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.