"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."