Tahirah watches as the people of Charyk exit through the new gateway.  She can see Parcifal, standing beyond it, in a forest glade, lit by shafts of green-tinted sunlight.  He is directing the new arrivals, pointing to some place off to the left, for most of them.  Those wearing the uniforms of the city watch he keeps close, instead, and sets them to work helping the injured or infirm, or those who have managed to salvage some significant portion of their belongings, and need assistance in moving their goods.

"Excuse us, Miss... "  The man who speaks to her seems to be no older than Tahirah, though the layers of dirt (and blood, she notes) on his face make it hard to be sure, but his voice sounds much older, rasping through his dust-dry throat, "Just wanted ter thank yer fer lookin' after us, an' showin' us a way out."  He reaches out one hand, lays it on her shoulder, and manages a weak smile.

When he turns away, his touch leaves no dirt on her pristine white robe.


Behind her, she hears a voice, slightly familiar.  Turning, she sees James coming back through from the city proper.  Berd is with him, and a woman that Tahirah does not recognise.  All of them look as dirty and battered as the refugees, and wet.  They seem to be burned too...

Berd, in particular, looks to be in poor condition.


Outside, a strange group makes its way back towards the East Gate, beneath a sky  hazy with smoke from the burning upper reaches of the city.

Panthers move across the ground, accompanied by brintizzi, who keep a careful watch on the shattered landscape, and allow the big cats to concentrate on their wounded.  Some are healing well, already, but some have suffered more grievous wounds in the battle.

Jonnee Kay stays with the brintizzi.  He is their leader, and where they go, he goes too.  Morgan, too, stays with those who follow him.

Higher, the great drakes of Samhain soar and glide, many of them with riders now, tolerating it well enough, though it is clear that they would prefer people not to make a habit of riding them.

Roman flies with the drakes, his elemental form moving easily among and around them.

From this high vantage, it is possible to see that the remaining ormvråkar are landing a little distance away.  Their riders are removing their harnesses and releasing them, knowing, it seems, that the great eyries in Charyk are doomed.  The birds, with the gratitude typical of their cantankerous kind, are pecking and biting at anybody who gets too close.  Most of them sit, seemingly dazed, once they are free, but eventually accept their liberty, flapping away heavily, to climb above the forest.

The harnesses pile up on the ground.

And, finally, they heroes reach the gate itself, to find a wolf sprawled across the roadway outside, giving them a look which clearly asks, "What kept you?"

"It seems," Aaron said to the wolf, "that the enemy has replaced Hunter with a cat. At least, that's what it looks like! Sprawled out as you are, old comrade!" He laughed, a sharp, dry bark of his own.

He sagged then, but held himself up upon his mount nonetheless. It wouldn't do anyone any good to see him pass out before they entered the gates themselves.

To keep himself occupied, he kept his eyes on the rest of his exhausted, beleagured group.

Grinning tiredly, Morgan chuckled, and called back  "Watch yourself, Aaron, there's cats around with sharp claws!"  Several of the panthers mock-growled, but there seemed no heat in it.

They landed at the gates. He made sure the other riders were grounded- despite whatever instructions they had tried to give the drakes- and let them walk into the ruins of Charyk, claws ticking on stone. Heads swung left and right with disgruntled hisses. They didn't like closed quarters. He'd see them to the next world, and then let them free. There was little for them here.

He nodded towards hunter. Immediately, his eyes sought Cyan. Even Aaron was focused elsewhere. Who could blame him? They were all exhausted. He approached her slowly, keeping at a safe distance- available, but not smothering, not too close. He guessed she might need help down. Either that or she might try to dismount alone and not do so well. He was ready for either event.

She looked cold. He looked around, but Charyk was in ruins. With its hulking stone, he doubted it would be any warmer than outside, though the lack of rushing breeze would help.

He had a cloak, though, and he'd always been more accustomed to the cold than to heat. It was more than that, though. He hesitated a brief moment.

"You look cold," he said, pulling the cloak off. "Take this, for now."

The rubble they pick their way through testifies of a once great city. Ironically, just earlier today. The devastation is nothing new, but the speed at which Cyan’s army destroyed the Shadow Crossroads sends chills down Trista’s spine. Yes, the leaders will want an accounting, if not Cyan’s head on a platter. The woman nods gravely at James’ somber words. However, it’s clear to Trista that there is great love between these people (and dragon) and they will hardly allow Cyan to be further harmed.

Love. Warmth. Frienship.

Something darkens Trista’s eyes for a moment or two, but evaporates under the unexpected offer to ‘chat.’ Here eyes shift to her little passenger, and a small smile lightly tugs at the corners of her mouth, “Since Berd first plummeted to the floor at my feet, I’ve gotten the idea he can see things in people that others cannot.” She shifts her gaze back to the vigilant man, “Perhaps he’s right about us. I’ll have that drink with you if we get the chance.”

They’re at the East Gate and the promised portal to safety. Besides the beleaguered masses, a woman in white robes stands apart, unsullied by the recent violence. Trista doesn’t have to look down at herself to know that she’s a mess. Curiosity piques her interest at how the woman has kept her robes pristine in this environment.

The sky is devoid of Archons, a welcomed site. Drakes with riders fill the sky, and panthers dot the land. A curious lot.

Recognition lights her eyes when she sees the wolf, and she wonders at the whereabouts of his red-headed companion. Trista’s eyes move to find Berd’s daughter, though she has no idea what the woman looks like.

She had been uncertain, staring at the drakes, wondering if she dared.  At that moment, her stomach empty and sick, her body still weak and tired, Cyan had considered the effect of sudden flight upon her balance.

She wondered briefly if it might make things easier.

Ridiculous thought, and one she could not seriously entertain.  Regardless of her fear, regardless of her misery, she would never surrender.  And she would never let down those who still held friendship for her.  She had squeezed Jonny Kay and turned to search for other transport.  There was some coming, Dorian had indicated it....

But distance had not properly prepared her for the scale.

The panthers, as they roamed by in a massive pack, were huge.  Cyan had memories of creatures in 'her army' this size, but they were vague, disjointed.  These monstrous shadows were here, now, and she stared at them, nervousness at war with wonder.  But the wild rider at the lead of this flood of darkness waved a hand at her in passing, and to one of the great beasts that stopped before her.

One hand stayed on Jonnee's shoulder.  "Jonnee Kay...may I ask your assistance one more time?"  She had offered him a smile, a weak one.  "You have been more than generous already, but..."  Cyan had swallowed, then hugged the lean man once more.  "I nearly attack you.  And you...I hardly think I deserve friends like you."

What would James say now, she wondered?  And...Berd?

And so, with Jonnee's help, she had risen 'aboard'.

Now the ground passes beneath her with terrible speed, and she hangs on with her hand, careful not to squeeze the armor into the beast's shoulders.  Muscles bunch and lengthen beneath her under the loping, predatory strike.  Ares' gauntlets are stuffed in her belt.  Left and Right hang behind her heels, two spinning spurs that never touch the panther's side.  She throws back her head, and the wind of her passage whips out her ponytail, gathered up to keep it clear during battle.  Dried blood cracks on her face, and lacerations burn, but Cyan doesn't care.

It's like the car, all over again, and there she had Jonnee's help, too.  It helps her go away, this wind, and she cannot but wonder what it would have been like to sit astride the drake, to fly.

This is close enough, and she envies the 'master' of this pride.

All-too-soon it comes to an end.  There, ahead, are the ruined gates she vaguely recalls from the battle.  There is a group of men and women, and dark, leathery drakes.  The panther slides to a clean, easy stop, and Cyan leans forward.  "Thank you," she whispers, before sliding from the panther to land on her feet.  Her knees wobble, and she takes three steps, considering sitting down.  The breeze chills her, and her eyes instinctively snap to Aaron as he speaks, the Leader.  She meets his gaze, gives him a quick nod...to say what?  Cyan doesn't know.  She is uncertain how to speak to him, all of a sudden.  Words have been spoken, and she finds herself suddenly timid.

Instead, she turns to the master of the panthers, and bows to him, atop the inky shadow of his mount.  "My thanks, my lord.  I stand in your debt only because of your offer - had I walked, I would have fallen halfway."  It is the best she can do, weary as she is.  Cyan manages a bow, and the words come to her mind, horribly apt, now.  "I am Cyan of...No Place In Particular."  Her smile, faint as it is, holds no bitterness.  Only rue.

And then Dorian, another black shadow.  This one sweeps off its cloak and proffers it.  It might sound like an order to any other, but Cyan hears the hesitation in his tone and knows it for an offer.

She accepts.  And the same issue arises with Dorian; despite her heavy armor, she remains unexpectedly demure.  Hesitantly, Cyan reaches out and takes the heavy cloak, drawing it around herself.  A travelling cloak, it encompasses much of the armor, cutting off the wind that blows through the cracks.  A grateful look is her reply, then Cyan ducks her head under the hood.

And  coming across the grounds toward the gate is a familiar form: James, with his casual, unyeilding stride.  And beside him a woman, an unfamiliar woman who walked with weary strength and bore upon her shoulder a cat-sized drake, wings furled.  She recalls a name, rising through the misty swamp of her the memories of her last year.

Was this Meredith?

"Dorian," she whispers with a glance to Aaron.  He speaks to the group, as he should.  Cyan hunts for Jonnee, but he is with the brintizzi.  "I-"

Hard to say that she is afraid.  She squares her shoulders under the armor and waits.

Tahirah watches from her vantage point atop the great piece of tumbled masonry, as the last of those who are leaving leave, and the others arrive.  James, the dragon, and another, from within the city.  And the rest, returning from without.

Drakes.  Panthers.  Ormvrakar, released from their bondage.  And the reptilian creatures...

In all fairness and objectivity, she must admit there are few of them actually within the walls now.  But in the absence of people to counter the numbers, it seems Charyk has at long last been overrun by the monsters.  Monsters to whom the survivors of Charyk owe their lives.

She throws back her white hood, at last.  The face within is surprisingly young, surprisingly soft.  Deep black hair and dark eyes seem all the darker against
the fair skin of one who knows the sun mostly by reputation.

She bows deeply.  "Welcome to the majesty that is Charyk," she says to those entering, her voice solemn and serious.  Only a slight tremor to her breath after, a faint glimmering at the cusp of her eye, suggest anything amiss with the statement.

His grin fading in the presence of such solemnity, Morgan bent himself to bow in sober response. "Morgan, of Paralicos. Catherine, beside you. No debt's are owed by wounded heros. Not for travel, anyway."  He stopped, awkwardly, then bowed again. He didn't quite know how to take the strange woman before him. Already he caught glimpses of why they were so willing to risk their lives to restore her.

Yet he had not the bonds with her they did. And she was both wounded and, seemingly, fragile where those bonds needed mending.  So with that second, awkward bow, he slid to the ground, on the side away from her companions, and waited. Not gone...but not where attention was due.

Aaron was off his mount as fast as he could bear, and beside Cyan. She spoke Dorian's name, and he knew why. She was hesitant, and, dare he say it? Afraid.

And Aaron didn't doubt it. His own words rang in his ears, then.

"Hate, Judgement, Pain, Guilt... these are some of the fruits of your new existence..."

Yes. Perhaps she hadn't known what he'd meant, then, in that fog of remebered realization. But Cyan, unfortunately, would soon understand when the city she had beseiged knew her for truth, no matter who had controlled her at the time.

They wouldn't care. They hadn't seen Harbonah. To them, it wasn't Harbonah's army. It was The General's Army. Cyan's Army. They would seek blood.

So Aaron raised his hand, placing it on her arm and once more steadying his friend. He would stand beside her, with her.

"Do not give in," he whispered. "We are here."

He squeezed her arm, then lowered his hand and prepared to meet his comrades once more.

Finally, upon a field of victory.

She says his name. He remains close, despite Aaron's added presence. He's worried; now Aaron is hovering close again. He doesn't want her smothered. He didn't mind Aaron being near, but had Aaron been there, he would have let the man attend her. With two of them close at once, it could be too much. Yet, in her state, withdrawing from her might look like abandonment, so he remained close enough. She would ask for space if she needed it.

He looks at her, studying her expression. She tries to say something, but it's caught in her throat. Yet, he sees the expression. He notes the hood. Many explanations existed, but they all summed up the same. "I understand," he says. "You will have rest, soon. You don't have to talk to anyone until then. Stay close to us. I will be near, but I must get us away from here."

He gestures for James and the other woman to approach. His eyes fall in Berd for a moment. He looks terrible. Perhaps that is good, he thinks, but not in a cruel way. With both father and daughter exhausted, the inevitable meeting might be delayed until a better time.

"We need to get out of here and find safety," he says to everyone, finally reunited. The group had grown considerably recently. While he didn't like that fact, he wasn't at a point of arguing, now. The battle had been the best chance for betrayal, and they were not betrayed. "Where's Chance? Are there any others that are coming with us? And... is anyone still capable of leading us across worlds? I can, but it would not be a safe or pleasant ride. Aaron? James?"

Chance is lousy at hiding. If he is not close by, they'll have to find the man later. Luke will find them easily enough. He always does. He only hopes Luke survived. Normally, he'd trust such a question to Berd without even thinking twice on it, but not this time.

There is much to be done: locate Chance, locate Luke, find a safe world away from here, and ... one other thing.

Roman circles the area.  The wind must blow - staying still takes more effort than motion, in this form.

Dorian's question can be answered, though "Logrus". a pause and then the caveat "Tired".

Berd chirrups quietly as the trio walk through the rubble, trailing behind the great exodus of citizens.  He tugs at Trista's hair with his front claws, but gently.  He listens to the two speak, following the conversation with his bobbing head.

He remains exhausted, but sitting down rather than flying is going a vast distance toward regaining his strength.


The drake falls silent when James speaks of Cyan, and for an instant, a palpable coldness radiates from his body.  He stares ahead, searching, but knows that Dorian would have already informed him were there trouble.

The drake is uncertain as to what might transpire regarding Cyan, but exhausted or not, he will allow nothing to be done to her.

But warmth seeps back, and Berd preens for a moment under James' and Trista's praise, cleaning the dust from his iridescent scales with his snout.


He stiffens slightly as they approach the gate, and shifts nervously on Trista's shoulder.


And he points her out to Trista, mentally - the tall woman, a dark cloak covering massive armor emblazoned with a gorgon's head.  But for all of that protection, the red-haired woman at the gate looks as uncertain as Berd, himself, feels.

As soon as James lays eyes on Cyan his pace accelerates.  The heavy, dark cloak conceals her form but in this context it can only be her.  Soon he is striding out covering the distance between with deceptive speed.  He should wait for Trista and Berd but he doesn't.

James wants to sweep her up in a hug.  He wants to raise her face and check her eyes.  He wants lots of things, but the brooding, attentive presence of Dorian and Aaron bring him back to himself.

"Hi Dorian.  Chance is through that gate if I guess rightly.  He should be here soon.  And I can lead us between worlds easily enough, if we need to go."  James voice is friendly enough if a little tense, there are other things on his mind.

"Hello Cyan, it's good to see you."  James speaks quietly.  He can barely keep himself from leaping around and shouting, but he restrains his voice as he restrains his strength, by deliberately choosing 'weakness'.  Still, his voice is warm and sincere.  "How are you?"

This message was deleted by the player at 13:19, Tue 23 Jan 2007.

The beautiful, pale woman welcomes them to Charyk.  Her words echo with pathos - no irony, no sarcasm.  For the majesty still hangs about Charyk like a light half-unseen, broken and ruined as the city now is.  The feeling is echoed by the pride in the woman's voice, counterweighted by the tear in her eye, the knowledge of something precious that falls to dust.  To endure in her memories, no doubt, as long as they last.

But never again, not here.  Like Menengroth.  Cyan well understands.

She bows to the woman, deep and low.  Apologies well up, but what can she say?  She can only take in the dusty grandure, even in its destruction.  This desecration is her fault, her doing.  And through her, Harbonah.  Anger again ignites, deep and low, hot coals stirred by the sorrow of this vision, of this woman.

There will be a reckoning for this.  From Harbonah and, I think, from myself.

To the master of the pride, another small bow.  "Sir Morgan," she replies, and looks up at the imposing vision of the panther.  "Catherine."  Trained eyes take note of shape, colouring, small individualities.  She will not forget.  "But my thanks you have.  Debt or not."

She eyes the other woman, the pale one who had spoken just before the panthers and drakes had swept them all away.  'Cyan, daughter of Berd.  He will be pleased to see you.'  All in that curious fashion.  But would he be pleased?  There lay the question.  She gives the curiously dressed woman a nod of the head, a nervous one - Berd, James, and maybe-Meredith approach, and time grows short.  "My apologies for my lack of manners..."  A quick glance to the trio.  Aaron hops from his mount and hurries to take her wrist.  "I am Cyan, yes...I would have your name, if I might?  In a moment?"

Words of comfort from Aaron - they are here.  And they are, both of them bracketing her.  Dorian shifts away slightly, giving her a touch more room but still there.  But despite what Aaron says, Cyan is fully prepared to give in.  Judgement from her friends...that, she will accept.  In whatever form it comes.

She struck James.  With the Deathiron.

Dorian is correct, of course - they need to go.  The Seraphim still war with the Nephilim, but as time progresses...there may come a counterstrike.  Not yet, but perhaps soon.  And yet, amidst his logic, amidst his 'preparations', he still finds time to reassure her, and her mind falls back to the lights and music of the bar.

How much he seems to have changed.  How much they ALL have changed, perhaps - Aaron, too.

And yet, now comes one who never changes, much like the oak - he merely grows more deeply into his roots with every passing day.

"Rest, yes."  Her smile is a ghost of its former brilliance, but it is true.  And a fraction more bright than the last.

Cyan pushes her hood back as James approaches, and watches him with dark, amythest eyes.  She carefully detaches her arm from Aaron with a grateful look and shifts nervously, but holds back from saying anything, wanting to let him set the tone.  If he chooses recrimination, so be it.

He does not.

He speaks first to Dorian, almost distractedly.  His body language betrays tension - James has always been a straightforward man, and Cyan is unconciously skilled at reading such things, both from her bard training and her natural ability.  She waits, one fist tight, tension gnawing at her stomach.

Then he speaks to her, and everything is all right again.

Cyan steps forward, a stuttered movement, and reaches out to grip James' hand.  His weapon hand.  She raises it up, her eyes shimmering, and slowly shakes her head.  Every time she meets another of her friends, it's different.  With Aaron, with Dorian, with Jonnee.  Perhaps due to different feelings, each and every time.  Perhaps due to the fact that with each meeting she falls more deeply into herself.  Now another tear drags a track down her cheek.  "I am...more well than I have been in a year or more, James," she whispers, glancing back at the others for a moment.  A squeeze of his hand, a motion with it.  "And I am so very, very sorry."

For his arm, for many, many other things.

Stifling a sob, she throws her arms around him, mindful of the armor.  At that moment she hates it, hates it more than she has hated anything in her life.  This cursed armor - with it on, she cannot feel Jonnee, cannot feel James.  Thank the spirits she took the gauntlets off, and has the memory of Aaron's hand, of Dorian's grip, to which to hold.

Aaron didn't dare stop her. Better to try stopping a raging elephant than keep Cyan back from a goal such as this, her own quiet desire for redemption, for forgiveness.

He would be there, but he would not baby her. He would stand with her, but she alone would suffer her punishment. Aaron had felt it before, and he knew the truth. Judgement would come for her, and only Cyan alone would be able to stand against it, to stand with it.

For he too, suffered judgement. Even still. In its own time...

Aaron shook his head when inquired by Dorian as to his ability to travel.

"I need rest," he answered. "Travel anywhere is out of the question. I could probably start a slow ride with a few hours rest, to be honest, but if you want to get any place fast or far away, it'd have to be a few days rest."

Before Berd marks his daughter, Trista sees her. For only one in the beleaguered group could be the general of the Archons. A black cloak shrouds imposing black metal. But within that metallic cage, a woman with pale skin and claret hair stands surrounded by friends. Vulerable, insecure, and very human.

First Impressions.

Though it is difficult to drag her eyes from the Prodigal Daughter, Trista shifts her gaze to take in all who stand with this woman. Two men flank Cyan: a regal man in dark robes who beckons them and a shorter man with spirit burning in his eyes. Nearby, a blonde woman with the body of every man’s fantasy happily attends the group along with a man with war-tossed locks falling to his shoulders. Panthers surround the two. Jonnee of the Kingdom of Los Angeles with his strange lizard men provide a comforting point of recognition. The wolf with intelligent eyes remains. In the skies, drakes, ormvråkar, and a strange storm cloud circle the meeting. And like a guardian angel, the woman in pristine white greets them all with the majesty of her broken city.

James strides forward with Trista hanging back. She brings them closer, but does not heed the beckoning. She will wait for Berd’s wish on the matter, and for now, he wishes to remain apart so that James can be the first to greet Cyan Friend.

Whatever tension they both may have been feeling, from Trista’s vantage, it seems as if they fall back into their friendship as Cyan embraces James.


Despite words of quickly leaving for safety, there is another reunion to be done. Trista remains at Berd's service, quiet and somber.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:39, Tue 23 Jan 2007.

Jonnee raises his right hand, then brings it down to pat the sleeve of his leather jacket, where it covers his left bicep, "You forgot that I have a road-map to everywhere, Dorian.  If you can describe where you want to be, or even tell me what it's called, I can get you there, quicker than you can flag down a cab."

He sees James, and his companions then, and gives the man a friendly wave, grinning cheerfully, "James, good to see you, man.  Berd too.  Nice job, Big Guy, though I'm not sure I deserved that many fireworks."

His grin widens as he recognises the woman who accompanies the man and the drake, "We meet again.  Cool.  Good to see that you made it through okay."

And then the grin fades, but only for a second, and he raises his voice, "Has anybody here got anything I can eat?  I've been, like, running all day, and I'm hungry enough to eat one of the brints, with a wolf for a topping."

He turns back to James, Trista, and Berd.  "You three look like you've been through the mill.  Like, twice."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:37, Tue 23 Jan 2007.

"Excuse me, Jonnee."  Luke placed his hand on Jonnee's shoulder.  He seemed only partly manifested, somehow oddly dispersed.  One couldn't quite see the walls through his body, but he gave the impression that if one tried hard enough, it would be possible.

"The Seraphim will be coming.  Soon.  VERY soon.  Might I pressure you all to step through the gateway to the second Charyk, before -"

He winked out like a blown out candle.

On hearing Luke's statement Roman swirls to the back of the group, the side furthest from the gateway.
His thunders talk in their booming voice "Go" "Now" "I" "Guard"

James wraps his arms around Cyan, returning her hug.  Where she is mindful of the ridges and edges of her armour, he is not, and soon he will have a new collection of bruises to add to the others already acquired.  He bends down slightly to whisper in Cyan's ear.


James can only have spoken a sentence or two, for a moment later he gives Cyan a final squeeze and lets her go, turning his attention back to those with her.

"Thank you Aaron.  Thank you Dorian.  I've no idea how you did it, but thank you."  James expresses his gratitude and then, in an unusual gesture for him, bows deeply to each in turn.

"Oh, by the way Dorian," James manner becomes more light-hearted, "I saw you dead at the gate.  Have you been creating more clones?"

"Hello Jonnee, nice to see you too.  I can't speak for the others, but I think I missed the worst of the fighting.  It's just a little dirty back there."

"Everyone, allow me to introduce Trista.  Trista, this is Aaron, Dorian, Cyan, Morgan, Banglen-Yp, the ghost was Luke, the storm I am guessing is Roman and...have you already met Jonnee?  At the crucial moment Trista fought the Archon Israfil alone."  James lets that sink in for a moment, "That and Berd's judgement place her firmly on the list of friends."

With that James finishes, allowing space for Cyan and Berd to meet if now was the time for that reunion.  Otherwise he would happily join in passing through to Charyk #2.

As Cyan bows to the woman in white, Dorian's eyes move to her as well. He remembers her from earlier. She had cards, though she kept her hood up then, if he recalled correctly. Tahirah was her name. He thought it admirable that she should be here, still, given the destruction of her city, her world. She displayed a hint of pride and respect for her home, still. She held fast in her duty to welcome them to the city, even when no city remained. As with all the newcomers, she might be a traitor; but this was exactly the kind of traitor he'd like to see join them.

He follows Cyan's bow towards Tahirah with a gentle nod of his own, full of respect as well acknowledgement.

His eyes return to Cyan, and she thanks Morgan. Again, he notes the respect, which he once both scorned and mocked in a single monologue. What a fool.

Then, he notes, he never really stood there and said those words. He merely remembers doing it. To him, it was the same. He accepted Dorian's actions as his own. He accepted the responsibility, because he was born as a copy of the man. He was Dorian, in mind and body. He had said those words to Cyan, as surely as he had ignited a world with nuclear fire, and as sure as he stood here now regretting both actions with all his heart.

A smile plays across his face, small but honest, as she goes to James and they embrace. Thank you, James. She needed that. She needed the man's unadulterated and unwavering strength of purpose. Unlike both Dorian and Aaron, James was true as the north wind. His acceptance would mean a great deal to her. It was a series of critical moments as she encountered her old friends one by one. Encountering Berd would be the most difficult, she knew. Their last words moments had been filled with strife. Yet, it occurred to him that she might see the truth. Berd had been clear that the strings remains within her, an inseparable part of her, and could not be removed. He could have used them at any time during her absence, but he did not. This was not a new revelation to Dorian. Berd had pointed as much out. However, with her returning, it would mean a great deal to Cyan. It meant a great deal to Dorian, too. He wasn't sure he would have been so strong.

"Oh, by the way Dorian, I saw you dead at the gate.  Have you been creating more clones?"

His smile grew; but he realized it had probably been the most he'd smiled since he'd met any of them. With that, he tried to force his face to return to its usual form. "Merely a decoy, James," he said. "It wasn't even a clone, really. I hope I did not cause you too much grief." He smirked playfully.

He doubted James would really grieve his demise. He doubted anyone would. It actually surprised him to a point that James didn't scold him over the misdirection. He had made a mistake. His paranoia had gotten to him, once again. Fearing any treachery or treason, he'd neglected to tell anyone he had teleported to another world and left a clone in his place, even the ones he trusted the most.

James was like a brother to him in the most ironic of ways. They were ways no one else would guess, and it was not in terms of camaraderie, so much. They were indeed polar opposites. That, and recent revelations, made the man's opinion valuable. He found himself craving James' respect.

He looks at Aaron and nods. The man looked tired. He was probably pushing himself beyond his limits just to attend to Cyan. Aaron, as the man was quick to declare, followed his own path. He only hoped that from now on that path would involve less zigzags. He was hard to predict, but this action spoke volumes about what was important to him.

Another woman bore Berd towards them. He doesn't know her. His features harden as he studies her, searching for hints of the enemy about her.

Jonnee speaks. He can lead them anywhere. No, Dorian had not forgotten; he just wasn't used to having Jonnee around these days. The Brintizzi had indeed been a welcome addition to the battle, but in the excitement he had barley paused to consider such a refreshing sight. If James were the North Wind, then Jonnee was the South wind.

James introduces Trista. Apparently, Berd trusts her. His skepticism had been misplaced, perhaps. Then again, Berd could be too trusting.

Then, Luke appears, much to Dorian's relief. The being doesn't look well, at all.

"A second Charyk?" Dorian's eyes fall on the portal, now. It was not a surprise that other Charyks existed (there were probably as many Charyks as there were clones of Dorian in the universe), but that they had one so close, through a portal even. His senses extend like whips, probing, studying. The portal was safe. The other Charyk was safe. This was good news. He had planned to move them from Charyk, assuming that they would be alone in a small group. Harbonah could retaliate against a small group, and Cyan's turning would be a great blow to him. However, Harbonah could not retaliate against such a stronghold the other Charyk would present. This was a godsend, to his thinking. It was close. They could rest. "This is good news," he says. For him, it was the first he'd heard of this other Charyk and the portal. He'd noted the portal, but not known to where it led. "Let us go to this second Charyk."

James, Cyan separate, and he steps beside her, hoping to draw her attention for just a moment.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:22, Wed 24 Jan 2007.

 

Having laughed in the air as she rode the drake, Banglen-Yp patted the dragon and thanked it for allowing her to ride it.  She studied it carefully while the others went about their business, reuniting and all.

                              <sub>Flying.

                                                                                Free.

                                        Powerful.</sub>

Then the daughter of Berd woke her from her oblivion and Banglen-Yp turned to face her with a big smile.

•• Man•ner ••

It sounded almost like an amused question.  But then she smiled and shook her head.

•• You • should • rest ••

A firm nod to underline this.  Manner - to be polite - could wait.

•• I • am • Bang•len••Yp ••

She repeated her name, although it was more than her name.  It was what she was, who she was, where she was, when she was.  Banglen-Yp.

Holding back the urge to move in and help the woman, seeing as she had two helpers already, she merely spoke anew, sounding sad.

•• Ci•ty • dead •• Can•not • find • ot•her • now ••

Then, as the man who did not mention himself when introducing everyone, she smiled happily again and gestured at James.

•• Hel•lo •E•ve•ry•one • this • is • James ••

Then she was off, not seeing a point in sticking around for more of those rude wheelies to turn up, to make sure that everyone, including James, indeed got out of the dying city.

At one point she stopped to bend over at the corner of a ruin and huddled something to her chest, seeming to stroke and pat whatever was in her arms, even talking as well.  She began to make her way back towards the others, preoccupied with her find.

 

Chance stood near, watching people march through the portal singly and in pairs. Two by two, he thought. Perhaps thousands of years from now, this story would involve an ark and a flood. No music was appropriate for those who left their entire world behind in devastation. The thought of music didn't even cross his mind.

He drew near to Parcifal and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "I don't know what happened over there, though I suspect I'll get more than a fair share of it someday." He grins, looking into the portal. "But... thank you, on behalf of all my mates. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go see who survived."

Making quiet apologies, he makes his way through the throng and crosses back into the devastation formerly known as Charyk, seeking his companions.

It wasn't fair that he'd been sitting idly sharing stories during the battle while they fought for their lives and much more. He knew that. He could only hope they would understand the need to stay.

He passes through the portal and stop. Charyk was a ruin. He glimpsed some of it through the portal, but the ful view was an epic tale of loss and mourning. His hands fell to his side. For Chance, the world was nothing but stories, and everywhere he looked he saw stories of loss, lives changed, death. He was glad he had not witnessed it.

Berd sits upon Trista's shoulder and watches.  Far from diffident, he remains tense while Cyan greets James.  His tiny claws tighten, then loosen, then tighten again.  Despite the pleasure he feels at the sight of that meeting, at the sight of her, his child once again, still he fears what will come when she 'greets' him.

His eyes study her, narrow at the thinness of her features, the bloody lines carved on her cheeks.  They fix on her pale hands.  What did they do to her, these archons?  Despite his fears, despite his exhaustion, Berd finds that yes, he yet holds the capacity for anger.  The capacity for fury.  The air above his body warps and twists as if caught in a heat wave as he considers the Enemy.

With an effort, the drake calms himself.  Waits.  Information is shared between his minds, allowing him to observe the others simultaneously.

He believes he is ready to greet Cyan.

But Luke puts that upon the backburner, regrettably.  His appearance sparks the sudden realization that they stand within a dying world, a world where the Seraphim may return with revenge upon their minds.  A world that could be consumed in an instant by the ravaging power of a star, cindered and torn asunder by forces beyond its comprehension.  They must leave, or Berd's meeting with his daughter might be the last thing they do.

His eyes flick to Chance, as that worthy steps through the portal.  He suspects Luke will be pleased - he, himself, is as well.  This is the one friend of his son's of which he approves.



Berd sits up on Trista's shoulder, casts a longing glance at Cyan, and then faces toward the Portal, where Chance awaits.

Time enough for new beginnings on the other side of the stars.

She can almost feel James through the armor.  It brings a smile to her face, in spite of herself.  Some things change, but James simply continues to grow stronger and stronger, in many ways.  This greeting is merely proof of that...again, in many ways.

She bows her head in thanks at his words, closes her eyes in relief.  Is it selfish to wish for forgiveness for her actions?  She thinks not.  Is it wrong to be glad when one achieves that forgiveness, when one's friends stand with a person rather than rightfully castigating them?  She thinks not.

Not expected, but oh, how she has desired to hear these words from them.

Cyan returns James' final sqeeze with an effort of her own (easily eclipsed by his power), and shifts slightly - he needs to greet the others.  Witticisms with Dorian regarding a lost 'clone'; she stiffens at that, then divines the true meaning.  Far from creating more of himself, Dorian has simply used an elementary strategem to great effect, it would seem.

The strange woman speaks to her - Banglen-Yp, yes.  A curious name, to match her manner, but Cyan has seen many, many curious things since her journey began across the myriad worlds.  She sighs, nods in agreement.  "Rest, yes.  For all of us."  Had she seen a...hole in the woman's belly before, in passing, out upon the field?  Was that possible?

But her eyes are drawn to Berd.

She studies him, seated on the shoulder of this strange, sad-eyed woman.  He looks tired.  Older?  No - that is an illusion.  But certainly he is weakened, exhausted from his labours.  Labours of fighting her.  A rush of shame hits, and Cyan struggles with it for a moment, recalling her attempts on his life.  She would have killed him, and part of her would have rejoiced.

That part is gone.  Fed by Harbonah, twisted to achieve free reign over her spirit, it has been defeated.  Now she looks with older eyes at the one responsible for so many things in her life, and Cyan understands better.  She hopes that he feels the same.

Perhaps forgiveness can exist even between them.

The woman...sad-eyes in a beautiful face.  Clothing remeniscent of things Cyan has worn in the last year, in her travels.  Of Jonnee Kay's World.  A short, heavy blade, and the balance of a woman who knows how to use it.  And, despite her tired eyes, a spine of steel from the look of it, coupled with James' endorsement.  Trista.  Not Meredith.

Who was she?  So many new people.  Even an Archon, from the look of it, of a kind she has not seen before.  Was that possible?

And then Dorian's presence at her shoulder.  She could feel him there.  And his silent words put another crack in her self-control.  Unable to trust herself to speak aloud, she nods mutely and responds in kind, her eyes upon Berd.


She takes a step toward Berd.  Then Luke (and animosity sparkles in Cyan for an instant) appears, his words of warning echoing around the group.  Berd's head droops, but then rises.  He looks toward her, toward the gate...and for an instant, she feels him again.  A message passes between them, in that blurred manner of communication only she and he have ever shared, and Cyan's sapphire eyes widen.

She looks toward the gate as the strange Archon-creature booms out its offer to take the rear.  She opens her mouth, looks back at the gathering of people, so many of them.  Some familiar.  Some not.  "Come, then," Cyan says clearly, her voice a rusted parody of its old tones.  She swallows once, thickly, and speaks more clearly.  With each word, her voice grows stronger.  Her bard's voice, again.  Not recovered, but returning.  "Come.  Let us leave this place to dust and memories.  Leave it, but never forget."

"The Myriad Worlds, poised upon a needle's tip, had begun to fall, the weight of madness dragging them down into the dark."  She looks to Tahirah, who now leaves her true-land forever.  She looks to the curious woman Banglen-Yp, to Morgan with Catherine and the others of her family, to the spinning storm she will come to know as Roman of Chaincut.  She looks to Jonnee, and his britizzi, a tide that surged across the Worlds to come to Charyk's aid.  She looks to James, who stands with Dorian and Aaron, three men all different, all shining in their own way - Earth, Metal, and Wood.  And she looks to her father, Berd and this mysterious Trista, who wait near where the well-named Chance stands, their guardian at the portal.

"In Charyk, never to be forgotten, that changed."

She holds out her hands to them, and, with Archons as spurs upon her boots, the light of a new world in her eyes, Cyan begins to walk.

Moving towards the portal, even though he knows he won't be able to stay in that place of safety for long, Jonnee takes a detour to the pile of discarded weapons.  He picks one up, and studies it for a few moments.  Then he points the end of it out through the broken gate, towards the forest, and depresses the stud that, he assumes, triggers it.

"Woah!  Excellent!"

He glances about, and calls one of his brintizzi commanders across, "Ech'hisst!  Listen, I'm going to try and score us some of these cool Buck Rojjer's Death Ray things.  Would it be too dishonourable to shoot Archons from a distance?  I don't want to waste time training you guys, then have you refuse to use the things."

"No, JonneeKay.  We understand that against a dishonourable enemy, sometimes one must use unconventional tactics."

"That's good to hear.  Keep thinking that way, and one day you'll be as smart as me."  He slaps the brintizzi on the shoulder, cutting his hand in the process, "Get the boys together, I'll be back in a minute."

The woman in the white robe had greeted them as they entered, so she must be the Queen of this place, or something.  An official, of some sort, in any case.  He makes his way towards her, "Excuse me, Ba... uh... Miss.  I'm Jonnee Kay.  Listen, I have an army that could use some of those ray gun things of yours, so they don't have to wait for Archons to come down to the ground before killing them.  I was wondering, if nobody's using those ones, over there, would it be okay if we snagged a few, on our way out?"

He smiles, hoping she'll see that he's reliable, honest, and friendly.  "If you need me to sign some forms for them, or something, I can do that.  Or if you want them paying for, I can get a handful of decent-sized diamonds in a couple of hours."

Berd waits.

And so does Trista as his carriage. They stand near enough to see and hear, even engage in conversation, yet distant enough to put a gulf of expectations between father and daughter.

The majority in this little grouping seem to know each other, even the enigmatic storm cloud which, surprisingly, speaks. It’s obvious to Trista that some share much longer histories together than others. How long has it been since she last formed solid relationships? Too long, perhaps, if she has to ask.

Stormy eyes catch the suspicious darts from the regal one James soon introduces as Dorian. A defensive twinge wraps around her spine, but then dissipates in the realization that it does not matter.

Friendly, familiar greetings occur between those who have the longest running relationships. The leader of lizards with his easy demeanor remembers her, “Glad to see you made it, too, Jonnee. And your wolf friend.” Wistfully, she wishes she still had that apple Elean had given her to cut the edge of the man’s craving belly.

The strange, ghostly figure of a man comes and warns. There's so much to absorb with this group of friends. So much power. So much history. So much knowledge.

James names each except the woman in white. Trista silently repeats each name to herself, a long-standing tradition in hopes of remembering. Yet, she’s aware it’s a silly habit since it’s doubtful she’ll be amongst them long. Banglen Yp, in an odd manner, introduces James to the group, forcing Trista to rethink which of these have deeper friendships. But she can’t come up with reasonable answers, and simply watches as the blonde woman walks off, distracted from the intense and emotional reunion.

Her eyes come back as James finishes talking of her. Slightly uncomfortable with the implications that she did more than she actually did, she corrects, “I faced Israfil alone for perhaps a moment or two; James swiftly destroyed the Archon.”

His next words strike her with a confused mixture of emotions. …firmly on the list of friends. Had she earned that right? Regardless, gratitude warms the woman.

And still, Berd waits.

Another steps from the portal, one which has escaped the debris of war, along with the woman standing guard over Charyk. He says nothing, but his face whispers volumes.


The tense clawing at her hair stops as Berd decides this isn’t the time to face his daughter. The strange communications, and multiple voices the little dragon shares with her bring her feet towards the portal. Cyan’s voice strengthens and the words spoken are poetry. Trista’s eyes glance back to that beautiful voice incongruously coming from the jagged edges of ebon armor, and she glimpses another side of the woman: a leader with a gift for words.

The woman begins to walk behind them, and Trista’s face turns towards the portal once again.


To the side, Jonnee discovers new weapons with glee, his manner and talk again reminding Trista of her home from years ago. It’s comforting in its own way. Then the portal is there, and Trista brings Berd through.

Berd waits for the other side.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:39, Wed 24 Jan 2007.

The small, dark man steps in through the broken gate, and studies the faces in the chamber from the shadows close to the wall.  It seems that nobody he knows has been killed, which is a good thing, and at least one, who was dead, has returned.

Now they prepare to take themselves to a place of safety.

Shaking his head, he steps back out of the gate, out of sight, and draws a blade, projecting from the metal gauntlet he wears, across the palm of his left hand.  He keeps walking then, away from the dead city.

Away from his friends.

They start to move towards the portal, and there is a sudden flicker of movement from the gate.  For a brief instant the brintizzi tense, displaying an alarming number of barbs, horns, spines, and razor-edged scales.  Then they relax, as it becomes apparant that the intruder is only a small bird.  A sparrow.

It circles the chamber twice, and then descends to land on Cyan's shoulder, where it briefly chirps a song, before flying off again.

Tahirah gives a nod and a smile to Cyan when she responds, and can't help but give a grateful look towards Dorian when he refers to this other place as the `second Charyk', with his subtle emphasis.  Second.  Perhaps used only as arbitrarily as any other numbering, but inevitably, irretrievably, placing this - her Charyk - as First.

As perhaps it was, for other reasons.  Cyan gave a beautiful speech.  A leader; Tahirah marked that in her mind, even as she appreciated the words.  She looked over at the other woman - Banglen-Yp - curious what she had chosen to rescue.

Then time to leave...and...she looked down at the strangely dressed red haired man before her, asking for the staves.  The reason she had given to the guards had been a lie; there was no reason he could not take them from this world if he wished.  If they could still serve their purpose in defending those who needed it.  But...

"They serve no purpose here," she says.  She hesitates a little.  With her hood down, she's not sure her voice carries the authority it did before...well.  "But they may not go there," she cautions, indicating the portal.  "I believe there is someone on the other side that they would harm, perhaps on their own volition.  If you have a way to send them anywhere else, you may have them."  She glances towards the spot where Luke had appeared.  "And hurry," she adds.

Aaron turned away from the damaged, destroyed world.

And Aaron cast his mind back, back, to Metatron and his teachings.

"Their own folly will follow them, won't it?" Aaron had asked, as he poisoned another Orb using the skills Metatron had taught him.

But Aaron had recieved no answer, for they had needed to leave rather quick, or be discovered.

"I will see that your death was not in vain, my Teacher."

It was a quiet, whispered thing, this memory brought up not merely by his reacquaintance wtih Cyan, but by the words brought to him through the arrival of Soqed Hezi. An Archon.

Slowly, Aaron began to laugh. A chuckle that turned into a rough, harsh guffaw that he just couldn't hold in any more.

From behind him, his old friend spoke aloud.

"It seems that you've gone mad again. Don't start lopping off limbs this time, alright?"

Still laughing, Aaron stepped through the portal.

"No problem... uh... " a quick search of his memory turns up something safe enough, "... Highness.  I can leave the brints here to guard them, then go through and see if I can score some eats.  I guarantee they'll be put to good use."

"Nobody, and I mean nobody will move them anywhere, until I get back here to take my boys home."

A bow, then, and he backs away from the Queen of Charyk, though even in the midst of such a solemn moment, he can't quite keep from grinning.

And the wink is totally beyond his control.

 

Making certain that there are no one else in need of rescuing, Banglen-Yp walked towards the portal with something cradled in her arms, or rather, in the corner of one of her arms, with the other hand stroking whatever was hidden there.

Approaching it she smiled at anyone still there, looking around and then stopping to wait and see that everyone stepped through.

•• Hel•lo ••

She waved and smiled at anyone still about, greeting them again.  Then the hand that waved returned to the small bundle in the corner of the cradled arm, gently stroking and patting.

 

And so, slowly, they pass through the portal.  Jonnee orders the brintizi to stay behind and defend the gate from any intruders, and nobody is to take any of the weapons until he returns and tells them otherwise.

Tahirah is the last to leave, looking around at her city one last time, and perhaps wondering if she should go around and extinguish the lamps before she leaves...


Beyond the portal is a forest, lush and green, filled with the sounds and smells of spring.  Bright afternoon sunlight lances down through the canopy, and a number of guardsmen from the old Charyk are waiting.  Directions are given, and a path indicated, and a short time later, no more than twenty minutes, even with Cyan's exhaustion there is a large clearing, alongside the walls of a small fortress.  Small that is, compared to the old Charyk.  Beyond it there are fields, where oxen draw ploughs, and men work to sow seeds.

The refugees (and there are a surprisingly large number of them) are here, being assisted with setting up a camp by more of the guards from their old city, who have continued in their role as protectors of the citizens. 

Parcifal is there, with another man, his brother perhaps?  Certainly they are dressed similarly, and the second man bears a staff of the same odd crystaline construction as Parcifal's sword.  The two approach the group as they approach the fortress, and Parcifal spreads his arms wide, as if to embrace every one of them.

Welcome to my Charyk.  This is my brother, Gawain."

"Your people will be safe here, and the weather is usually fair at this time of year, so they should be mostly dry too.  I have ordered canvas fetched from the castle's stores, and tomorrow, construction can start on houses here, in place of the makeshift tents."

He pauses for a moment, and then adds, "You will all be guests within the castle, even your beasts.  Is there anything you would ask of us?"

"Food... lots of food." Jonnee replies instantly.

After a brief altercation over who should go through last, Roman blows through the gateway and swirls around in front of it, until it is closed.

Now that it seems reasonably safe he reverts to more human from, changing slowly through fatigue and in an attempt to heal the damage suffered in the battle. His form slowly coalesces, becoming more distinct. Colour spreads slowly, faint at first and slowly growing stronger.  He staggers as he finally achieves solidity, but manages to remain standing, flashing a brief smile around the group.

Aaron used the last of his psychological strength to throw a link up between himself, Berd and Dorian. The bridging was a delayed thing, just there to deliver a message at close range - he could manage nothing more.


Aaron cleared his throat and looked to Parcifal, clearly exhausted.

"Where's the nearest bed?"

Dorian tries to keep still as Cyan's gaze meets Berd's gaze. On any other occasion, he might feel tense, ready to intercede should it come to hostilities, but it was a good time for the reunion. If it didn't go well, they were both too tired to do anything about it.

And... a sparrow? He tenses, knowing he has nothing left to bring against the insiduous attack, but knowing it must not be allowed to...

It lights on her shoulder, chirping. Nothing happens. Then it is flying away.

It was not an attack, then, but... who? A few possibilities swirled in his mind, and he settled on the most likely one. A sparrow. Of course. Interesting.

Dorian glanced at the weapons before going through. Like Jonnee, he'd theorized a use for them, as well, but he dared not bring one through to the other Charyk. He had managed to study them a little before the battle. That would have to suffice.

After crossing through the portal, Dorian examined Parcifal, noting the sword. It wasn't hard to put facts together; a second Charyk, a second sword and sword-bearer. Only, this one also had a staff-bearer too, it seemed. That wasn't surprising, but it was worth noting. Legend said that Ganelon had forged the weapons. Was this also the case here? And how many others had Ganelon forged? One thing was certain; Ganelon got around. That included possibly fathering the original Dorian, if Argus was to be believed. Arguable, Argus shouldn't be believed, though.

He takes a step forward, still within arms reach of Cyan. He almost wanted to reach an assuring hand back towards her, but the gesture would have been awkward- both physically and otherwise. "I am Dorian," he introduced. As usual, he added no appellation, though the term no place in particular suddenly had a certain appeal. This was not because of its connection to Cyan, but because of the many things suffered recently. Samhain even seemed far away, sometimes, and he had been there so recently. He would not use that, however. "We do have a need," he said. "One of our numbers has been through much pain and turmoil, of late, the battle being the least of it. We need a quiet and secluded room with a single bed for her to rest. That, and a hot bath- a private one. From there, I believe we can provide for most of our other needs ourselves with only some other beds and food- but the one room must be quiet and secluded, if it's not too great a request."

Her speech is eloquent. It's Cyan. He smiles at that. And Jack said she would die here? Take that, Jack.  She lives.

He notes Roman's change back to solid form. It didn't look easy. He pondered the strength it must take for such fantastic changes. While Devlin's changes had shown cunning and subtlety, such as with the bird formed of his blood, this was a more primal, forceful approach to shifting one's shape. It was fascinating.

Deeply fascinating.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:56, Thu 25 Jan 2007.

Chance's gaze dropped to the others, and the sadness was wiped away. Mentally, he began counting heads. Huh- they gained a few somewhere. Well, that's better than losing a few, he decided.

Of course, one of the new ones was not so new, was she? He studied Cyan, but it wasn't hard to see that this was Cyan. He beamed. His last memories of here weren't so pleasant, but the remainder of the group was happy, so he was happy.

He joined the group as they filtered through the portal into the Charyk he had just left.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:11, Thu 25 Jan 2007.

And here is Chance, come to greet them at the portal.  Berd bobs his head to the man, trills once, musically.


Berd hunkers down on Trista's shoulder as they pass the portal.  Safety, soon.  They need to reach safety.  Then he can...


Part of the drake knows he merely puts off what could be a painful reunion.  His indecisive nature has caused...problems, in the past.  But he cannot speak to her, not while her concentration is taken up stumbling along the forest path, weighed down by her armor.

He, himself, is weakened.  But still he could help her, raise up the armor, cool her.  He does not.  No interference.  If anger remains in her, Berd knows well that to do so would stoke it to fury.

Instead, he reaches out to the nearby worlds, searching for the presence of Archons.


And finally, arrival.  Words are spoken.  Greetings given.  But Berd cannot, will not, put this off any longer.  He tugs on Trista's hair, but gently, then combs through the place he tugged with a distressed trill.

Trista follows Berd’s eyes to the man newly with them. She gives him a nod of greeting with Berd’s silent introductions.


A bird flashes through the portal with songs for Cyan before leaving again. Trista’s attention wonders at the site. It could simply be a coincidence, but the woman thinks there’s more to this little slice of beauty.

Rich emeralds and Spring scents await the small dragon and the woman carrying him, a stark counterpoint to the devastation left behind in Old Charyk. They walk down the path indicated, the short journey strengthening Trista rather than weakening her. Though she dearly needs a bath, the smallest of wounds have already healed and the others are in progress.

There’s a loneliness walking through a forest rich in beauty amongst people she’s barely met. Trista doesn’t shun the melancholy, but embraces it. This time though, it’s different. The light weight of Berd has become familiar and his silent voice is now a friend. She’ll miss him when he takes residence on another’s shoulder. She knows he belongs with Cyan, and will gladly see them reunited.


When they arrive at the smaller Charyk, introductions and needs are exchanged while Trista stands back.

Finally, Berd waits no more, and Trista nods somberly as she turns and steps towards Cyan. The awkwardness she knew she’d feel at being so close to such a personal matter simply isn’t there. The little dragon has made her feel a part of this. She hopes his daughter will not mind her presence, but regardless, she stands with Berd.

Trista keeps silent.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:20, Thu 25 Jan 2007.

A single sparrow brings the sad news.  Cyan hangs her head as it sings its song, then flutters away.  Another life created by the shadowy man who touched their lives so briefly.  She wonders how many of his creations wander through the Myriad Worlds, seeking their own fate now that their task is complete.

Devlin always did give them their freedom after.

The walk through the forest is mostly silent, as Cyan struggles to keep herself moving.  It is exhausting, even for one of her preternatural stamina.  Everyone appears to have fallen under the same affliction.  She concentrates on putting one foot before another, keeping herself moving despite the exhaustion.  Her eyes return again and again to the woman before her, who carries Berd on her shoulder.


"Farwell, Devlin," she whispers as she walks.  "I can only hope to hear from you again.  Soon."

And they arrive.

Cyan bows, and stumbles over her own introduction in her weariness.  "Cyan of...No Place in Particular."  Her smile is weak.  "You have my gratitude, and my debt, for your kindness to my friends and these refugees.  I have no right..."  She glances at Dorian, who has already asked for her.  This is not unwelcome - better that someone ask than she mope about, uncertain of her own two feet.  "A bath would be a fine thing," she continues in a rush, "but it need not be private.  I should do well enough with a simple room."  Common baths are not unknown to her, so long as all participants are women.

"Excuse me, please," she says, almost absently, and slowly turns toward the woman.  And Berd.

Cyan walks forward and stops.

+ GENERAL?  OUR ORDERS? +  Right's voice quivers with tension.

"Stand down," Cyan whispers, like a ghost of the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

+ INSOMUCH AS WE ARE ABLE...+  Left peels off from the General's ankle and takes up position several paces distant.  Right hesitates a moment longer, then follows.

Now alone, Cyan holds out her hand, her amythest eyes shining with unshed tears.  "Berd?"

..."Bird!  Bird!"...

The first thing she saw.  The first word she spoke.  And in that instant, she named him as much as he named her.  Berd, her father.

Strange how she had never understood that.

Berd sits up straight on Trista's shoulder, then slowly walks down Trista's arm to crouch at her wrist.  His weight is light, much less than that of the cat whose size he resembles.  His eyes burn in the misty light of the second Charyk.


"That path runs both ways, Berd," Cyan whispers.  She takes a step, and another.  "Do you have enough forgiveness in your heart for me?  I have done many things, terrible things.  Some to the Myriad Worlds.  Some to you."  Berd's eyes flicker, and he *cheeps*.  Cyan bows her head.  "Your well is inexhaustible, it seems...it puts me to shame.  But I...I understood nothing before."  Her gaze rises to him again.  "I understand better, now.  I forgive, knowing what lies in your heart."  Her lips tremble, and she holds out both of her hands.  "Berd?"  Cyan swallows.  "Will you tell me of Shadows?"

Berd stands up straight upon Trista's wrist, and his eyes kindle like twin suns as Cyan's hands reach up.  The dragon's voice is an aetheric roar now, a peal of thunder upon the psychic plane.  My daughter...there are no shadows.

Then she sweeps him off Trista's wrist and sinks to her knees.  Unable to speak, Cyan holds him gently as he chirrups musically and the tears streak her cheeks.  Dorian.  Aaron.  Jonnee.  James.  Devlin.  And now Berd.

....]

The tears run their course, surprisingly quickly.  Too many, too recently.  What Berd says to her now, and what she replies, remains unheard, as they communicate on that certain level, unknown to others.  But the bands of sorrow and pain around Cyan's heart loosen further, and something once rent asunder is forged anew.

Forgetting would prove impossible, for what has passed by is a part of their lives.  But forgiveness is a miracle, for it spans all gaps.

Finally, Cyan looks up at Trista.  Still cradling Berd, she stands to wipe her eyes.  "Apologies," the bard whispers, and means it.  "I would not be so rude as to ignore...I am Cyan."  She reaches out her hand to take Trista's, the echo of Berd's memories of the battle strong in her mind.  "You...saved his life.  Saved my father's life."  She sniffles once, flushes with embarassment.  Berd clambers upon her shoulder then skitters about uncomfortably upon the armor, gripping Cyan's hair for balance.  She doesn't notice.  Instead, she bows her head (setting off another mad scramble).

"For this, I cannot repay you save with gratitude and an offer of friendship.  Berd thinks highly of you, though you and he just recently met."  She straightens, then looks at the little drake, tears welling at the sight of him wobbling uncertainly.  "Oh, you...go.  I understand."

Berd hops over to Trista's shoulder and hisses at the armor.  The drake seems quite put out, possibly due to his emotional state.  Cyan cocks her head to the side with a smile.  "There are few shoulders on which Berd will happily ride.  Your seems to be another."  She rubs her eyes again, then sniffles.

More embarassment.

Tahira draws her hood up again just before stepping through the portal.  She's glad of it, on the other side.  All of the survivors from...the First Charyk, would need their Seer.  Not just another survivor as bewildered as they, overwhelmed by the presence of the Brothers from legend, and, frankly, still trying to sort out why these people were being followed by, of all things, a stormcloud.

A stormcloud which, she notes, seems to be condensing...into a distinctly humanoid shape.  Taking on color, and then solidity.  She makes no sound as the one introduced to her earlier as Roman draws himself together before her eyes, instead  forcing her thoughts to calmness.  Ah.  That explains it.

The somewhat inane thought goes through her mind like fresh air.  She focuses on it.  It explains nothing, of course, but it DOES technically answer the question of the stormcloud, and for now, that is enough to hold onto.

Clasping her hands before her, albeit buried within their overhanging sleeves, she makes a small bow before Parcifal.  "I can ask only that you accept my thanks.  I will stay tonight among the other survivors; many will need guidance."  If they felt anything like she did, she could be sure of that.

 

Carrying her own little bundle, Banglen-Yp seemed to pay no more attention than needed to move along with the others.  She talked very quietly and would smile at whatever she had in the crook of her arm.

As they approached the end of their short and infinitely long journey she stayed back and allowed those more suited for it to introduce themselves and speak to the people of this other place.

 

A new voice speaks, a startling voice of quietly grinding metal, but Trista cannot see from where it comes. The woman before her orders the voice to stand down, and a second voice adds, equally unfamiliar and metallic. Tension spikes through Trista’s body as she catches the movement down near the ground of two tiny archons detaching from Cyan’s armor and moving away. Archons! Seraphim or Nephalim? They called the woman General; Seraphim. Yet, they obey Cyan who has come home. Dangerous servants even if they are tiny. Trista’s stormy eyes suffer confusion, but dissolve into sympathy as her attention is brought back to Cyan and Berd. She’ll have to trust the Archons will cause no mayhem. Trust.

Cyan is the first to speak, her beautiful eyes shining with emotions. Trista lifts her arm out towards the woman as she feels Berd begin his descent, holding steady for him. Again, she witnesses the intimate speech of father and child and the deep tones of Berd’s majestic voice declaring the absence of Shadows. This philosophy is new to Trista, and she tucks it away in the back of her mind to discuss at a future date. After all, Trista has ever only lived in Shadow.

Collapsing to her knees with tears, Cyan claims Berd as her own and the two embrace. Trista lowers her arm and takes a step back, but remains close at the dragon’s request. She drops her eyes to study the grasses, giving the two what privacy she can.

When Cyan’s movement catches her eye, she turns her gaze back. Trista accepts her hand, “I’m Trista.” The little dragon skitters around, attempting to get comfortable on the hard armor.

“I merely picked him up and carted him around like a doll in a blanket. I’m glad he wasn’t too embarrassed.” A poor attempt at humor, but it helps cut her unease at the notions of debt.

Apparently, Berd has a difficult time finding purchase on the metal bed and with Cyan’s permission, hops to Trista’s shoulder once again. Concern floods her eyes for she senses Cyan and Berd need to be together. “He’s welcome at any time. But perhaps we could place the towel on your shoulder and he would find it a more comfortable and stable perch until you shed your armor.”


Certainly, she would shed the armor of her captivity, would she not? Then where will the little Archons rest? Perhaps, they would leave…

Whatever they decide, Trista will abide. She’ll gladly cart Berd into the city or transfer Berd and the stained towel to Cyan’s shoulder. It's their decision.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:20, Fri 26 Jan 2007.

James loiters near the back of the group as they make their way from the portal.  He understands that the battle has been easier on him than many of the others and watches closely to make sure none stumble or fall.  Looking at Morgan with his panthers, James smiles briefly at the proverbial futility of herding cats.  How many times had he felt that way in the days after joining the group?  Now, though, he felt that they worked better together, except Aaron.  James sighed.  Nothing to be done there.

His gaze slips ahead to Cyan, Berd and Trista.  He hopes the young lady will join them; hopes also that Roman, Morgan and Banglen-Yp will stick with them.  That train of thought brings him round to those who have left them.  Devlin.  A jarring thought.  He stops abruptly.  Meredith.  James speeds up in order to catch up with Dorian.

"Dorian, I know you must be wiped, but can you scan for Meredith?  She should have been with Cyan's army.  Maybe she didn't get a chance to make contact but I'm worried."  And he looks it.

Maybe they caught her.  She could have been executed if she didn't succeed in turning Cyan.  I should ask Cyan.  I should ask Berd to look.  No...I can't interrupt them now.  James tries to bite down his apprehension; ignore the hollow, leaden feeling in his gut.  If you've hurt her Cyan, that would be hard to forgive.

Dorian continues with the others, pacing a step behind Cyan, but lost in his own thoughts.


Then it happens, the meeting of Berd and Cyan. The dark haired woman, Trsita, stands close. It seems all eyes are on them, though the meeting is brief. Nevertheless, Dorian is tense. This could be a turning point. If they can forgive each other, Cyan stays- his guess, only. He watches as Berd tries to find purchase on Cyan's shoulder, then returns to Trsita's shoulder.

There are no shadows. Well said, Berd, he thinks.

Dorian pauses, turning half towards James as he makes his request to find Meredith.

Meredith. I stand with you against her, and the others if necessary... if you will have me. She, alone, had understood the threat Drusilla represent and offered to stand with him, even against Berd and James. Despite what she had done on the Brintizzi world, he considered her a friend.

He gives James a quick nod. Why would she have been with Cyan's army? He didn't bother to ask, though. He only hoped it was her decision.

Walking back now, the group is together. He hasn't seen Luke, yet, but he doesn't ask. It's not because he doesn't care, but he knows he'll hear the story soon. That, or Luke will merely appear next to him at any step, talking as if he'd always been there.

It was enough to see the group together, even if he didn't recognize all of them. All of them, including, Berd's daughter. That was worth a song.

He slipped the guitar forward, cradling it, and began to pluck away softly. He didn't sing, though, fearing to interrupt any communication going on amongst them.

"Trista."  Cyan bows slightly, over her hand.  Her smile is hesitant at the description of Berd, quick and small, as if the bard is uncertain she is allowed.  But she relaxes a touch, and considers Trista's fix for the armor issue.  For a moment, Cyan hesitates; then she shakes her head.  "I do not wish him on this armor."  Her lips thin.  "Or anywhere near it."  The thought of Berd riding on Ares' corrupted armor sickens her.  She tempers her expression with a thankful smile, though.  "A fine idea, but I simply cannot..."  Cyan trails off, unable to fully explain, and offers only a quick, helpless shrug.

Berd shuffles around a bit upon Trista's shoulder, glances toward Cyan, and peeps in the other woman's direction.  Then he curls up, as Cyan closes her eyes for an instant.


Then she opens them again, tired, ruby eyes, and nods.  "I think," Cyan says distantly, "I would like that bath now."  She eyes Trista for a moment, and a small smile appears.  Dusty.  Slowly she turns to survey the others, and sees much the same.  "Perhaps for more than one of us," the bard murmurs.  "Then we can sit for introductions."

So many people.  Trista.  Banglen-Yp.  Morgan and his cats.  The storm which coalesced into a man.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:17, Fri 26 Jan 2007.

To rest- to bathe- to relaxe... how long had it been? Not so long- he had rest only last night. No, that was not true. He had prepared spells last night, resting only a few hours. How was he still standing?

He longed to rest. Yet- how could he rest? His spells were depleted? He needed to prepare. His head bowed, the weariness seeming to overcome him. Another day without rest. How many days in a row had it been without true rest- true relaxation. It made him want to weep. He didn't, of course.

He had to be strong. He had to endure. They would need his spells. New battles would present themselves. What would he say to his companions? Offer a thin apology- he had felt like resting, instead of preparing.

Someday, there would be time for rest. Today was not that day.

Trista nods at both Cyan’s and Berd’s wishes, “Very well, I’m happy to have him. His weight has become familiar.”

Cyan’s eyes close and open a moment later to a new color. Amethyst to ruby. Trista marvels at the strangely beautiful morphing and wonders what triggers the change. Perhaps she’ll find out one day.

Trista turns her head to take in all those gathered, and notes the addition of another man with a pointed beard. The group of ‘questers’ continues to grow. How many more will come?

A hand absently brushes at a thigh, shaking loose some of the dirt. She seeks out Parcifal with her eyes, “I, too, am in need of a bath.” Her eyes flick to the red headed man, “And food, of course, for the ravenous one.”

Roman pulls himself upright.  He feels a little left out of the reunions going on.  He didn't know Cyan as she was before the Archons took her.  So he walks over to another who is left out, Banglen-Yp and lightly lays his arm around her shoulders.  "You seem happy", he comments, quietly.

 

Looking up at Roman as he approached, Banglen-Yp smiled at him, for once.  All right then, yes, she usually smiled at most anyone most anytime.

•• Yes • I • am •• I • saved • this • litt•le • one •• He • is • grate•ful • but • ti•red ••

She turned so that Roman could see what was in the little bundle and the she smiled again, patting and stroking whatever it was she had saved.

It probably was not an elephant or a giant.

 

Roman smiles back and gives her a little squeeze.  "We're all tired.  And glad to be alive."

 

Nodding, Banglen-Yp giggled and looked at herself.

•• Can • al•so • use • an•ot•her • bath ••

A statement if ever there was one.  While she was not soaked in dirt there was enough to warrant at least some cleaning.

•• New • casts • does • not • shed • dirt ••

A statement with conviction, and followed by a firm nod.

•• Can • not • re•mem•ber • dirt••free • cast ••

She shook her head and sighed lightly, then returned her attention to the bundle.

•• Ro•man • un•hurt ••

That was a question, and a small glance up at him.

 

And so requests are made, for food, or baths, or simply for places to rest.

Parcifal and Gawain lead their guests into their own, somewhat smaller, Charyk.  Tahirah though, stays outside, circulating through the crowd of refugees, and the guards who continue to protect them.


In the dining hall of the castle, servants move with quiet efficiency, bearing fruit and bread, and cold meats, laying them out on long tables for the guests to help themselves.  Jonnee Kay does not wait for instructions, but grabs an empty platter and starts to pile food onto it.

Some of the guests are weary, and are shown to places where they can sit and wait, while water is being heated for baths.

Outside, the people are gathering around Tahirah, many of them with questions for her... "Have you seen my son?" (or daughter, husband, wife, mother, father, or betrothed... ), "What is this place?", "What happened?" and the most common one of them all...

"What will happen to us?"

Roman shrugs "A few minor hurts.  I fixed the worst of it shifting back.  Nothing to worry about.  My clothing, though could do with replacing.  Or at least the servces of a good seamstress."  He notices the food being laid out.  "Shifting and healing uses up energy, though.  So food, a bath, then bed seems like the best thing now.  Maybe your little one would wake up for a bite or two."

Jonnee continues to eat, putting large quantities of food away, with frightening efficiency.  He looks for Aaron, but finds James first, instead, and heads across to the other man.

"Food's good, and I needed it too.  Had a busy day, and I'm starved.  Listen, soon as I'm finished eating, I'm going back to Charyk, the first Charyk.  My guys are sitting there with some shiny new guns."

"I plan on taking them home, and teaching then how to use the things.  Next time you call, we should be able to kill Archons from a distance.  Lots of them."

Dorian feels relieved to finally arrive at the second Charyk. Food, rest or a bath- the choices fight within him. He craved all three equally. The baths were still being drawn, and the food was available now.

As they enter, he pauses to hand something small to Cyan.

Then, suddenly he stops, turning to James. "James," he says, somewhat surprised. "She's at the other Charyk."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:47, Sat 27 Jan 2007.

"She went after Cyan.  She wasn't known to the enemy and thought that with her talents she could get close enough to reach Cyan... and then to recover the Cyan that was buried.  But now Cyan is back and Meredith's still missing."  James answers Dorian's question.

James had been doing his best not to fret.  He knew Dorian must be tired, spent from his efforts in battle.  He knew also that Dorian would likely forgo sleep in order to prepare his spells for the next occasion.

James also knew that despite the reunions and reconciliations someone, probably Tahirah, would connect Cyan to the attack.  He didn't know if any of the city's lords had survived, but James wanted to be present - and calm - before any trouble started.  If Parcifal and Gawain tried to enforce justice or perhaps exact revenge it would not end well.

Unfortunately, now that the thought had gripped him, he could not shake it.  He practically hovered around Dorian despite his best efforts.  With Dorian's announcement, the tension in James explodes in a frenetic burst of energy.

"Jonnee, eat quickly!  A good friend of mine is back there and I'm not leaving anyone behind this time.  Morgan, would one of your panthers bear me?  I need to go back."

Cyan enters the vast building in a state of wonder.  Indeed, like Menegroth...but above the ground.  She stares at the comfort, and compares it to the stark lethality of the other Charyk.

Why are the two so different?  And who are these brothers?


Berd, upon Trista's shoulder, keeps one eye on his daughter as they walk.


"I am certain," Cyan replies to the other woman, glancing at Berd as she accepts the small ring from Dorian, "that Berd is honored by your offer."  Her voice is wry as she studies the drake, and while there might be a raw edge to it, its undertone is soft.  She continues more seriously.  "It was a bright thing that you and he met, I think.  A bright thing for all of us."

The bard turns toward Dorian, holds up the silvery band.  "Thank you, Dorian.  I will wear it for the nonce, until you have satisfied yourself that naught is amiss."  With that, she slips it on.

Banglen-Yp and the Man Who Was A Storm are examining a wrapped bundle - from the way they hold it, whatever lies within is alive.  Curiousity spikes in Cyan - they brought this from Charyk?  But the offer of a bath has come, and Banglen-Yp seems to be amenable.  Perhaps she can ask while they bathe.

"Well said, Jonnee Kay," she replies to his explanation.  It's a wonder he can speak, with so much food in his mouth.  Moving to wear he sits, she leans over and gives the whipcord man another quick hug, knowing full well it will take far more than the edges of her armor to bruise him.  "Safe passage," she whispers, "and take care.  If Berd can find my palanquet, we shall not be so long out of touch."

Another Questor leaving.  This time, though, he lives.  For that, she gives thanks, doubly so as her hand may have been the one to slay Jonnee, without the fortune she received.

But now, another problem.  James tension has grown, and he is deep in conversation with Dorian.  She catches a word or two, then James hurries to both Jonnee and Morgan.  Someone, it seems, has been left behind.  At that thought, panic fills her, and she stands...and sinks back down into her seat.  The armor's weight is leaden upon her, and Cyan cannot begin to see how she might help.  Berd is exhausted.  There must be....

Wait.

"Left.  Right."

Twin blurs, one silvery, the other chrome and crimson, suddenly hang in the air before her.

"Can you bring James back to Charyk?  Immediately, and assist him in locating this...missing person?"

 

Nodding to Roman as he reported no malfunctions, although she was not certain what the replacing or seamstress would do, Bandlen-Yp pondered his words as she studied the food and the offer of bathing.

As he mentioned the little one waking up for a bite she gasped and turned so that it got further away from him.

•• He • is • not • for • eat•ing ••

A clear, determined statement.

•• No• bit•ing • him ••

She had not saved him merely to be eaten, after all.  Movign away, towards where the baths were being announced, she shook her head.

•• We • go • bathe • first •• Then • eat •• Then • bed ••

Hurring along she glanced back with suspicion, keeping the little bundle safe in the crook of her arm.

 

Turning back from James, he sees her slip the ring on. It should be sufficient until he can investigate further. Anyone trying to get into Cyan's mind would have to bring significant force to bear to get through the barrier, and that would be enough, hopefully, for either Dorian or Berd to detect.

He is relieved that she wears the ring, but the Archon's still concern him. Should he be concerned? For now, the words echo in his mind. If she trusts them, he can tolerate them. It isn't the trust that bothers him, but the reason. Are they friends? If so, they would be unusual and helpful allies. Are they simply so loyal they won't betray her, even in her betrayal of their kind. Such a thought would be lunacy for a human, but the Archons are not humans. He'd spent some time scouring Gaz's mind, tainted as it likely was, to have some understanding of that. How much more did Cyan now know of the Archons? In time, they would know. So many things required time right now.

Time was one asset Dorian hated to see slip past.

Nevertheless, there was a logistical sense to it. The troops, as it were, required time to recover. Moral was an important factor in any campaign, even if the troop were as small as this beleaguered handful of eccentrics. More than that, though, Cyan was an important member of their group. They had all noted things had been somewhat different without her presence.

He sat himself down at the table. Memories of the inn and their conversation were close, but he did not dwell on them, this time. He had eaten very little before the battle. Now, with rest looming, it would not do well to eat heavily, though his body yearned to do so. As usual, he filled his plate with vegetables and a single piece of fruit and some bread. He scans the meat, but does not partake of any this time.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:38, Mon 29 Jan 2007.

Roman quickly corrects Banglen-Yp.  "No, No, I meant that he might want to take a bite of food. And if you're going to give him a bath, watch that he doesn't bite you."

Shaking his head, he lets her go to get her bath.  For himself, he makes his way to the table and efficiently piles up a selection of foods to replenish body mass and energy lost or expended in the battle.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:41, Sat 27 Jan 2007.

Jonnee nods at James' urgency.  "If Meredith's there, then she might be with the brints.  If she is, then she's more than likely in the safest place there is.  My boys remember that she pulled all that stuff out of the domherre ambasador's brain.  With their opinion of the domherre, after that, she's okay in their book."

He finishes what he has on his plate, and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, his yellow eyes fixed on James' brown ones, "I can get us there, if you want?  Let you save some strength for bringing her back."

Looking up from his meal, Morgan nods. "I think so. Everyone's settled enough, for now." Raising his voice a bit,  Morgan called over "Ahmad, care for a lookabout with James? He's heading back to the battlefield. "

Morgan's choice wasn't quite thoughtless. Ahmad wasn't like to be insistent on manners the others wouldn't know with the battle over, and he seemed to like James.

A moment's silent inspection later, and Ahmad rose, padding over to James. Amalie, uncalled for, is sniffing at Jonnee's shoulder.  "You've met Ahmad before, James. D'you need a saddle? "

"She is indeed safe," Dorian says to James. "And I don't see any signs of stress. I would venture a guess she's merely returning after all the excitement. I'll talk to her, let her know that friends are on the way."

His food is still untouched. He gives Cyan an apologetic glance, and then stares into the distance.

In the other Charyk a small young woman is surrounded by hideous, reptilian monsters. They are gathered in a circle around her and one of them is examining her intently. The beast runs his scaly tongue over a multitude of razor sharp teeth while a hand, knife-like talons able to extend at a moment's notice, gently touches the smooth curve of her cheek. She winces, but holds steady. He nods slowly and motions to another of his kind, speaking in a spurt of hisses and croaks.

While the soldier goes to look for the item the medic requested, the young woman queries him in his own language, the sounds hard for her to vocalize, but she manages. The medic hushes her, tells her not to talk, and confirms his diagnosis. She nods, her lips set in a thin line. It was broken, just as she thought and in her book it was still a fair trade... a broken bone for a broken heart.

At that moment she cocks her head to one side sharply, the sudden movement causing a warning throb from the wound. The soldier returns with the flat, icy cold pack. Meredith holds it in place absently, her mind elsewhere, too preoccupied at the moment to even worry about the cold.

Dorian froze after a moment, utinsel poised over his plate, but unmoving. A frown creased his brow, and his eyes narrowed a moment. He gave James a cautioning look.

We. He said 'we'. That meant he was with the others! Half of Meredith's mouth curves into a smile, and without realizing it she begins to bounce on the balls of her feet in anticipation. The group of Brintizzi assigned to keep her safe in the aftermath of the battle are largely ignoring her.

Tahirah makes her rounds for some time, doing her best to act as a kind of human bulletin board.  Her talent for drawing patterns from nothing helps considerably with reuniting people, but she decides Parcifal is right.  Tomorrow will be soon enough for bringing any other order.  She makes a particular point of thanking the guards, and trying to find an estimate how many of them might have been lost.

She will also quietly speak to some about the strange lizard creatures that came to Charyk's defense, and see if perhaps a few might be interested in helping train those in the use of the rods.

James suddenly goes very still, but there is a gleam in his eyes which suggests that his nervous energy is merely channeled elsewhere for the moment.

Meredith ceases her bouncing and cannot keep the grin from spreading across her face. Luckily the ice-pak has numbed the wounded area so she does not feel any pain from the expression.

Evidently something is up.  Dorian seems caught, with James, in the attempt to find this Meredith.  So...that's who it is.  She shoots a glance at Trista, with Berd on her shoulder.  For a time, Cyan thought Meredith might be Berd's creation.  That was 'before'.

Now...she can't see it.

"I expect they do not require your assistance," she says to both archons.  They hum with a certain disappointment - no doubt much of this simply goes over their heads - but move back to the armor, floating again near her heels and shrinking down to the size of a pair of quarters.  Cyan shivers, within that black bastion she wears.  It may take...some time to become used to them.

She may never be truly used to them.  Too many memories.

Now she sits on her bench, and waits for the baths to be readied.  The longer she is out of everyone's attention, the better she feels.

Dorian's eyes glance towards Cyan, friendly yet distracted, he nods with a small smile, as if agreeing with something. She seems to be doing well, but those baths can't come soon enough. He can see the weight of the armor not only on her flesh, but on her spirit. Now he knows something of what the armor means, and he understands. If it were not for certain sudden distractions, he would consider conjuring up a bath for her immediately. For now, though, she seemed content to wait. It was a paradox that she likely didn't want to be the center of attention, yet it would be hard to avoid under such circumstance.

"Meredith," he begins slowly. He was not sure what had happened with Meredith, but Berd had said she travelled with the Army. "Has changed, it would seem. I would suggest a fair amount of caution, James. However, I doubt she is an imposter- if so, she is a horrible one." He adds the last part lightly.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:08, Mon 29 Jan 2007.

Activity bursts all about the still forms of Trista and Berd. Banglen-Yp shares something secret with the man later named as Roman who James had introduced as the storm cloud. A Shape-Shifter. She’s seen a few in her day. If this means he is of the same ilk as her mother, Trista has reservations about the man. She’s quick to hush the judgments within her, rather giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Several take the edge off hunger, something Trista would rather do after a bath. However, the baths won’t be ready for a bit and the food is here. She carts Berd off to a wash basin set in the back along the side boards. She labors to wash her hands free from grime, as well as splashes some water on her face, being careful not to soak Berd if he doesn’t wish it.


Returning to the tables, her eyes follow James as he excitedly hovers about Dorian and Jonnee. Something seems amiss, something about a ‘Merideth.’ Although curiosity repeatedly pulls her eyes up to the men, she attempts to not eavesdrop, though it’s difficult to not hear the major points. Another friend is returning.

Modes of transportation are offered, including the little Archons, sending a chill down Trista’s spine. Fortunately, Morgan offers his panthers, which somehow seem safer.

Trista takes a seat across from Cyan, assuming she and Berd would like to remain close. She grabs a platter and picks out a few small pieces of fruit, meat, and bread. “What would you like to eat, Berd? You can share my plate if any of this appeals to you.” Certainly, she doesn’t know what dragons eat.

It’s a strange sensation, sitting here in the middle of the commotion. Cyan, who had been at center stage, sits back; seeming to enjoy the peace she is given. The newly discovered Merideth has taken the spotlight, and it is with some interest Trista hopes she will still be around when the woman is reunited with her friends.

Trista sits in the group, but is not of the group. Her only real connection is with Berd, and that is newly forged. Certainly, now that James’ Merideth returns, the drink and chat will be put on hold indefinitely. Trista feels a certain loss at that, but is grateful that another reunion is about to take place for these who have been through so much. It is a good day when friends and loved ones are restored.

Her attention turns to Cyan, who would probably rather not have it. “Can I get you anything while you wait for the baths?”
This message was last edited by the player at 11:33, Mon 29 Jan 2007.

James subsides a little.  He raises his voice a little to announce, "It's okay.  She's with the Brintizzi.  She's safe."

More quietly, he continues, "You're right, Dorian, she has changed.  But it is Meredith.  James doesn't sound at all upset by this, merely a little puzzled.

"Ahmad, I'm not much of a rider.  Would you prefer a saddle and flat out or bareback and a slightly more...cautious speed?"

Dorian nodded to James, confirming everything he had learned. He guessed she had been talking to James, as well. That was good. He could let James concern himself with Meredith and return to matters closer at hand.

He kept himself from glancing in Cyan's direction, again, acting on his earlier assumption that space and time to think would be important to her. There would be plenty of time later to talk, though concern for her gnawed at him constantly. He had to accept what he'd done thus far as the best that could be done.

The dark-haired woman, Trista, sat across from Cyan. He noted a certain melancholy draped about her like a funeral veil. She had a certain quality about her. Perhaps it reminded him or himself when he had first joined the group, back on that world. He had been headed to Amber, back then, hoping to learn more of his heritage. He had never arrived.

Though he had joined them, at Fiona's request, it had been difficult. The scope of the quest had been overwhelming, the enemy unknown and unknowable; the plan... the plan was mostly an effort of keeping up with the enemy.

He sighed at the memory. He had never been the talkative one, but he didn't like the thought of someone feeling left out. He mused at his this newfound sense of empathy for a moment. Since when had he given so much concern to others feelings?

James always did so well at introductions. Luke always did the explanation of the quest. He wasn't sure if Trista was to be counted as one of them or not, but her attachment to Berd could be a strong indication.

"Trista," He begins. It was a lovely name. "I assume your not from Charyk, so this battle must have taken you by surprise. Has any explained what is going on, yet? It's a lengthy, but interesting, story."

"Whatever else happens, I'll be going back with James." Jonnee announces, giving the buffet a last, longing look.  "The sooner I can train the brints to use those boom-sticks, the sooner we can make the Archons start suffering."


"I'm going to say goodbye to Cyan, before I leave though."

He makes his way across to the red-haired woman, and sits down next to her, smiling, "How're you doing, Babe?"

The medic returns through the ring of soldiers that somehow manage to look both bored and attentive at the same time. He fires off a series of questions at Meredith and she answers them distractedly. She was slapped, open handed. He wore a metal ring. She would wear his handiwork with honor and did mind if there would be a scar. And the last question... well that was none of his business.

The medic chuckled as he bent to begin stitching her up. Only a few quick motions and Meredith was sporting four neat stitches that traced the line of her right cheekbone.

Dorian takes a quick, small bite while he converses with the others....
This message was last edited by the player at 11:48, Tue 30 Jan 2007.

Meredith was coming back. Things were getting interesting. Chance wasn't shy about loading up on the food and finding a seat himself. It wasn't by accident that he positioned himself close to Trista, but he didn't strike up a conversation immediately. Of them all, she seemed the easiest to talk to so far, even if their communication- via Berd's relay- had been brief.

Cyan sits quietly, watching the new people as she struggles to discern their temperments, their relationships...and what is that thing Banglen-Yp carries, that Roman finds so distracting?  They make an unlike family, that trio, man, woman, and child (?) in a blanket.


Trista finds it within herself to join Cyan, sitting down across from her, but her first words are to Berd.  Cyan's ruby eyes widen at the woman's terrible mistake; too late.  Berd begins to crawl down her arm, his eyes locked on the food.  Cyan hisses a warning, waves a hand at him; Berd utters a disgusted snort, then pushes himself into the air, flapping off to land near the refreshment table.

The bard bobs her head in apologies.  "My apologies for stepping in," she begins.  "But it seemed appropriate.  Berd, if allowed, would eat your entire plate.  Best sometimes to let him fend for himself."  Indeed, at the bar Berd is supervising two tiny faeries, as they laboriously load food onto his plate.

Trista offers, and Cyan replies in kind, returning a small smile.  "Thank you, but...should I begin to eat now, I shall put Berd to shame and never reach the baths.  I need that more than I require food."  She isn't quite faint from hunger, and her skin itches; the armor needs to come off, now!  Her eyes note Dorian's arrival, with a question for Trista; then Jonnee Kay plops himself down beside her with a grin.

This eases something within her heart; despite his greeting, she had wondered if things would change, if she had lost something.  Now Cyan sees she has not.

"Jonnee Kay," she greets him, squeezing his forearm.  "Well enough, and better still at the sight of your smile."  She throws one arm around his shoulders and gives him a quick hug.  "I have missed your brilliant humor so."  Leaning back, she studies him for a long moment.  Same face.  Same grin.  Same Jonnee Kay.

It's good that some things never change.

"Did I hear correctly?" she asks quietly.  "You are no longer with the quest, but with the brintizzi?"

Cyan’s hissing and Berd’s departing startles Trista, but Cyan’s explanation almost curves the woman’s lips into an amused smile. Not only is Berd humorously denied Trista’s food, but Cyan turns her down as well. “I would much rather bathe first, also. The thought of grime and food don’t mix well for me. But,” she looks about at the food before her and the people around her and changes directions, “At least, I was able to wash my hands.”

The regal one who is never more than a half step away from Cyan takes note of Trista; Dorian who earlier had suspicions dancing in his eyes. But this time, those eyes do not accuse. Instead they offer empathy.

He asks his question and Trista’s eyes immediately glance to the former General who’s attention is being taken by Jonnee. Then back to Dorian, “I know only the fragmented glimpses I’ve received from Berd.” Carefully, she avoids naming Cyan as whom she knows very little about. “I know nothing of why the Archons were in battle with you. Or why Berd calls your group, ‘questers.’ I would appreciate learning more, thank you.”
This message was last edited by the player at 18:19, Tue 30 Jan 2007.

Jonnee grins, "Well, I'm sorta still with the quest, y'know.  The brintizzi offered us this army, but they needed a heads-up on the enemy - " he pauses suddenly, and frowns, an expression which doesn't really seem to fit his face.

"Uh... no offence.  I meant the Archons, not you.  Anyways, I wasn't doing much else, and I always liked the brints, from way back.  They'd heard of me, and they think I'm some sort of major league hero.  So it made sense."

He looks down at his feet, then to Cyan's, "So I got a secret base, and I'm teaching my boys to fight.  They're doing okay, and I've got legions of them."

He looks up then, the pupils of his yellow eyes opening up, almost circular now as he gazes into Cyan's eyes.

"Can I ask you a question.  About your two friends?"


Just then, one of the servants calls out, from the head of a short flight of steps at the far end of the room, "Your attention please, honoured guests.  For those of you who wanted to bathe, we are now ready for you."

Having eaten sufficient, under the circumstances, Roman grabs an apple.  Munching on it, he heads over towards the steps.

 

Having been unable to find the baths, and been chased out of the kitchen for trying to climb into the big soup kettle, Banglen-Yp beamed like the sun as they announced the baths.

Still cradling her little bundle she talked quietly to it and then moved towards where the baths where supposed to be found, at long last.  Climbing the stairs she looked around in confusion as a servant - she believed, having spent some time around here - told her "ladies this way, gentlemen that way".

After a while she appeared to decided that the little bundle was no gentleman, or perhaps it was another reason altogether, as she stepped through the door to the ladies section.

Once inside there she wasted little time before stepping into the nearest filled tub, fully dressed and all, althought she took care to hold the little bundle in her hands, above the surface, talking to it quietly and giggling.

 

Cyan stares longingly at Trista's food for a moment, almost looking like Berd, then looks up to face the other woman directly.  "The problem is," she whispers, "that once I begin, I might not stop."  Her laugh is a trifle nervous, but truthful.

Berd, of course, is on his way back.  Behind him the two faeries labour under the weight of the plate - it tips and wobbles alarmingly in the air, but holds steady until Berd alights upon Trista's shoulders.  The little dragon turns away to eat, the reason becoming abundently clear moment's later - he's quite messy about it.

Cyan winces.

Then Dorian fully engages Trista in conversation, and Jonnee has Cyan's attention.  She nods along with him as he speaks, beginning to understand.  "So...you have stepped aside from the path to create an army to use against the Archons.  Wise."  She slowly nods.  "You are no doubt doing a spectacular job.  I always thought you would make a fine general, in a full, fancy uniform."  She pokes his shoulder, then grows more serious.  "I should provide you with a palanquet of our other allies - Prime, for example.  She might be moved to send reinforcements, though how well they would mesh with your troops is open to debate."

She sighs, then, deeply saddened.  "I suppose this means I will be seeing little of you in the future?  For a time," she amends, with a quick smile.  "And Jonnee?"  She takes both of his hands this time and squeezes them.  "There is never offence.  Not from you, or any of my friends, unless I see it is meant."  The smile remains.

It dims a trifle when Jonnee mentions Left and Right, though.  She glances down at her heels, where they spin complacently...and somehow giving every indication that they are listening in on everything.  "Of course...and you may ask of them, as well," she says, somewhat uncertainly.  The call for bathing breaks over the area, distracting her further, but...Jonnee will be leaving, soon.  She may not see him again for some time.  Banglen-Yp wanders up the stairs, her charge in hand, and Cyan feels envy.  But right now, Jonnee wishes to talk, and she can wait.

A little while longer.

"I was just wondering... " Jonnee begins, uncharacteristically nervous, "Look into my eyes, and tell me this...  How much do you think they can be trusted?"

A high-pitched whine, like the howl of an angry mosquito, sounds near his ear.

_{+ DO YOU IMPLY THAT WE ARE UNTRUSTWORTHY? +}

"No, I'm saying that you are trustworthy.  I'm just trying to find out how much.  For my own peace of mind."

Ahmad conisdered for a moment, then dashed off, intending to return shortly with his tack.

Dorian gives Berd a long, thoughtful look after Trista's reply, as if reassuring himself that since Berd trusts her, he should trust her. Berd generally had good judgment about people.

Well, no, Berd had trusted Drusilla.

He hesitates, busying himself with another bite, while remaining thoughtful. Berd could in fact be a little too trusting, too noble. Staying alive, to Dorian, was the better part of noble.

Nevertheless, Dorian had made the offer, and knowing the about the enemy would hardly reveal too much. In the worst case, it might let the enemy how little they knew, but he had a feeling that was a topic of much amusement on the enemy's side, anyway.

Between Trista and Meredith, he was doing a worrisome amount of trusting, lately. It was giving him indigestion.

It did not escape him that two Archons hovered nearby. He let his fork come to rest near his plate, eyes meeting Trista's for a long, quiet moment.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:34, Wed 31 Jan 2007.

Cyan stops to consider Jonnee's question.  She faces him directly, then brushes absently at Right with her bare hand.  It's a habitual gesture, and Right vanishes, moving from her hand's path.  "Right.  Jonnee can ask.  It is a fair question - they do not know you."

Then she stares intently at Jonnee with her sapphire eyes, and grips his fingers tightly.  "And I tell you this, Jonnee Kay - I do trust them.  With my life.  There remains only one question for them, one that must be asked, and I thank you for pressing the issue."

She looks down at Right and Left.  "Forgive me, both of you.  But I must ask - were Harbonah himself to come before us and tell you to stand with him, against myself and my friends, where would your place lie?  I ask, for it may come to that."

The man takes a few moments, seemingly appraising what information he’s about to embark. Trista silently waits, leaving her food for the nonce. Opposite her, Cyan and Jonnee engage the miniature Archons in conversation. There’s irony somewhere wrapped up in the two concurrent dialogues.

When Dorian decides he’s ready, he already has Trista’s full attention.

While Ahmad fetches the tack, James finally slows down long enough to eat, stuffing down food with the speed of a veteran campaigner.  He is keen to be away and  dispenses with the food as soon as the panther returns.

James would be the first to admit that he's not entirely comfortable saddling Ahmad, but with the occasional suggestion from Morgan and the odd growl from Ahmad all is ready.

It was fortunate Dorian did not find himself too hungry. He had found himself caught up in two detailed mental conversations at once, which left room for little else. He took a few sparse bites as his attention allowed, his brow knitted with concentration.

Berd’s messy eating habits go unheeded under the concentration of Dorian’s information. Information with a hint of a lecture. Trista does not take offense at things the man might assume of her; after all, he does not know her viewpoints on Shadow or the Myriad Worlds and the people within.

Her eyes only stray once to watch Cyan depart for the baths. The shedding of armor. The renewing of self. Good.


A hand lifts to clutch the pendant hidden beneath her grey t-shirt, the silver chain of which can be seen glinting around Trista’s neck. Glancing at the dragon perched on her shoulder, bits of food spilling to the ground, a hint of a smile touches the woman’s lips and her hand drops as she refocuses on Dorian.

Never far from his mind, Dorian notes Cyan's movement upstairs. He knew how badly she had craved a bath and release from the armor. He turns his attention back to Trista when Cyan is out of sight. Now, he speaks out loud, "I suppose it's something like the story of the warrior and the bird," he says, the monologue breaking into the silence unexpectedly, as if there had been a previous conversation happening, but unheard. They no longer discussed the enemy's plots, and the Archons had left with Cyan- though who knew how acute their hearing might be. "The warrior had lost a major battle and had been dismissed by his master. He wandered in a state of despair because his reputation had been ruined. He had nearly decided to simply fall upon his sword, having nothing left to live for- as he saw it.

"As he wandered he came to a small bird, which lie flat on its back, with its legs in the air. Being noble-born, the warrior demanded the bird move from his path. The bird refused, saying it could not do so. 'The sky is falling,' the bird claimed. 'And I have to catch it.'

"The warrior said this was nonsense and demanded the bird move again, and again the bird refused. The warrior was perplexed because the sky showed no sign of falling. 'Even if the sky were falling,' the warrior said. 'A tiny bird like you could never catch it. The task is too great for you.'

"And the bird replied, 'Perhaps not, but I'm going to do what I can.'

"That is the attitude of we questers. We all have different strengths and abilities, but we're not asking you to save the Worlds. We're offering you the chance to do what you can."

The silence shatters as masculine tones shift the conversation to the Walking World. It’s startling, but Trista’s concentration smoothly shifts with it. A story unfolds of a determined little bird; an apt analogy for the situation.

A determined little Berd.


Guesses as to what lies underneath the Archons aside, Trista knows she has found a direction for her wanderings. “I’ll take that chance and do what I can. I’ll catch the sky with you.”

Trista gathers in a deep breath, holds it, and slowly lets it out again; an acknowledgement that she has chosen a path which will change her life. Finally, she allows herself to pick up a chuck of fruit, knowing this is a better path than the one she had been chasing.

The two Archons hover silently for a long, drawn-out moment.  They are silent, save for the hiss of air, cut by their blades... and yet, somehow, they give the impression that an intense debate is taking place between them.

Finally, an answer is given, + WE ARE IN AGREEMENT ON THIS MATTER.  HARBONAH COMMANDED US TO OBEY YOUR COMMANDS IN ALL MATTERS.  HOWEVER, WE ARE REQUIRED TO OBEY HARBONAH'S COMMANDS TOO.  IF YOUR COMMANDS CONTRADICT THOSE OF HARBONAH, THEN WE MUST CHOOSE, AND, SIMPLY PUT, HE OUTRANKS YOU. +

+ YET, IN THE TIME THAT WE HAVE BEEN WITH YOU, WE HAVE SEEN YOU TO BE A COMPETENT COMMANDER.  IT IS OUR BELIEF THAT STAYING WITH YOU, FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE, BETTER FITS WITH OUR OWN AGENDAS.  WE HAVE LEARNED MUCH, IN YOUR SERVICE. +

+ BESIDE WHICH, WE EXPECT THAT HARBONAH WOULD HAVE US KILLED ANYWAY, JUST TO ENSURE THAT HE HAD FINISHED YOU, AND ALL THOSE HE SUSPECTS OF COLLABORATING IN YOUR DEFECTION.  OTHER ARCHONS HAVE, AFTER ALL, SEEN US FIGHT ALONGSIDE YOU, AGAINST ARCHONS. +

+ FRANKLY, GENERAL CYAN, WE HAVE NOWHERE ELSE TO GO.  AND SINCE YOU, AND YOUR ALLIES, HAVE PROVEN ADEPT AT SLAYING ARCHONS, STAYING CLOSE TO YOU PROVIDES US WITH ADDED PROTECTION FROM ANY HUNTERS SENT TO FIND US. +
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:42, Fri 02 Feb 2007.

A small smile crept onto Dorian's normally dour countenance at Trista's acceptance, and at her wording of the acceptance. He nodded. While he knew little of her or her abilities, it made him glad to have another along with them. Perhaps it was not so much Trista's acceptance, as his own efforts to assist in Berd's recruiting efforts. He should have been suspicious, and he knew that. While the others tended to embrace newcomers, or at least give them warm acceptance, Dorian always kept a wary eye out. He always let them know he was not so easily won over. This time, he was the one extending trust.

He felt like a liar.

He was trying, really trying, to be as he knew the others felt he should, but not for the others. One part of him, he knew, did it for Cyan. Another recognized that this change had begun when the two Dorian's merged their minds. Yet, Berd had a profound point. Dorian had not initiated, nor acceded, to that melding. At the end of the day, the clone had attacked, overcome and forced the melding. The clone had guided the processes with a careful, surgical hand. He was more the clone than the original Dorian, which meant he had the clone's flaw- compassion. Still, the old Dorian lurked behind the compassion like a sniper in the bushes just waiting for the perfect shot.

How long would it be? How long until the old Dorian reared, leaving Trista confused by his sudden venom? How long would it be until Meredith realized that this niceness was little more than a thin act; an experiment at being something he, fundamentally, was not?

"Good," he says to Trista, but the smile has faded now. Should he warn her, somehow? Should he tell her he might be a complete ass to her tomorrow, simply because that's who he was, no matter how much he loathed it?

"We are a complex group," he adds, with a weary expression. "We have each had our own trials, but we have each been through hell in some fashion or another. At times, you will likely think our spirits have been broken. And do not doubt that you will have your turn, as well. For now, rest is in order. It has been a tiring day physically, mentally and spiritually, for me."

He hated to leave, when he thought about it. The gathering was thinning, but James and Meredith would be back, soon. Trista would not be along. James would talk to her. They seemed to know each other.

"Before I retire, I'll ask if you require anything; I have it in my power to provide nearly anything mundane you may need for the evening."

Perhaps he was trying a little too hard at the politeness thing. What could he say; he was new to it?

No, not entirely new, just new to this kind of courtesy. Samhain had been filled to overflowing with etiquette that revolved around personal space and courtesy. With the race developing on small, mountainous landmasses in tightly packed living areas, it was natural, but that was not politeness, it was merely etiquette. Different.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:13, Sat 03 Feb 2007.

They’ve all walked through Hell; the news doesn’t surprise Trista. Berd had named James as Scarspirit for a reason. As far as Trista knows, life is pain. A dour attitude proved by both past and current events. There was a time when light filled her countenance and she believed life was beautiful with challenges to bolster the beauty.

When love cradles life, hope springs forth. When life severs love, futility settles in.

Dorian’s offer interrupts her bleak thoughts with a new look at the powerful man. She feels she have something he could produce for her; in her experience those who offer feel better when their offer is accepted. But the woman lives simply with all she needs in her pack. She’s had to learn self-sufficiency.

“Thank you, I’m fine. Please get some much needed rest. I’ll be doing so myself, shortly,” a slight smile accompanies her pensive eyes, “and, Dorian, thank you for taking the time to talk with me.” With all that has happened over these past months, and especially this day, she certainly received more attention than she would have expected. It is, indeed, time to rest. For all.

Berd pauses in his...feeding is a far too polite word.  Consumption?  Gluttony?  He slowly turns his head to regard Dorian...then turns it away, quickly.  A musical belch echoes through the room, then Berd shifts around, away from the (scarred and scratched) plate to settle himself on Trista's shoulder.  After an instant, plate, food, and faeires all fade away, dissolving into a mist that disperses into the air.

He casually slips a claw down, runs it along the chain beneath her shirt at her collarbone, then releases it, moving slightly to place it out of reach.  Curiousity crawls away, battered down by politeness for a change.