past.  "And then, of course, there is the curse."

...the General's heavier weapon bites deep into James' arm, sliding through the muscle of the forearm from wrist to elbow...

...Gurthang sweeps out, around, and back, the blade's edge burning with the faint death-glow of air molecules as it moves.

There is a clash of metal on metal.

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

...Aaron's blood stains the grass, what's left of it.  The grass and blood, both....

...Dorian.  Hands open, staff nowhere in sight.  The Purpose howls in fury, and her hand tighens further, white-knuckled on the Deathiron's hilt....

"So close," Cyan whispers.

Friendslayer.

She blinks, and her eyes focus.  With a fond smile and a pat for the sword's hilt - the sort one gives to an exceptionally dangerous attack dog - the bard shakes her head.  "No.  I think gurthang's time with me has passed."  On her shoulder, Berd lets out a long, slow sigh.  "I will leave it for the Master of Doom to reclaim when he rises."

Her eyebrow rises again.  "And your powers, Dorian.  I take it they have grown since we last sat and spilled our lists?"  A laugh bubbles up in her throat at the memory of the sorcerer's exasperation with that ritual.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:17, Mon 05 July 2010.

Before Dorian can answer, there is a sudden build up of pressure in the corridor, and the air seems charged with lightning.  Fiona steps into sight around the corner.  She frowns as she hurries towards Cyan and Dorian.  "There you are.  Something strange is happening in the castle.  I think that your comrades' expedition to locate Dworkin may have something to do with it."

"No," Dorian says with slight shrug. "More refined, perhaps. Sharper, more subtle, more flexible, one might say ... but--"

He turns abruptly to face the Princess, sensing something in the air preceding her arrival. His brow creases as psychic defenses cement around his mind. Without even realizing it, he has placed himself between Cyan and the corner (or only tried to do so, maybe.)

"Strange? I didn't notice, I was ... preoccupied."

Even as he speaks, invisible tendrils snake outward, downward, seeking to investigate the disturbance.

Cyan watches as Dorian moved between her and the corner, his body lighting up with tension.  She does not move to bar his way - if Dorian, even subconciously, feels he can handle an issue, she will only confuse him by not cooperating.  Instead, her hand steals up to close around the curious, alien hilt of gurthang - even she can feel the tension mount.

Berd puffs out a cloud, suddenly growing curious.  He raises his head, his eyes sparkling more and more quickly.  A call goes out - a warning to the other hydra-minds.

"Our comrades?"  Shooting a sapphire glance to Dorian, Cyan faces the princess directly.  "Where?"  Her free hand finds her palanquet deck, snapping it out.

"I felt it.  But then I am more familiar with this place than you are."

A deep rumble runs through the floor, and dust and small pebbles shake loose from the ceiling.

"That was more noticeable.  I believe they were heading for the cellars.  That's where they were told to seek Dworkin."  Fiona brushes a little dust from her dress, "I'd say they've found him.  Or something else dangerous."

Dorian had remembered that they were going below to look, and thus had already directed his attention in that direction.

"Yes, well," he says, arching an eyebrow. "I don't see them below, but there are two spaces I cannot view. The first is a great source of power, which I surmize to be the great pattern of Amber I've heard so much about. The second is a small space, roughly the size of a closet, which is blocked from my powers. My guess is the second space should be where we begin; if Cyan cannot reach the others, Berd or I can likely get us close to that space, but not necessarily inside of it. Do you know anything of that second space, Princess? I can show you the area if you permit."

If the rumors he remembered of this Fiona were to be believed, she might already have plucked it from even his impressive mind. This was the royal family of Amber, after all. Whether the talk of them had been for good or ill, he'd never heard talk of them that lacked awe.

Cyan glances around at the rumble, concern darkening her eyes to a shadowy emerald.  She snaps out a card by feel, the image of a lone wanderer accompanied by a ghostly woman emblazoned upon its face.  "I shall make the attempt," she says, a cautioning note in her voice.  "If I fail, it falls to you.  Berd is 'alone' at present -" whatever that means "- and feels that travel through the underflow here and now would be dangerous."

A mirthless grin dances on her lips as she focuses upon the cards.  "It would be foolish to step into the legendary Dworkin's den from within the font of creation."  And she concentrates, bending her will upon the palanquet, watching the colours swim before her eyes.  On her shoulder, Berd rises, arching his back like an angry cat, his own blazing gaze falling upon the image.  Will they succeed in penetrating the defenses of Amber's own Trump creator?  It seems unlikely, but she must try.

~ Aaron.  Aaron of Auld Thiriel.  Heed my call. ~

If this does not succeed, if Dorian cannot bring them there, if Berd does not fully 'arrive' in time, if Fiona herself proves helpless against Dworkin's strength...

Her empty right hand twitches.  I hold the key to many locks.

Fiona frowns.  "If Dworkin is involved, then that space might be anything.  I've often wondered if he has some kind of hiding place down there.  I know that people have tried to follow him, and failed."


The princess of Amber shakes her head, "I just hope that he has an answer to the mystery of the Trump infection.  At least that way their presence down there will be worthwhile."

"Nothing," Cyan hisses after a tense moment.  Berd spits a small cloud of glittering smoke that resolves itself into a tiny, shining faerie; it orbits his head once, then settles itself on his neck, awaiting instructions.  "The card is not alive - blocked, perhaps."  Her lips thin as she considers the alternative - Aaron, dead.  "We must hurry."

Her eyes a pale, pale sapphire, she looks to Dorian for assistance.  "Can you take us there, or near to it?"  One hand loosens the Deathiron in its sheath.  "Or must we perforce run?"

Dorian reaches out, tendrils of his mind seeking places to anchor themselves.  Then he grasps Cyan's arm and pulls...

There is a brief, distinctly uncomfortable moment of transit, and they are standing in a corridor, sloping steeply downward and with patches of phosphorescent lichen on the walls.  At the bottom of the slope is rectangle of blueish light, like a glowing sketch of a door, without a handle or hinges.

Berd flops off Cyan's shoulder, falls to the floor, and vomits on the stone slabs.  Twice.  The faerie flits around him, looking concerned.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:29, Sun 18 July 2010.

"Sorry," Dorian gasps, pulling his cloak around him against some unseen cold.

Even though they don't need a light, he conjures up a torch after a minute or so of concentrating, for the warmth alone.

"This should be close to our destination," he says. "Again, I have no way of knowing what is beyond the door, so our only real choice is to open it."

He glances down at Berd to see if it is okay. He knows it isn't actually Berd (which is why he thinks of it as "it"), or not all of him, so his concern is merely passing. More likely, it is merely doing it to express dislike over Dorian's peculiar means of travel.

He descends and listens at the door for any sounds or conversation.

"Shall I open it, or would you prefer to go first?"

Berd shoots Dorian a dirty look as Cyan collects him off the ground, spitting a few times...prudently nowhere near the shadowy sorcerer.  Cyan herself is a trifle green around the gills and her head throbs abominably, but a superhumanly strong constitution is one of the good points about Berd's artistry; she rapidly shakes off the disorientation and regains her balance.

A pity the headache does not go with the vertigo.

"Not the easiest method of travel, but certainly swift," she mutters, nodding to Dorian's apology - unnecessary, really, but polite of him.

The faerie zips around impatiently while Dorian summons his torch.  Berd takes the time to wearily crawl back up on Cyan's shoulder, watching the former emperor with some interest.  At the moment where Dorian finally completes his conjuration, the drake breathes out a small, scintillating gust that spirals around the wall, forming itself into a wrought-iron torch holder...complete with flaming brand.

In Amber.

"Stop that."  Cyan taps his nose.  "You are simply angered he brought us here quickly."  Abashed, the drake glances down.  "And sick," his daughter qualifies, scratching his head and following Dorian down the hall.  The little faerie zips around the sorcerer - at a safe distance - chiming urgently as he paces down the hall, a sparkle of light orbiting a grim silhouette.  Cyan settles Berd upon her shoulder, then reaches past him as Dorian stops at the door.

She considers his offer for a moment, her eyes glittering like fiery topazes in his torch's flickering flame, then slowly nods her head.  "You have brought us here swift enough, Dorian."  Her hand, still past her head, rises bearing a glistening shadow.  Another flame breaks out in the dim hallway, nowhere near as bright as the torch but far, far more deadly for what it contains.

"But I like not the look of this portal - made by the sorcerer of Amber, the creator of its Trumps, and..."  Her brows draw together.  Was that right?  "...the master of its Grand Pattern, I would not test the Broken Pattern against it.  Perhaps you would prevail, but might there be a cost?"

One I am not willing to chance.

Berd frantically crawls down her back as Gurthang arcs just over her head, swinging to avoid the roof - not to scrape or stall, but to keep from cleaving through the stone.  "The portal is a 'trump'," she whispers.  "Give me a moment with it, and I will see if I can determine its function.  If not..."  Her right hand settles the deathiron's tip against the ground with nary a scrape nor spark, the glistening galvorn blade sinking a fingerswidth into the stone.  "I hold the key to many locks," Cyan murmurs, her eyes darkening for an instant.

She waits a beat for Dorian to set himself in any way he desires, then holds her free palm over the brilliant portal, concentrating.

Cyan holds her hand before the area enclosed by the rectangle of light, and it starts to brighten.  A great bell rings somewhere, and the light flares.  When it fades again, nothing has changed.

The rectangle of light still encloses only stone.

Dorian merely waits for the door-portal to open--or do whatever it is going to do. He's glad Cyan acted, for he wasn't entirely sure what his methods would have done to the portal or (more likely) to himself. Somehow, Cyan seemed more sure of herself in dealing with the situation.

Standing before the door, the pair of them, something a couple, listening to the fading echoes of what might be a doorbell--he finds himself wondering aloud, "Why do I suddenly feel as if we should have brought a pie, or a nice bottle of wine, or some other suitable gift?"

It occurs to him that he could probably conjure something up given another minute before the portal opens--if that is what it will do.

Cyan grimaces when the door fails to open, then her amber eyes brighten with amusement.  "I believe you are more correct than not, Dorian..."  She pulls her hand away from the 'trump', slowly folding her arms.  Berd snorts, withdrawing his front paws from the sides of his head.  "I am, apparently, 'not the one', and the unravelling of the wards upon it is beyond my meagre skill with palanquet.  Hence, this door remains barred to me, and I suspect that using my key would only destroy it."

Thus does the deathiron return to its sheath, the flame dying.

"I wonder if it will be answered," the bard muses.  "Perhaps the proper key is to be carrying that pie of which you spoke."

The rectangle of light suddenly shivers, and begins to fold in upon itself, smaller and smaller, until it finally vanishes with all the drama of a dissipating smoke ring.

In its place is an opening in the wall.  Tahirah stands on the other side of it.  Behind her are Luke, Aaron, Chance, and a small army of Banglen-Yps.  Above them hovers a rapidly spinning wheel of some sort of crystals.



(Please continue in "Part 67a - Meeting and greeting")

This message was deleted by the player at 16:30, Sun 25 July 2010.