And so the door is opened.

Amabael, the wheel of glittering ice, expands and contracts several times in quick succession, + THE FINAL BARRIERS HAVE FALLEN.  WE ARE NO LONGER TRAPPED HERE. +  It moves towards the door, and then stops, swinging towards Luke, + AH.  SO QUICKLY DID WE FORGET OUR PROMISE.  YOU NEED OUR ASSISTANCE?  SHALL WE DESTROY THOSE WHO STAND WITHOUT, CLEARLY BLOCKING YOUR EXIT? +

"Send her flowers, or something," Luke muttered to Aaron as the door opened.  "Damned few people have sense these days, and we need them all on our side."  But his eyes widened at the sight awaiting them on the other side of the portal.  Dorian, Cyan and Berd.

Information flowed with lightning speed.


"No, let's hold off on that icy destruction."  Raising a hand to his mouth, Luke coughed, covering his amusement.  There had been a time, not so long ago, where he might have... "More of our allies stand before you.  Dorian, Cyan, and Berd on her shoulder."

Tahirah doesn't look surprised by what the door reveals.  She stays exactly where she is, deliberately keeping herself between the three beyond the door, and Amabael.  "We stand," she emphasizes again, "Among friends."

"Or merely Tahira," Dorian notes with a nod towards the woman. The tone of his voice suggests she is not so mere in his esteem, though. His eyes flit among those gathered, lingering a little longer on the growing collection of Banglen-Yps.

"I hope we're not interrupting. There was a disturbance. Fiona sent us to investigate."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:32, Sun 25 July 2010.

"You very nearly missed the mess," Aaron responded. He nodded to Dorian, but a half-smile reappeared when he saw Cyan. "Glad to see you."

"I imagine you probably want the short version of the story, right?"

Surprises abound.  Not only is there a herd of Banglen-Yp's, but is that a sencathi she sees behind Luke?  Cyan's eyebrow quirks and she cocks her head to the left as Berd rises on her shoulder, his eyes burning like twin suns as the information flows between himself and Luke.

What one of the hydra-mind knows, all knows.  Far off in the void surrounding the Myriad Worlds, a tiny form wheels away from a cluster of sparkling stars and hangs above the Underflow, motionless and waiting.

She keeps her hand from her sword as the Archon questions their presence.  Luke and Tahirah vouch for them - hopefully it will be enough.  It occurs to her that the enemy of their enemy might not be a terribly stable friend, and Cyan wonders if the sencathi will prove dependable allies.  Time will tell, it seems.

She offers Tahirah a bow, and another for the Sencathi.  "I greet you, Archon of the Sencathi."  Her free hand drops to her waist, and snaps out a deck of cards, turning it to face the bottom toward Aaron.  "Glad am I as well, Aaron of Auld Thiriel - more than you might think."  There is palpable relief in her topaz eyes.  "Your palanquet failed not so long ago, warm and dead to the touch; I feared a block, I feared you imprisoned."  Her voice shakes slightly.  "I feared you dead."  Then the smile returns, bright and sharp.  "So you will forgive me if I ask for your story in some detail."  Her gaze dances between the Archon and the bevy of blonds behind the weary traveller.

"It seems there is much to explain."

One thumb flicks through the cards, pausing a moment.  Cyan concentrates - a flash, a single pulse of communication, for this mind is well-known to her, open to her, and indeed, physically connected to her in an odd way.

Hovering above the Underflow, Berd senses the pulse of his daughter's call.  Lips peeling back in a dagger-toothed smile, he reaches for her.

Aaron blinked a couple of times, but nodded at Cyan. He wanted to encourage her, to tell her that it would've been fine regardless, but he'd have been lying. Everything from the walk through the Pattern, to encountering Dworkin (something that still smarted), to Banglen syncing with the scre'ath and Luke's risky endeavour with the Archon smacked of risk and danger. He would've been lying, and he would've done it badly.

So instead he just shrugged. "You know us. Excitement around every corner."

He gestured to Luke. "I'm fairly sure he has the most interesting encounter out of the lot of us, though Banglen is certainly in the running." He deliberately neglected to mention his own Primal adventures, unsure as to how others would take the idea of yet another Pattern sitting very nearly atop the one that sat within Caslte Amber itself.

Not to mention Dworkin creating a Pattern just to get the scre'ath. Aaron figured they'd broach it eventually, so he bided his time.

"Well, for those of you amenable to a download..."  With a hint of concentration - his skill in these matters not the equal of the drake's - Luke opened an offering of a bridging.  For those who accepted, the memories flashed through their minds with lightning speed.

...The bottle...Dworkin...and then -

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Luke isn't dead, but he is not in the situation he expected to be in.  He has, of course, heard all the comments about Hell freezing over.  The inside of the bottle is a good representation of what that would be like.  He stands upon a plain of ice, which stretches away, flat and unbroken in all directions.  Off in the distance, he can see a humanoid figure, but he can't make out details from this range.

Luke first tested the 'prison' in which he found himself, reaching out with his preternatural senses to determine his location.  Inside the bottle seemed unlikely, unless the bottle itself contains a world.  Something he wouldn't put past the old man, come to think of it.

"A little bit like the ninth circle, if we believe certain famous authors," he muttered.  "I suppose I should make my way to the center, then, in the interest of drama.  And appropriateness." He eyed the distant figure.  "And that thing seems the closest I can find to an axis."

Slinging the axe over his shoulder, he broke into a trot - it seemed more intelligent to approach slowly and thus give away his own presence rather than simply transport himself to the being's side.  It might react poorly, they'd fight, he'd end up with a dead body and no answers, and it would all be a waste.  Except for helping Aaron.

It never occured to Luke that he might be the one to fall.  It never really did when it came to one-on-one, his confrontation with Dworkin being somewhat of an anomaly.

The place does seem to be a world of sorts, a featureless sheet of ice, flat and endless, stretching away in all directions.  It definitely seems too big to be inside the bottle.

As he walks towards the distant figure, he finds that he's getting no closer.  The figure is actually moving away from him, keeping pace with him, so that the distance doesn't change.

Pausing in his march, Luke glared at the distant figure.  "Someone's playing games," he muttered.  "I hate games."  Then the tall man shrugged.  "Other people's games, anyway."

There were, of course, ways for him to reach the other person not requiring him to chase it - forms of transportation that might take place instantly.  Raising a hand to enact one, Luke paused. "Wait, now."  Suspicion crept into him as he studied the distant form. "I wonder. Bigger on the inside.  Folded space.  If that's the case, then it's possible what I'm looking at..."

With a thought, Luke shifted his perceptions to the figure in the distance, reaching out with his psyche to bridge the gap between them and see it clearly.

Luke reaches out with his senses, trying to see the figure more closely.  It has its back turned, so he can't see its face but, oddly, it appears to be dressed in an identical fashion to himself, right down to the colours and the materials used.  It's hair even looks like his.

And then there is a blast of intense cold, and a voice like the sound of icebergs calving comes from all around.

+ WHAT ARE YOU? +

Yes, it was him.  "Everything folded around," Luke mused.  "Good thing I didn't try to shift myself there - an exercise in frustration."

Then the world grew a good deal more chilly.

For an instant, there was another thing standing in his footprints, a tall, blindingly brilliant figure surrounded by shining wings - how many, it would be difficult to say.  Then once again, it was only Luke, slowly turning in place to study his surroundings with his eyes even as his more esoteric senses reached out.

"I am many things, most of which are difficult to define or quantify," Luke answered.  "But here and now I might be a rescuer - I did come in here to find you, after all." The axe faded, twisting into a self-lighting cigar, and Luke blew a small ring of smoke - in mid-air it chilled, first to mist, then ice, hanging and wobbling before him, reminiscent of an Archon in flight.

His smile slowly broadened.  "Sencathi."

The icy plain erupts all around Luke, and a spinning wall of ice chunks rises from it, glittering in the the directionless light.  The sencathi, for such it is, lifts into the air, until it is a few inches clear of the surface.

+ HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT NAME? + The voice, this time seems to carry more than a hint of curiosity.

That struck a chord.  With a wave of his hand, Luke banished the false archon, leaving the real one before him, alone. "I get around," he replied, that half-smile still on his sharp features.  Settling his hands behind his back, he eyed the brilliant ring for a long moment.

Much as it pains me...

"The truth, then."  Nodding, Luke took a step forward, his arms falling to hang at his sides.  "An enemy - or rather, a former enemy - of mine handed us information regarding your people.  Their existence.  Their persecution.  Their possible flight from destruction."
He leaned forward.  "Destruction at Harbonah's fiery command.  Nothing 'former' about Harbonah, I note - not for me."  His grin widened.  "Though I'd be happy to make him 'former', permanently."

Yes, we know of your kind.  Yes, we know of Harbonah.  Yes, we are his enemy.  Does your curiousity grow?  Would you hear more?

Nevertheless, Luke did not let his guard down.

The Archon climbs higher, reducing in size, until it hovers above Luke, briefly, and then moves away a short distance. + HARBONAH IS NOT OUR ENEMY.  MORE LIKE A MISGUIDED CHILD, WHO CANNOT SEE THE HARM IN ITS ACTIONS, AND MUST BE PREVENTED FROM CONTINUING WITH THOSE ACTIONS. +

The sencathi starts to circle Luke.  + WOULD YOU ASSIST US IN STOPPING THIS CHILD? +

Luke paused a moment in thought.  His eyes followed the Archon as it moved, though he did not shift to watch it when it passed from his field of view - other senses compensated.  Pursing his lips, he considered the Archon's words.  In the grand scheme of things, it was not so long ago that he, himself, had committed terrible acts.  Had fought a war for childish (and not) reasons.  Had split eternity in twain.

What would his father say?

Stupid question.  Easy answer.

And the others?

Finally he nodded.  "Yes." Something shifted, something twisted, and though Luke's feet never moved, for all the Sencathi's circling, the lean man always faced it.  "Others won't see it this way.  Your Harbonah has inflicted grevious harm upon the infinite worlds.  Uncountable beings have died.  Universes have shattered.  Reality itself stands in danger of falling."  His eyes glittered.  "There are people I...respect...who have suffered.  Some of them terribly."

He let his hands fall.  "And yet I leave Harbonah's judgement in your hands, though, once he is stopped.  An associate of mine wishes nothing more than the same as yourself - to open the Seraphim's eyes to what they do.  She has a plan.  I believe it might work.  But we require assistance." He breathed out a sigh, frosting in the chill air.  "This war needs to end.  I grow weary of such things."

Is this wisdom, I wonder?

The sencathi stops circling, and Luke gets the impression that it is watching him very closely. + YOU SAY YOU NEED HELP?  WHAT MANNER OF HELP?  AND DO YOU HAVE A PLAN TO ESCAPE THIS PRISON? +

Luke eyed the Archon for a long moment.  "I have many names," he finally said.  "But here and now, I am known as Luke."  It was his turn to circle, slowly pacing an icy ring around the icy ring.  "What assistance?  An associate of mine was...taken by the Seraphim.  In her time with them, she realized that they, like the children you describe them, could grow.  My father has seen similarly - confronted with options beyond survival and control, a herenethi of his acquaintance evinced a loss of heart for Harbonah's cause, commisurate with its naescent interest in artistic endeavors.  And then there are the Nephillim to consider - do you know of them?"

He ceased his walking.  "My associate believes that she can show the Seraphim something beyond their ego-driven concerns of control and subjegation.  Give them a chance to grow.  What she needs are three things."

He raised a hand, thumb and first two fingers extended, and tapped the tip of the thumb.  "First, a reason for the Seraphim to move against her as one.  She, herself, and my father are considered some of their greatest enemies.  Another in our midst is also greatly desired by the Seraphim.  Perhaps your own presence would incite Harbonah to a greater fury."

The index finger.  "Second, the power to offer her memories to the Seraphim - not just a giving, but to open her mind to the massed spirits of their Host.  She believes they will enter it, if offered - she holds much information, about the Myriad Worlds and about Harbonah, and the Seraphim are nothing if not greedy for information.  But..." His lips tightened. "She requires the strength of mind to survive, at least long enough for them to drink their fill of her experiences."

The middle finger - none of the fingers had dropped, Luke careful not to offer the sencathi a digitus impudicus. "Finally, defense.  My associate is not so naive to believe her plan will work perfectly.  Even if it succeeds, how many of the Seraphim will reject this?  There must be sufficient forces present to forestall them from escaping, carrying out their plans.  If that is by capturing them and delivering them to you, so be it."

He sighed, taking a pull on a lit cigar.  "Better than decimating the archon race, I admit.  I've seen enough of that sort of thing.  Abby would say I've grown soft..." Ah, little Abby, with eyes like the void itself....  Abandoning his musing, he focused a sharp gaze on the whirling ice.  "So.  Whatd'you say, sencathi?  Thoughts?  Criticism?  As for getting out of this place, well...I have friends on the outside right now, and I must say there hasn't been a prison I haven't been able to break."

Except that of my pride.  Though perhaps I've managed to slip the lock on that one, too.

A high-pitched whistle. + AN INTERESTING PLAN.  DRAW THEM INTO A SINGLE PLACE, PRESENT THEM WITH A NEW VIEW OF THE WORLD, AND DESTROY ONLY THOSE WHO DO NOT EMBRACE THE NEW.  VERY INTERESTING.  IF ONLY MY PEOPLE HAD HAD THE FORESIGHT TO CONSIDER SUCH A SCHEME LONG AGO, PERHAPS ALL MIGHT HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT. +

+ INSTEAD WE CHOSE TO IMPRISON THESE... CHILDREN.  IS IT, THEN, SURPRISING THAT SO MANY CAME TO HATE US?  TO WIPE OUR MEMORY FROM THE MINDS OF THEIR OWN YOUNG? +

The whistling reaches an almost unbearable pitch, and there is a loud *crack*, followed by silence.  A woman stands, naked, before Luke.  Or, rather, a statue of a woman, sculpted entirely of translucent ice.

+ We believe this plan has merit.  We would be glad to assist in whatever way we can, and to speak to our people regarding it. +

+ Just as soon as your allies effect our escape. +

"Well, then." Luke bowed to the sencathi as it worked out the merits of the plan.  "I am heartened by your approval." He watched and waited, evincing a hint of surprise when the being finally chose to shift into a more anthropomorphic form.  "Not really necessary...for me, in any case," he muttered.  "But your choice of bodies will no doubt quell the concerns of my compatriots." He paused.  "Of course, you might want some clothing, or despite your chill you may inflame something else."

While he no longer thought of humans as mere animals, he had a realistic view of how much their chemicals controlled them.

"I am gratified by your choice to assist.  My thanks.  Perhaps we might yet succeed, and save all." He thought upon that, then temporized.  "Mostly." Luke turned away, searching the 'horizon' then staring into the 'sky'. "Do you have a name, Sencathi?" If not, so be it; he had more than enough for both of them, and her entire race to boot.  "We could wait," he admitted.  "But myself, I've always been impatient."

A prison of ice.  Elegent in its simplicity, the one thing a sencathi might not escape.  How could it?  It could produce no fire, no heat.  Luke, on the other hand...

Reaching out with his own might, he sought the walls of this prison - even a circle had an edge, a circumference.  No corners, of course - clever Dworkin - but a weak point?  Somewhere thinner?  Or simply a wall against which I might press, or seek to discern its makings?

+ A name?  Yes, we are called Amabael. +

Luke can feel patterns in the ice, faint lines of energy, radiating out from him in all directions, and concentric circles, with him standing at the exact centre of the mandala.  Coincidence?  Or something else?  He starts to push against the design, and there is a little give...

Luke paused at the name, his eyes distant.  "That would fit," he muttered, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.  "Perhaps this makes up for the past?" His smile was raw, a jagged slash in a pain-shadowed visage.

Rafe charges, screaming in wordless fury, his flaming sword upraised - too late.  Luke's hands blaze like stars, Amy burning in their grip. "I'm sorry," he whispers as that terrible Light sears her from the universe.  Truly sorry.  But as always, he does what he believes is right, regardless of the cost.

His greatest failing.

"No.  Some things cannot be pardoned," he muttered, the customary twisted smile returning as his voice rose.  "Hang on, Amy.  The ride might get a little rough."

The cigar fell to the snow, hissing out.  Forces boiled the air around Luke as he focused, beginning to press harder against the skein of energy imprisoning them.  "You cannot hold me, Dworkin."  No gestures, no grand motions - he stood like a dark statue in the midst of the icy plain.  But within that shadow, his eyes ignited.  "I swore I would never be a slave or a prisoner again." He put forth his hidden might and his body burned, falling away.

A shining, many-winged figure rose in its place, crowned with light.

NEVER AGAIN!

The bottle rolls to the edge of the table, the rumbling sound of its motion growing on volume.

Then silence, as it drops off the edge.

It hits the floor with a sound like the breaking of worlds, and bounces.  Once.  Dworkin lets go of Banglen-Yp's hand, and turns towards the sound.  The second impact, the bottle strikes at a different angle, and shatters.

And two people are standing there, while fragments of glass (too many for that small bottle, surely?) are still spinning and skittering and dancing across the floor around them.  One of them is Luke.  The other is... not.

Dworkin glowers at Banglen-Yp.  "You shouldn't have distracted me.  Now it's out."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And done." Luke cocked an eyebrow.  "We've been wrong about so many things.  On top of all our past assumptions, we thought the Trumps poisoned by the enemy when it was Dworkin, in an attempt to protect Amber.  We thought the Seraphim imprisoned by an Amberite, when it was the Sencathi.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:42, Tue 27 July 2010.

The Archon glitters as it glides across the room, pausing near a Banglen-Yp, + WE REALISE NOW THAT YOU WERE UNDER A COMPULSION TO ATTACK US.  DRIVEN TO IT BY THAT ALMOST-HUMAN.  WE DO NOT HOLD THIS AGAINST YOU.  TO OUR MIND, THERE ARE NO ISSUES BETWEEN US. +

Then Amabael moves away, towards the open door, + WE WOULD LEAVE.  OUR CAPTOR MAY RETURN, AND WE SHOULD NOT BE IN THIS ENCLOSED SPACE IF HE DOES.  WITHIN THIS ROOM, WE ARE CUT OFF FROM THE... AH... THE UNDERFLOW YOU CALL IT.  WE HAVE NO WISH TO RETURN TO THE PRISON WHERE THIS DWORKIN KEPT US. +

Another pause, in front of Cyan and Dorian, and Berd, + WE HAVE PROMISED OUR SUPPORT IN YOUR EFFORT TO END THE MADNESS OF OUR PEOPLE.  WE WILL HOLD TO THAT PROMISE. +

"Dworkin is beholden to his own compulsions," Tahirah says, as Amabael approaches the doorway.  "He is mad.  Caution is advised; hostility would be...misplaced."  Although she is quite adamant about delivering her statement, she also steps quite smoothly aside, not blocking the Sencathi's path.

An interesting tale from Luke (filtered through Berd - as always, Cyan refuses a bridging with him), an interesting evasion from Aaron.  "Well, then," the bard murmurs, her eyes brightening in the light glittering from the Sencathi, "it seems one of our tasks is now complete.  We have armies to stand against Harbonah's...assuming Amabael has allies of her own."

On her shoulder, Berd suddenly seems to gain mass, though his daughter does not flinch.  In a curiously spiritual way, he feels more solid than before, his presence more focused.

"I find myself agreeing with Amabael, though Tahirah makes a strong point - I would seek the other end of this pathway before you use it," Cyan notes.  "Someone like Dworkin might have established a system to drop intruders in an oubliette, or the like..."  She eyes the archon with some interest for a long moment, turning her emerald gaze upon the Banglen-Yps next.  Had they fought?

"You have my gratitude, Amabael," she finishes with a small bow and great relief.  And a hint of fear.  More steps further, closer to the final confrontation.  "Allow me to ensure this passageway is not a ruse."  Her lips thin, Cyan runs her fingers over the edge of the door where the 'Trump' once confronted her, making certain that the archon's passage will not trigger something less-than-wholesome.

And then?  Together again.  Dorian, Aaron, Tahirah, Banglen-Yp (all of her, and there's an interesting story to be told), and herself.  But wither James, and Roman?

All have their parts to play, Cyan reminds herself.  And her path will not parallel every one.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:59, Wed 28 July 2010.

+ THERE IS A SIMPLE TEST WE CAN PERFORM. + Amabael states, moving closer to the open door, + THOUGH TO OUR PERCEPTION, THERE IS NO OBSTACLE TO EGRESS. +

There is a loud crack, and a small ice Archon appears, orbiting within Amabael, + THIS IS A FRAGMENT OF OURSELVES.  JUST ONE OF OUR LIVES.  TO ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES IT IS A DIMINISHED DUPLICATE OF OURSELVES.  IF IT CAN PASS THROUGH THE PORTAL WITHOUT HARM, THEN SO CAN WE.  IF WE CAN PASS THROUGH, THEN WE CAN CARRY YOUR COMPANIONS, IF THEY DO NOT WISH TO TAKE THE RISK THEMSELVES. +

The small Archon darts forward, and passes through the door, and into the corridor, without incident.

 

A ripple ran through the Banglen-Yp's.  One reached out to poke the next and so on until they all have poked one another before they all spoke in a maddening surround sound fashion.

•• Ha • I•we can touch myself•us as seperate entities • this is weird ••

Then they all looked up at the frosty lady and smiled, then they spoke once again.

•• Same here • frosty lady wheel • we were merely scared and alone ••

Next, however, only one Banglen-Yp spoke, from all appearance to the rest of her.

•• Time to decide what to do • will I•we go as one • or shall I•we search for the rest of me•us ••

 

"Well, then!"  More cheerful, Cyan follows the little archon out the door.  A discerning eye might note a sudden tension in her bearing as she steps across the lintel, but nothing more.  Once past, she turns and holds her arms out to the side for examination.  "And so!  No harm done."

On her shoulder, Berd rolls onto his back, legs kicking briefly in the air before his tongue lolls out of his mouth.  Cyan taps the end of his nose.  "Not amusing in the slightest."  Without any abashment, the drake scrambles back to his clawed feet, hooking them in her vest.  "Ack.  Berd, we shall need to do something about clothing..."

The bard raises one eyebrow at Banglen-yp.  "It would seem you have a decision to make.  Possibly a difficult one.  And what shall we do about this work-room?  What other weapons and deadly secrets might it hide?"

She glances to Amabael with curiousity, and Berd's eyes grow brighter.

The larger Archon follows the smaller out of the door, and the miniature wheel is reabsorbed.  + WE ARE UNAWARE OF ANY OTHER WEAPONS OR SECRETS.  WE WERE NOT PRECISELY HONOURED GUESTS.  OUR CAPTOR KEPT US IMPRISONED, AND BROUGHT US OUT ONLY LONG ENOUGH TO TEST THE WEAPON WHICH STANDS BEFORE YOU IN HUMAN FORM. +

+ IT IS POSSIBLE THAT WE COULD SURROUND THE PORTAL, FROM THE OUTSIDE, AND REMOVE IT.  THAT WOULD EFFECTIVELY SEAL THE CHAMBER. +

Still inside the room, the Banglen-Yps, all moving and speaking and clothed identically, seem to be having a conference.  A conference in which every one of them appears to speak every sentence.  And then they all fall silent, swaying slightly from side to side, smiling, frowning, and laughing for no readily apparent reason.

A very confused sabre-toothed cat sits nearby, trying to watch them all simultaneously (even though he really only needs to watch one of them to know what they are all doing).

"Perhaps a wise move, though I suspect the creator would simply fashion another portal inside."  Cyan grimaces, considering their options.  "Best to leave it open for now - we may need to return, and without a door that could be difficult."  She eyes the Archon for a moment, then nods.  "For some of us, in any case!"

The bard next directs her attention into the room just vacated.  “Are we leaving?  We have little time to tarry, and much to plan.  I regret the necessity of haste...”  Her voice trails off as she studies the multitude of identical women, all apparently deep in communion.  “They may be here for some time,” she muses, before raising her voice again.  “Apologies, but I must go.”

People start to leave the chamber, having seen that Berd and Cyan, and the Archon of ice have all survived the exit.  Even the Banglen-Yps seem to have reached a decision in unusually short order - likely the result of their all apparently sharing a single mind between them, judging by their ability to speak for each other.

In fact, it seems probable that their tendency to talk in unison is a result of excitement... speech between them clearly being unnecessary, as displayed by their silent communion

It remains to be seen, though, what they have decided.

There are other matters to be considered too, as the group start to make their way back through the cellars.  Such as the possible defence of Amber, and the initiation of the scheme to end the Shadow War as rapidly as possible.

Cyan takes the stairs with quick, purposeful strides, murmuring an aside to Dorian en route.  "I think we shall avoid our method of travel down here, if it does not offend."  She mimes wiping her brow.  "A testament to your strength of will and bravery...."

She eyes the 'twins' askance.  "I doubt the others would be so sanguine about the methods, though I suspect they have their own."

Such universe into which she has fallen.  Over the last few years, Cyan has seen many, many sights her imagination could never have countenanced, not in decades of pondering.  Shaking her head, the bard smiles slightly.  Seen...accomplished...felt...enough for a lifetime, she hopes.

The Seraphim must be stopped.

"Does anyone know how things proceed above?" she inquires, as Berd seems to be 'busy' at the moment.

The group move through the dungeons of Amber, through labyrinthine corridors, echoing chambers, and up a stairway which climbs through open air without any sort of guard rail on either side to protect from a drop into the darkness below.

The echoes on the stairs speak of a long fall, should anybody lose their footing.  Perhaps more disturbing, though, are the noises which are not echoes... whispers, the calls of beasts, and something which sounds like the slow, steady breathing of the world.

Eventually the stairs reach the roof of the chamber, and continue upwards in a stairwell with walls of rough-hewn stone, soon replaced by dressed masonry.

And, finally, they step out into a store room which opens out into a wine cellar.  At this point it becomes clear that this is not the place where the initial expedition into the catacombs had entered them.

 

During the march towards the exit the multitude on Banglen-Yps had been entertaining themselves with both amazed glances around, walking in a line waddling like ducks and doing various stunts like handstands and cartwheels.

They poured into the cellar ogling everything and chattering quietly among them until they were fanned around the room, each of them, except the one more in the centre of the room, picking things up to look at them, from wine bottles to whatever food might be stored there.

 

Cyan scratches her chin, frowning at the room opening before the group.  "I fear I took a different route," she notes with a quick glance at Dorian, "and am uncertain of which direction from here."  A perplexed expression grows on her sharp features, and she looks to first Tahirah then Aaron for directions.

All about them the Banglen-Yp's cavort, examining their new surroundings.  Everything would be new to them, Cyan realizes, given from where they hail and their recent circumstances.  An interesting thought, and for a moment the bard feels a pang of deep jealousy.  What would she, herself, give for a return to such a state?  Where every object, every place, every person was new - a true beginning?

Of course, she ponders, there would be things to give up.  Her gaze touches on the people around her.  Friendships.  Love.

And yet - so attractive to just forget...

The bard blinks amber eyes.  "Do we attempt a passage, or the cards?" she inquires aloud, fanning out her palanqueti.

"My method of travel is born of necessity," Dorian says. "Even I avoid it when possible. Though I've grown somewhat used to it over the years, such as one can."

He lifts his head, as if to peer through the rock and passages above to see how things fare his natural eyes.

"I shall see what I can learn. The cards may be our quickest and best path out of here, I believe we traveled quiet a distance to get here."

A door opens somewhere ahead, and footsteps sound, and somebody whistling tunelessly.  Drawing closer.  Moments later two men come into view around the end of a row of shelves.  One is young, tall and burly, holding a lantern.  The other is older, stooped, and comparing something on a sheet of paper to various barrels and crates as he moves through the room.

"Dammit boy!  Hold the light steady." the older man demands, suddenly swinging his free hand in a punch which connects with the other's stomach, but seems to go mostly unnoticed.  "It should be here." a glance at the paper, and then back to the goods stacked nearby.  "It was right here, just last week."

"So, we're not the only ones tromping about," Aaron stated flatly, gesturing with a slight nod ahead of them. The men finally come into view, and Aaron gives them a measuring gaze, saying nothing.

"Must be further along.  I hope some light-fingered bastard hasn't pilfered it.  This way."  The older man turns to move on, and catches sight of the strangers.

"Here now!  You shouldn't be down here.  This is Prince Gerard's private stores."  He straightens up as best he can, "All it'll take is one shout, and there'll be a couple of dozen guards down to deal with you directly."

"Or one word from me, and my lad, Dennis," here he grasps the young man's arm in a vice-like grip, and propels him forward a couple of paces, "will have your guts for garters."

"Speak up now.  Who are you, and what are you doing down here?"

"Not that I am not appreciative, Dorian," Cyan murmurs, briefly laying a hand on his arm as the voices come closer.  "But I certainly understand your reluctance to use such techniques."

Moving up to the front, she studies the men as Aaron calls their attention.  The older one is full of bluster, all prepared to...apparently sicc his young assistant on them.  Cyan would laugh, but if stories are correct it is quite possible the lad is a veritable killing machine; Amber seems to be that sort of place.

"No sir," she replies, bowing at the waist.  "We are guests of Princess Fiona, and are now quite lost having just been through a somewhat enchanting experience."  Straightening, the bard grins, her ruby eyes glittering as she claps Aaron on the shoulder.  "Perhaps you might point us to the right direction to reach her?"

One eyebrow arches.  "What is that you seek, youselves?"

Dorian returns his attention to the room, lower his head and  his senses. Above them, little had changed, as far as he could perceive. Cyan, of course, handled it with more tact than Dorian would likely have mustered, given the man's tone. The former Emperor didn't take such tones directed at him easily. But here in Amber, Cyan's tack was clearly more prudent.

The man puffs out his chest, and says, with pride, "I am Redigan, assistant storekeeper to Prince Gerard.  You must be the people we heard had arrived with important information."  He looks at the shelves for a moment, "I am seeking something which His Highness has requested.  Unfortunately, it does not appear to be where it should be."

"Bleedin' told yer so, di'n' I?" Dennis interrupts.

"Silence!" snaps Redigan, angrily.  Then, in a more civil tone, "If you wish to find Princess Fiona, the stairs in yonder corner lead up to the castle proper.  Once there, you should be able to find somebody to take you to her."  He waves one hand in the general direction of where the pair had come from.

"My thanks, Sir Redigan," Cyan replies, bowing at the waist.  Straightening, she offers both men her best smile, her topaz eyes lambent in the lantern light.  "We shall follow your directions immediately..."  Curiousity spikes and she pauses a moment.  "What, pray tell, does Prince Gerard desire with a bottle of wine?  Does Amber not prepare for siege?"

Of course, one can never tell with these Elders.  It's possible Gerard's preparations include swigging down a liter of Chateau Lafitte Rothschilde 1934 (Earth Calander) before battle.

Tahirah drifts closer to the pair of servants.  "He has not specified wine," she points out, quietly.  Having made her stand in the secret room below, she seems quite happy to retreat back to the privacy of her robes.

"But I often help find things," she notes, not quite going so far as to offer, but putting the information out there.

With so much afoot, Dorian wasn't sure that helping in the search for wine, or whatever the subject of the search may be, was entirely prudent; however, it was a search on behalf of a prince of Amber, which meant it may be the best thing they could engage in at the particular moment. So he continued his silent stance while the business concluded.

Redigan frowns at Cyan, "The whys and wherefores of Prince Gerard's requirements are not discussed with his servants.  It is enough for me to know that he requires this item, and this should be more than sufficient for strangers to know."

His expression softens at Tahirah's not-quite-offer, "However, should any of you wish to assist in locating the item... it is not, in point of fact, a bottle of wine, which I could have carried without assistance from Dennis, but a keg of cheap ale, about this big."  He holds his hands somewhat apart, one above the other, indicating a height of approximately eighteen inches.

"The keg has been branded with the image of a serpent, coiled into two loops, and gripping its tail in its mouth."

"Aha."  A circumspect servant - small wonder Gerard keeps him around.  Cyan nods in approval, then shoots a quick look at Tahirah as the man accepts her small offer to assist with the search.  A muscle jumps in her jaw; torn, Cyan vacillates between continuing onward and stopping to help, as is normally her wont.

But this...a barrel of ale is of small consequence, I hope.  "I will leave you to your search, goodman."  She bows to the servants - master and apprentice, both - and straightens to cock an eyebrow at Tahirah.  "Lady Tahirah, I fear I must take my leave.  Important matters.  I hope to see you soon."

It goes against every nerve, every habit she has to turn her back on even something as insignificant (seemingly) as this search, but gritting her teeth, Cyan narrows brilliant ruby eyes and heads for the stairs.  "We should hurry.  I wish to determine if I can set my plan in motion now, or if Amber's survival - and thus, the survival of all - sits astride a razorblade of uncertainty."

Berd winces.  A painful personnification, indeed.

"Let's get moving then," Aaron intoned, gesturing for them to continue on.

He wondered, in such a time as this, just what Gerard was searching for. It boded a bit of thought, but he wasn't about to spare it now.

 

•• Oh I•we can help look ••

A coo like a cluster of deranged pigeons rose all around the others as the Banglen-Yp's, save one, had been exploring the nearby area with great curiosity.  After all, it would give them an excuse to look around some more.

•• Several extra pair of eyes and all that ••

That statement came from the one who had not cooed with the others, along with a smile and half a chuckle.

•• We•I can easily find our•myself•es again if need be ••

 

With the help of the Banglen-Yps (though some of them quickly seem to become distracted by bottles with interesting labels, and assorted shiny things) the barrel is found almost immediately, much to the obvious relief of Redigan.  As one of the blonde women hands the keg to Dennis, Berd raises his head and studies it for a moment.

"Thank you." Redigan says, with a bow to the nearer Banglen-Yps, as Dennis starts the walk back to the stairs, the keg sloshing noisily on one shoulder.

And so the odd procession proceeds up the stairs.

Only a few minutes later, they step out of a doorway, and into a corridor in the castle proper.  Redigan points along the corridor, "If you go that way, you'll come to a large door.  Through that, and turning left will bring you to a broad stair.  Climb that as far as you can, and you'll find yourself in the main way to the throne room.  Princess Fiona's quarters are near to there."

"Dennis and I go the other way, to reach Prince Gerard's suite."

A sweeping glance at the others that have chosen to search, and Dorian is on Cyan's heels. He does wonder if there might be some significance to the search beyond mere desire for alcohol, but without direct enlightenment, he won't be participating. He wonders how much of his decision rests on a desire to be near Cyan. Has he reached a point where emotion sways his logic? Would that be so bad? Cyan might say no. Drusilla would mock him.

Always keen to his thoughts, Galatea merely looks up and him and smiles, following.

"Agreed," is all he says to Cyan's statement.

"Thanks."  Luke stared at the cask with some interest.  "That's a curious bit of 'ale' you've got there.   You say it's of cheap quality?  Might have something to do with the impurities."  Without hesitation, he reached out, his arm sliding directly into the cask as if it were made of smoke.  "Like this little thing, right here," he mused, muscles in his arm tensing as if he grabbed something.

Luke pulls his hand back out of the cask, spilling a little ale on the floor.  He is holding an object in that hand... a package of waxed canvas, flat and rectangular, about fourteen inches long and three inches broad.  The package is perhaps half an inch thick, and is bound with a cord, also waxed, and secured by a seal.

Redigan, meanwhile, is furious, "What are you doing?  That cask, and anything in it, is the property of Prince Gerard!  You have no right to take it!"  He glances about, then yells at the top of his voice, "Guards!  Guards!  There are thieves in the castle!"

"Berd!"  Furious with Luke, Cyan snaps the word.  The drake jerks on her shoulder, his eyes sparkling to life.  Despite this being Amber, the little dragon lowers the cone of silence in an instant, deadening all sounds from escaping but still permitting conversation.

Incidentally, he also ensures Gerard's servants cannot depart the area.

"Hold steady, if you please, Sir Redigan," the bard states, firmly but without the same edge to her words.  The sharpness returns when she faces the man with whom she may share some form of distant kinship.  "Explain yourself Luke - what is this, and why have you taken it from the cask?"

Despite her instinctive irritation with him, she begins to feel a small doubt crawling in her stomach.  A traitor in Amber...they've been looking for a traitor.  Has Luke found something of import, or merely another dead end?

Redigan draws himself up to his full, not that impressive height, "What is the meaning of this?  You are guests in this castle, and you choose to act like common thieves."  In full bluster, as he is, he chooses to ignore for the moment that there is nothing particularly common about what Luke just did.

"Rest assured that Prince Gerard will receive a full report of this matter, from both myself and Dennis."

Dennis, meanwhile, is busy examining the casket.  Presumably for holes.

"Sir," Dorian says, easing out from his position behind Cyan. His dark eyes smolder and fix on the elder and louder of the pair before them, "if you would but hold your tongue a moment while we discuss this. I'm sure it is a mere misunderstanding that will be resolved easily if you give us but a moment to speak amongst ourselves. Surely, you must perceive that we have Amber's best interests in our hearts, yes?

He turns his gaze to the younger. "Agreed?"

Turning towards the others again, he lowers his tone and says, "While I don't agree with the action taken, it has been taken and we must deal with it. I admit to my curiosity concerning the contents, but whether we examine the package or not, I say we end this by putting the package back into the cask and sending these loyal servants on their way with no knowledge of the interruption in mind. I can, of course, handle the details of the matter."

"Interesting toy..." Luke rolled the package around in his hand, shifting it back and forth, completely oblivious to all protests.  Finally he shrugged, casually stuffing the wrapped object back into the cask in the same way he had removed it, this time without the accompanying gush of ale.  "Not exactly what I was hoping for."  Blinking in surprise at the interest of those around him, the lean man grinned.  "Sorry.  Dorian...my thanks, but it's not necessary to wipe away the recollections.  Let the little terrier yap to his owner.  There's been no harm done, Prince Gerard can take it up with me if he desires.  Or the king."
One of his dark, thin eyebrows rose questioningly.  "We are approved by the king as investigators into this situation, aren't we?"  He made a quick, dimissive motion of one hand toward the cask.  "Looked like a blade, sans hilt...funny thing, I've got one of those around here somewhere.  Anyway, it reeks of power.  But not the sort of power that would have me calling for a witch-hunt - more the kind Aaron uses to get around.  You know, native stuff."  A pause for consideration followed.  "Awfully small blade, mind...especially for one so famed for size and strength.  Almost like an assassin's tool."

Dennis watches curiously as hand and package pass through the wood of the cask, and the hand withdraws, leaving no trace that it was ever inside.  Finally he lifts the cask to his ear and shakes it.

"I fink it's back in there."

Redigan glowers at him, at Luke, and then at everybody else, just for good measure, before turning on his heel and stalking away, with Dennis ambling along behind him, still shaking the cask occasionally.

An assassin's blade?  Curious.  Cyan files the information away for later consideration, and turns a glare on Luke as the two servants hurry off.  "Can we avoid the digressions for the moment?" she snaps, almost giving into her irritation, eyes shading toward garnet from ruby.  With a shake of her head, she hurries for the door, intent on finding her way from these cellars to better report their discoveries.

They're on the path toward an endgame.  Defend Amber.  Hold off the enemy.  Then shatter their will to fight by showing them the truth, or so she hopes.  Not long now - a refrain her feet beat against the floor as she marches, Berd bobbing on her shoulder with a helpless glance for Luke.

Not long now...not long now...

Redigan's directions still fresh in their minds, oddly mismatched group (excepting the Banglen-Yps, who are all perfectly matched) move away down the corridor, through the large door, and up the broad stair.  At the top, they encounter a guard, standing at his post, who is able to give them further instructions.

They are in a wide passage now, which apparently leads to the heart of the castle, the throne room.  The guard directs them to Fiona's suite, but then thoughtfully adds, "Or you just could follow the corridor straight to the end.  I saw the princess headed for the throne room just a little while ago."

 

All save one of the Banglen-Yps appeared utterly oblivious to what had just transpired, many of them tapping the walls and touching anything in sight amongst giggling and deep pondering alike.

Once they move out they form a neat line, much like a weird snake coiling its way through the area.  Their attention still wandered hither and dither but never seemed to leave the one who had the lead - potentially the one that had been along for some time before the rest of them was freed.

Or she freed herself.  Or itself.  Or whatever.

 

"We should hurry," Cyan whispers to the others after thanking the guard.  Picking up her pace, she chooses his second suggestion - the throne room.  After all, now they have a success to discuss with the king.

She chooses her next words most carefully, not wishing to offend.  "Amabael...your people, where might we find them?  They are hidden, are they not?  How did they remain so, hiding from other archons?  Where could they have gone?"  Her smile is a brief thing.  "There cannot be very many rainy, grounded, highly magnetic worlds, and one would think the Seraphim would seek out those ones first, to observe them from a distance."

Amabael pauses for a moment, light glittering on tiny facets of ice as she turns her head to face Cyan.  A smile, only a slight one, plays across her frozen lips, and just for a moment it is (just barely) possible to imagine that she is not a wholly inhuman creature.  + Trust is important between allies, of course. +

And then she shifts form again, once more becoming a wheel of ice, about a yard in diameter, drawing shocked glances from many in the corridor who do not know her nature.  + MY NAME IS LEGION. +

In a heartbeat it moves forward, and drops over Cyan.  The bard vanishes into the empty core of the Archon... and reappears an instant later.

+ HIDING IS MUCH SIMPLER WHEN THERE IS ONLY ONE TO HIDE. +

Luke cocked an eyebrow.  "You totally stole that line from me," he muttered.  "Nice trick, though.  Pretty clever - I'll have to remember that, myself.  No wonder you weren't in a hurry to go find all your friends."