Morning, and the sun is well up by the time the Questors, newly named "The Defenders of Worlds" stir from their beds.  Well fed, bathed, and rested, they rise later than would be usual, after a night disturbed only by the occasional odd dream.

Parcifal and Gawain are nowhere to be seen, though the servants are happy to supply the information (without being asked, in some cases) that their Lords are currently out in the forest, seeing to the welfare of the refugees.  Beyond the walls of the fortress, it seems, areas of the forest are being set aside for building, and to provide lumber for new houses.

The troops from the other Charyk, remembering that their primary duty, the one which most of them signed up for, is the protection of the populace from any harm, are keen to help out in any way they can.  Some remain in the makeshift camp, organising work details, maintaining order, and tending to the sick and injured.  Others help with the cutting and movement of timber.  A few profess to construction skills, and set to work on the building of houses.

The heroes of Charyk find themselves gathered in the great hall once more, where breakfast is prepared for them.

Trista, for her part, had risen early. She’s accustomed to long days and short nights. She filled her morning with a need to begin her training again: a long run and a series of exercises to keep her muscles strong. Her morning run brought her outside the fortress, and she saw the areas for expansion. The areas set aside for life anew. A rebuilding.

Good. Their spirits are strong.

She’s glad to see the new denizens of New Charyk were not going to wallow in their losses, but were rising to the occasion and tackling life head on. The older populace of this new home work along side them, happily admitting them to their numbers.

After her sunrise exercise, Trista bathes off the sweat and climbs into her standard fair of low jeans and a short tee shirt. The usual pack resides on her back and the blade straps to her thigh. She may be the first in the Great Hall, but she waits on picking at the food until more come.

Instead, she takes out her small leather-bound book, and pens some thoughts.

Cyan has her own, personal alarm clock, of course.  As usual, she is rousted from her sleep by Berd, who simply crawls over and lays down in the warm spot left by her shift to a seated posture.  She pauses a moment to stare at the little drake, and the gleaming sliver of one eye, partly open, as it regards her.

It all seems...unreal.  Everything.  Her past time with the Seraphim still burns at the forefront of her mind, and to wake her, rather than there, covered in sweat and gasping....

She rubs her face, breathes out a shuddering breath.  Then, as the sun begins to rise outside, Cyan finds herself an empty tower-top, far from others, and greets an old acquaintance.  An hour of practice with the heavy, brutal blade, and she knows one thing has not changed since long, long ago.  She despises it.  Into its sheath it goes, locked home near the hilt, where the blade is no longer sharp.

"Left.  Right."  Ever obedient, the two Archons rise before her.

+ YES, GENERAL? +

Left is silent.  She has picked up something, perhaps from Cyan's mood, perhaps from the long discussion last night.

"I require a favour of you," Cyan states, knowing full well they will regard this as an order.  So be it.  "I need you to find the Nephillim.  Speak with them.  Present yourselves, inform them - very quickly! - of your alligience to me.  Then I order you to work with them, in whatever capacity they require."

More silence.  Right hovers, his multicoloured 'body' catching the light a thousand ways.  Left blends with the morning sun.  + HAVE WE DISPLEASED, GENERAL? +

+ NO.  THE GENERAL WISHES US TO LEARN SOMETHING.  IS THAT NOT CORRECT, GENERAL? +

Cyan sighs.  "To that I say both yea and nay, Left.  I need to have people with the nephillim, with whom I hold contact.  Whom I trust.  Do you understand?  I need this."  The Archons waver in the air, considering, and expand slightly.  "Yes, I hope you learn from them.  But more importantly, this is necessary for my war."

+ TACTICALLY, IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE +

+ IT ALSO REMOVES A PAIR OF DIFFICULT ALLIES? +

Cyan's sapphire eyes flare.  "Never.  I would never toss friends aside for the opinions of others.  I trust you.  I care for you."  She chooses words Archons would understand, as always tailoring her speech for the listener.  "You are mine, and I will never give you up!  Ever!"

Right swells further.  Left dances for a moment.  + YOU HAVE MY LOYALTY, GENERAL.  FOR YOU, I WILL DO THIS. +

+ AND I.  THOUGH I WOULD RATHER HAVE STAYED TO OBSERVE THE CHANCE.  AND THE OTHERS +

Cyan closes her eyes.  She had not considered it would be so easy...or so hard, simultaneously.  "Stay, then, until we go.  Stay with me, for a little while longer.  I will make of you both palanquet, that I may bespeak you, and this is not forever."  She moves to the battlements, stares down at the work already commencing far below.  It never ceases to amaze her, the resiliance of people everywhere.  She sees a woman, far below, on a run around the walls - the clothing is quite different from the norm, here.  Trista.  "I have lost much and gained much upon this quest," Cyan whispers.  "I have no wish to lose more."

The sun slowly rises before them.  Cyan watches it as it crawls up the sky, a ball of fire.  A ring of flame.  She shivers.  "...beautiful."  Perhaps the beauty is lost upon Left and Right.  Perhaps, after a fashion, it is not.  Whatever the case, they remain silent.

Downstairs, Berd finally crawls from the bed, and slowly flaps out of the room in search of breakfast.  He finds the great hall and, to his delight, both food and a friend, both.  Chirping pleasantly, he flutters over to land on the back of Trista's chair, glances at her writing then, realizing it is private, looks to the food with a low, hungry growl.

Dorian is downstairs early, though fatigue shows on his features more than rest, still. He pushes the fatigue aside, as is his habit. The spells he has prepared matter more than the rest, and now he is well prepared. He sits and pulls his cloak about him, not eating just yet. He eats light, when he does eat. Berd is here, already looking for food. That means Cyan is okay. Good.

"Save some for the others," he says to Berd, with only a hint of playfulness. For Dorian, a hint is all there ever is, but is enough for those who know him.

He found himself anxious to be on the road again. It would be refreshing.

He looked at the food again. Somehow, it didn't interest him.

Glancing at Trista, his eyes linger on the writing for a moment, not reading but thinking. "Journal?" he asks. He had known others who kept journals.

Roman allows himself the luxury of sleeping in a little.  With the power of the Logrus he obtains fresh garments.   Then breakfast.  The battle used a lot of energy.  Time to refuel.

Arriving in the great hall, he wastes no time in setting to the meal.

Tahirah declines a room in the tower, instead rejoining the refugees of Charyk outside.  Before she finds sleep, she has a few quiet words with a few selected people from the populace.  When she does find sleep, it is in one of the tents, owned by a young couple who insist she accept the privacy of it for the night.

When she awakens, she spends some time with her cards before exiting.  Not casting readings, but placing them into different arrangements, contemplating the runes...

Within their tent, as she works, she rummages just a bit, and finds some food.  It's nothing particularly tasty; dried staples.  The sorts of things a couple might grab quickly while fleeing a falling tower into the unknown...but nutritious enough, quickly and lastingly filling.  She claims a portion for herself, leaving another small coin in its place.

Eventually, she draws her hood back up, and climbs gracefully outside.  Giving brief thanks for the use of the tent, she makes her way back towards the small tower, to find and rejoin these Questors...

The Hall, of course, is the logical place to start, and so only one who didn't take time to think would be surprised that she seems to walk straight to them.  On her arrival, she gives a small bow at the doorway.  Then she glides up to the table and draws out a chair quietly, sitting down in silence, her sleeves folded within each other in her lap.

Morgan is up early, more mundane nightmares wearing his uncle's face made for an unpleasant night.  His friends had eventually gotten bored at playing spy, one by one, and most are in the forest, together hunting a slightly different breakfast than the humans would be having.

Finding the company pleasant seeming, he comes to a halt some feet behind Tahirah, dropping a bow from out of her sight. It was more for fun than  flourish, and put  mild cheer into his voice as he greeted the others. "Good morn. "

With a scuffing of walking boots on the stony stairs, Cyan hurries down through the archway into the room, hair disheveled over her amber eyes.  People have already arrived; Trista, Dorian, Roman, Tahirah, Morgan...some she knows, some she knows well, some she knows little of at all.  Offering a quick smile to Dorian, she gives each of the others a short bow.  "Good morning."  Her voice is clearer this morning, with less bite from a scoured throat.

Trista is writing in a book, which reminds her...she has palanquet to make.  Berd may be able to assist with that, or perhaps not.  All she can see of the little beast is his tail, sticking out from under Trista's chair.  No doubt he has dragged a plate in after him.

She uncertainly moves to the food, and picks over what she can find.  Some bread, fruits, vegetables.  Sufficient, for the nonce; loading them on a plate, she picks out a chair near Trista and Dorian, flashes a quick smile to the rest of the room and begins to eat.

"It is indeed," Dorian says to her Good Morning. He never handled spoken greetings well. The words often seemed like excess stones one had to carry around in one's pockets, kept polished to show to others. Of course, he understood them, it was the use of them and responding to them that often slipped past him. He returns her smile, but it is brief and mechanical--unquestionably sincere, but forged in conscious effort rather habit and instinct.

He nods in greeting to Tahira, adding a slight forward bow to the gesture. Others were at the table now, so he proceeded to eat. They were traveling, and he preferred to start a journey with a light meal. He avoided fruit, as usual for an early meal. Early meals, or breakfast, were uncommon on Samhain, so he had never found them appealing.

 

As Roman sits down at the table he felt two savages predators assault his little piggies under the table just before they crawled up the legs of his pants with the aid of their sharp little claws.

There they stood, one on each leg, looking up at him and letting out a pitiful mewl that suggested that he better feed them or else he would have no piggies left by the time he finished breakfast.

One of the kittens, the one on the left, looks particularly amused and full of mischief as it studies him.

 

A little while after the majority of the group have settled to breakfast, a man in dressed in the crimson and black uniform of the castle's senior servants enters the hall.  He wears a cloak, indicating that he has been outside this morning.

Pausing, he assesses those present, and then, unsure exactly which of them is in charge, he addresses the room in general.

"Noble guests, I have been asked to impress upon you with, utmost clarity, that there is, in point of fact, absolutely no urgency in the following request... "

"The Lords Parcifal and Gawain have asked that when, and only when, you have eaten your fill, and are ready to depart, they should like to speak to all of you, before you leave."  He bows, deep, and backs away, to a respectable distance, where he waits to lead the guests to their hosts.  In their own time, of course.

With a nod, Morgan accepts the servant's message, and takes a seat by Roman. The sound of mewling kitten had attracted his curiosity.  "Recruiting your own company , Roman?"  He asks, winking at the three of them.

Roman simply nods in response to Cyan's greeting, still not certasain of the woman.Could it really be so easy ?  Even if the Seraphim expected victory they still might have taken precautions, laid traps in her mind.

When the kittens pounce Roman looks down. He soon recognises the first kitten, but where did the second come from ?  Realising he sighs, and starts to drop suitable food down to the two little cats.

James belatedly arrives.  Seeing most of the group already assembled, he looks a little sheepish.  "First to want to leave, last down for breakfast.  Typical, isn't it?"  He hurriedly fills a plate and sets to with a will, as though he is determined to catch up.

OOC: Sorry, have to head off to work.  I'll hopefully post something more substantial this evening.

Trista’s eyes brighten at Berd’s approach. “Good morning, Little Wing,” the sobriquet spoken aloud only because the rest of the group is not to be found, yet. Her pen halts midair as she watches him land on her chair, glad of his company.


Dorian makes his way into the Great Hall moments after Berd’s attentions draw to the food at hand. Her eyes draw up to him after his wry comment to Berd, “Have I made the mistake of telling him he should eat his fill?” There’s humor lacing her voice; it is a good morning for the normally sullen woman.

She notices the man’s eyes in the direction of her writing, but does not move to immediately cover it up. She nods to his inquiry, “Yes, of a sorts. Ideas, thoughts, questions. With a few bad drawings and,” a vexed look tugs at her eyes, “very bad poetry.” At least she knows she’s not a poet.

As others gather, Trista closes the book and slips it and the pen into her pack. She takes a plate and gathers bits and pieces of food, her choices based on nutrition and need. She nods greetings to each as they pull up to the table.

As they eat and kittens play, Trista turns to Cyan with open and clear eyes, “I hope you slept well,” sincerity and concern for Berd’s daughter.

She listens to the man announcing the Brothers’ wishes and wonders if that is a nudge to get them moving even through his politeness. The woman is ready to depart when the others are since all her possessions reside on her back.

Their group is almost complete when James enters. “Not to worry, you’re not quite last.” Her good humor still taints her voice.

 

At Morgan's comment the "new" kitten looks up at him and appeared to laugh, somehow, but then, as Roman started to feed them, it vanished down on the floor with the other kitten and began to feed.

Soon they seemed to have had their fill and ran of under the tables, playing catch around the legs of both furniture and people and generally having a good time by the looks of it.

Despite this, the newest kitten appeared to also pay attention to the others as well as the man who had came with the announcement.

 

Dorian pauses a moment, his eyes full of thought. Games of humor and teasing were also new to him, but he decided it was worth a try, like testing the waters with a single toe before deciding if one should enter. His voice was its usual tight rasp. "If you tell him that, I fear he will be a bigger threat than the Archons; he'll soon eat his way from the Courts of Chaos to Amber." Should he really struggle for such things? He should merely be himself. No one would ask more. This, was not so much striving for change, as experimenting with something he had long observed, but rarely tried.

He nods appreciatively at her comment about her writings, thoughts and drawings. "Bad poetry--I had my fill of it where I came from, actually. It is something of an art."

However, when she speaks to Cyan, he acquires a pensive look. I hope you slept well. So that was how it was done. A statement. A hope. But really, a question. It was exactly what he had struggled to say to Cyan, but failed, at a loss for the correct phrasing beyond the raw question. Something in the question had felt wrong to him, and he had let it drop. Trista, however, managed to do it perfectly. It was too simple a question to struggle with so fiercely.

He glances at Cyan, now, eyes curious and hopeful. Then, he realizes that perhaps too many will be looking at her, and he looks back to his plate, though still listening.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:16, Mon 12 Mar 2007.

Roman lets the kittens go off to play, wondering where the rest of her body mass went, and how she intends to replace it when she shfts to a larger form.  Maybe whatever-she-is'es don't have to worry about that.  Time enough to eat his fill even if the lords of this place want the group to move on.  But where to, now ?

Meanwhile, out in the forest...

One of the castle troop sergeants, supervising a logging team some little way out in the forest, sees them first.  Strange creatures, flitting through the trees.  Not clearly visible in the leaf-filtered morning light, but certainly man-sized, or slightly larger.  They move quickly and silently, and for a while, the sergeant is sure they are ghosts... there are, after all, those stories told around the barracks...

Then one stops, right in front of him, a nightmare vision of claws and teeth and horns and scales.  A slim man, with spiked, red-brown hair, and glassy black lenses over his eyes, steps out from behind the horrific creature, smiling.  He has a leather jacket draped over his right shoulder, and his left arm, from shoulder to elbow, bears a geometric tattoo, in red, black and green.  There are eight silver rings in his left ear.

"Take me to your leader."  The smile broadens, "I always wanted to say that."

The response to her greeting is Classic Dorian - he is uncomfortable, she sees.  It almost seems an adjustment period is needed after each of his rests, where he must again grow at ease around others, and Cyan ponders this with a small smile on her face.  "Yes," she whispers quietly.  "I know."

Berd, under a chair, goes back to his consumption.

The one named Roman nods back to her, but continues his eating.  Kittens romp under his chair.  She knows little of him, save that he is a shapechanger and hails from the Courts.  Curious, and interesting - they have not dealt with one from the Courts since Lexy.  Perhaps the situation has changed, there?  She gives the messenger a small bow, then openly grins as James wanders in late.  "Urgency oft begets a sleepless night and a late morning, James.  Or so Berd taught me," she amends, "though I suspect he had ulterior motives.  But you are here before Aaron, and that should be sufficient to put your mind at ease."

A sharp hiss answers her from under the chair.

Undeterred, she shifts her chair a touch closer to both Trista and Dorian, curiousity growing at the other woman's work.  "Well enough," Cyan replies, her amethyst eyes less weary this morning, "though I could stand a few more hours.  But there is work to be done..."  Her voice trails off and darkness shades her features for a moment.  Work to be done.  She has done a great deal of 'work' in the last year, and making up for it will require...well, perhaps forever. How many worlds conquered?  How many people slain?  All in the name of her 'truth', such as it was.

But Cyan shakes off the gloom, rather than live under its weight.  "I must put pen to paper myself, today.  A journal you write?  I have often thought of doing the same, what with the many worlds through which I travel.  I saw a woman running this morning - I guessed it was you."  Even high up on the battlements, Cyan could see visual cues, subtlties of body language.  "A fine thing, exercise in the early morning, is it not?"

A glance from Dorian catches her eye, and she raises an eyebrow in his direction.  "Good morning, Dorian," she states solemnly as he ponders the food upon his plate.  "Berd informs me you have been pricking at him, and as such I must conclude this morning finds you well."

"Pricking? " he asks, testing the word.  He was comfortable enough with direct conversation, but other kinds of conversation caused him to founder. "I suppose so, and I hope he forgives me. It was an experiment.." As soon as he had spoken the words, a small fear tickled him that perhaps Berd might take it too seriously, despite the obvious exaggeration. After all, when was the last time any of them had heard Dorian attempt humor? "The morning does find me well, all things considered. Better than any other morning in a long time, even, but the dark cloud of the enemy yet hangs over us." He stopped there, realizing he was venturing back into territory marked by cynicism and darkness. Trying to recover, he adds, "Yet, I suppose some dark cloud will always threaten the horizon, at least from time to time."

His eyes dropped to his plate again. This was getting worse. Each word felt like concrete to his ears. He was indeed like a schoolchild. He fought against himself, old Dorian against new Dorian. His teeth clenched, the small knot of muscle behind his jaw bulged. The problem was that he tried too hard. He expected too much of himself. It was not hard; he had done it before. This was just talk--with less important subjects, and with more sincerity.

He lifted his eyes to Cyan again. Honesty. Acceptance--of himself and her. These were the missing keys. His features softened. Was it a good morning? "Yes," he said. "It is a good morning. We're alive, all of us. We've been through storms, but we Questers yet live. What more could we ask for? Good morning, indeed."

He glanced at Roman for a moment. It sounded a lot like what the shapeshifter had said last night, and he had missed the point entirely.

Hearing Dorian's words Roman nods and answers.  "Aye, we survived, and better than that we bloodied this Harbonah's nose.  But that was yesterday.  We won a battle, and we should be glad of that, but the war goes on."

He wipes his mouth with a cloth and goes on.  "I do not know this Harbonah, but a human leader might seek to win a great victory, to wipe out the shame of defeat and to reassure waverers among his own followers.  What would Harbonah do, in the wake of defeat ?"  The question is addressed to nobody in particular, but Roman's eyes veer towards Cyan as he asks it.

Tahirah has remained sitting, silent and almost unmoving, since she came in.  At Roman's comment, however, she rustles slightly, and then says suddenly, "Harbonah has not been defeated.  The one called the General was meant to fail; meant to die.  Had she won, it would have been a victory, but it was not the intent in sending her here.  Her survival, recovery of herself, perhaps that is a loss to Harbonah; surely, it must have hoped more of you would fall with her.  But the battle was not lost.  It did what was intended of it."