Tahirah continues to face the fallen outer Gateway, her hands tracing invisible forms in the air.  The air falls still around her, clear of the dust sifting from the ceiling, and the fallen stones tremble slightly.  With her robes about her, she projects calm in the storm, and remains standing upon her improvised stage to hold as a rallying point for the remaining soldiers.

Berd rises, fans the air and lets out a shrill, musical note.  A challenge, a clarion call.

With his gaze distant, Dorian smirked at the ease of the drake's assault against the sorcerers. It would take time, but with each minute, their numbers decimated. He guessed it would be over soon. The fact that it took little effort merely to direct their movements made the assault particularly elegant. The drakes were intelligent enough that they needed only a target.

Yet, what did drain him was the cloak against the archons. The battle went well, and the Archon's numbers here diminished. Soon it would be over and they'd have to see what came next. Yes, that would be something to see.

         ~Let's see what happens~

Indeed, the phrase came from an old story on Samhain. The words were spoken by an ancient and wise drake. Except that, in this case, he had a strong emotional investment in the matter at hand. He hated that; but he would not squelch it, not anymore.

He moved closer to Cyan, not coming within the sword's arc. He felt confident that she'd protect him from any incoming Archon he couldn't deal with. The move wasn't designed to pry at her emotions. She had none for him in this state, and he knew that. It also wasn't a move of exploitation, using her as a tool. It was merely practical to stay close to those one considered allies. After this faded, she may or may not be an ally, still.

He let the psychic cloak fade as he drew near, prepared to use what was left of his strength to defend himself or his allies, as needed. He kept his eyes on Cyan and Aaron. He wouldn't expend energy on something they were braced to meet. He could withstand some more sorcery, but his arsenal was depleted, and he needed to reserve what was left for emergencies.

Battlefield strategy was about risks. With the upper hand, it was time for a risk. Dropping the cloak was one risk. Next, he gave the drakes more autonomy and separated them into single units instead of groups. By now, he felt, they understood the battle and their missions. They needed only minimal marking of targets.

In the back of his mind, Cyan threatened to distract him more. He'd thought many things in the last few minutes of the battle. Those thoughts lingered. Yet, he recognized that his thoughts had turned to circles. It was time to focus, for a moment, on the task and deal with the enemy. What planning could he do for when Cyan was released from the berserk state? The answer was none. Thus, it made little sense to dwell on it. Still, the thoughts lingered.

Archons still rain flame and lightning down on the city, and upon the ground around it.  Many of those that do, though, find themselves the targets of multiple bursts of mystical green energy, either from guards at the tower itself, or from the riders of the agile ormvråkar which circle above it.

Still more are attacked by other Archons, and the sky is filled with a terrible sound, like the shattering of every window in all the worlds.  Broken Archons fall from the air, or explode into a green fire, which clings to them, flowing across their form, and consumes it.


On the field, in an area littered now with, fallen, sundered tree stumps, Cyan and Aaron continue to fight.  Both are bleeding from numerous minor wounds, cuts and abrasions, and neither of them seems to care.  Their blades move unceasingly, but there are less and less foes to attack now.  The danioti are fleeing, much to the apparant amusement of Right, and the few eshurianti who had been in the area are long gone.

Morgan is nearby, striking at any still-mobile danioti that comes close, while the claws of the panthers prove adept at pinning the fallen Archons, finishing the injured.

And then, it happens...

A small, blue-white fleck darts closer, expands into a hoop of lightning, and strikes at one of Leareth's comrades.  The panther falls...


Freed of constraints, the Samhain drakes spread further, hunting down mages with deadly efficiency.  Their targets are becoming harder to locate, as their numbers diminish...  And then flame and lightning roar up from the forest, as the drakes meet resistance.


Dorian fades into view, close to Cyan, and a nearby danioti howls, + THE WORLD KILLER! +, in the moment before the blade, Gurthang cleaves it in two, scattering jagged shards of metal all around,  some of them adding further to Cyan's wounds.


Guided by James' calm, commanding voice, and by Trista's gentle pushing, people stream towards the East Gate now, moving past James and Trista, faster and faster, taking advantage of the light provided by the burning combatants.

Berd rises, flying clear of the woman's shoulder, and a cooling breeze seems to blow around Trista, and James too.  The heat in the hall seems to drop to much more tolerable levels.

And then Jehoel cries out, + I HAVE DONE WHAT I CAN FOR NOW!  STRIKE WHILE HE IS WEARY! +  The two Archons break apart, and for an instant, James has a clear view of the one which glows a sickly green.  He hurls the stone, with all his strength, and the fire dims as Archon is struck, and it drops lower, within reach of those on the ground...


Parcifal stands within the gate, and his sword of crystal blazes with a light from within, pulsing with the regularity of a heartbeat, but quickening as the enemy draws closer...

Tahirah stands with him, the troops gathering around her, weapons readied...

Wheels of flame move into the broken gateway, and a gesture from Tahirah engulfs them in a wave of dirt, gravel, and broken stone.  Some are buried, some merely knocked aside, and a few manage to evade it altogether.

But the weapons of Charyk unleash destructive energies at those which still move, while Parcifal steps forward to cut down those who manage to struggle free of the rubble.

Behind them there are screams and cries of relief, as people start pouring through the inner gateway, from the fire-shot darkness inside the citadel...


Rising high above the battlefield, Luke shines with a brilliant white light, like the Morning Star.  He reaches out his will, and higher still, where the Archons gather to prepare their counter-attack, it starts to snow.  A moment later the hail starts, and then the air itself starts to freeze around them...

The eshurianti gutter and dim, as bone-chilling cold draws the heat from them, and an icy wind, cold as the void between the stars, blasts across them, extinguishing their flame.  Danioti start to slow, as layers of ice build up on their metal surfaces.

Weakened, the Archons start to drop, warming as they descend, regaining strength.  And most use that renewed strength to flee...


With Vohu Maranah gone, moved on to fight other battles, Roman, Banglen-Yp, and Jonnee are forced to find their own entertainments.

Banglen-Yp, carefully targeting only those Archons who seem intent on killing her, finds that the energy discharges from her strangely-deformed arm are effective against both danioti and eshurianti, stunning them and dropping them to the ground, where Jonnee's brintizi can deal with them more easily.

Roman deals with the herenethi, who seem to have an immunity to Banglen-Yp's weapon, though he isn't fussy, and his Chaos blade cuts danioti and eshurianti also, if they come within range.  Of course, he must get closer, which brings its own risks, and with so many of the Archons to fight, he eventually starts to suffer as they unleash their energies, or slash at him with their razor-edged forms.

Jonnee is bleeding from a score of wounds, and a number of the brintizzi are dead, or incapacitated.

Lightning and fire hammer the ground around Banglen-Yp, knocking her off her feet.  Dimly she hears Jonnee laughing, as she scrambles to her knees and seeks a target.  There is no target.


Overhead, Archons are vanishing... simply winking out of existence in increasing numbers.  Never have they encountered resistance of this sort.  Even their own kind fight against them.

The more that vanish, the more that continue to vanish.

Discretion appears to be the better part of valour, even for an Archon...

Luke's face was a study in concentration as he pressed home his advantage.  The archons were fleeing.  Their morale crumbled.  The more he could engulf in the growing storm, the more....

He faltered.  The storm ceased to grow.

There comes a point when even the brightest hits a wall.  For Luke, that point was now.  Pushed beyond his endurance, he staggered in the air, the light about him flickering.  The wings of fire guttered, drew close about him.  He struggled an instant longer, then released the storm to die upon its own.

Still insufficient.  An ironic smile spread across his features as he fell,  burning, toward the earth.  "Such a bitter jest," he muttered.  Light flared.  For an instant, something else, something inhuman and bright, fell in his place.  Then it winked out, gone, and his bridging dissolved.  For now.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:09, Tue 16 Jan 2007.

It was good. The drakes of Samhain did will alone, as expected. They had suffered some losses in the initial counterstrike, each one noted with a touch of sorry. Like most Samhainians, he felt some kinship with the magnificent creatures.

He pursed his lips as he noted new resistance, distance fire they had trouble dealing with. That was a problem, and it was too late to modify the original design at this point. These were not dragons, fire-breathers; they'd have to make due with what they had.

What they needed was reinforcements.

With a quick inhale of breath, he spoke, releasing lynchpins like moorings. It's one of his last, held in reserve for the end of the battle.

The spell completes and a dozen more drakes appear- at some small distance, so as to not alarm any of the friendly combatants. Long necks swivel around, and keen reptilian eyes the color of ochre scan the battle. The raise their heads and a single, howling, hunting cry, long and low, fills the air with a resonance that reverberates deep in one's chest.

"Find them all," he says. "Let none survive."

The other drakes will fill them in on the campaign so far, and he'll fill in the gaps telepathically. He orders them to pair up, old drakes with new drakes. They'll work the rest out. The only thing that matters is the sorcerers must die. They can ignore the resistance as much as they need to, to get the job done.

Once the sorcerers were all dead, he'd bring them back for support over the citadel.

Three drakes remain, for transportation back. One is for him. The other, well, was part practicality and part hope. He hoped Cyan would come back along with them. Sure, there were plenty of panthers, but one could never be sure. The third was for air support over their heads. Though few enemies remained, and Luke held the skies, any support was sure to be appreciated.

He glanced up and noted the bright thing falling. An ironic metaphor, perhaps, but one he'd not dwell on. They needed air support after all.

He called some of the drakes back. Now five remained, two on the ground, and three for air cover. That left a dozen in the field to finish the remnants of the sorcerers.

He stood between the pair of drakes on the ground. The razor claws kneaded the earth. They yearned to fly with their brethren, not remain burdened by the earth. Their teeth gnashed the air in frustration.

For the most part, the rest of the campaign remained in the claws of the drake flight. His guidance remained minimal. Thus, he let his gaze drop to Cyan, again. An invitation, the drakes were. Come, let's fly together. He was not so forward as to save only one drake should she accept. No matter what else, take this moment to experience something only a handful of others in the Myriad Worlds ever experience- to ride a drake of Samhain.

If not, if she fled back to her Archons, if she chose to ride a panther, it didn't matter. There was no symbolism in the gesture. Only.... perhaps.... fun?

Why?

  ~indulgance~

But... why?

"Why do we not conquer the Drakes, father"

"The Drakes…. Do they need to be conquered?"

"All things must be conquered. They are never conquered. Why?"

"You've been speaking to your mother again."

"Is she wrong?" The child, now ten, arches an eyebrow. She is testing him. She hasn't yet decided which of her parents is stronger. She has been raised in a matriarchal society, yet her father is no slave. He is different from the other males.

"Is she?"

"They are powerful. Nieodemus says they can snap a Harrowloth's leg bone in one bite." The pack beast is the size of a house, and stronger than anything else on Samhain. "They would be the best army ever."

"Would they? Or would slavery kill them? Perhaps freedom to them is as air to us."

"That's silly. No slave ever dies of slavery."

"And no drake has ever been a slave."

"I think you're weak. You don't conquer them because you're afraid."

Ah- that was why. It was for Galatea. For her, he would ride the drakes.

Yes. That was acceptable. He would ride the drake.

But, would the drake be ridden?

"One left, love," Aaron said with gravelling voice, though whether he was speaking to Cyan or Arianne, none could be sure. He was haggard, beaten, bleeding from a thousand minor places.

But his eyes burned with fury and life, like a woodland on fire. Aaron was the contrast to Cyan's diamond-hard intent, the chaotic, flaming random with a controlled will of its own. Forget cosmology for the moment, and embrace that fact, this living hypocrisy that the two embraced. One focused and controlled with an animal desire to destroy, the other wild and unhinged, efficiently cleaving anything asunder.

Two sides of the same coin. Different and the same.

...but none of it mattered if he fell to earth in exhaustion now. So he focused instead on the reason, his current reaon, for fighting.

He turned those flaming eyes upon Cyan, and raised his head.

"Now is the time to choose," he whispered.

Trista keeps further thoughts to herself; the little dragon appears to be stubborn and she will not fight that. She knows he will protect until the last of his strength is drained and he’ll include her in that protection.

Fortunately, the people behind them quicken their pace in the right direction. Hopefully, the safety promised will be there.

Eyes squint under the coolness enveloping Trista. She gives Berd a quick appraising look and then heeds Jehoel’s pleas. The machete in hand flips in the air and lands firmly in a white-knuckled grip. A cold glint sparks her eyes and the woman moves quickly, darting in with more finesse than strength, slashing the body beneath the flames; the body they need to destroy.

Feral instincts of years past flood the woman as blade seeks its mark.

Berd.  The little dragon is overextending himself and James is concerned, but he stays silent.  It is inevitable now that Berd will keep fighting until the enemy is defeated or unconsciousness claims him.  Still, as Israfil's flames gutter a sickly green in the cool air now swirling through the chamber, James can only be grateful for Berd's efforts.

James hesitates a moment longer.  Now is the time to strike but James worries about the heat.  There is a fundamental difference between waving your hand over a candle and over a blast furnace.  He briefly considers using the Pattern to seek water but abandons the idea quickly.  In these close confines scalding steam would be more dangerous than open fire.

Then Trista attacks.  James follows suit, moving to flank Israfil.  The Archon has no true face, but best to split its concentration.  He strikes in a sequence of lunging cuts.  In, slash, recover, in, slash, recover.  Keeping distance between himself and Israfil while bringing his formidable strength to bear behind Fangmir's keen edge.

Freedom.

It comes on the moment.  One instant, they fight.  The next, the last of the nearby danioti (save Left and Right) is a shattered mass.  The only Archon who remains in reach is over fifty feet distant, engaged in a one-sided battle with a small army of panthers, swordsmen, brintizzi, and lightning-throwers.

Like a spinning top, Cyan's laughter winds down.  First it slows almost imperceptably.  Then it stutters, jumps.  Gurthang's tip grounds.  And with a series of short, jumpy chuckles, she ceases to laugh entirely.

The Dark Man stands nearby, offering...what?  A perch upon which she may conduct herself to the next battle?  Something in his stance tells her no, and she halts her step for a moment, diamond eyes glittering in the flashes of light from above as she studies him.  The leader speaks; words come and go, but what do they mean?

Her crystal eyes sweep the field as her free hand drags a steely gauntlet across her brow - cuts open further, but it smears the blood, keeps it from her eyes.  Cyan's rainbow gaze touches on pockets of resistance, battered down by their own kind, torched by emerald fire, or driven away with ice and snow.  Morale, she notes in that diamond perfection, is broken.  The enemy has been defeated.

Her smile quivers.  Cracks.  A sudden, darkening flow eclipses the rainbow glitter in her diamond eyes.  She blinks again, and between lid drop and raise, her eyes are dull, lifeless jade.

Fractured, broken memories sparkle and dance in her slowly clearing thoughts.  Lost within the aftermath of the baresark rage, Cyan stumbles slightly to her left, her sword coming up.  Right swoops in nervously, with a grating snarl to any who seek to close.  Left hovers overhead, a small ring of shimmering blades.  Gurthang slides into the earth a good foot, standing straight, and Cyan's hands work at the buckles of her gauntlets.  One falls, hits the ground at her feet.  Another follows, clashing atop the first.  Her trembling left hand rises to explore her face as her right falls again on the Deathiron's grip, reversed.  She totters forward, dragging the blade, then falls to one knee.  Forward, balancing on her hand, the burning blade still at her side.

Nausea overwhelms her, and she vomits.

+ GENERAL... +  But Right makes an irritated howl, and Left falls silent for once.  Right waits...for orders.

Cyan coughs, drags the back of her hand across her mouth.  It comes away sticky with blood and filth, and she stares down at the back of her hand, so pale after months spent mostly within that armor.  As alwaqys, after her fury, her mind is confused, her body weary to illness.  Only now she struggles with reintegration.  Where...who am I?  The memories refuse to settle.  Cyan...I am...'Bird, bird!'...not shadow....

...Berd?  Where are you?

What is this heaviness, clamped about her body?  She knows the feel of armor, has worn it before...is this Menegroth?  No...Menegroth ruined...betrayed and destroyed....  But there is Gurthang, certainly.  In her hand.  It broke.  Broke under the Master of Doom.  Slew Cúthalion, my friend.  Her head pounds.  Where is she?  How did she come here?  Where are her palanequet  Where is Berd?  Berd will explain everything.  Berd...

...Berd....

"Cyan, I am so very sorry. I had hoped that you would finally have your answers. The only thing I can believe happened is that someone did a full memory wipe on you at  some point. I believe I know who the culprit is as well."

No, no...the memories are not gone, Serena, they are not...there is nothing there!  There never was!  The wall was placed there to keep me from knowing that!

"Will you tell me, Berd?" she asks quietly.  "Bird?  The truth about Shadows?"

But despite everything, weighed against what is to come, that is old news.  Painful, but....  Cyan crawls a pace away from the sight of her sickness; her hand scrabbles at the dirt as the memories grind on remorselessly.

A stand on a dying World.  An Eldar-forged blade cracks to shards.  Fire!  Pain!  Steel in darkness!  Over and over, burning and tearing, and cutting away at her mind until everything shatters, until they breakthrough to what they want andshecan't keepthemout anymore...

And then she burns.  And kills.  And drags her army down upon world after world -

She chokes on the denial - useless, for the evidence is all around her.  The scent in her nose.  The blood dripping from her cheeks, mixed now with tears.  The armor she wears.  Every memory in her mind, clashing for dominance.  She opens her lips, tastes salt, and moans.

Right orbits her while Left continues to study from on-high.  The colourful Archon, bewildered, backs off a hair.  + ORDERS...GENERAL? +

Cyan slowly sits back, kneeling now, arms limp at her sides.  She refuses to hide her face, refuses denial's comforting embrace.  The tears continue to stream down her bloodied cheeks, and words stick in her throat like thorns.  "Lords of the West," she manages.  What have I done?

There are people around her.  She only now becomes dimly aware of them.  Who?  Her shadows - vague flashes, images in her thoughts, keeps her from hacking out with Gurthang...were she even capable of such.  Aaron.  "Now is the time to choose."  Did he say that?  Dorian, with the questions in his eyes.  She does not remember even half of the last year, yet, but what she does puts an iron spike of guilt in her heart.  How can she face them?

As she always does, in the end - head on.  Left and Right?  Their names?  She isn't certain.  "Do nothing."  Her voice is hoarse.  Still kneeling, Cyan slowly raises her face to regard Aaron and Dorian full-on, with miserable, topaz eyes.  Shame nails her mouth shut - what apology could suffice? - and so she waits.

 

Not in the least sad to see the Archon withdraw, Banglen-Yp stood down from the fight, although after her first encounter with one of their kind the shrinking bit hardlt instilled any sense of being harmless in her, so she allowed her arm to fully charge up in case they would suddenly turn about and attack her again.

She bides her time and watches the enemy carefully.

Eventually she looked over at Jonnee and Roman to see what their take on this was.  Was it over?  Had they won?  Or was this merely the calm before the storm, as the screen had put it?

She said nothing, though, but the question in her eyes were probably clear enough.

Was it over?

 

Dorian watches and waits. He studies, prepares and... waits.

"How do you do that, Father," Galatea asked.

"Do what?"

"You aren't nervous?"

"Of course, I am," Dorian smiles. "Does it show?"

"No."

"Good."

"But," she frowns. "You are nervous, right. You don't even know who leads the army outside the gates."

"I have my suspicions," he admits. "But no, I don't know. The move is theirs, so I wait."

"I'm scared," she says. "Who are they?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does!" Her tiny foot slapped the white stone of the high balcony. They looked out over the gardens- beyond that, the palace gates, and a small army.

"Galatea," he said. "I have done all I can do. I have made my preparations. I have studied, watched and planned. All is ready. Now, we wait. We can do no more, and worry will only distract us from our goal."

"Our goal?"

"Survival."

She turns and looks out over the garden again. The breeze fluttered through her pristine black hair. "So, who do you think sent them?"

Dorian's smile was cold. "Your mother."

When he can, he notes the eyes. It was one of the first things he noted about Cyan, in fact, the eyes. He watches and waits for the color to bleed back into them. That is when things will begin. Still, the light glitters in her eyes, clear and unadulterated by color.

The laughter that grated with its unnatural place in a battle, laughter he could not fathom, faltered. He inhaled. Was this it?

The smile, too, seems to falter a bit. She's looking, studying the battle. The gauntlet drags across the forehead and he squints, wanting to grimace at the sight of the blood.

There, he sees, the color has returned. It's abrupt. It startles him, and he freezes. But he was already frozen. A chill attacks his spine.

   ~wait~

He listens to the small voice in his head, so young and so fresh, unbidden, half-unwanted, ancient, tiny and threatening of puerile innocence, feminine and delicate. He knows the voice. He fears it. He fears that Berd was right. That's the last thing he needs right now. And yet, he almost dares to hope it is reality. Despite how he feels about it, it speaks to him. And he listens.

He waits.

Interesting. The pair of bodyguards remains. Earlier, he noted their presence. But with the battle fading to a more distant din, they remain. They are hers. He remembers the club, the way one of them had commented before following her. Interesting.

She staggers forward. The awful blade drags in the dirt. The archons remain close. She falls to one knee.

He waits. He's thinking of how it must feel, but he can't begin to comprehend how it must feel. He's experienced identity conflicts, even recently. He's experiencing one now, though only Berd has any hint of it. It's too soon to draw close. Let her adjust. Give her space.

She vomits.

He waits, now with a little sigh of irritation. Not over the act, of course, but frustrated that he can't do anything. Give her space. Let her adjust. Let her think.

She's confused. She looks, perhaps, lost. Orientation.

Wait.

Memories must be fighting in her mind. He can only guess. There's so much to process in so little time. It must tear at her sanity. He can only imagine the struggle. Guilt? Perhaps. No- this was Cyan. There would be guilt... like a guillotine.

And this is Cyan. Back.

The Archons are seeking orders, now. The loyalty is interesting. They remain with her and call her general still. Archons are not imbeciles. They know, and they remain. Do they not understand completely?

She stands. She stands and she waits.

Now?

 ~okay~

He takes a deep breath. He has no grand scheme. No plan lurks behind his eyes, waiting to be launched forth with plotted precision and timing. He merely feels a need to help. She's a friend, above all else. She's a friend in need.

He feels much as he did in the club, when he first saw her. He felt is soul shrinking under the obsidian eyes. Acceptance- he would accept her, in whatever form or condition she would be found. He accepts her.

He leaves the presence of the drakes, now. He draws close, but slowly, wary of the Archons. They are still her bodyguards.

"Cyan," he says, forcing gentleness into a voice not accustomed to it. As they did in the club, a thousand words fought for supremacy behind his tongue. So many things needed to be said. So many things were wrong right now, and too much could overwhelm her, another danger. Once again, the least likely thing won out. "I'm sorry," he said. His mind swirled at the words he hadn't wanted to say. Why?

It made sense. It had been on the tip of his tongue ever since the moment she was thought to be dead.

"Forget her," Dorian hisses angrily at Ech'hisst. "We all failed her; she's gone. Now, get out of our way. We have work to do."

Fault. Blame. The feeling had gnawed at him for so long. It seemed like ages.

"We should get you to safety. You need ... time... and you will have it. Will you come?" He extends a hand.

"You will face judgement," Aaron said, after Dorian's question. "But we will keep you from it. Many will hate you."

But Aaron stood straighter, sheathing Ilsefranvir across his back.

"But we will hold them back, with our own flesh and blood. Hate, judgement, pain, guilt, these are but some of the fruits of your new existence, and they are but minor aspects of the punishment that is life. Do not loathe them - embrace them as a dark contrast to your bright understanding."

Aaron looked to Left and Right then, and raised his head in question.

"Whom do you serve?"

+ THE GENERAL IS REVEALED AS A TRAITOR, AS I SUSPECTED! +

Howling, Israfil lunges in towards Berd, only to run straight into Trista's blade, and a wave of cold radiating from the drake.  Frost starts to rime the stone beneath the girl's feet, only to sublimate into whisps of steam as the Archons moves closer again.

James brings Fangmir to bear, his formidable strength driving the blade into the Archon's form.  The heat is almost sickening...

+ THE DESPISED ONE PROTECTS THE TWO OF YOU, SO YOU MUST BE IMPORTANT TO IT, AND IT IS IMPORTANT TO THE GENERAL! +

Trista's heavy knife chops at the thing again and again, and she feels the hilt growing warm in her hand, becoming hot from its contact with the wheel of flame.  On the other side of the creature, James slashes at it, and flames flow briefly along Fangmir's edge...

+ YOU WILL ALL PERISH BEFORE ME, AND I WILL BE WELL-REWARDED BY HARBONAH! +

Even with Berd's defences, the temperature is still rising...

Roman spirals a little higher, looking for pockets of combat that need to be dealt with.  The remaining Archons overhead are likely allies - the Seraphim are fleeing and likely the archons can identify each other well enough.  Still there may be some loyal to the Seraphim amongst them, just as the Nephilim had their own infiltrators.  Roman remains alert to the possibility of attack, especially by herenthi.

+ I OBEY THE GENERAL +

There is a small pause.

+ AND HARBONAH + Right notes diffidently.  In the interest of complete and direct honesty.

Then he drops to half-bury himself in the ground.  Dirt spits in every direction as the multicoloured, chromed wheel traverses the length of the Iron of Death before rising again, leaving a trench behind.

Of Gurthang, there is no sign.

+ WE WILL NOT PERMIT THE GENERAL TO BE 'JUDGED' +
This message was last edited by the player at 16:57, Wed 17 Jan 2007.

A steely hum vibrates the air for an instant, from Left's much smaller form (by choice).  Almost a sigh.

+ WHAT MY BRONZE COMPANION MEANS IS THAT HARBONAH ORDERED US TO PROTECT THE GENERAL.  AGAINST ALL THREATS.  HE DID NOT DISCRIMINATE +

+ EVIDENTLY HE NEVER EXPECTED THE REMAKING TO BREAK APART.  HARRY HAS ALWAYS BEEN THAT WAY.  IN ANY CASE, IT MEANS OUR LOYALTY IS TO THE GENERAL, WHATEVER HER CURRENT APPELLATION +

Left shift, a small flicker-blur in space, and hovers near Cyan.

They talk around her, to her.  Dorian to her, Aaron to her, then Left and Right, and those spinning, deadly wheels back to him.  Gurthang is gone - thank the spirits - and she is weaponless.

Dorian has moved closer, almost as though approaching a wild animal.  Cyan looks at the blood on her hands, on her armor.  It's hers...she thinks?  Maybe.  She can never be certain, not after one of her rages.  And when the dark man speaks, his voice is soft.  It brings back echoes, echoes of flashing lights, dancing bodies, her in unfamiliar clothing speaking with him...at a bar?

...black, black heart...

Yes.

And he is sorry?  For what?  She wants to protest, to argue - he should not be sorry.  It is to her -

But his eyes speak the truth, and she cannot conceive of Dorian apologizing undeserved.  For what, Cyan cannot imagine...but she should ask.  In a moment. In a moment.

For now, Cyan only wonders if she is pleased he doesn't simply obliterate her where she sits.  Perhaps he should.  But no.  He only wishes to bring her to safety, and he raises a single hand - not at her, only offering, that same, odd softness in his eyes.

Something about that bar, a cracked fragment of a memory, dances tantilizingly out of reach.  Things said.  Dorian...he....

Aaron's voice, like the call of a trumpet, intrudes on her thoughts.  She blinks up at him, her amythest eyes confused.  Shield her?  But why?  She did these things.  Judgement comes to those who deserve it, Cyan knows.  But Aaron speaks of guarding her, and that touches her even through her lack of comprehension.  He speaks of...what?  A new life of pain?  Befuddled, she drops her gaze as he moves then to Left and Right.  They return with answers, and at their own words, a slow fury begins to build under the misery.

Harbonah.  Remaking.  They broke her.  At the vague memories - only vague, thankfully, for the moment - Cyan's stomach knots, her spirit twists, and she brings up her arms to hug herself.  Not now.  Not yet.    Worlds have been taken.  Wars fought.  Enemies destroyed, absorbed.  All in the name of Harbonah's purpose.  And she did it.  She....  Somehow she knows that now is not the time to recovers those memories.  Too soon.

Instead, she reaches out her hands.  They quiver, ever so slightly, but an effort of will stills them.  And she opens her mouth.  Her voice is dry, cracked, but steady.   "I will come," Cyan whispers.  "I am ready."  Ready for whatever judgement - that of the others, the innocent, or herself - she may find.

And as Aaron speaks, she remembers his voice to her.  Was it...recently?  And her hand, held out to Dorian - had she touched his chest, back there among the dancing youths?

"And I choose to love you, Lady..."

"I love you, Cyan."

And now her own eyes are wide, and for an instant everything flees her mind, leaving it a blank slate.  Even in the midst of the madness, even beset by memories of horror committed upon and by her, Cyan still holds the capacity for shock.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:44, Wed 17 Jan 2007.

Tahirah's arm lowers, and for a moment she stands still, the air around her utterly clear of dust, leaving her a shining beacon in comparison to the room around her.  Softly, to herself, she says, "So it ends...and so begins."

Thus steeled, she turns to face the incoming throng.  She pitches her voice to carry.  Public speaking was never her favorite thing, and only rarely called for in her position, but she had practiced all manner of uses of her voice.

Briefly, she thought, she really wished she knew Luke's trick of projection.

"Charyk is fallen," she says, judging that it can hardly cause any great panic to have this news confirmed at this point in events.  "But you will all be well.  The Brother of the Sword has returned."  She indicates Parcifal with a sweeping gesture of her arm.  "And he brings with him a path to new life."  Something tugs at the edges of her consciousness, a loose thread tying itself together, and she turns back to face the guards.  "You, also.  I fear your job here is done, and performed well.  It would be best that those fragments of the Staff that you bear remain here.  It is their home."

As the lightning ring comes to Earth, Morgan and his horde turn to face it, sword and claws brashly probing for a weakness as they prowl around, moving the center of the circle away from the fallen one.

Aaron frowned at Right, but then raised his eyebrows at Left's clarification.

"It was as I assumed, then. I am... satisfied."

Looking back to Right, he raised his head to the awesome Archon.

"I will not permit Cyan to be judged save by herself. She exists within my group, under our rules, our understanding. No other may judge her - no, not even I."

Turning, he approached Cyan and took one of her hands. As he spoke, his voice was clearly shaken, rough with barely-contained emotion.

"Stand, my best of friends. Stand and let us help you live again."

+THE GENERAL IS REVEALED AS A TRAITOR, AS IS SUSPECTED+

And Cyan is revealed as true, as I suspected!

Amongst the muted inferno of Israfil's flame, James laughs.  Quite suddenly, quite loud and altogether shocking.  For though James tempts fate and a fiery demise, he is happy; richly, exultantly, fiercely happy.

James double-steps back and circles left.  A fencer's movements still.  Safe for the moment he throws his head back, searching.



Fangmir describes a neat flip as James turns it to a grip reminiscent of a throwing knife.  Given Fangmir's size the image is slightly absurd.  But James knows Fangmir's balance intimately and he knows his strength.  He can throw it.

He is aiming for a metal strut that projects from a pillar overhead, which supports a large metal tank.  A dripping large metal tank.  Fangmir's balance makes it as likely as not for the pommel to strike, but given the structural damage already sustained, the heat stress on the metal and the Pattern's tug on probability, James is confident it will fall.  Even as he exerts his strength to throw he exerts his will across the bridging, offering his strength of mind as a reserve to the beleaguered dragon.

"Two!"

"I will come, I am ready."

Sweeter words had never sounded in Dorian's ears. They were like an antidote to him. His eyes drew closed for a moment as relief washed over him in a single instant. Through the whole battle, as death played out on all sides, all he had wanted to hear was that.

She takes his hand. How he could crave that touch, but more important things demanded attention.

He nods to her, only the smallest of smiles appearing on his besieged face. It was a pleased smile, nonetheless.

This was not the time for celebration, however. The battle was over, the enemy routed, but they were not safe. Of course, safety would only be ephemeral at this point, but Cyan would need rest, time to think. Who knows what else she would need, but he could imagine how delicate her state might be right now.

He looks over his shoulder. Could she ride? Panther would be safer than drake in her state, to be sure, but even a panther's back might be risky, alone. He supposed she could ride with someone, but could the Panther's handle the wait of two bodies?

Luke's bridging had fallen. Where was Berd? In the excitement, he had lost track of the ancient one. In better times, he knew Berd could get them out of here, but that would access the underflow, which could be an ambush zone or booby-trapped. Moreover, Berd, if he lived, was likely too exhausted to act as a ferry service right now.

He gestures towards the panthers. "Can you ride?" he asks. "We need to return to Charyk; Berd and James are there, along with some of the others." Both here and in the club, he'd avoided mention of Berd for fear of what reaction it might cause, but she needed to know where and to what she was headed. It was fairness, practicality. He studied her for a reaction. "From there, we will find someplace safer, hidden. Then you can rest and sort things out."

If she couldn't ride solo, she'd have to ride with either Morgan or Aaron. He'd prefer she rode with Aaron. Morgan was an unknown to him. Though, lately, Aaron could be more unpredictable than an unknown stranger.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:56, Thu 18 Jan 2007.

He fights the urge to rush her, though urgency is now appropriate. As he leads her towards the panthers, Dorian's mind reaches out to search for Berd  and James. Berd, James, the battle ends and we return; Cyan is with us- we must leave this place expeditiously, for I fear Harbonah may seek retribution, despite the losses here. More than that, she needs rest and quiet, at least for a time, I imagine. Where are you? What is your status?

Berd, fluttering desperately in the air close enough to his allies to support them, comprehends.  James' calm, measured words pass through the bridging to Trista without impediment.  The drake's eyes narrow, and he puts forth a final effort of his own...onto the steel-eyed woman who fights like a leopard.


The chill around Trista intensifies, and frost crawls across the edge of her blade.


And then one weary mind detaches from the others and laboriously links to Dorian.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:21, Thu 18 Jan 2007.