As conversation tapers off, some of the questors, newly christened with the sobriquet, Defenders of Worlds by their allies among the Archon (and doubtless something far less complimentary by their enemies) make their way up the short flight of steps at the inner end of the great hall, where servants wait to direct them to areas where they can bathe and rest.

The bathing areas have been hastily converted from other purposes, an audience chamber and some sort of soldiers' chapel, and a flight of steps leads up from the corridor that separates the two to a freshly cleared and reassigned section of the fortress, where several small rooms now serve as guest suites...


Meanwhile, James rides Ahmad back into the forest, at a high speed which Jonnee Kay, nonetheless, has surprisingly little difficulty keeping pace with.  Around them the forest gradually changes its nature, becoming darker, more grim and sullen, as if the place itself objects to their presence.

Still, nothing seems inclined to block the progress of the odd trio...


Tahirah stands in an open space in the makeshift town being set up for her people.  There is little shelter, as yet, but the evening promises to be clear and warm, so that should present little difficulty.  The children among the refugees seem excited at the concept of sleeping in the open.  In most cases, they have never set foot outside the walls of Charyk before, let alone at night...

The commanders of the guards have brought her the names of thirty men who have agreed to go with Jonnee Kay to train his army in the use of the Staff weapons.

Now she waits to speak to those troops.  Jonnee has left for the moment, but has promised to come back this way within a day or two, just as soon as his reptilian warriors have dealt with their wounded, and are ready to move.

"G'day, yer Ladyship."  The clothing of the young lad grinning up at Tahirah is scruffy and dirty, in exactly the same degree that her own robes are not.  "Yer looks lost.  Is there anythin' I can 'elp yer wif?  Someone yer needs ter find, or somethin'?  Jus' say the word, an' Danny'll 'elp yer find what yer've lost, an' all I'm askin' is a bit o' copper."

 

Banglen-Yp gently lowered the hands into the water, allowing the little bundle to decide whether it was something likeable or not.

Evidently there was no dislike to be found, so she lowered the hands some more and began to wash her little rescuee.

And so it was that the odd blonde and her protégé enjoyed their first bath together, with the former still wearing her full outfit and the latter even trying to swim around in the cramped bath.

 

It takes quite a bit of persuading, all natural, none of it forced Meredith was proud to admit, but she was finally able to break from the Brintizzi and head towards the east gate alone.

As Ahmad bounds away, James begins to wonder whether he sould not have been so hasty with the food.  Fortunately, Ahmad soon settles into stride and the ride becomes effortlessly smooth and breathtakingly fast.  James is glad the panther knows the way, because any attempt to steer would be futile.

James glances across briefly, "I had thought we might be able to match your speed Jonnee, but I swear you just get faster.  You realise you're going to have to run laps around the other panthers now or Ahmad will never live it down."

The wind of their passage whips the words from his mouth almost before they are spoken and James turns back to see the portal rapidly approaching.  He leans forward a little without thinking about it, anticipating.

Cyan casts a last look behind her at Trista, currently occupied with Dorian, and shoots a single glance at Berd.  The drake pauses in his greedy consumption, and turns to stare her way with eyes growing brighter by the heartbeat.  Cyan nods once, offers a wobbly smile, and heads for the baths.

Berd seems comfortable.  Oddly enough, she feels no jealousy at the sight of him so relaxed on another's shoulder.  It doesn't change anything about what he feels for her, Cyan knows; she might have thought differently before.

Strange.  Perhaps she is growing up, a touch.

Her stomach growls, and something sparkles as it zips past her face to hover in the air.  A small fairie, somehow holding an apple and an orange, one under each arm.  His face is a comical picture of exhaustion, and Cyan snatches the fruit as quickly as she can.  He bobs his head in thanks, and returns to where the female sprite labours under the weight of Berd's plate...now only half as heavy.  Cyan crunches into the apple thoughtfully as she continues to the room of baths.

Jonney Kay and his brintizzi.

Morgan and his panthers.

The unlikely trio of Banglen-Yp, the Chaoslord, and now something in a blanket.

Trista, with Berd.

James off to find this Meredith.

Aaron and Dorian.

She rubs her head.  So much to take in.  So much for which she must answer.  Guilt rises again, and she presses it down before it swamps her.  Too much guilt, and she may never rise above it again, lost in an endless cycle of self-pity.  Enough of that.  If she is to atone for her deeds, best she get about doing so rather than weeping and wailing.

The armored woman steps into the room of the baths, and studies the sole occupant - Banglen-Yp.  Well, not precisely sole - something is in the bath with her (is she really fully clothed?).  Cyan picks at the buckles of the armor and stares, trying to make out through the steam what it might be.  Then the first piece of armor comes off, and suddenly a burning desire to be free races through her.

Her finger shake as she tugs at each buckle, instincts forcing her to pile the armor neatly rather than throw it across the room.  She tears at the pieces, unhooking, freeing, and pulling them away from each other with frantic haste.  A small, high-pitched whine of raw desperation starts in the back of her throat as she nears the last few pieces - off they come, and she jerks the padding over her head, pulling it away from her body.  It stinks of sweat and blood - hardly surprising.  For a long moment she stands thus, breathing in deeply, clad only in her shift, and then Cyan slowly removes the rest of her clothing.
Her body is pale, and there are marks where the armor has worn into it over a long time.  She has obviously worn it much of the last year (certainly not to sleep, of course!).

She still feels filthy.  Perhaps the bath will fix that.

The red-haired bard moves to the edge of the bath* and slowly slides in, closing her eyes at the sudden shock of pain, as hot water slides over raw skin.  Behind her, Left and Right rise from the pile of armor and consider the bath.

+ WE MIGHT AGITATE THE WATER.  WHAT DO YOU THINK? +

+ I TRY NOT TO THINK OF SUCH THINGS.  BEST TO SIPMLY LEAVE BE FOR NOW, I WOULD GUESS. +

Cyan's fingers absently peel the orange as she studies Banglen-Yp and her curious finding.  "My apologies, Banglen-Yp," she eventually says, struggling over the name.  Where does one put the sir/lady?  "What is it you have there?"

*Don't know if the baths are communcal....

 

As the Daughter of Berd entered, Banglen-Yp looked up with a smile and waved happily.  Noticing that the woman seemed to be looking rather intently at her, or her new little friend, Banglen-Yp looked back at the woman began to lose the shell around her.


                                        <sub>Removable.

                                                                                Seperate.

                                                            Oops.</sub>


It was as if she was fascinated by something as she almost stared back even as the woman sat down in the bath.

She glanced down at herself as the woman spoke to her and then looked up with a smile again.

She held out the bundle, or at least what had been in it, and as she did her clothing seemed to vanish, as if suddenly melting away - it was hard to tell in the water, after all.

Her little friend was there, looking soaking wet and ever so happy as it blinked and tried to focus on the newcomer in the bath.  It let out a meek but happy little noise.

•• I • res•cued • him •• He • was • trap•ped ••

A happy statement, followed by a slightly confused look.

•• Why • a•po•lo•gise ••

That was a confused sounding question.

 

Roman warns the attendants that nobody should touch his things "I will not answer for the consequences" he adds to give an impression of danger.

In the bath room he undresses slowly and slips into the warm water.  More for relaxation than a need for cleansing.  His elemental form has that advantage.

A bath, then sleep.  Let the morning take care of itself

Tahirah stops in front of the boy, looking down.  "To be lost, there must be someplace one ought to be," she replies.  One hand disappears into her robe, leaving a sleeve to hang empty for a moment, and then reemerges with three small copper bits.

"Take me there, then."

Danny holds out a hand and accepts the coins, seemingly without seeing them.  And then they vanish, just as quickly and easily as Tahirah had made them appear.  "I knows some magic too, yer see.  Down in the Trade Quarter, it pays not ter be seed wif scratch in yer 'and." a pause, and his grin develops a somewhat nervous-looking edge, "S'pose I'll never see the Trade Ward no more.  Pity, I 'ad some good stuff 'idden away there.  Ah well, easy comin' is easy goin', as they says, an' I can al'ays find more."

His eyes lock on Tahirah's face then, narrowing as he studies her within the shadows of her hood.  "Yer right.  Ol' Danny knows jus' what yer lookin' fer.  This way, Ladyship."


"What can I say?  Living with the brints means I get a good workout every day." Jonnee answers, "Last thing I want is for them to think I'm slowing down." In reality, the panther probably has an advantage over him, he knows.  Ahmad can probably keep up this pace far longer than he can.

They run.  The forest continues to grow darker around them, and the animal sounds start to sound more threatening... and then Jonnee skids to a halt, his boots gouging deep furrows in the leaf litter.  "Smoke!" he says, sniffing the air.  "Must be getting close."


In the converted audience chamber, with its circle of bathtubs, Cyan becomes acquainted with the somewhat confusing (and possibly confused) Banglen-Yp.  For the moment, apart from the female servants moving barefooted and silent about the room, Banglen-Yp's mysterious companion, and the two Archons, they have the room to themselves.

That will surely change soon.


Across the hall, Roman too bathes.  He is also alone currently, and though there are servants in the room, they give no reaction to his presence, save to provide more hot water on request, and to obey his instructions regarding his belongings.


Danny leads Tahirah through the makeshift camp, to where an old woman sits beside a large iron pot, suspended above a small fire.  "Gran, give 'er Ladyship some o' yer soup.  An' yer won't be chargin' fer it neither... if'n it weren't fer 'er, we'd never've found our ways 'ere."

A cheap tin mug , battered and dented, is used to scoop out some of the thin soup, which consists mostly of water, and chopped vegetables.  Then the mug is handed to Danny, who passes it, in turn, to Tahirah.  "There yer goes, Ladyship.  'fraid it ain't much, but yer looks like yer needs ter get summat down yer neck."

A coin appears, briefly, in his hand, and goes to the crone, in exchange for a hunk of bread, which he also passes to Tahirah.  "Once yer's 'ad that, I's got summat ter show yer."


The forest thins out, becoming the familiar cleared area, with its sharpened tree stumps.  James directs Ahmad to the road, which will provide a clearer route to the great fortress.

The city itseld stands, shrouded in smoke, with the upper levels still burning.  As they approach, they can hear the occasional rumble of falling stone.

And then they see her...  Meredith stands in the broken gate, flanked by brintizzi.

A rescue.  A small thing in Banglen-Yp's arms, but an important one.  All lives were important.  "Good of you to do so," Cyan whispers.  The armor is shed, and she moves to a nearby bath.  "Too much death in that place.  Too much to come, with the world torn as it was."  It's heartening to see that one more being has survived, and will likely grow to have a fine life.

A mark in favour of this woman she has so recently met.

Cyan steps into the bath, and the hot water burns at the chafe-marks on her legs.  She studies herself for a moment - should there not be scars?  No.  The Seraphim did their work well.  Cyan gasps once, as hot water contacts a bloodied scrape, then slides down to immerse herself.  When she finally rises from the water, she considers the question.

"The apology was a matter of manners - you were engrossed in what might have been a private moment, and I could have been disturbing.  Politeness costs nothing," she finishes absently, and closes her eyes for a moment before running fingers through her soaked, sticky hair.  She must look horrifying.  Spirits above...it's a wonder Aaron and Dorian did not simply run screaming.  Rueful amusement sparkles in her amethyst eyes, but then they grow more serious.  The situation is comedic in the ancient sense of the word, which has nothing to do with belly-laughs or pratfalls.

She scrapes at her hair with fingertips, finds the soap.  One step at a time.  Cleanse the body.  Then the mind.  Then the spirit.

On a nearby bench, shadows and light twist and shape themselves into a neat pile of clothing, startling Left and Right into sudden, suspicious movement.  They orbit the clothes for a brief instant, obviously considering reducing them to tatters, then move back to hover over the General's armor.

Meredith notices them immediately. They move silently through the tattered city and stay out of sight, humoring her request to go alone, but their minds, their thoughts give them away. She does not consider asking them to leave. She understands the culture enough to know that they would not listen anyways and she does not wish to waste her time. Not when she had somewhere to be. Her booted feet move faster without her realizng it, but when they reach the gate she pauses.

She peers into the portal, still staying some distance from it. The Brintizzi who had been following her fan around her, ready to attack should something unsavory pass through the barrier. Meredith turns her head and speaks to the Brintizzi nearest her for a moment. When she turns her head back they are there. Jonnee, a massive black feline, and James. James. Meredith's breath catches in her throat at the sight of him, astride the feline. An interesting mount indeed!

Meredith waits on the other side of the portal. She had been looking forward to this moment for so long and now that it was here Meredith found herself almost frozen. She was like a deer in headlights, waiting for something to move before she burst into motion. Still she can't keep the beaming, beautiful smile from her face, well the left half of her face. The right half of her face has 4 stitches running across her cheekbone and the area around the cut... her cheek and under her eye, is swollen and darkened by bruises.

The changes felt by her the touch of her mind are evident in her appearance as well. Her hair is pulled from her face and twisted into a braid that swings across her back. Her head is held high and her skin, once a milky white, has picked up a slight tan. She is still small and slender, but has put on a few much needed pounds and she no longer hides in the folds of the oversized cloak. The dress she wears is a far cry from the thin, linen shift. An unsure, lost girl left and a confident serene woman returned.

In short, it appeared as if Meredith has grown up.

With all seen to, or nearly so, Morgan quit the table, checking the directions to the baths. Wine, women, and.... how did that saying go?  War?  Morbid, it didn't fit. Song?  Most like.  Anyhaps, he'd (over)sampled the first, and heard the last, but he stood no chance of the the middle until he cleaned up a bit. Leareth followed, hoping they had running water. The design always made the floor much more comfortable, and he had the feeling he'd be napping there for a while.

Ahmad, outpaced by a human, agreed with James. Outpaced by a human, he'd be hearing more kitten comments for weeks! Perhaps he might be forgiven being slow to notice the smoke, thinking of their jests. At least he managed to stop smoothly enough when Jonnee did.


Elsewhere, the rest of 13th Royal Cavalry made a comfortable pile of themselves, telling stories and waiting for Amalie to get back with the swiped fruit basket. They could hunt food on their own, since these people were likely to run short soon. But if the hosts were going to put oranges out on the table, they were getting a share.

 

Banglen-Yp smiled but shook her head.

•• Like • I • did • in • the • bat•tle • I • choose • not • to • kill •• Sav•ing • lives • be•cause • I • can ••

A simple statement and then she let her new little friend swim as he wished in the tub, offering him sanctuary in the form of a shoulder in case he so desired.

•• Life • will • end • at • some • point • so • why • has•ten • it ••

Another statement, in part question, and then a bright smile at Cyan.  The next moment her head tilted to the side and she appeared to ponder for a moment.

•• Bath • is • nice •• You • soon • will • be • clean •• Like • my • friend • here ••

She lifted up the little critter, soaking wet but clearly happy beyond description.  A strange little one, a bit like his rescuer.  She looked at him, then Cyan and then him again.

•• I • must • learn • his • lan•gu•age ••

She sounded as cheerful as her wet little looked when she said that.  Then she looked a little sad and spoke solemnly.

•• I • wish • they • had • rub•ber • ducks ••

 

James guides Ahmad towards the portal without hesitation.  Once through, he casts his eyes about, but only till he catches sight of Meredith.

"That's her." He speaks quietly to Ahmad and a pat on the shoulder urges the panther to pull up.  He vaults from the saddle as soon as it is safe to do so and strides across the rublle strewn chamber towards Meredith.

She has changed.  Have the vagaries of time amongst the Myriad Worlds been playing tricks once again?  The hair, the tan, the clothes, even her stance and attitude.  James too looks different, although not to the same degree.  His clothing is a drab grey-brown of stone dust, the old shades of black and white barely distinguishable.  James has not stopped to clean, so his face and hands look little better, a motley of streaked grime where he has wiped at sweat.  Here and there a tattered flap of cloth hangs loose and as often as not there is a matching cut beneath, but true to his word none look serious.

To James' eyes the 'new' Meredith looks good, better than that she looks beautiful.  James catches himself smiling broadly in an unconscious response to Meredith's beaming smile.  He opens his arms wide to catch her up into a hug.

"Meredith, it's good to see you!  So good."

Meredith stays frozen in place as the large cat passed through the portal and then James... yes it truly was him, was there in front of her, smiling just as happily as she was. The sight of him, this close, it finally triggers that this time it was real.

She practically throws herself into his embrace and hugs him tightly.

Yes, he was dirty... sure he smelled of sweat and battle, but he was there.

She realizes that he had not taken the time to clean up, which meant that he probably came out here soon after the conclusion of the battle to meet with her. She is touched deeply by this, the emotion sticking in her throat and keeping her from replying. All she can do is hug him tighter, undetered by the dust that is now smeared across her face and clothing.

She gets a few quiet words out, but they are muffled and untelligible as she speaks into his side. Meredith tilts her head up to look up and meet his eyes, but does not remove her arms from around him. Unspilled tears swim in her eyes and the beaming smile softens.

"James... I..." she falters, and laughs as the tears break free and flow down her face "Yes, it is good to see you again. I have missed you dearly" she confesses before hugging him again. She speaks into his side again, but this time her mind echoes the words so they are not lost Thank you... thank you

Left and Rights' earlier revelation regarding their position made Cyan a touch nervous.  It was true - they held loyalty to Harbonah.  But how loyal would they remain under a death sentence?  Not very, she suspected.  Not very loyal at all.  They might have changed, ever so slightly, but they were danioti still.  They wished to live, as well as serve.  They could not do both with Harbonah, but they could with her.

They might fulfill the letter of their agreement with Harbonah by fulfilling the spirit with her.

Considerations for another time - something she needed to discuss with Dorian.  His mind worked best along these lines.

Interesting thoughts from Banglen-Yp, and things Cyan had often considered.  She avoided battles as best she could...well, she had, in the past.  She stared at one hand, flexing it slowly.  Too easy to kill.  Always.  And killing was wrong.

Before, she had firmly believed that to win this war was to force a change upon the Archons.  Killing them was not the answer.  And now?  What does she truly believe inside?

...fire and agony in the darkness...blades cut and slash, and her blood spills upon the floor...the burning thoughts penetrate her mind, stab deeply to wound her spirit, slash at what makes Cyan herself...over and over again, remaking her in the forge of flame and wound....

And now?

She still believes the same.  Cyan closes her emerald eyes on her tears of relief.

Harbonah...you tried.  And you failed.

"I will be clean in body," she manages in a choked voice.  "I wish I could be as innocent as your friend.  As I once was."  Cyan lets out a shuddering sigh, and her tone steadies, strengthens.  "I will never be so again, but I will be clean in spirit."  Another small smile for the other woman.  "If you can learn his language, I would be impressed...though, you are a shape-shifter, are you not?"

She wonders about that.  Could it be possible for a shifter to learn the language of beasts?  How impressive a talent they have!  To take the form of another creature...strong magic, indeed.

She sinks beneath water, scrubs blood and tears from her face, then surfaces for a breath.

 

Nodding, Banglen-Yp smiled at her little friend as she lifted him up to look at him, with him looking right back through eyes that blinked as the water ran all over.

•• He • is • like • me •• Learn•ing •• Search•ing •• New ••

Then she frowned a little and shook her head, lowering her little rescuee again.

•• Shape••shifter •• No ••

A question aimed at none followed by a clear statement and then some thoughtful expressions, in turn followed by a big smile and a shrug.

•• No • shape • just • Bang•len••Yp ••

A concrete statement, spoken with conviction.  Then a short pause as Cyan goes underwater before speaking again.

•• In•no•cence • die •• Things • learnt • can • not • be • un•learnt •• Such • is • the • na•ture • of • all • things •• What • you • do • with • this • know•ledge • is • up • to • you ••

A strangely coherent statement from the odd blonde who sat in her bath playing with her new little friend and talking to the daughter of a little dragon.

•• No • mat•ter • what • I • am • I • am • Bang•len••Yp ••

An almost cheerful statement, followed by a giggle and a dazzling smile as she looked straight at Cyan.

 

Jonnee studies Meredith carefully.  While he hardly knows the girl, he can tell that there is something different about her.  He waits quietly, standing to one side, until she finishes talking to James.

The brintixxi are less patient than he is, and try to muscle in on his waiting time, so he gives them some jobs to do, mostly preparations to move out of here; organising who will carry the new weapons, checking that the injured are fit to travel, finding supplies in the ruined city...

Unfortunately there are more brintizzi in the gateway than he can find jobs for, so eventually he is forced to endure their reports, recommendations, and requests.  One request, though, he refuses... "I'll come away when I'm ready, Vsshtt'ach.  Right now, I'm busy.  Go check we have enough food for the journey home, then double the amount.  Stuff that won't go bad too easy."

And so he waits for Meredith.

Trista remains at the table as others leave, keeping Berd company. She’s unwilling to disturb the little dragon as he takes in great quantities of food and spills almost as much from her shoulder. She picks at her food, almost too tired to eat, and ponders where life is bringing her.

Soon though, almost abruptly, the plate and faeries evaporate. Apparently, Berd has finished. "Looks like you're satisfied. Are you ready to head off to sleep or the baths?"

Where exactly do dragons bathe?
This message was last edited by the player at 16:15, Mon 05 Feb 2007.

"You're welcome.  James speaks quietly and the words don't carry far.  He sounds a little bemused.  In truth, he's not really sure what Meredith is thankful for, but now is perhaps not the time for that discussion.

He lingers a moment, enjoying the embrace, then gently disengages.  He takes Meredith's hands in his own as he steps back and looks her up and down.

James look is not appraising, it seems more as if he is committing her to memory.  "You look well.  With one little exception."  One hand rises to gently brush underneath the cut on Meredith's cheek.  His eyes drop, embarrassed by the intensity of his feelings.  "Actually, you look...beautiful.  The hair, the clothes.  They suit you."

Abruptly, James switches topics.  "You've already met Jonnee, I recall.  This is Ahmad."  James introduces the panther, "Ahmad, this is Meredith.  I don't speak cat, but I'm pretty sure Ahmad's as intelligent as you or I.  As me, anyway."

"We should be getting back.  I don't know about you, but I could use a bath and some more food."

 Dorian rises. Instinctively, he reaches to pull his cloak closer around him, but... the cloak is gone. He left it with Cyan earlier. He finds himself feeling vulnerable without it, for a moment. He hadn't conveyed the importance of the cloak to Cyan. He can only hope she remembers where she got it. It would be difficult to replace... again.

"You are welcome," he says, remembering the formality. Such simple phrases were not beyond his vocabulary, but rarely did he mean them.

It had been a long day. So many things had happened. So many things had changed this day. As a matter of discipline, he would normally prepare spells first, and then sleep. That was even truer with his spells depleted. Yet, he yearned for sleep, and it would take so much time to prepare new spells. Sleep seemed to tug at his eyes and clothes, trying to drag him towards a bed. He would not do so, though. If there were trouble in the night, he would be prepared. It was a long day; but it wasn't over.

He took the stairs slowly, as if ten times their number were before him. At the top, he paused, looking towards the baths. Yes, he would bathe. He could work on spells while he bathed. It would, perhaps keep him awake for a time.

At the top, he paused, looking in the opposite direction of the men's baths. She was okay. She needed nothing. Berd would provide anything she might require.

With his head a little lower, he turned towards where the men's baths had been set up.

Tahirah hesitates only long enough to give a polite bow to the woman.  The boy was right; she hadn't eaten in quite a while.  Soaking much of the broth into the bread, she eats quietly, and finds her mind settling somewhat.

Time to think.  She's not sure she's quite ready for that yet, but time comes as it will.  The Lords have gone; she will need to find a new place for herself.  Like everyone around her, she had lost almost everything...and yet so little, really.  It occurs to her that she will need to choose soon.  If she stays, then as the only thing left associated with the Lords, she will take a place of leadership, and the people will soon enough depend on her.  If she leaves, they will find others among themselves, and of course the Brothers, to follow.  A matter of days, at the most, to decide which course is for her...but days will be enough.

She sets an empty mug beside the woman, with a simple, "Thank you."  Then she turns back to the boy.  "And you.  I am ready."

Cyan nods, slowly, disturbed by Banglen-Yp's assertation that she is not one who changes shape.  Strange - perhaps Cyan had been mistaken before.  Or perhaps she means that Banglen-Yp has not solid shape at all?  Shocking prospect, but not frightening.  Not given the things she has already seen, though that would rank as one of the stranger ones.

"I already know what to do with my knowledge," she whispers.  "Hard-come-by, but yet it pushes me further.  Unfair that so many suffered that I should come to this place, though."  But the universe itself is not a fair place - this, Cyan knows.  To believe it so is dangerous.  "I think I know what to do," she amends, still uncertain.  She offers the beautiful woman a weak smile in return for her own, and slowly nods her head.

"It is good," she says, slowly rising from the bath, shedding water, "that you can say so about yourself."  Few could - this much, Cyan has seen over and over again, in herself as well as others.  Aaron...much of the time, he does not know himself, or so he said.  James at times seems lost.  Dorian is a man conflicted, with questions regarding his own identity.

Jonnee Kay...now he knows himself.  A simple life holds its own rewards.

+ WE KNOW OURSELVES +  Right sounds not a little bit smug.

+ ...FOR THE MOST PART +   Left's voice holds a certain concern in it.  But then, Cyan's fragment-memories from the last year inform her Left has always been more thoughtful, as much as a danioti can be.

"I do not," she replies to Banglen-Yp's comments, to the archons' assertions.  "Not yet."  She begins to towel off, feeling oddly hollow inside.  Something is missing.  "But I will," she vows quietly, pausing for a moment.  I will know who I am.  I am free, now, and alive.  Moving to the pile of clothing, she sorts through it, finds a shirt.  Long, silk, bright and sharp in colour.  Berd's work, no doubt, along with the black trousers.  Underthings first, of course, then the shirt.  Trousers, a belt, and then finally the tall boots.

Everything fits perfectly, of course.  Berd knows her measurements.

Her pack, gone.  Only the armor, and a cloak.  Dorian's.  She picks it up, rubs it between her fingers, then throws it over her shoulders.  The armor she begins to pile together.  "I am sorry to leave so hastily.  I require food, and..."  A helpless gesture follows.  "Perhaps I shall see you down where we eat?"

Meredith looks down as the embrace comes to a regrettable and necessary end. She notices the bright red skin of James' hands and charred shirt sleeves and she frowns slightly. Thus distracted, she did not quite catch his first words and looks up to query him about the odd injury only to be stopped by his hand against her cheek.

She freezes, fear widening her eyes for the split second it takes rational thought to override instinct. Meredith relaxes almost as soon as she tenses, and is surprised by how gentle James' touch is. Her cheeks begin to redden, and the blush deepens, burning red against her tanned skin when he compliments her. Unsure of what to say, Meredith looks down, fighting a small smile while her heart trills... beautiful.

She goes with the subject change, grateful for the time to get a hold of herself and to think of something to say. "Yes, I remember Jonnee" she says with a smile to the other man. She nods her head to him "It is good to see you again"

She then takes a few steps towards Ahmad, taking in the panther's thick muscles, smooth black fur, and intelligent, feline eyes. She pauses for a few moments and then turns back to James, wearing an impish smile. "Tell me James... does this new Charyk have a healing staff? You are not quite off the hook for those "little cuts and bruises" and I can tend to them after you have had a chance to clean up and eat if you would like. I picked up a few tricks from the healers of the Army of the End of Time and need a someone to practi... I mean I would not want to forget them out of disuse" she says with a joking laugh.

 

•• I • am • Bang•len••Yp •• On•ly • re•mains • to • learn • who • Bang•len••Yp • is ••

A statement that started out happy and ended a bit sad.  Then she looked with interest as the other woman got out of the bath and toweled herself off, moved over to the clothing and began to put them on.  Different clothing.

She too stood up, soaking wet and picked up the towel.  After Roman she knew what to do with it, at least, and the woman had did the same.

Soon she was all dry and she began to rub her newly rescued little friend, rubbing the towel over it and getting what seemed like rather cheerful noises in return.  By the time she had finished she stood there wearing what looked like pretty much the average outfit that the people of both the old and new Charyk were wearing - it simply appeared to fade into being there.  Even her hair seemed to shift into a proper hairdo for the time and place they were in.

•• Yes • food ••

She fired  a big smile at Cyan and nodded eagerly, having gotten ready as the other woman picked out what to wear and gotten into it.

•• Do • you • wish • sol•i•tude • or • can • we • come • a•long ••

A definite question as Banglen-Yp placed her little friend in the hook of her arm again in a fresh towel-like item.  The two of them looked at Cyan as if they both waited for an answer, the latter peeking up with big curious eyes.

 

Roman looks up as Dorian enters, noting the downcast gaze.  "You should be happier, sorceror.  We won a victory today.  Your woman was freed from the Seraphim as you wanted.  What more could you reasonably hope for ?"

"Freedom for the Myriad Worlds," Dorian responds. "And if you mean that in the singular form, if only for Aaron's sake, I'll remind you she's not my woman. Not anyone's, in fact, and I think she never will be, in truth."

He stripped slowly, already bending his mind to the task of checking his few remaining spells for flaws, cracks or tears. He tossed his shirt aside. He could conjure new ones. Faint white lines crossed his lean back, faded memories of years as a slave on Samhain.

"I would be glad for the company," Cyan replies with a small bow, straightening her sash.  The clothing feels alien upon her body, yet familiar.  Berd has little imagination, in the end, having chosen the close to the same clothing as before.  Only this has no cool feeling against the skin, and Cyan senses no forces woven within.

Time enough for that later.

Something flickers out of the corner of her eye.  The armor fades, then vanishes.  Worry spikes, but then realization hits.  Berd.  Cleaning up after her, so solicitous.  She will have to ask him to stop...but no.  Why?  Why deprive him of something he enjoys?

She studies the other woman as she changes.  Did she summon the clothing?  Did it come from her?  And the change in her hair...shapeshifter indeed, though she denies it.  Possibly because it is simply who she is.  Curious inversion - mutable physical form, loss of solidity within.  Cyan wonders if the lack of a structured physical form has contributed to the woman's self-confessed identity crisis.  She offers the other woman a smile, then tugs Dorian's cloak more tightly around herself.  It smells of him and, unaccountably, the sharp edge of brimstone beneath.

Somehow that suits.

Suddenly nervous, Cyan pauses at the door, glances back to Banglen-Yp.  Another smile, this one wan and nervous.  "Well.  I have always been one to pull the bandage off in one, swift yank," she states.  I will have to face them all, sooner or later.  Those I have harmed.  My friends.  Aaron.  Dorian.

Her friends have accepted her, but awkward embarassment, coupled with shame, remains.  It will fade, she hopes, thanks in a large part to their capacity for forgiveness, their great hearts.  The ones she has harmed...well, there is one way she can attempt to make amends.  Stop the Seraphim.

Aaron and Dorian?

Now there lay a deep chasm.

Chance pushed the plate away, a slab of tender, half-cooked meat only half-eaten, resting in a pool of pink juice. It was just he way he liked it, but he had little appetite. He stood and rotated, throwing one leg over the bench, so he could straddle it. This was only to properly hold the guitar.

He began aimlessly, but he knew where the tune would head.

There had been an epic battle that day, and he had stayed behind to tell stories- stories he wasn't a participant in, either. He'd told himself there was purpose in his offer, but at the end of the day, he had asked to stay behind.

For a moment, the song take shape, and he sings, his voice low and strong.

Everybody knows where you go when the sun goes down.

Coward. The tune falls away vagrantly.

He could have been there, if only to stand by the questers. If only to someday say, he had been there when Charyk fell.

Every question that I ask, I get a lie, lie, lie.
For every lie you tell, you're gonna cry, cry, cry.

A fair trade- he had claimed. A trade- the sword-bearer for the death-singer, to guarantee the defender's return. That, or a ruse, an excuse, to stay in the sunny grassland and weave a yarn for the other brother, in safety.

Some hero Luke had recruited. He had reasoned he would be of little help to the questers, anyway. A cheerleader he had named himself, and he hadn't the courage to show up to do even that.

You're gonna cry, cry, cry and you'll cry alone,
When everyone's forgotten and you're left on your own.
You're gonna cry, cry, cry.

You're gonna cry, cry, cry and you'll want me there,
It'll hurt when you think of the fool you've been.
You're gonna cry, cry, cry.

Danny looks about, as if gaining his bearings.  Or possibly looking for approaching trouble, then nods, "Right yer are, then.  Over 'ere."

Again the movement through the makeshift camp, which is already evolving its own roads and byways.  Past a group of soldiers, who are talking to two men in strange uniforms (from the castle?) while studying a map.  Tahirah hears the word "lumber" before Danny's rapid pace drags her away.

Finally, after long minutes of walking, they reach the base of the castle wall, where simple shelters have been erected, no more than blankets or cloaks, pulled tight over frames of branches, and propped against the wall itself.

In one of them sits a man, looking almost older than Charyk, his back against the stone, and his eyes staring blindly towards the sky beyond his shelter.

"'ello, Job, I brung yer a visitor.  Tell 'er what yer told me.  Yer know?  'bout the voices."

"Eh?  What's that?  Is that Danny?" the blindman starts, then answers his own question, "O' course it is.  Ain't no other kid what'd come an' see ol' Job, is there?  Leastways, not without tryin' ter rob 'im, afore speakin'."

"So... yer want's me ter tell yer 'bout the voices, eh?  Fair 'nough... "

He shifts position slightly, getting comfortable, then starts to speak again, "Ol' Job were 'idin' see, keepin' 'is 'ead down.  Knew there were trouble.  Could 'ear it, fallin' stone an' everythin', an' folks screamin' an' cryin'."

"Anyways, as 'e was 'idin', 'e 'ears this voice, but it were more like metal bangin' tergether, see, an' bein' twisted, an' it were sayin' that it di'n' see no point ter destroyin' the city, not when it were takin' their 'tention away from everythin' else.  Then the other voice, said 'ow the city were 'idin' summat as their leader were wantin'.  Some sorta bird what she'd ordered them ter find, they said.  Soon as they were finished at Charyk, they were plannin' on goin' back to conqu'rin' everythin', 'ccordin' ter their main plans."

"So... "

"D'yer see, Ladyship?" Danny interrupts, "They'll come after us.  Charyk were only part of it.  From what Job 'eard, we's not even safe 'ere.  They's goin' ter come after us one day.  It might take 'em some time ter find us, but they will, in the end."

"What'll we do, if'n they comes after us?"

"Don't butt in, boy.  I were jus' gettin' ter the bit 'bout their Big Secret... "


In the main hall of the castle, Chance plays his song, as promised, and those who hear it can sense the deep sadness wrapped in the music...  The servants, clearing the dishes away, do their best to hide that they have noticed the dark undertone, but they are not entirely able to do so...


Elsewhere, his companions bathe and relax, recuperating from the trials of the day...


Jonnee raises one hand, to give Meredith a lazy wave.  He grins as he says, "Missed you, Babe.  Only sorry I'm not coming back with you, but somebody's got to hold the brints' hands while they practice."

"James, next time you need them, I'm hoping that they'll be able to make more of a difference.  Those death rays should make things harder for the Archons, at least."

[backpost]
Berd slowly turns his head to blearily gaze at Trista.  He peeps, once, his breath clean and clear like a spring breeze, and then flops down on her shoulder, somehow keeping his balance.  He now weighs at least half again his previous amount.


With a long-suffering sigh, the drake slowly settles upon Trista's shoulder.  He shifts, moves, then relaxes, his tail a hot wire along her neck.

James looks warily at Meredith, but smiles to show he is not entirely serious, "As long as these new techniques don't involve you picking up all my cuts and bruises, you're welcome to practice on me as much as you like."

"I didn't think to ask for a modified saddle but I'm sure Ahmad can carry us both.  If you sit in front of me, there'd be no risk of slipping off.  What do you say?"

In a quieter voice he asks a more serious question, "How long has it been for you, by your time?  I think maybe our time scales were a little different."

Seeing Dorian, Morgan stopped his slow-footed walk, and followed him into the baths. Sense (of direction, in this case) was something much approved, but seldom found, in princes. At least he had an excuse, normally.

Ahmad's eyes widened, looking at Meredeth.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:33, Thu 08 Feb 2007.

 

•• Then • I • will • come • and • my • new • friend • too ••

A happy statement coupled with a big smile, then Banglen-Yp patted her little friend and pondered briefly.

•• I • see • no • band•age ••

A light shrug and then she looked down at herself.

•• You • give • me • look •• Am • I • dressed • bad•ly ••

A question and then she looked up at Cyan again.

•• I • can • alter • it • if • you • think • so •• Per•haps • what • you • are • wear•ing • or • the • arm•our ••

A careful, prodding question and a open but curious face.

•• I • learn • by • watch•ing ••

An almost too cheerful smile came with the statement.

 

As Cyan moves down the stairs, she espies Morgan, en route to the men's area.  A small bow to acknowledge him.  Lord of the Cats.  He had seemed a good man, exuberant and spirited, when she met him.  So many new people to know.  It was almost like...

...starting over again.

Embarassed, she gives Banglen-Yp an apologetic look.  "I am certain your clothing is more than appropriate.  It is merely that I have never seen someone create clothing, in such a way.  I did not mean to stare."  Politeness, as always, in all things.

Strange, how the little things came back so quickly.

Music, as they walk, coming from below.  "Curious," Cyan says.  "I believe that instrument to be a guitar."  She glances at Banglen-Yp again.  "Do you play an instrument?" Cyan asks.

The music swells, melancholy and languid, as she stops at the door of the hall.  And there sits the player, on his musician's throne - a simple bench in a dining hall. This one, she remembers, as if from a dark dream.  Chance.  Almost Cyan flees this encounter.  Almost.  But her own stubborn nature, coupled with the sadness in the lyrics, in the melody that surrounds her now, draw her futher into the room as Chance finishes the final refrain.

Her bard's ear catches the emotion in the music, hears the truth of it.  Something has struck this man to the core.

"Sir Chance," she says, her voice quiet in the fading echoes of his song.  "I remember you, though from an unhappy time in both our lives."  Embarassment and shame threaten, but she masters both, continues.  "I would hope your circumstances to be better than before, but it seems they are not."

Trista watches as Dorian leaves, a slow and aching climb of the stairs. The man has left her much to think about this night. The Archons. The Questers. The Underflow. Power. Trust.

There is much to do, and Trista will be a part of it.

On her shoulder, Berd settles in for a nap. She is content to let him stay; her own bath and rest can wait. For all that the woman has been through, for all that she was and ever will be, providing for others takes precedence. Giving Berd this small space and time keeps her from the dark side.

And gives her time to be still in the chaos of movement.

A guitar strums, followed by the rich timbres of a male voice. Trista’s eyes search for the creator and find the Edgedancer. The man who is not merely a cheerleader. Dark blue and grey eyes rest on the man, singing of pain.

Something touches Trista and her stormy eyes drop to focus on his fingers dancing over the wire strings. Lost.

And Found.

The moment shatters as Cyan is suddenly there, speaking to Chance with Banglen-Yp by her side. A single note of resentment plays within the woman before fading away. Sighing, she looks over at the sleeping Berd, his heavier body moving up and down with the slow rhythms of sleep.

Trista sits not too far from the trio and her eyes glance back to them. Cyan has shed the armor. She looks refreshed and beautiful. Banglen-Yp seems to fit right into her surroundings, almost like a Barbie with the perfect outfit for the perfect occasion. Trista looks down at her own dirt and grime soaked jeans. Soon, she’ll bathe and wash her clothes. Soon.

Her eyes roam again, catching the tiny animal in the blonde woman’s arms. A smile wants to tug at her lips. So that’s what she found in Old Charyk.

Lost and Found.

Meredith smiles good-naturedly when James voices his concern about her taking his injuries. "There is no need to worry. I am barely capable of keeping myself free of such injuries" she says easily with a motion to indicate her battered right cheek "so I am not looking to expand my collection" she pauses and then says in a quieter more serious tone "Not that I would not if you asked, or if the situation called for it... but this is something more mundane methods can assist with" she finishes with a smile.

She then looks at Ahmad... or more specifically his saddle. She nods, causing her long braid to swish lazily across her back. She smiles up at James again.


"Yes I think that would work nicely" she nods a final time, as if settling the matter in her mind before taking on a more considering look.


"A lot has happened, it is hard to judge the time" Meredith hedges before committing herself "but I believe the sun passed through the sky six or seven times since I joined with the Army" she seems a little more reserved when discussing this subject.

Settling onto his belly, Ahmad yawned at the pair of them.

Tahirah crouches beside the man as he speaks.  She listens in silence, taking the tale in just as if she were back in the Chambers, with the Lords of Charyk.  When he is done, she says quietly, "Thank you, both."  She rises, smoothly.  "I will seek more on this."

Stopping to turn to the boy, she adds, "Find me again, if there is need."  She's not sure that even her powers could lead her to the likes of him; he looked very good at hiding.  And at finding; she tended to stand out a bit.

Then she withdraws, to find a quiet corner, where she settles down and draws out her cards; laying down three, and then three more...

 

Smiling gratefully at Cyan as she expressed her believes that the outfit was appropriate, Banglen-Yp pondered for a moment.

•• It • is • the • on•ly • way • I • can •• For • now ••

After the pondering came a nearly happy statement, perhaps leaving more questions in its wake than it answered.  Then she laughed, softly, and shook her head as she shifted the little bundle in her arm.

•• It • is • Oh • Kay •• When • first • I • woke • I • did • not • know • a•bout • cloth•ing ••

A quite cheerful statement, followed by a more serious one.

•• Not • good •• Or•der • peop•le • did • not • ap•prove ••

Following Cyan she looked over at the man playing and nodded when asked about the instrument.

•• Gui•tar ••

Then a brief pause to contemplate the question, then a slightly hesitant, but in both aspects of the word, curious statement.

•• Per•haps •• I • think • I • dance • well • at • least •• May•be • sing • too ••

 

Chance lets the song fade away into a simpler tune when he senses people coming down the stairs, though he knows they would have caught the last part of it. He keeps his head bent, watching his own strings as he plays. So much has happened, so much he wasn't a part of, that he doesn't want to intrude on the thoughts of others.

As they come into more full view, he looks up at the pair.

His eyes fall on Banglen-Yp first, admiringly. The strange woman was beautiful, but not his type. She had a certain delicateness that didn't appeal to him. It wasn't a delicateness of body, for he knew she'd been in the fight with the Archons, but rather a delicateness of personality, mind and spirit.

Cyan, on the other hand, appeared far from delicate. Sadly, she had enough problems considering how Dorian and Aaron had follower her like lost puppies on the way back to the castle. The last thing she needed was to fend have Chance as well. With a smirk to himself, he noted that Aaron and Dorian wouldn't have had a chance, either. It would hardly be fair to them.

This assessment was Chance's reaction to most every female he met. Trista, he had pondered before Cyan and Banglen-Yp arrived, already. While lacking any delicateness, she seemed moody, distant and forbidding. Too bad, he thought.

"Sir Chance," he muses playfully. Meredith had called him that, too. "Once again, I seem to have been mistaken for a gentleman. Perhaps I should consider a bawdier tune to correct your opinion of me." His opinion of himself wasn't so high right now.

"But, was it so unhappy, Cyan? In retrospect, I found it rather refreshing, intelligent conversation being what it is in the Myriad Worlds, these days. And you, well, you didn't seem so unhappy yourself, if I recall. Tense or strained, even under duress, seem more appropriate.

Under duress, as I understand it, is especially appropriate. Perhaps it best we leave the past behind us and begin fresh. "  He stands and extends a hand casually. "Chance," he introduces. "And only Chance."

He looked at Banglen-Yp again. Dance and sing, he wondered. Perhaps she could. Delicate, perhaps, but that would be something. He wasn't sure about the singing, but the dancing fired his imagination.

"I"m afraid my last tune was a bit sad, best sung alone. What can I play for you, ladies?"
This message was last edited by the player at 13:14, Mon 12 Feb 2007.

Cyan raises an eyebrow.  No, she expects other people would be disturbed by Banglen-Yp, unclothed.  Some likely did not approve.  Some likely did.  Whatever the case, it is a better idea to have clothing.

Strange that she does not know whether she could dance or sing.  How difficult for her to be uncertain.  And yet, if she does not know, is it truly a hard thing?

Curious questions.  "More things to learn about oneself, I expect."

The bard espies Trista, still seated in that same chair with a somnolent Berd in her arms.  Her amber eyes sparkle for an instant, and Cyan smiles - memories, good memories, bubble to the surface, then.  For an instant jealousy is a sharp spike in her heart, but it moves on.

Chance seems somewhat taken aback by her addition of the politeness to his name.  She makes a mental note.  His words, though, cut deeply, cut her to the core, and she is uncertain how he means them.  Likely not to wound, but...they do, nonetheless.  Silently she crosses the ground to Chance, and takes his offered hand.  "Cyan, then," the bard replies quietly.

Emotions war within her.  To buy herself time, she moves over to where Trista sits, and crouches slightly to be on her level.  "Sleeping, as always?" she asks quietly, knowing that a simple sentence will not 'wake' the little dragon.  "I hope he is not too heavy upon you.  Especially after...."  A little wave at her own stomach, making a bulge, and she laughs nervously, uncertain how to proceed with this sad woman.

But Chance....  "Unhappy, yes."  Cyan stands straight and turns.  She proffers a crooked smile to the Deathsinger.  "Desperately so, though I barely knew it.  There was always a part of me that knew what I did to be wrong, but it was swamped by rage.  My conversation might have been witty, but I merely..."  She waves her hand, searches for the right words.  "...went through the motions.  Oh, some of it was real enough - I did enjoy parts of our discussion, in an odd way."  Her fractured memories speak of that much, in any case.

"But those in a prison, be it of iron bars or fury, can never be happy."  Her smile is weak but true.  "I admire the music, Chance.  Please play whatever you wish - something quiet would suit us most, I suspect."

She snatched a fruit from the table, returned to sit down near Trista, not wishing to force her presence on the other woman.  "Can I get anything for you?" she inquires, mindful of the sleeping drake on the other woman's shoulder.

The blonde woman carting her small package speaks again, and once again Trista finds it jarring. The broken sentences don’t quite match the beautiful face and body. Odd.

The exchange between Chance and Cyan leaves questions within Trista. Apparently, they do not go as far back as Cyan and Dorian do. No doubt, over the course of traveling with these people, she’ll learn more of their complex group dynamics.

Dark eyes follow Cyan’s motions with interest as she crouches near Trista. The woman’s humorous charading of Berd’s gluttony, and subsequent hesitant laugh, curves a small smile. She answers in quiet tones, “A hearty appetite, indeed, but my shoulder can bear the added weight. Barely.” Humor. Strange.

Perhaps being around others will prove beneficial in many ways.

Her eyes avert from Cyan and Chance as they continue their conversation, not wanting to intrude. A few moments later, Cyan sits nearby, echoing back to Trista what she had earlier offered Cyan. “No, thank you, I’ve had my fill. And I believe Berd has also.” A crook of a smile again.

There would be music. Trista remembers the days of a man and his guitar. Fond images bubble to the surface. Fingers deftly pick the strings as a man sings low and resonating tones. Sings for her. Music touches the soul, whether in jubilation or misery. Music brings memories. Music makes the heart dance.

A man and his guitar.

Unfortunately, Trista sits in the grime of Old Charyk. The newly washed and the never sullied surround her; she needs to get cleaned up. Now that Cyan has returned, Berd will be in safe hands.

Trista gives the glinting strings of Chance’s guitar a longing look, then turns back to Cyan, “Actually, now that you have returned, I should find my way back to the baths.” She glances towards the sleeping Berd and back to Cyan with a helpless look, “I’m just not sure how to move a sleeping dragon.” An entreaty for help.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:34, Fri 09 Feb 2007.

As Cyan and Banglen-Yp return to the castle's main hall, the bard questions the odd woman, and finds yet more questions, hidden within her answers.  Banglen-Yp carries a bundle in her arms, somewhat reminiscent of Berd's recent towel-wrapped transportation by Trista.

Chance plays a somewhat diminished melody, to his equally diminished audience.  Most have made their way through to the rooms beyond the top of the steps to bathe, and Berd is asleep, sated, and recovering slowly from his efforts in the battle.


Tahirah finds a little privacy, and lays out a spread of cards, studying the cryptic designs upon their faces...


Jonnee listens to James and Meredith with half an ear, while watching the brintizzi set about their appointed tasks.  The fragile-seeming young woman has turned out to possess surprising resourcefulness and resilience.  Idly, he wonders if Caine might be interested in employing her as an agent...

Something to bear in mind, if he ever gets to report in.

Roman leans back in the bath, thinking.  The sorceror claimed to want "freedom for the myriad worlds" although what freedom they lacked was unclear.  And spoke as if he were unhappy that it had not been accomplished today.  He shakes his head.  Sorcerors tend to be inclined to...strange ideas.  And speaking of strange ideas there's the panther prince with his strange ideas about slapping.  Or more likely it's just a nasty sense of humour.  Not a lot to say to him, either.

"Not so long as I thought."  James seems content to leave the subject.

James offers a hand to help Meredith settle comfortably on Ahmad.  He will wait for the huge cat to rise before mounting himself.  Once he, in turn, is securely in place he puts his arms on either side of Meredith.  At this stage they're away from her body and just there for her to brace against.  He'd feel more comfortable just holding her steady, but once again he seems afflicted with a kind of shyness.  At least there are no reins to worry about.

"Have you ridden before, Meredith?"

Nodding to the other two, Morgan sheds his clothes, and sinks neck-deep into one of the bathing tubs. He wastes no time in working up a lather, though he keeps his ears open. The dirt, sweat, and other things itched.

Meredith looks a little undecided before hesitantly offering "They were the longest days I have ever known James... literally. Longer than any day I have known before" she shrugs then, and her smile looks a little strained.

She follows James to Ahmad and in those few steps the strain fades from her face. Meredith accepts his offer of assistance to get balance on Ahmad, and then pats the large cat's shoulder before offering apprecition to both Ahmad for the ride and James for the help getting settled. She has never riden a cat before, but it did not seem too difficult. Then Ahmad rises and the rolling motion causes Meredith to flail to keep her seat.

Clinging to the saddle in an exaggerated motion borne of desperation she laughs whole heartedly while regaining a more comfortable and suitable position. She is still chuckling softly when James settles in behind her, right behind her. Another blush floods her cheeks, though the cause of the embarrassment hard to determine. She tilts her head to look back at him and chuckles again "Once before... and never a mount like Ahmad. Who..." she adds in an exaggerated whisper "...understands human pefectly".

After some time, Tahirah gathers her cards back into their box, which vanishes again within a sleeve as she stands.

She makes her way around the encampment, and to the small fortress of Second Charyk; passing a simple, albeit hooded, nod to the guards, she walks past.  Looking always as though she knows where she is going; like she has the authority to be there.

Her feet lead her almost automatically towards the Great Hall.  She feels almost as though he knows the way - as if she had been here before.  Almost.  Perhaps it's nothing more than an inevitable commonality to the design of any great Fortress, or merely that Great Halls are large and generally meant to be found... but she finds it quickly, and directly.

And stops, looking about for the Strangers who came to Charyk.

Aaron was alone.

His surroundings were ignored for the moment. He wasn't particularly concerned with his where so much as he was with his how and why.

Sleep. Sleep was an absolute necessity. So he slept.

But 'sleep' wasn't so much what he took part in. It was a half-awake dream. He saw everyone he'd ever known, and they were all cursing him.

A moment and he was seeing them again, and now they were all blessing him. Aaron felt, inside, that neither of these things mattered to him.

Purpose.

Yes. Purpose. He had discovered some of that, discovered at least one reason for existence. A desire for something other than his own death, something other than his desire to shed this devestating guilt.

To save her. To bring her back.

Cyan.

"Because I love you, lady..."

Aaron laughed to himself, at himself. His love... yes. Cyan was not his. Cyan belonged to none but herself. Aaron would live a part of his life to make sure that was how she existed, to see that Cyan was a master of, and to none but, herself.

Aaron loved her in his own way. She was a master. Aaron had such an appreciation for her primal grasp of their mutual art, that seeing her devolve into anything less than her ultimate ability would be seen as not only an insult to him personally, but also as a tremendous loss for the worlds at large.

Aaron had to get Cyan back from Harbonah, not merely for his own personal feelings, but because he knew her loss would be a horrible thing for the entire group.

"Intent."

And he saw it. The shape, the thing, that had been haunting his dreams since the day he lopped off his own hand. Every time, he approached it. Every time, he took a single step. There would be no lightning. No sparks of energy. This shape would be made of something else.

Just flame. Purifying flame. Every time he dreamt of it, it melted him down and sent him flowing, to coalesce into... what?

He did not know. This dream always ended just as he took form.

"Truth."

Yes. Truth and blood and mystic steel. Those would be the blocks, the combination of the things which he would use to cement his path through the myriad worlds.

And Aaron slept, his oldest friend watching him from far, far away.

Aaron sleeps, bone weary, in a room with guards outside the door who, just for once, don't have orders to use force to keep him in there.


There are more people now, gathering in the great hall, including the two brothers.  "We seem to have most of the people settled in for now.  The ones who haven't been placed yet are mostly injured.  As soon as we've treated their wounds, we'll make sure they're comfortable.  Some of our own people are out there, along with the guards from your Charyk."

"They're organising things, making sure everybody has something to eat."

Tahirah walks in, swathed in her white robe.


Jonnee steps forward, rubbing one hand across the fur of Ahmad's shoulder.  "You look after these two.  They're my friends, see, and if anything happens to them, I'll be sure to mention how slow you are, next time I see Morgan."

Looking up then, unable to put it off any longer, he nods to James and Meredith, "Best of luck, to all of us.  Hope I'll see you around, but in better days."

"Your shoulder appear strong enough to bear heavy loads," Cyan agrees with a smile.  It fades a little, and she studies the woman with her emerald eyes.  "Perhaps they already have."  Her voice is uncertain - she does not know how her thoughts will be taken by the woman.

"As for him," she continues, with a sudden snort of amusement, "he will not have eaten his fill the moment he awakens.  A bottomless pit, a hole of blackness."  She watches the woman as Trista yearns toward the guitar and its musical waterfall, wonders at this.  Fond memories?  A desire to play?  Something different than either?  Then Trista announces her desire to clean, and Cyan reaches out.  She touches Trista's strong shoulder, then carefully gathers Berd up - he stirs, briefly, makes an impatient noise, then falls more deeply into slumber.  "There.  Much like that, though there are times I suspect I could toss him like a ball and he would not awaken."  Her smile flickers, stumbles.  "Not...that I would," she finishes, with a sad look to the little drake.

Not so long ago, that would not be true.

"Perhaps when you return, you might ask Chance if you would borrow his guitar?" she inquires quietly.  "Perhaps you have a passing knowledge?"

But the entrance of the two brothers interrupts her.  Cyan knows little of these two, save that they are the lords of this World.  She stands and bows, as best she can with a drake in her arms.  "My thanks," she whispers, then bows to the white-robed woman who follows.  An ally of theirs?  I remember her...from the other Charyk.  Yes!  She was OF that world.  How she must bleed in her spirit, now, at the loss of hearth and home.  And at Cyan's hand.

Another bow, this one lower.  "Lady Tahirah," she says quietly, in greeting.

 

Banglen-Yp's gaze was drawn to the tall man looking at her.

Chance, she believed his name was.  Curious name.  He had a guitar and long hair.

                                                            Memories stirred.

She smiled under his gaze, a bright smile, and then she turned her attention to the little bundle again.

Until he asked.

••Do • you • know • Rain • of • Re•vi•val ••

A question, for certain, as she tilted her head to one side, looking up at him again, this time a small, expectant smile on her lips.

Then, an answer, of sorts, to Cyan.

•• Al•ways •• It • is • the • way • of • things ••

Then she appeared to zone out for a moment.

•• Or • Sleep • sleep • sweet•heart •• But • that • is • sad • too •• And • no • sing•ing • for • me ••

She looked over at Chance again, a strangely melancholic smile on her lips.

 

The eyes change again: emerald. Do they match her moods? Intriguing. Or perhaps they match her perceptiveness as Cyan intuits a facet of Trista’s life. Her lips purse slightly in thought as eyes study the insightful bard, “Perhaps they have. Perhaps they will again.” A soft answer tinted with agreement.

Cyan carefully takes Berd into her arms. The woman falters over her words and quickly tags on an addendum to the thought of Berd as a ball. Trista’s heart goes out to this daughter of one who deeply loves her. Kind eyes find Cyan’s, “He knows you wouldn’t. He knows.”

Then the suggestion she borrow another’s instrument. Trista’s eyes widen at the thought of asking such a boon. “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. I don’t even really play. Three chords are about it. But I knew someone once who,” she cuts herself off when she realizes she was about to slip into memory with people who certainly wouldn’t be interested.

A small, warm smile forms instead, “Well, I just appreciate the hand who coaxes music from those six strings. There’s nothing like it.”

Banglen-Yp suggests a couple of songs for Chance to play and declines to sing herself. Trista wonders if she’ll dance under the appreciative gaze of the man. Either way, the baths beckon.

She turns to Cyan, “I’ll go clean up then. I hope to see you again later,” her eyes shift to Berd, “Maybe I’ll get to see him inhale some more food.”

She turns to Chance, “And I hope to hear more of your music, Chance.” There’s complexity in her simple words to the man as if streams of emotions and memories surround the notion.

Trista makes for the stairs; blood-stained towel bundled in her arms. The woman from Old Charyk enters the hall, pristine whiteness pulling Trista’s gaze. Cyan names her: Tahirah. For a moment, Trista thinks to stay, but dirt-crusted jeans dissuade her. She’ll return when she can stand near that white robe without worry.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:07, Mon 12 Feb 2007.

"Cyan then," Chance agrees with a solemn nod, though his gaze lingers, watching her. He remains undecided about the General, but she genuinely seems different, now. That didn't mean much. Chance could act different, when the situation demanded. He had never considered himself a serious actor, but he had spent more time on stage than many professional actors had, simply because of his extended age. However, as Luke told it, his age was merely a drop in the bucket compared to some of the questers. Chance merely looked young for his age.

He lets his gaze fall back to the guitar, not ignoring Cyan, but letting her go about her business. The rest of the group seemed to accept her. Why should he not do the same? Of them all, he seemed to be the only one who had experience with the General but not the Cyan before that. Perhaps that was all there was to it. Perhaps he merely needed to get to know the woman. Berd had claimed that one of Chance's callings among the questers was to judge people's character. If so, perhaps it was best he kept himself suspicious of Cyan's sudden conversion.

Chance pales a bit at the mention of borrowing his guitar. Borrow his guitar? This wasn't hell and it was far to warm for him to be passing his guitar around. He could play until a guitar appeared easily enough, but he was rather personal about others playing his guitar. Surely Cyan didn't realize that, though he was sure she had seen what the instrument could do in her camp. Perhaps it was a test.

He coughed quietly and began playing something soft and gentle.

"I’m afraid I don't," he responds to Banglen-Yp, though he had heard many similar titles in his lifetime. Even if he knew songs of the same titles, he wouldn't be sure they were her songs.  "Maybe you could teach them to me sometime."

He continues playing until the brothers enter. While the song gently fades into silence, he smiles and nods a greeting to them both, having never been one for formality or pomp, even in the presence of royalty and nobility. He'd had enough of that in his youth.

It was getting late, and he should finally retire. He stands. "Well, ladies, gentlemen, lords and generals, I'm afraid I must retire for the evening. I've had a long day of storytelling." The last he says with a twinge of sardonic bitterness, as if to emphasize just how little he had done that day.

He slides the guitar around to his back on its strap, once more. With a subtle shift, it changes to a guitar case rather than a guitar. With the next step, his clothing flutters and becomes a warm-looking pair of pajamas, white and stripped with thin blue.

"Yep, see you 'round Jonnee.  Thanks for coming.  It can be frustrating trying to fight Archons when you're stuck on the ground.  I know.  But you guys made a difference... Till better days then."

James reaches one arm back behind him and gives Ahmad a pat on his flank.  The other arm stays forward as a precaution.

"Ok, Ahmad.  Shall we head back?"

With a nod, Ahmad shakes himself, checking that nothing will come loose at speed. He glances backward, one eye closing in an unmistakeable wink, then slowly begins to build up speed, heading back the way they'd come. The wild rush of the wind carries an explosion of flavors, good and bad, to him, and despite having no competition this time, his paws send clods of earth flying behind him as he flies into a sprint.

Banglen-Yp seems to be focusing on Chance - strange woman, that, but not unlikeable.  Certainly not, in manner, like anything Cyan has ever met.  A first for everything, she supposes.

Her eyes catch Chance's reaction to her suggestion, and Cyan curses herself, inwardly.  She forgot - many people are much more guarded regarding their favourite items.  Then again, she had discovered, Cyan recalls, that Chance's guitar was not merely an item, but one of Power.  Would she simply hand gurthang over to another?  Hardly - the potential for disaster was simply too high.

Trista's answer is noncommittal, and Cyan hopes she has not, once again, stumbled across a line she should not have crossed.  But no - the woman is merely private, not angered.  Her compassionate eyes prove as much to the bard.

Then Trista saves Cyan from further embarassment by refusing the suggestion.  Thank the Spirits.  Cyan adjusts Berd in her arms, and wonders at the sudden halt in the explanation of her own skill in the guitar.  'Knew' someone.  Knew 'someone'.  Perhaps one reason for that sorrow in her eyes?  Someone known and lost, perhaps.  In a brief, selfish moment, Cyan hopes desperately that it was not her own fault.  If it is, I will own to it, she vows silently.  For now, though, the important thing is Trista.

Fortunately, she has decided to shift to an easier, safer subject.  Perhaps later there will be time for them to exchange stories.  For now...  "The guitar weaves its own spell.  Each instrument is different and each hand touches it another way...I am in agreement.  For all the splendor of that instrument, it is Chance's hand that brings it to life."

She offers a small bow for Trista as the woman makes the decision to leave.  "I hope you will return soon."  There are so many of you I wish to know.  But the sadness in the woman has struck a chord in her, the pain calling out.  She wonders what iron needles are buried in Trista's spirit to put that in her eyes.  A small shrug.  "Berd will be most put out if he wakes to find his bed has changed."

She stands and bows as Chance chooses his own path, hears the bitterness in his voice.  It is directed at himself, and she wonders at that.  Has he something for which to castigate himself?  But what can she say?  Cyan knows nothing of the particulars, and he does not appear to be in the mood to discuss.  The shift of his clothing, though, draws a startled smile from her, and she blinks in surprise.

Everyone, it appears, has shifting clothing, or IS shifting clothing, these days.  Well, not.  But she has seen a few.  "Chance!" she says, as he turns away, and bows.  "Thank you."  Her head comes up, ruby eyes bright.  "My spirit...it needs the healing your music has begun."

After, she turns back to the two brothers.  "Good Sirs," Cyan says quietly, "forgive me for asking, and I wish no details -" it's possible people might be suspicious of her! "- but...you have a means to safeguard Charyk from the Seraphim, do you not?"

Tahirah stops just inside the doorway, looking over the room.  The right room; perhaps the wrong time.  Everybody - of the Strangers - seems to be already left or leaving.  Save the two women.

She's seen little of Banglen-Yp.  Little enough to guess she is not a leader.  She had hoped, frankly, for Luke, or the gaunt one.  Dorian.  He reminded her comfortingly of the Lords of Charyk, and had forever endeared himself to her by being the first to call her home "First".

The redhead...Cyan.  The General.  She's not sure she's ready to face that one yet.  Yet she gives one of her small bows when greeted, and watches, as first Trista, and then the musician Chance, leave.  And then Cyan turns to speak to the Brothers, bringing her so close to Tahirah, asking of defenses...

...Of course.  Her feet brought her to the right room.  It must be the right time.

To an outside observer, one who cannot follow the thoughts passing through her mind, it might seem eerie, as the white-shrouded witch enters the room, and the one she chooses to speak to is so suddenly, so coincidentally, isolated, and then drawn towards her...

"This is not the next target."  The voice is quiet; not carrying over, but somehow cutting under the other sounds echoing through the hall.

Meredith looks at Jonnee and waves before grasping the saddle when Ahmad begins to move. As he picks up speed she cannot keep a smile of enjoyment as they pass through the portal and begin to pick up speed. A few giggles even escape her.

Then Ahmad begins to sprint.

Caught off guard, Meredith is thrown against James, who provides rock solid support. She finds herself settling against him as the panther sprints, finding balance and solace in his arms. She considers openning a link to apologize and explain herself, but decides against it, enjoying the simplicity and trying to discern shapes from the blurs that are whirling by them.

Chance pauses, turning to study Cyan as she calls his name. Being pajama-clad among lords and generals didn't seem to bother him, though it might appear comical with the guitar case on his back.

"Healing<./b>" He reflected. Did she mean it? What significance lies in her words? Two things came to mind, and Chance had never been one to censor his own tongue when an idea came to it. "<b>Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves," as he said the first part, her part, he aimed an index finger at her, at her heart. The second was for himself, so he reversed the finger, leveling it at his own heart. "And there grows no herb of help to heal a coward heart." His other hand lifted the bottle of vodka provided earlier that morning by Luke, the last remaining quarter sloshed around happily. "But vodka helps in either case."

Chance had never made any illusions to Luke or any of the party that he was not, by nature, selfish and less than brave, but today's events had scoured his heart and he wasn't sure he liked what he saw underneath the swagger and the songs.

He had said he didn’t know the old Cyan, but he had lied to himself. He knew her through Luke's stories and Berd's words. He knew her by watching Aaron and Dorian fawn over her, in their own reserved fashions.

Perhaps it was that word: healing. Perhaps it was that he himself had some healing today, and he felt a certain kindred spirit in her words. Perhaps it was recognition of the healing touch of the muses. Maybe, despite all his suspicions, he was just a sucker for a pretty face.

"I haven't been fair to you," he began, somewhat more quietly. The vodka-wielding hand fell back by his side. "I knew only The General, and I admit I've been having my doubts about you coming back. Maybe I'm still smarting from our last encounter. I thought for a while I was having a hard time trusting you, but I've come to realize it's myself I don't trust. Honestly, I don't know how I feel about you, but I do know that whatever I feel now is aimed at myself, not you. Because, back there at the camp, I was a little more willing to commit than I let on. It was only when Berd showed up that I finally decided not to join you. Then today, I offered to stay behind at this Charyk for a thin and purposeless reason when I should have returned to the battlefield where I belonged. So, I have as much healing to do as you, Cyan, because I was halfway there, with you. But I've decided, for now, I won't doubt your reason to be here until I'm sure of m own- for whatever that's worth."

He brought the vodka up again and gave it another happy slosh. "But, I'm not above sharing my medicine with a lady in need. Share?" He grinned impishly.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:28, Tue 13 Feb 2007.

Dorian exited the bath and went in search of a room. Cleaner now, he felt better, but not happier. He had witnessed a million enemy breeding worlds. He would not be lured into thinking this was a victory. Perhaps this had bought them some time, but it did not win the war. He had seen the slave worlds, such as Cargach's world, and he knew more were out there. He could not be happy so long as the Archon's remained in the Myriad Worlds.

He paused by the stairs, hearing voices below. Things were happening without him, but he had to let them go without being observed. He had much work to do before sleep would come to him this night. He continued on to his room. They would summon him if he were truly needed. If not, he would hear about it later.

Roman waits until the sorceror is safely gone before making his own exit.  HE dries himself off, and then wraps the towel around himself.  Gathering up his things he goes in search of a room to sleep.  New clothing can wait until the morning.

As the other two left, Morgan snorted to himself. Apparantly that was a private conversation, or his ears had still been ringing from earlier.

Shaking his head, a bit to gauge how drunk he was, Morgan firmly decided he didn't know, and it didn't matter. What did matter was that his water was dirty, and he could use a bit of a soak, so emptying his tub, he set out to soak in another.

 

Nodding to Chance as he replied, Banglen-Yp looked about at the others, as if studying everyone in the room, from her newest friends to the most recent face to step inside the room.

In such a fashion she spent the time until the music stopped and the sound of conversations mingled.

Never once did she stop sharing her attention to the well wrapped up bundle in her arms and then, silently, she stood up and walked up the stairs, out of sight and onwards up more stairs and around corners until she found herself at the battlement itself.

There she stood looking down at the big group of people from Charyk.  So many.  She wondered if the man and the boy sent to find him were down there.  She had not spotted them while back there but many had passed through before she got back.

She lifted the bundle and rubbed it against her cheek before starting to talk to it quietly, nudging it gently with her head.

 

Parcifal turns at Tahirah's words.  "We are not the next target?  Can you be sure of this?  Yes, we have means to defend this place, but if this information be true, then we have more time to prepare."


Standing alone upon the battlements, Banglen-Yp gazes down upon the refugees, and the troops moving among them, offering aid.  They are not all visible from here, since this Charyk does not have such a wide, cleared expanse around it, and people are only visible through breaks in the forest canopy.

There are fires down there, and people gathering around them, for food, warmth, and company.  Somewhere, there is singing, a little ragged at first, but growing stronger as more voices pick it up.

And then a movement catches her eye, fast and purposeful.  It seems that James has returned, panther-borne, and with a second rider.  Details are indistinct at this distance, but Jonnee does not ride, and nobody runs alongside the fast-moving cat... so the second rider must be the person they went to find.


In the depths of the fortress, people are shown to private chambers, where they can gain much-needed rest, while others continue to bathe.

 

Whispering to the little bundle and giving it a gentle hug, Banglen-Yp took it in her mouth before she stepped up on the battlement and stepped off.

The nearby guard blinked.  He had looked away for but a moment, not wishing to stare, and now the lovely but slightly strange young woman was gone.  With a confused grunt he did his best to pretend nothing had happened - he had not seen anything, anyway, and that was the truth.

As she fell she was once more an eagle, diving towards the ground with the bundle held in its beak.  The eagle dove straight for the gates and landed there gracefully and the next moment the blond woman stood there, teeth clenching the bundle.

The guards at the gate was confused at first when seeing the eagle land and even more so when it turned into a young blonde beauty.  They looked at one another a couple of times before deciding she was not a threat, and had they not seen her enter before, with the others?  Later, when they told this story, she would of course turn back into a human without wearing anything, and more than willing to comfort two tired guards.  Their grandchildren would tell tales about a whole flock of those eagles, both male and female, in various versions and never would the eagles understand why they got such odd looks from people around there.

Replacing the bundle in the crook of her arm Banglen-Yp waited for the arrival of the big cat.  While waiting she would start to stroke and pat the bundle who seemed quite calm despite the sudden drop.  Indeed, an almost amused sound came from it and Banglen-Yp laughed softly with it, smiling gently.

 

Chance's words are hard ones to hear - it is never easy to listen to a man tear at a perceived flaw within himself.  In the interest of goodwill, she takes the bottle, has a small sip.  This 'vodka' is not to her taste, but it is drinkable.

She hands the bottle back, thoughtfully.

"Do I blame you for your feelings, Chance?  Hardly."  She gives him a quick grimace.  "Certainly we did not meet on the best of terms.  And while you may have considered stepping across a line, I remind you that you did not.  You call yourself coward, and have no trust for your feelings.  I can well understand your reasons, but...trust builds upon trust.  Perhaps if you knew the root of the problem, you might begin to trust your own reactions."  She offers a lopsided smile.  "Whatever they might be, they are your own."

She steps back, looks him up and down, with his incogruous pyjamas and all.  "Perhaps you cannot see the good man that you are?" she wonders.  In the end, he had stood against her back on Nairans.  That was all that mattered.

At his last, coyote-smile, Cyan gives him a quick grin of her own, still nervous, still uncertain, but slowly gaining ground.  "I think brandy is more to my taste, and I am no lady.  Merely a bard, or so I once was."  Her sapphire eyes are faraway for a moment, considering.  "Perhaps," she finshes thoughtfully, "I will be so again."

At some point, Banglen-Yp has vanished, possibly to put her charge to rest?  But now Tahirah comes with an important statement of her own, that this will not be the next target of the Seraphim.  Cyan wishes she could say, herself, but Harbonah left the Army to her, and kept his own council.  Parcifal seems surprised, as well.

"Say on, Lady Tahirah," Cyan urges, suddenly tense.  "Where will the Seraphim strike next?"

The woman slips into a bath of steaming water, allowing the isolated heat to relax the muscles in her lean body. Her discarded clothes lie in a heap, her pack sits open nearby, and her newly-cleaned machete stays within easy reach.

For a few precious minutes, she indulges in a void of thought and emotion. It’s been months since she allowed herself a good soak instead of getting through the bath quickly and efficiently. The events of the day stay at bay. The memories which haunt her hide in dark crevices. It’s just Trista and the liquid heat.

Soon enough, she opens her eyes, sighs, and reaches for the soap and luffa she carries with her. As she bathes, her mind strays to her new-found companions. Some had talked with her, others had ignored her. Still others were there and gone again in a flash. She had long conversations with both Berd and Dorian. Each had imparted knowledge of one kind or another. Berd had also given her the gift of empathy. A rare gift, that.

He had also imparted a sense of being known she hasn’t felt in many years. She does not have to wander alone. She can be part of this odd group and help the greater good. She can make a difference.

The question is, will she benefit them or be a hindrance.

Berd and Dorian seem to feel she has something to offer, even if it isn’t on the grand scale of the others. For now, that’s good enough for her. Trista’s spirit is thrown in with this group against a common enemy, and she’ll spread her arms to catch the sky.

The bath doesn’t take long, and soon she drips water as she towels off. She takes a few minutes to clean her clothes in a small amount of fresh water; she may not be able to create clean clothes from thin air, but she’s self-sufficient in the mundane acts of caring for herself.

Once the clothes are set to dry, and she’s done splattering herself with water, she grabs another set of jeans and a white sleeveless t-shirt from her pack. The clothes sit tight on her body, revealing a flat abdomen. Her boots are brushed off, her pack is, once again, set on her back, and the blade straps to her thigh. She’ll return for her dry clothes later; there’s little fear anyone in this Charyk would want her well-worn jeans.

The Hall will be her destination, to see if others still linger. To find Cyan and Berd. To find companions.

James, now with some experience of Ahmad's speed, is braced well before the mighty panther hits top speed.  As the movement pushes Meredith back against him, James reacts instinctively to wrap his arms around her waist.  He feels a moments concern.  A fall at this speed would snap bones.

James is a little surprised, but pleased, that Meredith doesn't pull away from him again and he makes no move to release her.  Once again he enjoys the exhilaration of speed as the ground flashes past beneath them.  Conversation is impossible and it's hard even to see clearly as the wind of their passage brings tears to the eyes.

As they approach the gate of the fortification James lets Meredith go.  As soon as they have stopped he swings down once more so that he can help Meredith dismount.

"Thank you Ahmad, that was fun.  I hope I haven't tired you out with all this charging back and forth."

James spots Banglen-Yp waiting to one side.

"Hello Banglen-Yp."

He waits for Meredith to dismount before making introductions.

Chance smiled appreciatively as Cyan sampled the vodka. It had surprised him, actually, and highlighted how little he really knew of the bard. "Honestly, I think I did step across that line. I just managed to step back across at the right time. As for the reasons, it's not a big mystery, but you're right, they are my reasons. I will dwell on your words. Sleep well, Cyan." He turns and takes a step up the stairs. "And welcome back."

 

Banglen-Yp waved and smiled happily at James and the new face that Ahmad brought with him.

•• Hel•lo • James •• Hel•lo • Ah•mad •• Hel•lo ••

The last hello was aimed at the woman.

 

Ahmad flirted his tail, an approximation of waving, in response to the greetings and gratitudes.  It seemingly wasn't a problem.

Tahirah is quiet for a moment, measuring.  Then she says, "`Certainty' is rarely a part of my gift.  I cannot say that they do not look to send a feint this way, if they have tracked us to our refuge.  But the storm gathers elsewhere, and one called Harbonah turns its eye to a city called Amber.  I do not know of it, but the seed of their end lies already near their heart.  Of that much, I am certain."

It was all over too soon. They had reached this alternate Charyk quickly, a testament to Ahmad's speed and strength. She notices the woman waiting for them and is immediately curious.

She accepts James' offer of assistance from the massive panther with thanks and executes a flawlessly smooth curtsy to the other woman She is about to give Ahmad a gentle rebuke, but when then other... woman? speaks.

Yes, he was probably right.

Of course, none of this showed on her face or countenance. She was better trained than that. Outwardly, Meredith gave Banglen-Yp an open and friendly smile that was only marred by the stitches on her left cheek.

"Hello, it is a pleasure to meet you" Meredith returns Banglen-Yp's greeting and her soft voice has a sharp, formal sounding accent.

Settling onto his haunches and curling his tail about his fore-feet, Ahmad rumbled a light greeting to Banglen-Yp.




Morgan, in the meantime, had rested his eyes a few seconds too many, and drowsed in the tub.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:21, Fri 16 Feb 2007.

Meredith, James, and Banglen-Yp make their way back into the castle, escorted by Ahmad.  Upon entering the Great Hall, they find a meeting, of sorts, in progress.  There are faces which Meredith recognises, and others that she is less familiar with.  And there are some more of the panthers, just a handful of them, sprawled on the floor to one side, surrounded by scattered scraps of orange peel.


"We have heard of this Amber, I believe.  The man who created the our weapons spoke of it, upon several occasions, though he referred to it, most often, as Ember." Parcifal says, and a moment later his brother adds, "He also said, quite often, that razing Ember to the ground would be doing the Universe no small favour."

"Yes, that did seem to be something of an obsession for him."  Parcifal shrugs, then, "Eventually his constant insistence that we declare war on Ember, using the weapons he forged for us, and an army gathered from as many worlds as we could reach, began to grate on our nerves, and we decided he had outstayed his welcome."

"Hah!  Not to mention his unending complaints about how, since he had made the Sword and Staff for us, we should show some gratitude, and fight his war for him.  We sent him on his way, in the end." says Gawain, shaking his head, his expression one of disgust, "He came back only once, after that, but we had warned the guards not to admit him to the fortress."

Aaron's eyes opened. Something was on his mind as soon as he rose, and he wished to speak it aloud. However, the first word he spoke as he rose was a name.

"Christine."

Or to most, even Aaron, Chrissie. But from his dreams came her visage and that name, Christine. Was there such a big deal when it came to names? Perhaps not, in some places. A great deal, in others.

What did it mean? Had his grand-daughter stepped upon the Pattern? If so, Aaron had already anticipated it. He would not let the girl grow up ignorant of the worlds around her, nor of the tremendous responsiblity placed upon her by their simple connection of relation.

The Pattern. The shapeshifting Anynian weaponry Aaron himself wielded. The Truth. Aaron's daughter. All of these things and more were a part of Chrissie's history, just as much as they were of Aaron's.

He would educate her, if not in the Pattern (for surely Fiona had tested her, must be testing her), then he would extend his own wisdom and knowlege. He would show her blade and spear, stave and axe, and primarilly ranged and flexible weaponry.

Every Sjardring blade was flexible, and Aaron had one specifically in mind for his grand-daughter - if he could help her find it.

But that was for another time, another place than here and now. For at this moment he only wanted a single thing.

Focusing his mind and will, Aaron opened his senses and cast a single desire, seeking and finding.

"Cyan. I wish to see Cyan."

Roman would doubtless find the discussions in the Great Hall of interest.  But now , sleep beckons and he drifts into slumber.  The news can wait until the morning.

"I believe it is where you rest at the end of the day that is important, Chance."  Her voice is serious, her eyes grave.  Whatever his decisions earlier, whether he faltered or not, Chance is here, now.  And that is the important thing.  "Good night, Chance.  I wish you the best of dreams.  And thank you."

Silence, as Chance ascends the staircase.  Then, + GOOD.  I LIKED HIM +

+ I SUPPOSE THAT MEANS WE DON'T KILL HIM FOR HIS TREACHERY +

Cyan is silent upon her seat, the drake sleeping in her arms, as Tahirah explains her 'gift'.  Her analysis of the situation makes a certain sense; Harbonah is nothing if not single-minded, and she remembers the line of breaks, stretching from one end of the Myriad Worlds to the other.

Sooner or later, they would be trying the defenses of the fabled Amber.  They would wish to plant a sphere, perhaps more, upon the Great Pattern itself, to shatter reality into a more...malleable form, one assumes.

Parcifal and Gawain bring information to light, regarding their mysterious 'benefactor' and his connection to Amber, or Ember.  As the figure of Trista appears in the doorway, Cyan plies the two men with a question.  "And what was his name, this creator of your weapons?" she asks.  Perhaps they might glean something from that response, when James returns - he, of all of them, has the greatest experience with those of Amber, and she knows there lies a traitor within their ranks.

"Trista."  She raises one hand to the woman, now cleansed of the grit and sweat of heat and battle.  In the strange clothing, so similar to that of a World Cyan left - a year ago, perhaps? - Trista presents a striking appearance, a gestalt of modern wear and traditional steel.  Berd stir, makes a bleek in his sleep, and Cyan, a small smile on her lips, beckons her over.

Then more figures enter the hall - Cyan's smile grows at the sight of the returning James, bringing with him the alien woman Banglen-Yp.  The smile fades at the sight of the second woman, a tiny figure in patchwork clothing and antique jewelry.  Another traveller, new to their quest?  Or not?  She has been gone for nearly two years, herself, though Berd assures her it has been much shorter for them.

Cradling the somnolent Berd, she stands to offer a small bow to the trio.

Parcifal regards Cyan with a steady gaze, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his Sword.  "Ganelon was the name he gave us."

Gawain nods his agreement, "Aye, Ganelon, he called himself.  Though for my part, I came to think of him as False-Friend."

Having more formally introduced Meredith and Banglen-Yp when the opportunity arose, James leads the way into the Hall, where he finds Cyan (with Berd), Trista, Tahirah, Parciful and Gawaine deep in conversation.  He would dearly like some more food, a bath and maybe some sleep - preferably in that order.  It would also be wise to introduce Meredith and Cyan.

But James recognises the seriousness of the conversation, so he stops and stands waiting, trying to get a feel for the topic of conversation.

Aaron dressed. He wasn't quick about it, though he had a number of things on his mind, he needed to be patient, to air things out. He needed to breathe.

He was thinking about many things. Travelling to Amber. Seeing Chrssie
Christine
again. Reuniting with all of his comrades. Eating, for god's sakes.

And it was there. Always, now, in the back of his mind as it once had before, poking, prodding, never at rest. He wished, so he wished, to let it out, but he had neither the knowledge nor the power to do so. All he had was an idea; an inkling. One he needed to share with others, desperately.

Dorian. Berd.

Cyan.

And so he dressed, leaving his fabled blade and armor within his room. As he exited, not so much clean as rested and starving, he told the guards (Guards! At his door!) to not let anyone into his room until he returned. After that, he requested directions to the Hall and made his way there.

The woman makes her way down to the Great Hall, neither particularly tired nor desiring for solitude. Surprising.

The guitar player has vacated the room, but Trista still hears the strains of poignant sadness he had played.

Cyan still cradles Berd, talking with Tahira and the Brothers of Charyk. Trista halts in the doorway, not a pause of shyness but one of courtesy; she does not wish to interrupt. But the jeweled-eyed woman waves her over and Trista’s mouth curves in a quiet smile. She feels better. Clean. Refreshed. The edge of melancholy has lifted slightly.

She steps forward as the group continues their conversation, giving the sleeping dragon a soft look. Her stride bespeaks of a quiet self-confidence, one which does not require attention. Trista’s eyes flick to the other doorway where the familiar James and Banglen-Yp enter with a new face, James’ Merideth, she surmises. She can see why James was so eager to find the woman; she radiates warmth.

Her attention draws back to the men who respond with a name which Trista does not recognize, but he created weapons which evidently have some significance. She’ll have to learn of these things later, perhaps at Dorian’s or Berd’s leisure.

Or perhaps simply by listening and reading between the lines.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:05, Tue 20 Feb 2007.

 

•• Ple•sure ••

Banglen-Yp echoed the woman's greeting and then grinned at Ahmad and held up the bundle towards him.

•• Same • but • not ••

The head of a small ginger kitten peeked up and smelt the nose of the big cat before putting a paw against it, no claws, and letting out a tiny little mewl in greeting.

Then they all began to walk back in and the kitten seemed to wake up a bit more, climbing up on Banglen-Yp's shoulder.  Draping the bundle over her arm she giggled at the small cat and leant in to whisper to it, getting a head-bump in reply from the little one.

Then a loud vibrating sound started and it might not be obvious to all that it was the tiny little kitten that was making it - too big a sound for such a little creature, one might think.

 

"Ganelon."  Cyan rubs her forehead wearily, struggling to place the name.  Legends, perhaps, from dozens of worlds, each with a different story.  Ganelon, the traitor knight.  "This man would seem to be one of the keys to a many-slotted lock," she murmurs.  An angry lord of Amber, who then turned to the Archons for further assistance, having learned of them from his time here?  Who might say?

She looks toward one door, where James has stopped with his charges, Banglen-Yp and her kitten, and the other, ethereal woman.  Her words however, are still directed at the brothers.  "I know nothing of this Ganelon, save his part in stories which may or may not refer to the actual man.  I understand," she says, carefully (for this is a sore point with her), "that there are some who create echoes through the Myriad Worlds."  A turn of her head brings Trista into her vision.  "Perhaps the stories are such?"

Berd sturs again, shifts in her arms, close to waking.  He grumbles quietly, then falls deeper into slumber.  Cyan arches an eyebrow over a brilliant, topaz eye, and considers tossing the dragon in the air to the other woman.  But he has an excuse for remaining asleep, even at a time like this - she knows he has burned away much of his own strength.  As have I.

A figure moves closer behind Trista, and she recognizes the stride even with the woman blocking her vision.  Aaron.  He lacks his armor and weapons, she realizes, and wonders how.  A moment later it comes to her - his stride, though it is certainly his, is subtly different.  She knows him well, Cyan realizes, from months of travel together, and yet she knows him not at all, not even why the autumn leaves fall within his eyes.

Tahirah nods at the name.  "If it is the same Ganelon that crafted the weapons we knew in," only a slight pause, "our Charyk, you should know, if you do not, that he may have left them with a curse.  Though if it was the same known to us, I am hard pressed to find malevolent intent within it, saving the secrecy."

As others gather, she smiles quietly within her robes.  The news delivered to the leader, and the others...gather, in ones and twos, from her and there.  As if by chance.  The right time, indeed.

"Yes, a curse which, it seems, is designed to prevent them being used against each other."

"Which begs the question, did Ganelon suspect that we will turn on each other, or was he just being careful?  More interestingly, perhaps, why was it so important to him that the weapons could not be used in fraternal combat?" Parcifal glances at his brother.

"Yes, that is odd.  If his aim was simply to prevent the weapons being used against each other, then why construct them so that one would destroy itself, and its holder?  Clearly the survival of the weapons, and ourselves, were not his primary concern."

"Interesting, too, that they are able to distinguish sparring, such as we have engaged in upon numerous occasions, and actual combat, with the intent to harm each other."  Gawain's eyes turn to the floor, gazing at the stone slabs, as his expressin grows thoughtful.  His left hand grasps the Staff, while his right rubs at his chin.

"I never really trusted him.  There was something about his appearance that I didn't like."

A curse?  Cyan slowly begins to understand more as the two men speak to each other.  At her feet, Left and Right hum slightly, communicating, as they, too, absorb the knowledge.  "Some treachery planned," she murmurs.  "Perhaps...is it possible that he could have seen something in the other two men, not present in yourselves?"

Convoluted plots.  She hates them - they make her head hurt.  Cyan has always been a straight thinker, and unless she can marry reality with a story she knows, finds it difficult to consider in curves.

And Tahirah confirms that there is at least a superficial resemblance between the crafters of both blades.  A name, and not a common one.  Perhaps it is indeed the same man.  "My lords," she inquires, "what of his appearance disturbed you?  Was it something in particular?  Physical?  Or a feeling?"

The bundle reveals itself to be a small kitten which sits on Banglen-Yp’s shoulder. There’s sweetness in the way the woman dotes on the tiny creature, and its purr would indicate its own happiness to be with her. Trista reflects on the perfect blonde, all smiles and giggles. She doesn’t seem to have any interest in the conversation at hand. Seems. Perhaps behind those inattentive eyes, a sharp mind takes in all that is said and done around her. Only time will tell.

When gravity lightens, Trista will ask the woman about her foundling, but for now, weightier issues demand attention.

“…echoes through the Myriad Worlds.” Trista has heard of such things from her father, but has no experience herself. Stories abound of this person in that place. Certainly, some are simply different shades of similar worlds, but perhaps a person of power could leave their own shades where they please. Hauntingly disturbing.

Trista feels a presence behind her, but there’s no warning look on Cyan’s face and so she let’s whomever it is join the circle at their leisure.

Talk of curses ensues. Trista wonders what this has to do with the Archons, but hopes that will be revealed. In time. All things in time.

Patience.

Trista adds her own question, a basic one which the others may all realize already. Though she understands she may be as a girl in primary school compared to these of the university, she asks without hesitation or embarrassment, “How do you know of this curse? I gather it isn’t from experimentation,” for obvious reasons, “Lore, perhaps?”

"Well... it was nothing I could lay my hand on.  It was more to do with his air, than his physical appearance, I suppose." replies Parcifal, looking to his brother for support, and receiving it.

He was always so secretive."

"Yes, secretive.  He would avoid other visitors, sometimes staying out of sight for days." the man shrugs, "It's not as if he was hideously ugly.  In fact his looks were somewhat striking.  Particularly his eyes, with their silver flecks."

"He was strong, and healthy too.  So he was not hiding away because of some infirmity."


In various parts of the fortress, many of the servants and guests, alike, find themselves the centre of some odd attention.  As they go about their business, at various times they find that they have acquired a large, black shadow, which invariably attempts to be looking at something else if they turn to study it.

Giant panthers, it seems, do not make the best covert agents.


Ahmad studies the kitten, closely.  Yes, it bears some slight resemblance to him.  But it is small, and helpless, so not exactly like him...

Meredith enters the hall, falling into place 3 paces behind James, to his right. It is unconscious, almost natural for her to place herself as a servant. Unobtrusive, but available at a moment's notice. She stands silently, taking in the scene before her while the serious conversation flows around her. There are many new faces, but some she recognizes. Berd. Cyan. Meredith has never met the woman, but has seen her many times in the hearts and souls of others.

Meredith steps forward silently and clears her throat delicately.

"Please excuse the interruption my lords and ladies" she says in a soft, but audible voice "There are many new faces present. It is good to see that our numbers have grown in my absence" she smiles radiantly before executing a smooth curtsy "My name is Meredith... please forgive my ignorance, but do we have one of the weapons here? I may be able to discern much about the intent and any possible curses by touching one of them" she offers openly, her clear gaze moving from person to person equally, as she is unsure of who to direct her offer to.

Ahmad decides, after his inspection, the woman is right, but I'd best pay more attention to the conversation. >   As the talk goes on, his enthusiasm wanes.

Or get someone to wake up Lord lazybones. . His furry tail twitches around the kit as his amused thought continued.

"Human women complain about the falling asleep right after, but he's gone off before they even meet!" Have to save that one for sometime he's drinking.

Catherine, nudged from her curled position by the remnants of the oranges, nods heavily to Ahmad, and pads upstairs to call them awake, while Ahmad decides to follow the woman with the kit for a while. Meredith, it seemed, would be busy for a while.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:57, Fri 23 Feb 2007.

An interesting question Trista poses, regarding the curse.  Cyan doesn't know the story behind the other Charyk, and as such, she is just as curious as to the response.  Regrettably, the question goes without answer, the brothers choosing to instead discuss the man, Ganelon.  Useful information, this description.

And then the strange, slim woman beside James speaks.  And the name rings a number of bells for Cyan, several of them latched directly onto memories of a week or two before (for her).  Meredith.  The one she thought might be Berd's creation.

Another question, this one begging one of her own.  Why does she wish to examine the weapon?  Simple curiousity?  Doubtful.  There must be a reason...but Cyan cannot see it.  Instead, she glances to Trista and offers a shrug, unsure as to whether or not her question will be answered.

OOC - Sorry, folks.  A little bit dopy from throat medicine.  Can't think of anything else to post.  :(

As Aaron approached, he caught Cyan's eye, raising his head slightly to gather her attention. He approached her, placed a hand upon her shoulder and whispered into her ear (and Berd's as well.)


After that, he stepped back and merely considered their current conversation, absorbing it as best he could.

 

Sensing that the kitten wanted to get down, Banglen-Yp crouched down so that the mighty hunter could make the impressive leap onto the huge, hairy snake that was wriggling about.  Like a sabretooth attacking a mammoth it grabbed onto the tail - and then it begun to make little cute growling noises as it tried to get a grip on its prey.

Banglen-Yp found it quite interesting and watched the whole ordeal, splitting her attention between it and the woman named Meredith, listening to her and the other speaking.

 
This message was last edited by the player at 20:00, Sat 24 Feb 2007.

The brothers give answer to Cyan’s query, and add nuances not thought of. The creator had hidden away for no explicable reason. Her own question remains unanswered; no doubt considered unimportant. Irked, Trista doesn’t bother to put it forth again; she’ll glean what she can from the rest of the conversation.

Merideth steps forward with elegant politeness reminding Trista of an English lady from old movies. Though she does not look the type to have expertise in weaponry, she requests to see one of the fabled weapons. Looking for magic, perhaps? A power of discernment? If so, she has a great gift indeed. When Merideth’s gaze passes her own, she nods a greeting, but does not interrupt the flow of information with speech.

To Cyan’s shrug, she responds with tilt of the head, indicating both defeat and gratitude for the acknowledgement. Her eyes drift to take in the kitten playing stalker and the perfect blonde giggling over the display.

The presence behind her turns out to be the one named Aaron who steps to Cyan’s side. So many who love her. A fortunate woman, indeed. No envy taints her thoughts, merely a sort of awe.

Finally, her attention draws back to the brothers with anticipation over Merideth’s request.

Parcifal staeps forward, his hand outstretched towards Meredith, and clasped in it, a sheathed sword.  "This is the crystaline blade which Ganelon forged, sibling to the Staff, held by my brother, Gawain."

He glances towards Trista, "We do not know that these weapons are cursed, or enchanted, depending upon your point of view...  But Ganelon forged identical weapons for use in the other Charyk, by the versions of ourselves who dwelled there."

"When that other Gawain attacked his brother, his Staff was destroyed, and him with it.  This we have been told by some of your companions."

"It seemed safest to assume that a similar spell is laid on these weapons too, since the same person created them."


The panther, Catherine, moves up the stairs, surprisingly slowly, considering how quickly she can move.  She reaches the bathroom, and finds Morgan, snoring in the tub.  He is talking in his sleep, though the words are indistinct.

Meredith reaches out her hand, laying it upon the hilt of the sheathed weapon, and closes her eyes, her face a mask of serenity...

Tahirah has taken a step back.  Her information had been given, and was being passed among the right people.  She watched Meredith from beneath her robes with professional curiosity.

She had learned among the Lords, though, that one learned more by watching those who watched, than joining in the common focus.  So her attention lies on the newcomer only briefly, before sliding over the others.  Parcifal looks confidant; curious.  Trista appears to have picked up on that, as if...it is his sword, and therefor his choice how it should be taken.  James...the pride one can take when someone they are close to is shining.  While Cyan has a... thoughtful look, only a hairsbreadth shy of suspicion.

A curious direction for such feelings to be going.  Promising.

Quietly, Tahirah sidesteps to stand by a table, and sets her box down gently.  Sliding off the top, she draws out her cards, holding it in one hand.  Almost lazily, her delicate fingers separate three cards, one from the top, and two from further down, to lay beside her on the table.

Caught up in trying to decipher the conversation and perhaps guess at what had been said prior to his arrival, James fail to notice that Meredith has stopped behind rather than beside him.

Trista's question is a good one.  Because we told them so..  He is about to speak when the brothers belatedly give the answer.

James finds himself surprised when Meredith steps past him, not that she should volunteer her services for that was very much like her, but that she should have taken up the position of servant again.

She seemed so much more confident.  Why did she stop there?<i>  James at once questions and scolds himself.  <i>Relax, it's only been a week, remember.  An answer of sorts.  Best not to have exaggerated expectations based on the changes he had already seen in Meredith.

James has every confidence in Meredith's abilities.  And so, while she examines the sword, he racks his mind for stories of Ganelon and some of his more distant relatives in Amber.

"I believe Ganelon is a name that my grandfather Oberon once used.  But inciting an attack on Amber?  That would be unlike him.  Any one of my aunts or uncles would be more likely.  Or even my great-grandfather, Dworkin."

Maybe Meredith will be able to tell them more.

Meredith's hand rests lightly on the hilt of the great crystal Sword.  Her eyes are closed, and she is calm...


With a gasp, Meredith releases the hilt.

"I have seen the history of the blade.  Ganelon placed a curse upon it, yes.  But its only purpose, as best I can see, was to prevent the two weapons being used against each other."

"I also saw Ganelon requesting these two knights to help him launch an attack on Amber.  They refused and drove him out."

Turning to James, she addresses him.  "As I said, I saw Ganelon.  A strong man, with eyes of gray and silver, and dark hair shot through with red.  Is that your grandfather, or great grandfather?"

Parcifal holds the sheathed blade, and his gaze flicks back and forth, between Meredith and the weapon.  "Aye, that's Ganelon right enough.  An impressive gift, that one."
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:22, Mon 26 Feb 2007.

Catherine eyed the door, but decided not to try it, calling to Leareth inside instead. "< They're talking about important things in the hall. Ahmad's keeping track, but Morgan should be there. >"

Leareth's shortly growled response "< I'll fetch him down. >" reassured her, and she decided to go exploring, while a solid black tail woke the prince.



Ahmad, meanwhile, purred indulgently, an twitched his tail for the kitten, letting it pounce and play.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:54, Tue 27 Feb 2007.

"But why keep the weapons seperate? Why divide them so that they could not be used against the other?" This was food for thought as far as Aaron was concerned, and he smiled slightly as a possiblity came to him.

"I'm sure a few of us are familiar with familial in-fighting, yes?" Aaron rubbed at his nose slightly, unable to resist. "If I had a lot of stock in an extended generation of offspring, I certainly wouldn't want them killing eachother off with my own weaponry."

Then another thought came to him, and he sighed, shaking his head. "Can't say it hasn't happened to me before, though, unfortunately."

Her question receives a reply and Trista reminds herself to keep assumptions at bay next time. The answer is simple, but Trista being completely new to this group did not know of the other weapons in the First Charyk. Bits and pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place, looking less hollow and more like the one the others already know. She nods her understanding to Parcifal before turning her attention to Merideth as she communes with the sword.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees cards turning out onto a table by the hands of Tahirah. A seer?

Between Merideth and Tahira, both seemingly of great power, Trista struggles to include a third in her examinations as she listens to James’ remarks about his family. Oberon is a name known to the woman. Tales spun by her father in more doting days. Dworkin, too, though she had always believed him to be of myth and legend.

Her eyes leave the women to focus on James. The grandson of Oberon? The Oberon? And Dworkin, too? He has memories of these men. So my father wove truths into his fairy tales. The World is a confusing place. And Myriad Words are that much more obscure even though she’s known them all her life.

Soon Merideth corroborates the curse and wonder if Ganelon is the same as Oberon; a question for James.

The one called Aaron adds his own insights, questions, and… memories? Trista’s intrigued, but has learned she does not know enough to comment. So again, she remains quiet, absorbing and processing all she hears.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:43, Wed 28 Feb 2007.

James considers Meredith's question, "Both Oberon and Dworkin were capable of shifting form, much like Roman or Devlin, so I can't tell from Ganelon's appearance.  The eyes are probably a give away but I can't remember any of that.  If Bleys ever told me, that is."

Tahirah regathered her cards in a quiet movement, watching James.  Aunts and Uncles?  Connections...lines from which to form patterns, perhaps.

Listening to his words, though, he sounded...tenuous.  But Blood is a powerful force, and has tides of its own.  Then she stiffens slightly, robes rustling faintly.  "The eyes?  Grey, and flecked of silver," she muses.  "Powerful of build.  He named himself Carl Corey, when he returned to our Charyk, and vanished from a closed room with the Sword."  She lapses quiet for a moment, and then says, "Then he came here, and was turned away...or before.  Meredith, if it is the same weapons, forged by the same man to the same purpose...might they sing to each other?  Can you feel how many were made?  How many reclaimed?"

Aaron moves around the room, catches her attention, places a hand on her shoulder.  Cyan offers him a quick smile, one that fades as his message reaches her.  She nods, slowly, her amethyst eyes fixed on his burnished bronze orbs, and sends her own reply.  In her arms, the sleeping Berd grunts, belches, and then slowly begins to blink his way back to wakefulness.

So many questions, but Cyan keeps her mouth firmly shut.  They're pursuing a line, here, and doing quite well.  They don't need her throwing in two cents, and perhaps tripping her up on a non-sequiter.  Aaron speaks, and James, and Tahirah, and the one called Meredith, weaving a tapestry around the single knot of the weapons.  Possiblities, probabilities, and facts ricochet and collide, and a picture begins to form.

She doesn't know enough, herself.  Better to listen, to learn, with her mouth closed.

This Meredith - how did she do that?  What power allows her to see through the veils of the past, to know the minds of those who created and held the blade?  Such unearthly power in those around the room, as always - titans in the Myriad Worlds, these are.  Witness even the horse-sized cat, lounging in the corner of the room, one of many who seem sworn to the one named Morgan.  She wonders what potent abilities Trista carries beneath her mournful countenance.

Berd groggily staggers up her arm, onto her shoulder.  Beyond the ability to charm Berd, that is.

Charm is the wrong word, of course.  But it's more amusing that way.

Ganelon.  Carl Corey.  Forging of the weapons.  Vanishing from a locked room.  Grey eyes, flecked with silver.  More.

And as always, Amber at the center of the web.  We must travel there, it appears.  And soon.  The place she has wished to see for ages, since before this journey began.  The ultimate homeland for so many of those she knows - James, certain, Aaron and Dorian in part.  Jonnee had been changed by one of that place.

Berd gives a small chime, and commences to clean himself.  His eyes glitter in the dim light, faceted jewels lit from within.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:32, Tue 27 Feb 2007.

Roman awakes from a strange dream.  Maybe it would be as well to warn someone...I won't get back to sleep with this nagging at me.  Going back to his posessions he collects a small case, kindling a light before getting back into the bed.

From the case he draws a card, and stares intently at it...

Shape shifters. Silly, perhaps, this aversion she has to the concept. One of the group’s own, Roman, is one and none seem to have a problem with it. A new name, Devlin, apparently has the gift, too. Trista wishes she had paid more attention to the tales of her traveling father. Perhaps she’d understand more of this Oberon and shape shifters.

More revelations. Carl Corey vanishing from a locked room. She listens attentively as the seer questions the diviner. The waking Berd gathers her gaze with his sparkling eyes and cat-like ways.

"Vanished from a locked room?" Now Aaron smiled. "Palanquet - that is to say, Trump, or walking in a circle with the Pattern... hell, any multitude of ways to traverse the Myriad could have pulled this 'Carl Corey' out of that locked room."

"Curiouser and curioser, friends." He shifted his weight, considering all that had been said.

Berd yawns, stretches.  His mouth gapes wide, and he unfurls his wings, tail stiff and straight behind him.  Then the rigidity goes out of him, and he pools on Cyan's shoulder again.

"We know little of Ganelon's schemes." Parcifal states, his gaze travelling from face to face about the room.

"And now it would seem that Ganelon was not even his true name."

"He came here long ago...  It must be, what?  Ten centuries, Brother?"

"Aye, at least, though we've travelled about from time to time, so it's hard to be sure."

"That feels about right, though...  He spoke to us of hundreds of worlds, and a dream he had of forming an army to protect and police those worlds.  We already knew of a dozen other Charyks at that time, so none of his talk was that surprising to us.  He persuaded us that we were the best men to recruit and lead this army, and he started forging the weapons for us."

"He would disappear from time to time, and as it seems now, he may have been forging similar weapons for others during those times.  Then one day, he told us of this Ember, or Amber, as you call it.  He said it was a powerful threat to all we knew and loved, and needed to be thrown down, yet he could not prove it, at least not to our satisfaction."

"And so we refused to join his cause.  He tried to demand the weapons, after that, but we would not give them up... "

"And he got somewhat angry about that." Gawain interrupts, "Declared that he didn't need us, or them, anyway.  Perhaps because he knew he could steal others elsewhere?"

"Yes, and he had the nerve to threaten us... " chuckles Parcifal.  "Though so far his threats have come to naught."

Roman's lips move as he quietly speaks

Leareth's swat serves to wake Morgan, leaving a stunned expression on his face as he examines arms that had not been bruised when he entered the baths.

"Corwin's horns, what was that?" Morgan stands, fumbling himself into a set of loose trews and shirt. Every few seconds, he stares again at his arms, as if he can see the hand-prints through the sleeves.

He only half-hears Leareth's explanation, but slips into the hall, with no fanfare, but a small wave for those he recognizes.



Ahmad, meanwhile, is having a more enjoyable time. Pausing to let the tiny kit get firmly attached, he curls his tail just over Banglen-Yp's head, watching the results with amusement.

 

Strange names.

Strange places.

Strange happenings.

Not quite grasping the things that are going on, Banglen-Yp still listened to what was being said.  The Archon before has called them Defender of Worlds.  Now this.

She had set out to find other but found this instead.  The screen, however, had taught her that this was more important.  The need of many outweighs the need of one.

Keeping an eye on her latest friend, the ginger kitten, she laughed - quietly - as it clung to the tail that were lifted above her head.

For a moment she feels the itch to join the little one in its game, but decided that perhaps Ahmad would not quite appreciate if she bite his tail like the kitten did.

Instead she reached up to tickle the kitten where he was hanging, getting a mock angry growling mewl in response and a quick but dirty little glance, as if he asked what she was doing when he was about to defeat the big evil Fur Wyrm of the Big Hall.

 

Alone in his chamber, a blue light fades from before him. His eyes open. He reclines in a chair, disrupted by a messenger from the room below. The message, no more than he already knew. It was his habit to keep an eye on his surroundings while preparing his spells. Too many important things were likely to happen in his absence, that downstairs meeting being one of them.

Yet, he could not contribute his ideas to the discussion without attending. He gathered his cloak about him and stood. He would need to forgo even more sleep, but when called he would answer.

He emerged from the dark stairwell. His eyes sought Cyan first. He was glad. She looked like Cyan. That brought a small smile to his face. She still looked exhausted, though. He kept his distance, though, not for aversion, but respect. She had enough bodies about her right now.

"Ten centuries?" Dorian asks. It was roughly that long since he had left Samhain. "Those of Amber and the Courts live such long lives, and their offspring. One must wonder if you were not seeded on Charyk to form the head of such an army, then. Yet, the existence other brothers, each to their own Charyk, sound like regular denizens of the Myriad Worlds, reflecting each other. Perhaps this dream of policing the Myriad Worlds was merely a plot to get you to attack Amber, a righteous cause rather than a power-hungry coup is easier to swallow."

Amber would be the center of things, had it a choice. There are those who would claim it to be the most powerful place in the cosmos, but if Dorian had learned one thing in his journeys, there was always a bigger fish in the pond. If not, there was always another pond with bigger fish. The Archons were from another pond.

"It would seem to be a fine plan, to have powerful generals armed with powerful weapons to lead armies against Amber. I wonder if the Charyks form a road to Amber, or circle Amber in some way. Perhaps this Ganelon didn't merely find these places. That is just speculation, but it would seem odd to arm the generals before securing their loyalty. I suspect he had another plan. Perhaps he really meant to have protectors around these worlds, which would be oddly benevolent for an Amberite. As for the curse, it is reasonable that Ganelon would make his own weapon, too. Perhaps he merely wanted to be sure that his creations were not turned against him. That sounds like an Amberite, to me. Against the Archons, did they seem more effective in any way?"

There was a mystery to these weapons. What did Ganelon intend for them to be used for. The last question was a long shot, but they knew a traitor lie in Amber. Who know if this Ganelon was the traitor, too? The answer, he suspected, lie in the original purpose of the weapons. All they could assume of that purpose is that it was either to protect these worlds or to attack Amber.

"I trust Lady Tahirah. Amber is the next target. As for Amber, personally, I'd like to join the Archons in their seige. Yet, there are those who would say Amber contributes to the stability of the Myriad Worlds. Perhaps that is true. Perhaps not. I am more interested in what the Archons seek there. There is much easier territory to gain than Amber. Is it logical to attack that city now; or do they seek something else in that place? Either way, I think it is time we finally set path towards Amber and sought some answers."

He did not relish seeing Amber, or Fiona, again. It was a tough decision. He would follow the plan of the Questers, in this. He had only voiced what others had thought or voiced. He would put thoughts of his mother aside. He would have to do so.

He'd rather face Harbonah himself than go to Amber.

His eyes turned to Tahirah, now. This one had an amazing gift, and like so many others, she had been displaced from her home. What would she do now? He gave a polite nod of acknowledgement in the woman's direction. She seemed to be holding up well, considering such great loss.

As the other late-comer speaks, Morgan finds a grin twisting his lips. A rather good introduction to his own question.

 He stops, and leans against the wall to ask those gathered,  "Are those of Amber able to visit dreams? My ancestor Julian was gave me orders in mine, and the evidence on my body when I awoke shows it more real than I thought. For that, and other reasons, I would follow if any led there."

Morgan's sickly smile, and the hand prints on his now exposed arms express his ambivalent feelings about the dream. Or message.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:52, Fri 02 Mar 2007.

Aaron is right, of course. There are many ways for the powerful to disappear. That doesn’t make the reasons for the disappearance any less intriguing.


The brothers continue, Parcifal taking on the greater burden of explanations and histories. Morgan re-joins the group, the cats still play hunter and hunted, and soon Dorian appears within their circle. The man speaks with authority and an understanding that bespeaks of his formidable knowledge. His presence is strangely reassuring.

Trista’s brows frown at the marks now apparent on Morgan’s body. If she had woken from strange dreams marked by the hands of a dead ancestor, she would be more alarmed than this man seems to be. “What were the exact orders Julian gave you?”

All roads lead to Amber… no doubt.

Morgan's bow is sketchy. More an impression than an action.  "Find the traitor. Stop him before he kills everyone. I'm afraid he was a bit sparse about the details."

Looking again at Aaron, Morgan firms himself, and repeats his support. "So I'm with Aaron on going to Amber. Hopefully soon. He did not look well, and you fellows said he guards the land routes. "


Still dangling the kitten over Banglen, Ahmad looked interested at the discussion, as did Leareth, trailing Morgan.

"We have always been here." Gawain says, taking over from his brother, "And such lifespans as ours are certainly not usual among our people.  The oldest of them reach an age of, perhaps, a hundred years.  Most die much younger."

"We, on the other hand, aged normally until we were in our twenties, and far more slowly since then.  As far as we can tell, our parents lived perfectly normal lives, and were both dead of old age before we were even reached our first century.  Once we built this fortress, we moved their remains from the old graveyard, perhaps three miles from here, into the crypts beneath us."

"It would seem that we are subject to a very strange blessing.  Or curse."  This time it is Parcifal's turn to interrupt.

"Cedric, a historian, speculated some years ago that the weapons might have prolonged our lives... but even if that were the case, we were already much older than anybody else when Ganelon first came to us."

Tahirah listens quietly.  Morgans words are interesting - ancestors, when James refers to aunts and uncles.  With such lifespans, it makes sense to be one and the same.  How old, she wonders, is James?  It doesn't even occur to her to question the reality behind the dream.

Dorians words are more interesting...to join a conversation with replies to what has gone before.  She smiles a bit to herself.  He has more than sharp ears, she's sure.  Another thing he shares with her previous Lords, but he does not seem to possess their selfishness, or their almost incidental cruelties...

"He looked unwell?" she asks, of Morgan.  "The poison set to the heart of Amber bears entropy; dissolution through disorder.  If it has already begun, their time may indeed be short."

Roman frowns

"If Julian is already hard-pressed in Arden, you may be sure of it.  Entropy and disorder makes it sound like the Courts are attacking, no offence Roman.  But if it is the Archons then I would worry less for Julian and more for Gerard."

"The forest of Arden will limit the Archons effectiveness from the air, but Amber's navy would struggle to make an impact on an enemy that doesn't need ships."

James is troubled.  For some time now he had been urging a return to Amber.  But if they are under attack any warning is irrelevant and, even after the current conversation, James feels no closer to identifying the traitor.
"Sod it.  I wish I could help more.  But Bleys only described my family members, if indeed it is one of the family who's a traitor.  And much of that escapes me.  I was kind of overwhelmed by all that was happening.  He even made a point of avoiding meeting people at the time."

Forging armies.  Policing worlds.  It would seem this Ganelon's wishes reached very far afield.  Cyan considers the idea, and wonders if it was not simply a good idea taken to a foolish extreme.

But no - interfering in the business of other worlds?

And now Dorian enters.  She hears him before he does, and fingers the cloak she still wears.  He slips through the door, a dark shadow, and offers her a quick, rare smile.  She returns it, but he hangs back, leaving her with Aaron and Berd.  Curious.

His words make sense.  'Establish a moral cause'.  The words of the Sage on warfare.  But he brings more questions, and Cyan believes she may, MAY have the answer to one.

Not yet, though.  Others speak.  She tries to capture Dorian's eye with her own, amber orbs, and motions with her head, removing the cloak.  Berd protests, crawls about her shoulders to get comfortable again, then settles down.

More discussion.  The Catlord, Morgan, comes forth with a dream, possibly sent to him by Julian, one of the few royalty of Amber Cyan has met.  Trista inquires of the exact orders - a wise precaution.  Find the traitor and slay him or her.  Easier said than done, but necessary.

Aaron is right, of course. There are many ways for the powerful to disappear. That doesn’t make the reasons for the disappearance any less intriguing.

Tahirah speaks of a sickness at Amber's heart, a sickness of Entropy.  Finally, Cyan sees an opportunity to speak.

"I have some thoughts," she begins, hesitant at first.  "Both are old ones, but worth repeating.  One is information, the other conjecture.  First, regarding this sickness - the palanquet of Amber, that which many name Trump, have been infected with something Fiona termed a 'virus'.  Indeed, we have watched one combust.  They breakdown, they no longer function, they burn.  This means that a connection to something vital is being disrupted in Amber."

She does not speak of the Underflow - not yet.  Later.

"The second is the purpose of the Archons.  We have...made attempts in the past to discern what it might be.  Here, I offer a single guess.  Berd?"

The little drake complains, then slowly stands.  His mouth opens and he breathes out a glittering cloud...a cloud that expands from glittering particles to a slowly, rotating elipse of tiny lights, hanging within the dimly lit room.  Cyan steps forward, under it, and points.

"These are the Myriad Worlds."  Her finger moves to one end of the ellipse.  "This is the pole of Chaos."  That end brightens, red and baleful.  Her finger shifts to point up at the other pole.  "This is the pole of Order.  Berd?  The Worlds."  Tiny, ugly green lights begin to appear upon the 'starfield'.  They begin in the middle, and slowly begin to work their ways toward the poles, almost in a direct line.  "In most of the Worlds conquered by the Archons, an 'Orb' is emplaced.  Sometimes it is placed directly upon that World's Broken Pattern.  Sometimes not, presumably when the Broken Pattern cannot be easily located.  These Orbs drain the life from the world itself, and pass it on to...an unknown place.  They intensify the Breaks within the Broken Patterns."  She turns back to face Aaron.  "Aaron understands more of this than I.  But I shall continue."

She waves a hand at the image, and it shifts, closing in upon a single world.  "When enough energy is drawn from a world, when the Breaks are large enough, it grows thin.  Decay begins to settle in.  The world's laws crumble.  It grows mutable, and eventually falls to pieces."  The golden globe darkens, then shatters.

Cyan slowly turns in place, to stare at the others.  "We have seen the lands in which the Archons are most comfortable.  Places of no physical laws - this is where the Nephillim dwell, beyond a gateway in a church we discovered.  Could it be that the Archons wish to revert the myraid worlds to a broken mixture, with no barriers between the Worlds, no laws to restrict them?"

She points to the line, strung nearly from one end of the Myriad Worlds to another.  "This represents worlds upon which Berd has sensed the presense of Archons and their works.  You see there are some outliers, but for the main, they form a near-complete bridge between Order and Chaos.  I have heard tell of 'short-circuits' from others I have known, Jonnee Kay being one.  What might happen should this connection of Breaks, from Broken Pattern to Broken Pattern, leading from Logrus to Grand Pattern, be achieved?"

She points to Amber again.  "And energy is drawn from the Orbs.  What might occur to the Myriad Worlds, all of them, should an Orb be emplaced upon the Grand Pattern of Amber itself?  What sort of power might be acquired in the thieving of its strength?"

Finished, now, Cyan steps back to see the result of her words.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:28, Sat 03 Mar 2007.

Now Aaron spoke from behind Cyan, a knowing and curious look upon his face.

"Awesome power," he answered for her. "Awesome in amount, that is. The orbs, their singular purpose is to draw energy, all energy, convert and channel it. It is for just such a purpose that they live."

Live. He had said it, one of the secrets which burned in his memory. Aaron would never forget that discovery for as long as he lived. It... disturbed him.

"The Myriad will be divided in half and broken asunder. I believe that if such a thing occurs, it will release a tremendous amount of energy, channeled into the orbs. My friends, because of this, I hypothesize that splitting reality is merely the first part of their objective."

Aaron caught the eyes of Cyan and Berd then, and Dorian's as well. He looked to James also, a pained look on his face.

"The sheer amount of energy generated by such a disastrous confluence would be enough to accomplish their second, and primary objective. The point behind the orbs themselves."

Parcifal reaches out one hand, and a servant is there, almost immediately, with a goblet of wine.  The man who holds joint-rulership of this domain drinks deeply, and then starts to speak again, thoughtfully, as he paces back and forth.

"If the danger is so great, then you should, by all means continue on your way, as soon as it is convenient for you.  Please, don't take this as an attempt to force you out of our home.  You are all welcome to stay, for as long as you wish, but you make it sound as if time is of the essence in this matter."

"Nonetheless, we will not see you leave empty handed."

A pause for another long pull at the wine, "But... with all these extra mouths to feed, we can spare nothing in the way of supplies, for the moment.  You do have our support though.  If Amber is important to all of us, and it is in such grave peril, then Charyk will come to her aid."

"Ganelon implied, and you have verified it, that Amber has a far-reaching presence.  But while he told us that presence threatened us, we are more inclined to believe that it does no such thing."

"Take our offer to the Lords of Amber.  Tell them that if they call, Charyk will come."

His pacing stops, and he exchanges a look with Gawain, and a brief nod.

"I... we... pledge this."

Talk of unnaturally long lives intrigues Trista. She’s lived in the Myriad Worlds her whole life and never knew those with long lives except her family who decidedly did not live there. And herself… she’s not old compared to those standing in this court yard, but she decidedly ages more slowly than those of her beloved Shadow.

More contribute, words and ideas coming from points in the circle, resulting in Berd creating the cosmos and Cyan explaining the fabric weaving through the worlds. Energy. Orbs. Archons. Though some here already knew, no doubt, the lessons Cyan imparts, they are new concepts to Trista. She’s traveled the Worlds, but has not understood them. She has only loved them, the people, her people. It makes no difference her blood runs of Amber and Chaos intertwined, the Myriad Worlds are far more real to her than anything from those places.

So it is with keen interest she listens to all Cyan has to say, all any have to teach.

The last, before Cyan grows quiet, the last visibly rattles the woman. A quick intake of breath at the dawning of her Worlds being so connected to Amber that if an Orb were placed within Amber, all could be lost.

“We have to save them. All of them.” The words are quiet, not meant for others, simply a reaction.

Amber. All roads, indeed, lead to that place of myth. A place she’s been slowly pathing towards for many years, yet she’s afraid of what she might find there. Her goal, her desires, her nightmares.

Amber.

Her eyes slowly make their way to the little dragon, so casually draped on Cyan’s neck. The dragon who knows her.


Her attention comes back to Aaron, catching the looks he gives those he trusts: those he’s known the longest. Parcifal makes a pledge and Trista wonders at concurrence with her silent pledge.

If Amber is their destiny, Trista will be there to aid in whatever way her strong spirit can.

Roman nods. 

Roman puts away the cards and settles back into the bed.  It has been a hard day's work.  At least his mind is a little more easy, despite the bad news from home.

Entropy and disorder, Dorian muses. For James, it might mean an attack of the Courts of Chaos, but he wonders if it might not just be the decay of the great pattern.

Cyan's smile warms him. The motion of her head, the sway of her hair, are but simple gestures inviting him towards her, but they draw him to her like a shiny lure coaxing a fish from under a dark rock. He cannot help but smile again as he nears, glad for being there.

Her assertion of an orb reflects his secret suspicion, too. He is glad to hear that other seems in agreement with his desire. Many times, they have sought to make Amber their destination, but something else had always lured them away from their plan, it seemed.

He has forgotten some things--the Trump/Palanquet, of which he never understood much, and the virus that Fiona spoke of. Yes, he remembers something of that, now. Cyan's Bardic memory outshines his, as usual. Hers is like a sturdy trap that never releases its prize.

"I have glimpsed some of what the Archon's home is like, much like that place we found, though it was not the subject of my investigation at the time. It is reasonable to assume they wish our node to be the same, too.

"As for Amber, we can only assume to things. Whatever they play, it is not good. The prospect of an Orb seems likely, though I would imagine the Family would respond with much vigor should they suspect any tampering of the pattern. However, I recall this is not ht first time there was tampering, and that went unnoticed for some time, as well. We can also know that the Family will not like us meddling near Amber no matter our goal."

"And yet at least one of the Family has specifically requested our intervention, as Morgan tells us.  And Aaron is right, an orb on the Pattern would be catastrophic."

James agrees with much that has been said.  The scenario presented by Cyan (with audiovisuals by Berd) makes sense.  In James eyes it was clear they had to go, all that remained to be decided was the manner of their going.

"Berd.  Do you think it's safe to attempt a voyage through the Underflow, given the battle?  If not, we need to start making preparations for a hellride.  Actually, that wouldn't be too hard.  Morgan's company gives us a perfect means for rapid travel."

"Enthusiasm is understandable, but we are ill prepared for such haste at this time. We would arrive merely to throw rocks at their chariots, so to speak. The Questers require rest and recovery before they are able. As always, we will exhaust our limits in defense of the Myriad--as we have today--but we are yet mortals and limited to mortal effort, give or take a little. That said, I suggest we hasten to this rest and recovery since it would seem we now know our course."

Aaron, the local expert regarding orbs, speaks up in response to her own theories, and his suppositions, conclusions, are chilling.  Cyan grows cold at his disclosure, that the orbs themselves are living beings.  It should not surprise her, given her time with her former captors.  Her former allies.

Worse still, he offers confirmation of her fears.  Certainly it would be the logical decision of the Archons, to emplace an orb upon the Grand Pattern itself.  Tactically, strategically, it would be a shattering gain for the Archons, and their wisest move.  It would be...what she would do.

The thought hollows her heart.  Was this how the ancients like Aaron, like Dorian, saw the world?  She did not think so.  Hoped it was not so.  She glances back at Aaron for a moment, stares into his autumn eyes.  No - the worlds are not all numbers, all lines and movements to him.  She knows that - proof is in action.

Trista's words echo in her thoughts.  To save all of them.  All the worlds that remain.  One of Cyan's hands tightens into a fist, and she nods, grimly, a fire awakening in her ruby eyes that chases away the emptiness in her heart.  That has been her purpose from the beginning, and while she may stumble, she will not fall.

Parcifal and Gawain pledge themselves to the Quest, albiet indirectly, as allies to Amber.  A wise decision, Cyan thinks - Amber has lost much of its glow for her, due to what she has discovered during the Quest, but given the circumstances would be a powerful ally, and certainly one of two places that need to be guarded at all costs.

Dorian arrives smoothly, as is his wont, a small smile on his face, as is not.  She gives a slight nod in return, head to the side, and Berd lets out a small whistle as he again gets comfortable.  The dark man speaks of his own soundings of the Archons' home, and then continues to add his voice to the weight atop the Amber theory.  James, the rock, shifts the balance altogether; unless one of the others comes up with an extremely compelling reason why they should not go, Amber is their destination.  Cyan offers a nod of agreement, a nod that turns into a yawn.  Surprised and embarrassed, she claps one palm over her mouth, and struggles to control the crimson flooding her features.  "Apologies, James - it is the hour, not the speaker."

She glances at Berd, herself, for a moment before Dorian interjects.  Dorian, ever the voice of caution (no, not always, a small whisper inside reminds her), counsels a night's rest, something for which her body cries out.  She looks around the room, stares at the faces.  Weariness on several.  James, of course, looks a trifle rumpled by his experience, but otherwise stands strong.  She cannot help but laugh, briefly, a small sound of amusement.

"I fear, James, I must agree.  I have not slept in...days, it would seem."

"Rest," Aaron begins, "is not just sleep. I fear we just need time to sit. Lest we forget, there is a traitor in Amber's midst. We cannot arrive there weary and worn. We must fall upon Amber's doorstep strong, rested and prepared for any eventuality."

Aaron sighed. "The road we walk is long and hard, our enemy throws the wealth of the myriad worlds at us to stay our hand - but we are not dead yet. Pardon my optimism, but that's the way it's always been."

"However, now is not the time for Amber. Soon, yes, quite soon. I cannot stress enough though, that we must arrive prepared. I believe the enemy may even be anticipating our traverse to Amber."

Raising his head to Dorian, Aaron gestured back towards his quarters.

"When you have the time, Dorian, I'd like to discuss something with you and... a few others."

Parcival interrupts then, "Well, of course, you're all welcome to sleep here, and leave when you are refreshed.  We - "

He stops, and his eyes lock on Aaron, "Wait!  Did you say that the enemy may be aware of your plans?  How would they be aware of them?  And does this awareness place Charyk in more immediate danger?"

"Could they, for example, know that you are here, now?"

Morgan listens to the others speak, and tries not to look as impatient as he is. He hasn't words to answer Tahirah if the question wasn't rhetorical, so lets the question be lost as the conversation continues.

James's comments on the protection of Arden, he somehow doubts. The Archons are able to spew fire from afar, and even green wood will burn, if its hot enough. Perhaps the woods have other protections, that no one has mentioned, though, so he holds his tongue.


He hadn't really considered how the refugees might strain this city's resources. The trees seem healthy enough to support several such cities, but things don't grow as easily, or quickly, here, now he remembers to think of it. They'll have to go hunting and see if the beasts are edible, in the morning.

 But then the talk turns to rest, and his impatience surges. A night, a week, or months? He can't tell how much rest they mean, and Julian...the need had seemed urgent.

"I haven't been with you long, so pray excuse my question. How far, and how dangerous the path, is it to Amber from here, the way you travel? We can cover the physical distance quickly I think, but what of the distance between worlds? If your way is measured in days or less, and you mean more than overnight by rest, we could do so in my father's kingdom. The storms seem to have stopped, so supply will not be a problem. "

"Amber's time is not long," Tahirah cautions.  "Harbonah's trap is already in place; if James' dream speaks true, the trigger may already have been given.  But nothing will be won in failure."

She turns to the Brothers, and gives one of her small bows.  "Perhaps I might bear your promise, in partial return of the great aid you have given?" she offers.  "If it is acceptable to them that I might travel with them when they go."

 

Suddenly Ahmad feels a slight change in the weight hanging on his tail as a second kitten joins the first in clinging to the tail with teeth and claws, although they probably are barely felt.

Hind legs kick at the Fur Wyrm as they both struggle to defeat the monster that threatens everyone, small growls and noises escaping the two.

Down below on the floor some kind of strange ash is sitting, as if spilt from a bucket carrying ashes from a fireplace, and yet not quite the same.

Every now and then the new kitten glances at those speaking, as if listening, but most of the time is spent focusing on the epic battle that is taking place.


_{Fixed a typo.}
This message was last edited by the player at 08:29, Thu 08 Mar 2007.

James looks hesitant, unsure of himself for a moment until a decision is made.
"Don't worry about it, Cyan.  You're probably right.  Dorian and Aaron too.  I guess I am being a bit hasty.  I missed the worst of the fighting today, so I'm fresher than most."

James then turns to address Parcifal's concerns, "They have sorcerors and other, more exalted, powers.  It's best to assume they can scry or otherwise eavesdrop.  Berd can probably block them now he's eaten and slept, at least a little.  But what it boils down to is:  Charyk, probably all of them, sit on a junction between worlds.  Sooner or later the Archons will come here if they are not stopped.  It is possible, but unlikely, that our presence here will hasten their arrival.  It is more likely that they any revenge attack will fall later.  If I were them I'd pick a spot between here and Amber."

And Morgan's.  "With Aaron and me, movement between worlds is an exercise of will.  Generally the stronger the will, the faster you travel, at least that's how I understand it.  Charyk's peculiarities will probably speed our passage, but I've no idea how long the trip will take or whether your home is even remotely on the way.  I think it's best we rest here, for all that I want to be leaving."

James looks, and feels, edgy.  As always, the Archon's headstart left them playing catch-up.  By rights the battle in other-Charyk should have been a grand victory, something to stem the tide.  But the forces arrayed here would be nothing compared to those brought against Amber.

It had been a long day. Now he stood once again next to Cyan, which was the only victory he had craved, but it did not bring the happiness the chaos lord accused him of feeling. He well knew the dangers of a happiness dependant on another's presence. Long ago, he had learned that lesson. So what else was it he felt when she was near? Perhaps the instinct for survival recognized that danger, perhaps it caused him to keep a respectful distance from her, when he called it prudence not to crowd her. So much had happened, and he had so many things to sort his way through. Instinct had led him well in the past; did it lead him astray now?

"If it is short, Aaron," he said.

They would find opposition in the Archons, and possibly the Family. Can their arrogance be so mighty as to stop a few people from, potentially, saving their world? Saving all the Worlds? Yes, yes that is possible. It’s disheartening, but very real, if her own experiences prove true.

If they are lucky, they will simply gain a wary eye from Random, et al. But if they are not so fortunate…the Family is all too powerful. The coming days are looking more and more hazardous.

James’ question regarding a ‘hellride’ and the Underflow must be answered through psychic links as Trista does not hear the answer. Understandable, considering he asked Berd. The woman wonders how much is being handled silently. And just who is included in those conversations; she guesses those who have traveled the longest together. She waits to learn the answers in time.

They come, though not obliquely, but through inferences. They would rest and then James and Aaron… a hellride? She would ask Berd of this. Tahirah offers to travel with the group; their numbers grow. A seer in their midst would surely benefit them all.

Off to the side, the blonde woman morphs into a cat and plays with her foundling. A frown mars Trista’s brow, but if the woman wishes to play, it is not for Trista to judge. There is, after all, a benefit in her seemingly carefree attitudes.

James’ explanation of movement through Shadow intrigues Trista. She has her own way of movement, but it’s slow and confined to her and what she carries. More powers, great and terrible.

Aaron wishes to speak with those in the ‘core group’ and Trista takes that as a sign it is time to leave them to themselves. She had hoped to talk casually with Cyan, get to know more of Berd’s daughter. But this does not seem possible, at least not at the present time.

She nods once as she concludes, “Rest then. And privacy for those who wish it. Amber is our destination, though it holds no joy for me. None of this does, I suppose.” Her eyes land on Berd, “Perhaps there was a small measure of joy found this day in saving these people.” Her words layer with meaning.

Her eyes lift and travel about the circle, “I am honored to be in this company,” and land on Dorian, “and do as I can to stop these Archons.”

Berd shifts upon Cyan's shoulder, concern in his eyes.

"Dorian, Cyan, Berd... if you would, please come to my quarters as soon as you are able." With that, Aaron strolled off to prepare for the journey.

Aaron brings forth a stopgap measure - for starters, deal with the issue of exhaustion and planning.  Tahirah seconds the notion, with a cryptic comment regarding the future of the fabled city, and a wise warning.  A fine idea, in truth - Cyan feels fit to fold.  She pauses, though, recalling his request of earlier, and slowly nods when he mentions another meeting.  Nervous, suddenly, Cyan shifts from foot to foot, and Berd lets out an irked chirrup before settling back.  Morgan, in the meantime, appears ready to begin on the journey at a moment's notice - no sooner has silence fallen that he leaps into the breach with the the all-important question: How?

It would seem that James and Aaron will be their guides upon this journey.  Cyan slowly nods, a touch of excitement.  She never, ever grew tired of the march from world to world; long ago, before his new ascension, Berd had been her guide in a rambling path.  The steps of a scion of Amber seemed straighter by far, and this 'hellride'...she had been on one, once, with James - a shocking experience to be sure, and not without a terrifying beauty of its own.  "Hardly missed, James," she replies quietly.  "You were quite likely the turning point, arriving in the very teeth of time with allies."  Thinking about the battle set her own teeth on edge, twisted her stomach, and she thrust those thoughts from her head.  I turned gurthang upon Aaron, and Jonnee both...no, enough.

And, as usual, James' summation of the strategic situation of Charyk matches Aaron's rundown of the current, overall status - well said, and poor.

Dorian remains silent at her side, and now it is Trista who speaks, over the small squeaking of the two kittens at play.  Cyan gives her a rueful look - rest for the other wanderer, perhaps, but apparantly not for the bard.  She hears other meanings in the woman's words, and wonders at what they might be.  Then a final compliment, and Cyan bows in return, flushing with surprised embarassment.  She looks at James, their pillar, at Dorian and Aaron, then to the newer people - Morgan with his cats (all three, at the moment, of various sizes), Tahirah, knowledgeable and determined despite the loss of her home, and Meredith, a silent, keen observer.   Trista's strength finds itself in good company.

"We are glad of your company," she states, bowing again, this time to all of the newcomers.  "Rest assured of this."  Aaron slips away with a final reminder, and Cyan gives him a quick, nervous nod.  "I fear I must bid you all a good night."  She slides the cloak from her shoulder, offers it to Dorian with a small smile and a wave to follow Aaron.  "Yours, I believe?"

Best they get this done - she won't sleep until she finds out the purpose of this discussion, that's for certain.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:27, Fri 09 Mar 2007.

Dorian never felt any need to use honesty as a crutch, though he was far from compulsive in his dishonesty. Both honesty and dishonesty could be used in strategic ways, as needed. In dealing with Cyan, he had been honest and open, but the reason was not born of strategy. It merely... seemed right. At the same time, he wondered if it had been wrong. That was where his instinct collided with itself. On one hand, he felt it was best, yet it went against his centuries-old nature to be so open and candid, volunteering what was not requested.

Movement catches his eye, as she turns to him, removing his cloak and offering it back to him. Part of him foolishly wants to tell her to keep it, though she obviously no longer needs it. What was it, some misguided need to give her everything, anything, as a strange gesture of affection, or some juvenile need for attention from her? Yes, these were the feelings that went too far, beyond mere care. These were the feelings that would damage him and anything between them. Or would they? Perhaps the quest made such things seem misplaced. Things had grown muddled in his mind, tearing him in many directions. He no longer had his compass, figuratively, to guide him in this matter.

   ~loneliness~
     ~it has been too long~

Memories-- his memories....

The compass had guided him true in that battle. It had led him into dangerous waters, where he would not tread willingly, exposed. It had seen him through to the other side. He could examine emotions of desperation. They had a source, a need, that he would need to discover and address, but the compass had not guided him wrong.

He accepts the cloak, with a small bow, though he did not don it immediately. "Thank you," he says in a low voice. "I hope it served well." He carefully folds it over his arm. How rarely had he let the cloak venture from his shoulders? For such a simple thing, it seemed odd in its significance. The significance, of course, did not lie in the fabric, but in what lie beneath. Exposure, on two levels. No more needed to be said about the cloak. He could see the weariness in her eyes, face and body. She made a brave effort of lingering to hear what was said, to speak.

He turns back towards the others, then. Trista's eyes catch his as she bids everyone goodnight. He nods, as if in agreement to something unspoken. No joy in Amber. Could there ever be joy in Amber, for any of the siblings? Perhaps not, but the woman seemed dedicated to the quest, which was admirable. He guessed at some need within her to have such a purpose, but more than that, she displayed genuine concern for the Myriad, and that was more than enough reason to put aside feelings for Amber.

For Dorian, it had once been no more than concern for Samhain that had pulled him into the quest. Now? Now, there were so many things, but he found that often there was a question of right and wrong, more than in the past, that guided his steps.

"I retire also," he announces. "After a brief moment to hear Aaron's words, of course." With private conversation so common among the group, he marveled that Aaron desired a private meeting with he, Berd and Cyan in particular? No James? So, it wasn't just the older members, then. It bothered him to wonder what Aaron had on his mind. The man could be... unpredictable.

Meredith lets the conversation flow and form without taking an active roll. She has just plunged back into this situation and does not want to disrupt the others as they try to piece things together and plan. She turns to answer Tahirah's questions about the weapon quietly, an aside.

"The weapons are connected, but I am unsure if they would sing to each other. The Brintizzi are guarding a cache of this same crystal in the other Charyk. I did not see enough to recall if they were fashioned into weapons or not. I may be able to get more information if I spent more time with the blade"

Still sensitive to the mood of those around her, Meredith picks up on James' edginess and she takes a step back, so that she is alongside him. Without thinking she places her gloved hand on his arm, a gesture meant to show support. "We have been nipping his heels this entire time, slowly coming closer. This time we will not miss him" she says with absolute confidence, her grey eyes serious as she looks up at him.

The Fur Wyrm thrashes, making the pair of fearless kittens work for their holds, and Ahmad's ears twitch in amusement as he realizes just where the second one must have come from.

Morgan accepts James's answer with a sigh and a nod. "Good night to you." He returns to those ending their evening. He has a bit more energy left, though whether the nap had refreshed him, or it is simply the leftover tenseness from the nightmare, is still a question.

Conscious of Meredith's nearness and, most of all, her hand on his arm, James takes a deep breath and sighs heavily.  He forces himself if not to relax then at least to be patient.  "You're right, Meredith.  We will catch him.  I'm not sure what happens then, but I think it involves stopping him.  Making him pay would be nice too, but I'd settle for an end to the fight."  James puts his free hand over Meredith's where it rests on his arm

As various of the others head off to their rooms, James eyes follow Dorian for a moment.  There goes one conversation I'm glad I'm not part of.


"I haven't introduced you to everyone yet, have I Meredith?  The gentleman on his way to bed is Morgan, who commands Ahmad and his kin.  The lady in white is Tahirah of Charyk.  The two lords are the brothers Parcifal and Gawain who rule this Charyk.  And this is Trista, who joined us during the fighting in Charyk."

James speaks for Meredith's benefit since she has already introduced herself.  He finishes the introductions with Trista quite deliverately as he continues speaking to her.

"I'm glad you're coming with us too Trista.  Sorry we haven't had the chance for that chat yet, but I had to go meet Meredith."  A very personal compulsion that one.  "If you're not too tired we could talk now or we should get the chance on the road tomorrow.  It looks like Aaron and I will take turns leading."

 

The two kittens seemed delighted at the extra struggle and continued to cling on, making some kind of noises that might sound amused even, at least with a little imagination.

Eventually they clearly decided that they had defeated the Fur Wyrm and settled on to hunting for a warm spot - where they began to wrestle about who would get to sleep in the absolutely "best" spot.

After a little while they both had fallen asleep, entangled, with a paw each straight on the other's eye or ear, a rear paw to a tummy and with a content expression on their little faces, one tongue sticking out a little.

Time for a catnap, clearly.

 
This message was last edited by the player at 12:24, Sat 10 Mar 2007.

Dorian, Aaron, Cyan, and Berd travel off together; a group not looking to include others in whatever conferences they hold. Merideth continues her earlier testimonies then turns her attentions to James though Trista remains to hear, realizing that perhaps she has overstayed her welcome.

Morgan turns to leave and James makes more formal introductions. Trista remembers that he was the one who had made introductions earlier; a man who would include all and make all feel welcomed.

A touch of a warm smile curves Trista’s lips as she nods her head in Merideth’s direction before bringing her eyes back to James. “I hope to be useful. And yes,” her knowing eyes glance towards Merideth, “you most definitely had urgent business.”

Addressing Merideth now, “You have an incredible gift, Merideth. Between you and Tahirah,” her eyes sweep over the other woman, “I am quite impressed. Knowledge is key, and you provide it.”

Turning back to James, “Thank you for the offer, James, but you have more important matters at hand, namely spending time with Merideth.” A brief, understanding light sparks her eyes, there and gone. “We’ll get to know each other at a future time,” she turns to indicate those still left, “Good night and sleep well.” The woman makes her way up the stairs in search of a place to sleep.