And so it is that they leave Charyk again, though this is a different Charyk, and in somewhat better repair than the last one.

Beyond the gate, shelters are being erected.  More substantial than the simple canvas ones where the people spent last night, but still not true houses... though those will come, given time.  Most of the refugees are too busy, or too far away, to notice the strange troupe of riders as they head out along one of the paths into the surrounding forest.  A few, though, do notice.  They offer words of thanks, and gestures of respect, and a few of the braver children attempt to run alongside the trotting panthers.

They fall behind, long before the group are under the shelter of the ancient woodland.

The track runs as straight as possible, considering that it must, perforce, weave around the great trees.  Accelerating now, the questors move through a world of slanting golden bars and green shadows.  Occasionally, at least at first, distant shouts reach them, or the sound of axes, far off, in the gloom.  Soon though, even those distant noises are gone, leaving only bird song, the sounds of their own presence, and, once, the warning bark of a fox, startled by their passage.

On they ride, and the forest grows denser around them, though their path remains clearly visible.  The trees are more gnarled now, and draped in great curtains of moss and strangling creepers.

For hours they ride through this primaeval woodland, and the sun, all but invisible above the canopy, moves across the sky in its appointed course.  There is a brief pause at noon, or thereabouts, for food and water, and then they move on again.  They are making good time... the odd weakness of the boundaries between worlds near Charyk makes the journey far easier.

The road, when they run onto it, is something of a surprise, appearing so suddenly... a broad band of black material, hard and rough, with two incongruously bright yellow bands running along its centre.  A small dead animal lays flat, across the bands.  Above the riders, the sky is clearly visible for the first time in hours, though it is more turquoise than blue, now, and there is a band of thousands of tiny, jagged moons laid across it, visible even in the daylight.

They follow the road for only a few hundred yards, certainly less than a mile, before turning back into the forest on the same side from which they first came onto the strange highway.

The road they travel now has a surface of packed dirt beneath the softer layers of dead leaves.  It climbs slowly, and then, eventually, starts a steep descent, zigzagging down the hillside.  Once they are forced to cross a fast-flowing stream which has worn a gulley across their path, but it doesn't reappear to cross their route again after the next turn of the switchback.

Eventually the trees start to thin out, and the road becomes less steep, taking a more direct route now, emerging from the woods into open farmland, in late afternoon sunlight.  At their backs, above the treetops, the mountains rise, until their ice crowned peaks scrape at the sky itself.

Something which is almost, but not exactly, a cow watches over a gate, as the band of strange travellers pass it by.

Ahead, there are houses, raised on piers of stone, a village.  Green tiled rooftops sparkle like wet glass, and beyond them a river can be seen, flowing lazily in broad, slow loops and meanders across its broad flood plain.

A wooden post, alongside the cobbled road, supports a weathered board which bears the faded legend, "Village of Rachenby - Saddler's Inn, Best Foode In Skund Vale - 2 Myles."

Riding upon the back of the giant panther is an astounding experience.  Cyan has done so before, of course, but now?  Now she is centered, better able to appreciate the ride.  Mostly.  An occasional glance at both Dorian and Aaron demonstrates some concern, and her mind continues to wander back to what they left behind in Charyk.

Answers.  Many of them, leading (of course) to questions.  But now, at last, some mysteries are solved (or so they believe).  They know the Broken God, and its connection to Charyk.  And Cyan cannot help but wonder - was all of this somehow planned milennia ago?  That this war, or something like it, would talke place with the weapons involved?

Perposterous.

And yet...

The smooth muscles bunch and shift under her as the panther speeds onward.  Cyan briefly considers stabling issues at their next stop - not all concerns must be profound.

The worlds shift about them, but with skill - whomever holds the reins, they are careful with their changes.  Cyan appreciates that - though speed is of the essence, this will leave them in good condition once they arrive, rather than discombobulated from travel.


And what of Aaron?  His plans?  Has he begun them?  Another quick, sapphire glance toward their leader, and Cyan wonders about this, and many other things Aaron has said.  Perhaps, she muses, they will all find answers in Amber.

Berd, for his part, remains silently asleep upon Trista's shoulder for the moment.  Every now and then the drake opens his eyes, searches for Cyan, then relaxes again.  At the moment he seems pleased to remain where he is, despite the panther's rolling gait.

Then the village, and Cyan leans back upon her 'steed' to check for the others.  "Do we stop here?  Aaron?"  She looks to him, then at the group as a whole.  "Or do we continue?  I am well to do so, unless someone sees pressing need."

The Hell Ride turns out to not be so hellish. Trista had conjured images of frantic shifting, exhausted muscles, and a weary spirit. She had been prepared for the worse. However, their travels had been deliberate, thoughtful, though certainly far from slow; they changed nuances and landscapes at a much quicker rate than she could have traveled alone. She’s grateful for James and Aaron leading them on their way.

A sign pointing to a quiet little hamlet appears and Cyan asks if any need a break. The question surprises Trista for although she can travel for long stretches of time without tiring, others usually need to be refreshed. Perhaps it’s something not so odd after all, considering the caliber of people with whom she travels.

Her eyes land on the little dragon with a smile. Another thing for which she was grateful. Berd’s presence proves comforting. As long as Cyan does not object, he’s welcome to travel with her at any time.

She turns back to Cyan and then to whomever leads them, “I don’t feel a need for rest. However, a 15 minute stretch of the legs might prove helpful to prevent muscle cramps once we’re in Amber.” The body can respond in unpredictable ways when forced to be in one position too long.

A hand absently pats the sleek, black fur of the panther below her. “And you are magnificent,” whispered words to her steed so unlike the horses she normally rides. “Silken and elegant. I’m grateful for the ride.”

Aaron moved along with his comrades, this particular entourage wasn't something he'd expected when he originally joined up with this group, what seemed millennia ago.

He was energized. A new vitality seemed to move through him, powering his thinking, his understanding for what lay ahead. This was but one reason why he was letting James guide the way for the first half of their journey. Aaron would need to prepare himself for the application; he wanted fresh understanding of the Pattern before his arrival at Amber.

Their actions at Charyk had taught him many things about the malleability of worlds, and many of those things seemed to require a cautious hand. He had begun to question what the Pattern was capable of on a massive scale, and whether the responsibility of such alteration was anyone's right.

But he had made his decision. It would surprise many, he believed, but he knew in his heart that it was the right decision. He looked to his fellow comrades and nodded to himself.

What would he sacrifice for these people? How far would he go to keep them alive?

He grinned to himself, for he had truly discovered his purpose. It was an amusing thing, this fact, for he had seemingly known it all along; yet, he required finality and confirmation. His journey was not yet over.

Cyan inquired of him, wondering as to whether the place ahead was to be their first destination. He frowned, considering.

"Unless anyone else here wishes to stop, it may be well that we can carry on." He turned, looking to James. "What say you, James? Need to take a breather and straighten our path? I can take the burden off of you, if you'd like."

Whether they will stop there or no, the road runs straight through the heart of this village, and so they move towards the small cluster of single-storey houses,, interspersed with a few larger buildings.

There are, of course people there, and their arrival draws some stares from those who are about.  The people themselves have pale skin, with a definite grey tone, and their eyes seem, mostly, to be of a violet, red, or a light golden colour.  Their hair seems to range from black, through shades of grey, to almost pure white.  In contrast to their almost monochrome appearance, their clothing is a riotous display of clashing hues.

As the group pass the villagers, standing in carefully at the edges of the road to leave the  the thoroughfare clear, soft, almost musical voices reach their ears, murmuring questions about the identity of the peculiar strangers.

James had made a point of seeking out Ahmad again.  Or rather, since James still struggled to pick the numerous panthers from each other, he had got Morgan to 're-introduce' them.  James had enjoyed travelling with Ahmad before and didn't see any point switching mounts.

"Let's just get clear of the village, Aaron, then we'll stop for a stretch and a toilet break for those who need it."

"I'm okay to continue, but I'm not sure how it will work changing leads.  It might be a good idea to try it now before the influence of Charyk fades completely."

"I've been trying to get Amber's sky.  Bleys always thought that was the surest way of homing in.  This is the first time I've tried to come this way, so progress is still a little slower than I'd like."

"I am well to continue Aaron."  Cyan turns her amethyst eyes up to the sky, studying it curiously.  "If the sky in Arden is the same as that of Amber, James," she says, calling upon her memory of the forest, "you have a few shades through which to pass."  She grins at the solid soldier, then waves at one of the people at the side of the road.

"Certainly our passage through here will be immortalized in song.  I wonder how many of the ones I know derive some sort of beginning in...."  Cyan's voice trails off, and she looks down at her hands for a long moment.  With two, quick motions, she strips away the thin gloves and tucks them in her sash, before raising her hands up to eye-level.  Trusting the panther to keep to the road, Cyan studies her fingers, her palms.

There, the long, ugly scar on her hand where Kalika's blade fell.  The twisted finger, replaced by the power of the Broken Pattern.  She flexes all her digits, rubs them against one another.  The calluses are old, changed.  More suited to the swinging of a blade than they had been previously.  But still, enough remains.

When she speaks, her voice is hesitant.  "I was wondering.  Did anyone take up my harp?  Or does it remain with the Brintizzi?"

Morgan and his friends seemed in good spirits this morning, the unladen ones (and Leareth, with Morgan) frisking from branch to branch overhead, taking to the ground again only reluctantly, as the trees thin. Indeed, the pall on their spirits cast by seeing the black road is cast off as soon as they leave it again.


Anna, under Trista, flicked an ear back and rumbled a soft purr for the compliment.

Ahmad, of them all, didn't seem bothered by the substance, instead enjoying being in the lead, with James. At mention of stretching, he pauses to tease with a stretch of his own.

Berd sits idly upon Trista's shoulder, a little tired from his morning exertions (eating).  He seems more interested in the people at the side of the road and the clouds in the sky than the journey.

He does, however, occasionally glance nervously down at the massive, jet-black cat upon which Trista rides.

Trista agrees with a nod of her head to James, getting through the town and away from the crowds would probably be a good idea before a short break. And though some might not realize it, all would need a break eventually. They were still human, more or less. A forced break now might mean none would be needed later.

The people, though, catch Trista off guard. No doubt, the traveling band provokes curiosity, but for all of them to come out to watch… the woman had not expected this. As James speaks with Aaron about the shifts and Cyan enquires about a missing harp, Trista’s stormy eyes roam the crowds, landing on several in turn. She wonders at their lives, their dreams, their despairs. As always, she feels connected to Shadow and to the denizens of the Myriad Worlds.

These are the folk she strives to save by traveling with the companions.

Tahirah rides one of the panthers awkwardly - not only has she never ridden a panther before, she's never ridden anything at all.  For her first time to also be at some speed and through strangely changing landscapes...

She keeps her robe and hood tight around her, so that no one can see she also has her eyes closed for much of it.  Periodically, she whispers a thank you to the panther, when it shifts to keep her from falling off...

Through the town, she draws herself up, however, doing her best to balance herself.  People staring was something she was accustomed to, and even if only passing through never to return...if she was going to be talked about, she intended to leave the right impression.

Romans original riding beast had been lost in the fall of Charyk.  No great loss there.  It had been a loyal enough beast, but in the end it was just another mount.  Even if it was less unsettling than the panthers.

The sights are stil a little strange to Roman - but for the opposite reason than any of the others.  The people are not strange because they differ from a "normal" human but because they are like them.  And so like each other.

When a rest is suggested he reluctantly decides to speak "No point in wearing ourselves out, but if we can continue we should.  We need to make the best time we can if we hope to unmask this traitor in time" If there's any need to.  The traitor is hardly likely to want the Pattern to be destroyed.  And when it comes to games of betrayal I'd put my money on the Amberite

 

Following along on her designated mount, Banglen-Yp had thanked it properly before climbing up, decided that Tiger the kitten would be better of with her than riding a big cat of his own, as much as he wanted to.

She did let him sit in a front pocket so he could enjoy the view, however even if he did ended up cross-eyed a couple of times as he tried to take it all in.  When he grew up he wanted to be a big cat like these, no doubt about that.

Enjoying and encouraging any extra leaps, bounds and whatever else the panther was happy to make, both the strange blonde and the kitten seemed quite exhilarated by the ride.

 

The road leads on, through the village and, beyond the last of the houses, it crosses the river on a narrow bridge, constructed of stone slabs laid flat upon pillars.  No parapet or rail blocks the view of the water, which flows sluggishly below, reflecting the blue sky.  Fish can be seen, moving among the boulders which lay strewn across the shallow riverbed.

Beyond the water, and a little way from the village, James calls a halt, in a meadow which looks like countless others on countless worlds.  Lush grass, small insects buzzing lazily among the wildflowers.  Somewhere, unseen in the vast vault of the sky, a bird is singing its joy to any who care to listen.

Half an hour, to stretch their legs, and then they set off again.

Slowly, as the sun slithers down towards the horizon, the colours of the clouds, of the sky itself, change, becoming darker.  The panthers communicate their concern to Morgan.  They smell rain on the strengthening wind.

By sunset, the road is climbing again, away from the river, and as the sun finally drops from sight, the rain starts.  Large drops, and warm, splashing into the dust of the highway.  There is shelter, though, less than a mile ahead, where the road passes under the shadow of a forest, leaving the farmland and meadows behind.

The road here is surfaced with hexagonal ceramic tiles, each about a foot across, many of them cracked, and some missing.  The group pass a ruined structure, on their left, an ancient fortress, all black stone and rusted iron, shrouded in sickly yellowish ivy.  Somewhere nearby, wolves howl, but they come no closer...

A dirt road, and the land dropping steeply again, until the way passes along the edge of a stinking, foetid swamp, where large creatures move, invisibly, in the gloomy miasma which enshrouds the diseased landscape.  Then the road rises again, at last...

A rutted track, and the rain continues to fall, seemingg to grow colder and heavier with each passing mile, each passing minute...

Now they pass out of the sickly woodland, onto a plain of shattered stone, and still it rains.  The rain does nothing though, to damp down the eerie greenish fire that burns all about the horizon...

Darkness now, on a road of seamless grey stone, and a city of tall buildings in the distance, blazing brighter than any noonday sun, in all the colours of the rainbow, the lights spelling out mysterious words and phrases (who, or what, are Budweiser, and Ford?).  The strains of loud, discordant music echo across the distance from the city.  Another road runs next to theirs, wooden beams laid on stone chippings, supporting rails which, steel bright in the rain, reflect the distant city's lights in twin lines of fire...

The first flare of lightning shows that things will not get much better now, and the crash of thunder rumbles across the sky an instant later.  And the rain redoubles in force...

The battle was done, and the company of heroes somewhat rested. Dorian remains quiet as they prepare for the journey and ride off. He stays close to Cyan, taking care not to be too close. His concerned glances have now faded to merely comfortable, familiar closeness. He says little to her or to Berd, knowing little needs to be said. Yet, under the surface, a story unfolds.

As they cross through the forest, however brief, Dorian's eyes stray to the greenery around them frequently. Such saturation of life and nature is rare for him. His world was rugged and barren. Plant life rarely stood higher than a man's knees. Trees and wood were rare. He tries to memorize each detail.

The movement seems to energize him. His eyes are brighter with each twist and turn through the path. At one point, he reaches up and pulls the hood of his cloak back. Dark curls play free in the breeze.

The ride is hardly difficult for Dorian, who has learned to discipline his body as well as his mind. He has ridden for a week with only minimal rest, when times required it. Rest, though is always welcome.

With the rain, the hood returns to its usual place. He tugs the black cloak tighter around himself. He pondered how much of the rain was necessary for their travel towards Amber. It seemed odd, but he wondered if it rained in Amber at all. He had traveled long enough to know it need not, but he suspected it did. In either case, the rain was a good reminder of their destination.

The odd city of lights, glass and noise reminded him of somewhere else he had been recently. He had gone their seeking discordant auras and psyches, an easy place to hide amongst other minds should he need to do so. While his own psyche would invariably stand out in such a crowd, he could use the cloud of miasma to hide a trail. More than that, such psyches were malleable. Had Cyan known the entire crowd was his weapon? Would it have mattered had it come to blows? He thought of that awful blade, intercepted by only an Archon, an enemy. Death had hovered inches from his heart. No, it would not have mattered. Of course, that was not the enemy he thought to meet there.

He remained wordless, astride the others. Rain drizzled from his hood. He waited for their decision. Aaron and James knew best how to arrive at the destination. At the first flash of lightning, his head turns. He extends his senses.

Catherine is more than happy to leap up and use the tree path with Banglen-yp's encouragement.

The one beneath Tahirah  eventually reaches her tail up, wrapping it around Tahirah as a sort of belt to keep the woman in place. Losing her rider would be embarassing.



As the storm intensifies, Morgan leans tight against Leareth, his cloak covering the both of them. He shivers, glaring at the darkened sky.  "I thought we'd at least left these plagued things home." Long experience embitters the words. A laugh escapes him, though. Perhaps they will end up passing through his home after all.

The glowing city and greenish fire he determinedly ignores, hoping one of the sorcerors will mention if it is anything to worry about.

Aaron cast a look in Cyan's direction, frowning in thought. Her disappearance had occured so long ago, that Aaron hadn't even considered her belongings (save for her blade, of course... he never forgot a weapon.)

"Cyan, I can't answer for everyone, but your harp may be in the Brintizzi's care. If not," Aaron smiled slightly. "Well, I'm sure any one of us can certainly get you another, or, if I take into account the possibilties of the Myriad Worlds, I may even be able to find a right reflection of the exact one."

He sighed, shaking his head. "Either way, though, they wouldn't be the exact instrument. I can sympathize with losing something so close to your own hands."

"A sad thing," he said quietly, and mostly to himself. "It's been a long time since I've heard your music."

Aaron closed his eyes in the rain, letting the mad torrent soothe his mind and body with its rhythmic tattoo.

"Stop, Ahmad."  James speaks quietly, he seems subdued for some reason.  Possibly it is the weather.  Not having a cloak of his own, James has been wet through long since and while he ignores the rain streaming from his hair and clothes he looks cold and pale.

"I can answer that, Cyan.  I took your harp for safekeeping as Dorian took your sketchbook.  I had it with me in your camp when I came after Chance, Luke and Aaron.  I had to leave it when we duelled and in the rush to leave it was left behind.  I'm sorry, Cayn, truly, but the harp is lost."

James turns towards the city and stares with hard eyes.  "It is strange that our path should come here.  This is as close to my home as I have come since I left.  See those signs?  Budweiser is a type of beer.  Ford is a type of car, a horseless carriage like the one Jonnee once drove."  James paused, thinking.  Jonnee would probably feel some familiarity here as well, James had often noted the almost parallels between their respective homes.

"Morgan, the panthers seem uncomfortable when we travel on a road.  Could you spread the word that there's nothing to worry about.  It's made of a substance known as bitumen; a mixture of tar and small stones that sets hard to produce a smooth, hard, tough surface.  It's completely safe."

"Aaron, do you want to take it from here?  I'm worried that this...place means I am leading us astray.  To my home rather than Amber.  You might at least be able to get us out of this rain."

Ahmad quickly slows, twitching an ear back to catch the conversation.


Morgan nods to James.  "Thank you for the consideration. The road itself didn't worry us, we've gotten used to such things. And this one here's fine. It was just a reminder of bad memories. The substance, you call it bitumen?, is or at least looks like, what the blackmoss left behind when the Storms drowned it all. "

Sliding from Leareth, he grins up at James, and offers his silver flask.  "Mind, I don't remember much of the black invasion, not like a lot of them. Too young. Still. Absent friends."  Apparantly, Morgan'd decided this trip would need more alchohol than the last one, as he pulls another, less filigreed flask out and drinks to his own toast.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:01, Sun 08 Apr 2007.

Berd sits silently upon Trista’s shoulder.  When the rain comes up, he looks with some concern toward Cyan, then relaxes.  All around Trista, oddly enough, the rain does not fall – the droplets simply vanish before striking her or the little dragon, and the rain behind them seems twice as dense.


Cyan, for her part, turns her face up to the rain, closes her eyes, and lets it wash over her.  For an instant she recalls doing the same, far too recently; this time, the rain slips cool fingertips over her skin, and she glories in the feeling.  How long has it been since she has sat, outside of that armor, that armor still carried upon the back of the panther, and simply enjoyed the rain?  Even as a child, she loved it, and now….

But in response to some hidden communication, her face grows sad.


She sighs deeply at James’ words, looks down at the back of the panther again, runs her fingers through rain-slick fur.  “That is...a shame.  The harp was a gift from a dear friend, some time ago.  I would say ‘long ago’, but judging the ages of those about me.”  She tries a weak smile, and surprisingly it succeeds.  “I thank you for the attempt, James, and surprisingly you did deliver it to me.  So the irony is that it lies back in my former camp, no doubt the spoils of whomever has taken over the Army of the End of Time…assuming one has.”

All of those poor people.  How she betrayed them!

Berd’s eyes turn to James as he speaks, and they sharpen.  After a moment, the air around questors, all of them, clears of rain, and begins to grow warmer.


Cyan, in turn, stares toward the city for a long moment.  “So this grand construct of steel and glass, overlaid with brilliant light, is similar to your home, James?”  Her topaz eyes flick from light to light, and her lips form the words.  “Such beautiful creations, devoted to singing praise of vehicles…and beer.”  Amusement colours her tone, but she grows more serious, studies both James and Morgan.  “I am always surprised by the powers you possess, and their usage.”

“Sir Morgan…I would hear of your homeland, if you have the time and inclination.”  Cyan looks down at the panther, then up to Morgan.  “It produces marvels.”

Nodding in assent to James' request, Aaron took up the mantle of progression, and helped them continue on their way. The assistance of another in the way of the weather (Berd, he assumed), was a welcome addition, and one he'd be loathe to complain about.

He looked out over the expanse, nodding.

"I've seen many worlds like this. Some with good beer, some with less," he said with a chuckle. "Cityscapes the likes of this and grander still... one could get lost in the maze they create, and prophets and poets alike can emerge from even the darkest of slums."

"I too, would like to hear of your homeland, James," Aaron commented, the majority of his intent focused on forging a path through the Myriad.

Aaron takes the lead now, and at the next junction turns onto a side road, little more than a dirt track really, now become a ribbon of mud.  The rain is easing, though the lightning seems to be becoming more frequent.

The world around them grows darker, as the brilliance of the city falls behind them, and the way is lit only by the lightning now.

And then they crest a rise, and there are lights ahead of them, harsh white lights, casting their actinic glare across dark shapes standing in fenced areas to each side of the roadway.  The fences are of metal mesh, like gleaming fishing nets stretched between tall poles.  And now, closer, the shapes become clearer - rusted metal vehicles, thousands... tens of thousands of them, stacked eight or ten deep in the rain, with long metal arms, claw-tipped, rising above them.

And behind the fences, shapes move, and hurl themselves at the mesh.  Dogs.  Large, vicious dogs.  Their eyes gleaming an insane red in the glare of the lights, as they snarl and bark at the travellers.

The road dips, and something is moving above it, slowly, from left to right.  Dozens of huge boxes, running on wheels, and linked end-to-end, clattering and clanking as they move across the road, which passes through a tunnel beneath them.

The tunnel runs for some distance, and emerges into farmland again.  Looking back, there are old, low mountains above the tunnel, dimly seen through the falling gently falling snow...

A shallow bow accompanies Morgan's words, "I've time to spare, I think, though I can't do justice to the good parts. It is, or was, covered in forest, and the forest covered in people. Our trees are more friendly than those you know. They grow a few inches every day, and bear a fair variety of foods. The bark is a variety of colors, depending on the whims of the ones who planted them,  but the leaves are green.

From bottom to top... there are the panthian monks,  who actually live on the ground. Their religion requires it, and they keep a few horses around. We see them more in Paralicos than some of the others do. We're by the ocean, and everyone likes to swim.

From the ground, to the height of the trees around here are the nurseries, plantings wherever we've managed to hack through the blackmoss remnants.  The Rowans have bred several lines that can deal with the stuff, but it is slow going."

He pauses, glancing at the tunnel, and shakes his head.  "Above those, people tend to the various beasts, so we get our weapons, heat, clothes, and the like. I'm told it used to be too dark for most people, so someone bred a hardier breed of lightfly, and its rather pleasant now. Lightflys glow, in shades of red, green, and blue, and they flitter about, hand-sized creatures that gather around pots we set out for them.  There's yearly prizes for breeding more attractive varieties."

"A few dozen feet are kept clear for message runs, and above that, people start to live. It varies, some people are content with a hammock, while we have a home spanning a dozen old growths.  The very tops are public domain.  I can't say much for them, its been storming for the past decade or so.  They used to be fun places.  When we get a few hours of sun, the rainbows are spectacular, though."

Finished the sketchy physical description, he continues into history, "The Julians control the Palican area, an isthmus and everything within a hundred leagues or so of it.  The Rowans have the greater northern part, and the Steelthirst the south. We used to squabble a bit, but twenty five, thirty years ago, the blackmoss came. No one's sure where from. It started small, but it ate most anything it touched.  We were...losing. Large stretches of land were covered in blackness, and scouts reported strange creatures in its depths, when they came back at all.  When the storms came, and drowned the blackmoss, they were a blessing. A dozen and more years later, we'd be more than happy for the blessing to go away. "

With a light slap from Leareth's tail, Morgan startled.  "Oh, and our precious friends. They stay with the royal families. By default, they are bodyguards, military, or both, like everyone with me.  One reason or another, they are loyal to the families. As far as we can tell its instinct, " Another swat from his mount, "though we try to keep them happy. Instinct isn't everything. A lot of them live at home. Imagine the castle, with ten, twenty times as many panthers, and three times the people. The sight when they all decide to go fishing at once is incredible.   "
This message was last edited by the player at 20:17, Sun 08 Apr 2007.

Trista uses the break to take a light, easy run. Her body may not tire, but she still feels the need to keep limber. It’s almost an obsession. Once back on track, she happily provides her shoulder for Berd once again. The terrain continues to twist and turn until they come to a city of glaring lights and blaring music. The place reminds her of the cities near where she lived as a child. She remembers Jonnee being from ‘The Kingdom of Los Angeles’ and smiles at their almost-common backgrounds. Of course, in her world, Los Angeles was no kingdom, but a barren wasteland. Still, the city had been thriving at one time.

Lightning brings Trista’s eyes up, sparkling with anticipation; storms have always been a favorite of the woman’s. Her hands softly stroke the soft fur of Anna’s back, unsure if the intelligent animal would be nervous in a storm.

Her eyes turn to Cyan, “I am sorry for the loss of your harp. I would have liked to hear you play.”

 When James mentions beer and cars, a small smile crosses Trista’s lips, “My home is similar, also.”


The rain breaks and Trista looks up, realizing none is hitting her. Berd’s doing, no doubt. The dragon has expansive abilities. Still, she’s slightly disappointed to not feel the rain coat her skin. Never one to feel the negative affects of weather, she takes pleasure in the sensual caress of water.


The woman listens appreciatively to Morgan’s description of his world, so very different from her own. She has visited many worlds, but none as he has described. Intrigue adds a mental note to visit, if the opportunity arises.

After a request of Anna, the panther falls back to walk next to the silent Banglen-Yp. Trista quietly asks, “How does your little companion enjoy this rain?”

"Fascinating," Dorian remarks as Morgan finishes the description of his home world. He too remembered an impressive forest world, where trees seemed to reach to the moons and planets. Aaron had taken him there, a rare slice of the man's past. There it was that Dorian first glimpsed the Underflow. The ancient tree known as Yggdrasil had roots that sank into the Underflow, drawing forth power and life. Dorian had followed those roots down into the fabric of reality. He had not seen the world the same since. He wondered if Morgan's world had similar entities, or if the trees were merely plants as on most worlds.

Balance; was that the lesson the tree sought to teach?

The tree had given the same riddle to Jack, and apparently, Jack had failed to decipher it. That irritated him. Deep down, he felt a childish need to prove himself better than Jack. Right now, that meant holding on to his sanity better than Jack had. He wasn't sure he was succeeding.

~ balance ~

The child-like words inside his head pinged with a resonance of truth.

~necessary~

"I am worse for not knowing your world, then, Morgan." Then in a louder voice, he addresses the entire group, "The storm is natural, but it does span many worlds. Could it be a by-product of James and Aaron trying to manipulate reality so fast? I've worked with storms in the past; shall I try to diminish its effects somewhat? If it grows much worse, it will impede our progress--or even grow dangerous."

Things always had a cause and effect. Such powerful shifting of worlds should be expected to cause side effects. As such, his work with the storm could also have side effects, so he would have to keep his manipulations minimal.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 18:11, Mon 09 Apr 2007.

Roman draws on his experience of ShadowWalking.  As nicitating membranes close over his eyes, he offers his opinion.  "This storm could be the echo of something else, ahead of us.  Unless we are closer to Amber than I think, it is possible that someone has created a massive storm to block the road to Amber.  We can  go around such blocks - but there will be more.  If this is what we face, we must try to choose a path that the creator of the block does not expect."

"Indeed," Dorian responds. "That is exactly the first thing I checked, before speaking. I detect no interference, and thus I said it is natural. Thus, if it is not natural, whoever is causing it is powerful and skilled, for I specialize in subtly--in other words, an Amberite is a prime candidate. If that is the case, such manipulation should be readily apparent when I try to clear the storm, which is why I offered the suggestion. Going around it would prove time-consuming, and would not reveal if the storm is forced or not. Further, if Berd, Meredith and I combine our strengths, only a small number could stand against us--and I doubt any being could do so subtly enough to make the storm still appear natural. Any knowledge of our enemy is power, but I suggest starting small so as to not reveal our actual strength, though it may be known already. As for a path our creator does not expect, I believe Berd and Luke could supply just such a path if we lack other means."

Dorian's compliment brings an appreciative smile to Morgan, and another shallow bow.  "When this is over, you are welcome to visit. I should offer to take you, but it isn't worth the route for any who don't call it home. "

As Roman speaks of echoes, he tilts his head in question.  "The archons spill fire from the sky, and Arden is a forest. Might it not have little to do with us, and much to do with that?"

"Such is the way of the Hellride, friends," Aaron sighed, his focus still unbroken. "Swift, hard changes to a singular purpose, rather than subtle, gradual changes to the grand scope."

"This storm is going to be part of the ride for as long as it wants to exist. You're welcome to try dispersing the thing if you wish, but I can't cast a clue as to how it will affect our progress."

With that said, Aaron closed his mouth and focused on making some headway through the mire.

 

Enjoying the ride and the rain, Banglen-Yp smiled as Trista came over and asked how her little friend handled the rain.

•• He • pre•fers • lay•ing • be•fore • a • fi•re • but • it • does • not • bot•her • him ••

A simple reply to which the kitten peeked up from the pocket in which he resided, now with an opening in the front as well as inside the jacket, and even a little roof to shield him from the worst of the rain, even though he did appear to not mind it too much.  Perhaps the roof was more to prevent the pocket from being soaked.

•• Rain • gives • life • and • he • is • hap•py • to • be • a•live ••

Another statement and then she reached up to ruffle his damp head, making him look like a little punk kitten where he sat peeking at Trista over the edge of the pocket, clearly not mind being "punkified".

•• We • have • not • spok•en • much ••

This was evidently aimed at Trista despite the lack of naming who the we were.

•• How • do • you • like • the • rain • and • why • are • you • rid•ing • with • us ••

Two curious questions for Trista who still was under the scrutiny of the little kitten.

 

Cyan listens with avid interest to Morgan's description.  There is poetry in his words - the man has the heart of an artist, she suspects.  Lightflies and homes in trees…small wonder they ride upon great cats!  How curious Morgan must find these worlds - flat and untextured to his refined senses.  "Amazing," she whispers.  "It sounds much like some of the homes of Doriath, but entirely aloft."  She frowns at the description of this 'blackmoss', and wonders what it might have been.  Something of the past?  Or presaging this conflict?  It seems, though, that these 'rains' have wiped away the threat.  The bard laughs aloud at the picture presented, the idea of dozens of enormous panthers in the water, hunting for fish and likely getting in each others' way, then grows more serious.

"You do your world fair justice, Sir Morgan.  Does it have a name, this land of yours?  And this Blackmoss - has the threat truly ended?"  She considers his offer to visit, and adds it of the list of Things To Be Done after the quest is complete.  Assuming I survive.  Seeking Tander's people.  Visiting THX 1168.  Finding Duncan, wherever he might have been thrown through the Myriad Worlds.  So many things, so little time.  It's enough to make one wish they were immortal as well.

She turns a sad smile toward Trista.  "Artifacts and items mean little to me, but the loss of the gift of a friend…that is a different matter.  Still, I have my memories."  Her emerald eyes shine slightly in the dim light of the rain as she thinks back upon the green lands, the huge forest from when that friend hailed.  Memories indeed.

She listens with only vague comprehension as the immortals of their group discuss the mechanics of World-Walking - a fascinating subject, to be sure, and one she finds greatly interesting, but a trifle beyond her.  Without the ability, Cyan simply cannot grasp many of the mechanical theories.  Aaron, it seems, holds them steady on the path at the moment - small wonder, the stresses upon his face.

Berd, for his part, gets an innocent look on his reptilian features at Dorian's words.  His eyes flicker and flash for a moment.  Cyan grins.  "Perhaps it is better to simply divert, rather than eliminate.  Berd may be able to leave the storm, while protecting us from its fury."  The drake shifts upon Trista's shoulder, and steam rises from his nostrils.  But Cyan grows more vigilant, more concerned, at Morgan's suggestion.  Indeed, is it not possible that Amber is besieged?

James mood does not shift appreciably at Cyan's response and the shelter offered by Berd, although he is perhaps a little more relaxed.

James listens with interest to Morgan's account.  A world of trees, a concept that is not entirely alien perhaps but is certainly different from any world James has seen.  It sounds like an interesting place, living always in three dimensions.  The closest analogy James can conjure is an endless city of interlinked skyscrapers.

"The black moss you mention, Morgan, reminds me of a story Bleys told me.  During the last war in Amber a death-curse went awry.  That, together with some damage to the Pattern, the original that is, caused a black road of sorts to pass through the worlds all the way from Amber to the Courts of Chaos.  The black stuff, however it manifested, had unpleasant consequences.  It was wiped clean when Oberon repaired the Pattern.  That was apparently accompanied by a storm, too.  But it passed."

All the while James keeps a careful eye on their surroundings.  Even now that he no longer leads a measure of caution is needed.  While an ambush is unlikely, a hellride, with its acceleration of changing variables, can spring nasty surprises on the unwary.  A junkyard world and the requisite dogs.  No open gates?  Okay then.
"Leave it Ahmad, they're just dogs, they don't know any better."

As discussion turns to the storm surrounding them, James says only, "We're still a ways from Amber.  If this is connected to the battle there...its reach is impressive."

"Thank you, Lady Cyan. There might be, but it has fallen out of use, and I don't know it." laughs Morgan. "The maps say Paralicos, or Rowana, or Blade, for the largest areas. Live blackmoss has not been seen for most of my life, we think it truly gone. "


He listens with sympathy, but does not speak on the subject of the lost instrument. James story, however, sparks a muffled, "Corwin's horns."

Quick on the heels of the curse, the lift at the end forms a question of "And your people make roads out from the stuff, you said?"


Ahmad snorts, whether disdainful of James's comment, or the dogs, it isn't clear.

Berd, on Trista's shoulder, turns on his back and stares up at the rain vanishing a little over a foot above his head.

Roman feels a need to point out a neglected detail in James' story.  "And it was an Amberite who damaged the Pattern and another who pronounced the curse."

"Still, I feel that it is better to go around the storm.  If it is set for us, then we may evade the trap by not using our more unusual capabilities, as the person behind it might expect.  If it is set for others we still have those capabilities in reserve.   And if it is natural, I doubt that we will lose much time,"

The woman’s strange cadence mesmerizes as Trista watches her lips while she speaks. Her kitten shows itself on cue as if prompted by a stage hand. The corners of Trista’s lips curve in remembrance of her own string of pets throughout the years.

Her eyebrows rise at the woman’s note of their (lack of) conversations and the following questions. Blunt, another oddity of the woman’s speech. Trista nods and sighs, “No, there hasn’t been much chance to talk since I met up with your group in Charyk. I remember James’ introduction though. Banglen-Yp, right? Do you prefer to be called by your full name or something shorter such as Banglen?”

Whatever the woman answers, Trista will adjust. She thinks a moment on the woman’s questions before responding, “I love the rain. Though my friend here,” her head nods toward her shoulder at Berd, “does not. Therefore, we ride as if in sunshine.” There’s no sadness or annoyance in her voice; she’s perfectly happy accommodating Berd’s wishes. In fact, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“As for riding with you?” Her voice grows wistful as she peers up into the dark clouds, “To catch the sky.”

She grimaces at her own vocalization of another’s personal metaphor and turns back to Banglen-Yp, “Sorry, a stray thought. I travel with you because I was invited. I came across both Berd and James in Charyk and helped in what small ways I could. I suppose some of your party believe I can be of service.”

Her eyes gently stray to each of those around her. “As for why I chose accept the invitation…” she trails off, searching for answers within. It doesn’t take long, a moment of two. She turns back to look at the blonde woman, “To have purpose. These worlds we cross are my family, in one way or another. If the Archons are not stopped, they will be harmed or rather, wiped out. It is better to live for their protection than to meander for my own selfish desires.”

A wry grimace and she adds another apology, “Sorry, perhaps that doesn’t make a lot of sense. What of you; have you been traveling with this group long?” Her brows crinkle with an added idea, “And where are you from? Your accent is far different than any I’ve heard before.”

Meanwhile, talk of the storms grows around them. In conversation with Banglen-Yp, Trista keeps an ear to the talk though she keeps her attention on the woman. Through it all, she hones her skills at multi-tasking and dividing her attentions though certainly, not on the level of which Berd is accustomed.

And then, suddenly, the precipitation stops.

Or, rather, it doesn't.

Overhead, the clouds still roil and swirl, and deposit their load of water, whether as ice or as rain... but somehow, it never seems to reach the strange group who travel the long road.

It falls, and then it is as if it strikes a roof of infinitely clear glass, and is pushed aside, to continue its fall a half mile away from the riders.

The ground is still wet underfoot, and nothing else changes, beyond the sequence of shifts wrought by Aaron, but there is relief from the storms, for those who must journey on this day.

"Good," Dorian says. "Let us go around, then, and see what happens." Based on what he had observed of the storm in the local worlds around them, he doubted it was merely a coincidence. While he detected no intelligence behind the world-spanning storm, it did not mean it had nothing to do with them. He predicted that there would be more storms as they tried to move around it. Time would tell, though.

 

Banglen-Yp looked a little confused at first when asked about her name and then slowly shook her head.

•• Not • a • name •• It • is • me •• Bang•len••Yp •• I • have • no • name •• Yet ••

A careful explanation accompanied by a big smile.  The little kitten meowed and turned to look up her which trigger her to look down at it and smile gently.

•• Yes • rain • is • nice ••

A steadfast agreement.

As Trista's eyes lifted towards the sky, so did Banglen-Yp's.

•• I • too • seek • to • catch • the • sky ••

It sounded almost sad, that statement and the kitten clambered out to nuzzle her neck, wet and all as it was.  This made her giggle softly and she lifted a hand to scratch the kitten behind his ear.

•• My • par•ty ••

An echo of words and she looked around at the others.

•• Pur•pose •• Mea•ning •• Fam•i•ly ••

More echoed words and she seemed sad again, giving a weak smile.

•• Make • good • sense ••

The rain ceased and the kitten blinked, looking up, before starting to groom himself where he sat against odd blonde's neck as she shook her head, the golden locks partly falling over the kitten.

•• No •• I • join • at • old • Cha•ryk •• I • come • with • a • car•a•van ••

A simple statement first, the a moments of brooding, looking at the sky and then wandering over the little dragon and the others as they were talking.

•• I • come • from • where • I • was • be•fore •• I • am • still • young •• Lear•ning • still •• Acc•ent • is • from • beg•in•ning ••

An attempt to explain, by the sound of it, and then some more brooding.  Along come another cryptic statement, a seemingly serious attempt to explain something not easily explained.

•• He • is • old•er • than • me • but • Bang•len••Yp • is • old•er •• Young • and • old ••

Then a single word, sounding nearly heartbreakingly sorrowful.

•• A•lone ••

 

The road continues down from the highlands, and then veers to follow the course of the broad valley.  The snow turns to rain, though that matters little now, as the group of travellers are shielded by some invisible force above their heads.

There is no lightning now, just the howling of the wind as it blows across the barrier.  Gradually the valley curves, but the road continues straight on, into the teeth of the wind, which carries rain and sleet with it, and something else.

A familiar smell...

The road rises, slowly climbing towards a gap in the valley wall.

They have been riding now, with breaks, for many hours.  Perhaps more than a day, though with the constant changes in the sky, the shifting position of the sun (or, occasionally, suns), and strange distortions of time and distance, it's hard to be sure.

The only thing that is certain is that Charyk, whichever one is referred to, is far behind, lost, somewhere in the infinite worlds which hold the road and its myriad tributaries and junctions.

As the way enters the gap, a pass through the mountains, the sky ahead becomes visible.  Dark and ominous, threatening rain and wind and storm.  They ride through the high pass, the rough ground to each side, and even the road itself, treacherous with water and a film of ice.  And beyond the gorge, the world opens out to reveal the source of the familiar smell.  An ocean, storm tossed and grey.

Below the exit from the gap, a city huddles close to the mountains, built on the lower slopes.

The city is large, constructed mainly of a grey stone, and most of the rooftops are a sullen blue in the gloom of the storm.  Above and behind the city, to each side of the roadway, a dense forest rises to the snowline of the high peaks.  Watch towers stand up in the snow, standing guard over the great city.

That city bears the scars of recent conflict.  Some areas are blackened, as if great fires have burned there, and there are wrecked ships pulled up on the beach alongside the harbour.  Many of those look to have been put to the torch too.

There are a few vessels at anchor, but the harbour looks as though it could accomodate many more.

As the Defenders of Worlds start their descent towards the wall which shields the landward side of the city, and the gate which gives access to it, more details become clear, including the broken windows, the damaged buildings, and the torn, frayed, faded and tattered remnants of coloured flags and bunting adorning many of the structures.

Cadiniagart.  For some of the travellers, this is not their first visit, and not all of them carry happy memories of the city.

Dorian looks out over the city of Cadiniagart, deep in distant thoughts. This is where it all began, for him. The others, Cyan, Jack, Aaron, were already embroiled in this struggle when he arrived. He stumbled into the struggle blindly, merely seeking another foray into Amber--more cautiously this time--and instead found himself in a battle with the shape shifter. They had a name for the thing, did they not? He could barely recall it, now.

Here he had first met Cyan. He had returned here thinking he had learned, but he had not. His first words to Cyan had proven that. So much had changed since then.

And Cadiniagart looked even worse for wear. Signs of a struggle abound. The war leader in him takes in the details with a critical eye. The wall stands, the city survives. Yet, what lies within remains to be seen. Has some enemy overcome the great city? He doubts it from what he sees, but anything is possible.

Cyan keeps her ears open for James' assessment of the situation - his experience is far, far greater than hers, and she defers to it instinctively.  For all of her raw talent, James has the instincts of a soldier who has spent much of his career hunted - it has scarred the big man where few can see, but also made him wary in ways others might not appreciate.

"Paralicos...a beautiful name, for a land of heights and shadows."  She smiles, nods.  Paralicos it will be, then.  To her, that is, when she writes the song of this Quest.  Someday.  "Perhaps the blackmoss is an ancient threat, then, gone stale with the decades?  I suppose one might so hope."  Indeed, one might.  It smacks of the tactics of the Seraphim, of their use of the Gatherer, but in a more subtle fashion.

James, again, brings a snippet of knowledge to the conversation that may indeed be pertinent.  Cyan frowns, glances at Berd.  "I have...heard of this war.  It may have coincided with the fall of the lands most dear to my heart.  A ripple, perhaps, through the Myriad Worlds?"  Roman speaks up then, possibly in defense of his own homeland.  Lexy had spoken of this war, Cyan thinks.  Hadn't she?  Or had it been Lazarus?  Both of Chaos, both possessing knowledge far, far beyond her own.  "In the past, yes," she mumurs.  "But the ripples spread still."

Berd, having dealt with the rain, slowly rolls back over onto his stomach and sighs out a puff of golden sparkles.  Immediately, the Questors' sodden clothing (those who actually suffer from the rain, that is) begins to warm and steam.  Cyan frowns, recalling something.  "We know of many of the worlds of the people here, but others we do not.  Trista, you say your home is similar to Jonnee's and James'?  Interesting - what is it called?  From what city do you hail?  Jonnee came to us by way of Las Angelos - is there a city named so in your homeworld?"  Her eyes light upon the strange woman beside Berd's current porter, the woman who is alone in the Myriad Worlds.  "Banglen-Yp - would you give us the name of your world - or…can you?"

Then it lies ahead.  Cadiniagart.  Cyan's lips thin, and she stares down at where it all began.  Four times, now, she has travelled to this city.  Does Beldin still lurk within its walls - she never did get satisfactory answers regarding that man.  Will they again meet a Prince and Princess of Amber here?

One, she came on a boat, alone.  Here she fell in with Lexy, Duncan, another Morgan.  Here she met Ares, poor Ares, slain along the trail with his grave despoiled, and Otandal, killed in ambush shortly after their introduction.  The second time she returned, the mysterious artist Kendell accompanied them, along with the indomnitable Kalika and Hunter.  The third time she came with Jack, found Aaron again, met stolid Andrej and bitter Kaelyn, brave James and laughing Jonnee, all agents of the crown.  Here, too, she encountered the artist Leonardo for the second time - the third time he and her had met had been in his homeland, where she cut him down with Gurthang.

The rain has ceased to fall upon them, but Cyan wipes her cheeks.  A girl entered the city - an innocent, wandering minstrel, with a happy, lazy drake upon her shoulder.  When the girl returned, she was an agent of Amber's Crown on a mission of state to determine the threat to an empire.  Entering the city a third time, she was a girl no longer, no innocent to the trials of the worlds, and the drake upon her shoulder cast a long, dark shadow.

Now?

Once again into Cadiniagart, sporting its own marks of war.  A war of flame and explosive violence.  Cyan stares down at the city with hematite eyes, grey and lustrous, and no drake rides upon her shoulder now.  He sits close by, but things have changed again.

She shifts in her saddle, reaches up.  The Warrior in Jet and Gold adjusts Gurthang's hilt, then raises her hand toward the city.  "Best we continue," Cyan says quietly, and urges her horse forward to the war-torn port.

Leading the troop, Aaron couldn't help but pause as he considered the city that stood before them. Deep inside, something old and craving recognition stirred, welling up in ancient talent.

"Slate grey, with silver lines of rain etching our memories. A history sits, stares, not judgemental, having been here forever. We pass it by, not ingorant; mere playthings in the ever-moving tide of consequence."

He walked, halting his manipulation of the Worlds. James and himself would need to conserve their energies if they were to finally reach Amber.

"I am unfamiliar with this place," Aaron said, ignoring his own poetic observation. "However, we're not unfamiliar with its current state. If this place is any reflection at all of our proximity to Amber, then I'm certainly glad we rested up."

He reached behind him, checking Ilse in her scabbard. It would do them no good to enter a trap at this juncture.

The road leads down to the great gate, rain-slick cobbles laid in terraces, providing a flight of broad stairs down the mountainside.

At the gate, there are many guards, and one of them, bundled in a heavy cloak, protection against the weather, steps forward.  His hand is raised in the universal gesture for "stop", causing his cloak to part slightly, and allowing chainmail to be seen glinting beneath it, trimmed with what looks to be brass.

He eyes the odd group of riders, and calls out to them, in an accent which speaks of noble birth, when they are still some twenty yards distance, "Hold, travellers!  There has been trouble, of late, in Cadiniagart, and we are charged with questioning all who would pass through this gate and enter the city.  I'll make it as quick as I can, however."

"What business brings you to the port of Cadinagart, this... fine... day?"  His gaze goes to the sky, and when he looks back at the group, he is wearing a wry smile.

Approaching the gate, Dorian watches Trista as she rides. To catch the sky. Such a simple parable apparently had taken some meaning with the woman. He had not expected that, but he was glad of it. The woman seemed to have heart and passion, and he respected that. He wondered at what events had led her to this ragged group. A purpose was indeed a thing to have. He knew what it was like to have none. For him, a destructive purpose had risen in the absence of one, and many humans had suffered under his hand for it. That was long ago.

Dorian does not respond to the guard immediately. He knows others in the camp will respond. They are more attuned to this sort of thing than he is.

Morgan is tempted to pass them off as messengers and save the effort, but keeps his mouth closed. If they are passing through a city, odds favor there being a reason. Best wait.

Tahirah once again draws herself out of her huddle as they approach civilization. Sitting straight on her panther, she projects serenity, but also chooses to remain silent; this is not her place to speak.

The gate officer studies the group before him, for a long moment, until realisation seems to dawn upon his face...

Clearing his throat, he says in a loud voice, "Valkar bar Cadiniagart.  Œraz terbjul œril må Cadiniagart anßor sed dagen?"

Glancing from one side of him to the other, Aaron sighed, shaking his head. What the hell was going on?

"Sorry," he said to the Guard. "Look, we've been travelling pretty hard, riding this storm a good majority of the way from our point of origin. A few of my comrades are familiar with Cadiniagart from prior visits here, and really we're just looking for a place to hole up for a short while before we continue on."

Looking from one worn building to another, and then to the storm overhead, he frowned.

"Been a rough few days, has it?"

<backpost>
In answer to Morgan's question, James replies hastily.  "No, the black stuff took the form of a road, at least in the worlds close to Amber.  It may have looked a bit like bitumen, that's all.  From what Bleys told me, no sane person would try to make anything of that stuff."
</backpost>

Cadiniagart.  They're close then to Amber. For James this is where the quest began.  How long ago?  It's hard to tell.  One of the more difficult realisations of his travels has been that the passage of time is not constant from place to place.  One more preconception discarded by the side of the road.

However long it has been the city has not fared well.  At least it still stands.  It's conceivable that the guards now represent the ruling authority of Archons, but unlikely.  More likely that the damage below represents either the periphery to or a reflection of the trouble in Amber, depending upon your philosophy.

The remnants of bunting and flags strike James as peculiar.  It looks as though whatever happened here interrupted a holiday or festival.  James is curious, but there are too many unknowns still.  He waits to hear the guard's response to Aaron's question.

"Ah... my apologies.  I thought perhaps you hadn't understood me.  Thought I'd try a little Ghizhti, since we sometimes get visitors from the Eastern Kingdoms in... "  He seems to wind down, as he looks from face to face.

"Sorry, I'm rambling."

"You could say it's been a rough six months.  We had some trouble with assassins, during the celebrations of our new trade alliance with Amber.  Almost started a war, and some of our... less bright... citizens burned down some buildings, and scuppered some of the merchant vessels in the harbour, though I'm not sure how they thought they were helping the situation." he continues, his expression more than a little sorrowful.

"It looked bad for a while.  Then Amber sent one of its princesses over, Princess Fina, or Fiona, or somesuch.  She pushed the treaty through, and things calmed down.  Much better now, and last week we found the real assassin.  He'd been hiding under our noses the whole time.  Spying too."

"Perhaps things will get back to normal now, and we can start rebuilding.  Particularly as we have more money coming in from the Golden Circle trade."

He turns, then, and waves his men aside, before facing the Questor's once more, "If you've no particular business here, I'd recommend heading straight through to the Waterfront District.  People down there are a little more used to the sight of foreigners, and less likely to react badly.  Plus there are some fine inns down there which, given the that trade dropped off for a while, and is just now recovering, should be pleased to recieve customers."

"Just keep going downhill from the Gate, and you'll find the waterfront, easily enough."

"Beautiful, Aaron."  Cyan stares curiously at their sometime leader.  "Is that a quote, or did you extemporize?"

She falls silent as they approach the gate, and studies the city with dark, sapphire eyes.  The smell of char has departed the air and, in time, its evidence will retreat from the city entirely.  But that could take years.  In the meantime, she considers the guard's words.  Six months.

Six.  Months.

Over two years have passed for her since she first set foot in this city, and yet half of one for them.  The Myriad Worlds sometimes tax the spirit.

"Thanks kindly," he responded to the Guard and his comrades, before continuing to lead the group on their way to the dockside. Once out of earshot, he responded to Cyan's inquiry.

"Extemporization," Aaron said. "Sometimes the Worlds we walk hit me in such a way, that my spirit can do nothing more than vocalize accordingly. It helps me to deal with all that we go through." He slowed and reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Time... it's a fluid and fickle thing. One day I leave my lands alone, the next I return, and I've got twelve great-grandchildren all trying to kill me!"

He laughed, though there was a bit of sadness to it. "Considering Time, I thought I'd lost the latent talent for poetry. It's comforting, not to mention stabilizing, to know I can still empathize with the Worlds around me. No matter how long I walk them."

Done with that for the moment, he glanced at James and Dorian.

"Just because this place was torched only six months ago according to the local calendar, doesn't mean we shouldn't be on our guard. This place is way too close to Amber to not act as some sort of reflective representation for it. I say we find a ship and use it to infiltrate Amber the rest of the way." Turning his gaze to the rest of his gang, he raised an eyebrow.

"Anyone else have any ideas?"

Roman looks around warily.  "Professional assassins don't generally stay around to get caught.  It's entirely possible that whoever they've got for that is just a scapegoat.  I suggest that we all keep our noses claen and do nothing to attract supicion."

As Trista travels near Banglen-Yp, Berd weaves his magic and the raid dissipates from all, not just their little trio.

The blonde woman’s words come cryptically to Trista’s ears. More and more, Trista wonders at this woman. “No name? Will you name yourself at some point or wait for another to name you?” Banglen-Yp perhaps is her nationality or… her flick to Cyan and down to Berd. The possibilities are numerous, and Trista isn’t ready to speculate.

Then the woman continues and Trista does her best to assimilate her response, but the meaning behind the words is lost. There’s sadness within the woman, something Trista had not thought to see. She had been all giggles and smiles in the past.

Alone. A universal concept, not easily bridged. Trista frowns as she considers her own aloneness, mostly likely quite different from Banglen-Yp’s. The woman seems to be newly born… or created. The kitten is older, but Banglen-Yp is older still. Her race? Very confusing. She turns to back to the blonde in a last effort to understand, “Have there been other Bangel-Yp’s out there, somewhere?” Most likely, her question doesn’t make sense, but she doesn’t know where else to go with these concepts.

Soon a city comes into view, one foreign to Trista, but not to others. Cyan asks for the naming of worlds, to which Trista responds, “Earth, though there are many Earths I have visited. We have a Los Angeles, too, but it’s nothing like that of Jonnee’s. Ours is a wasteland.”

Her eyes roam over the war-torn city before them and before the guards stop them, she comments, “Cyan, this reminds me of my home, war marring every building.”

The guard approach and question the group in two languages before Aaron responds. The guards continue with explanations and Trista knows her own home is far removed from this Amber-touched place.

She’s unsure if taking a ship means the Hell Ride is over, or if shifting would still be done. Their travels are quite foreign to her. She simply waits for those leading this procession to respond to Aaron as she nods in agreement with Roman.

Roman. A thought strikes her and she turns again to Banglen-Yp, “It seems you and Roman are very close, does traveling with him keep you from feeling lonely?” There is, of course, a difference between being lonely and being alone, but perhaps the woman will provide insight to her relationship with the Chaosist.

 

•• No • name ••

Banglen-Yp echoed the words and shook her head, the golden locks flying heavily around the kitten, still damp from the rain.

•• Not • sure • what • is • in • a • name •• What • is • a • name ••

A statement and a question, close together.

•• On•ly • Bang•len••Yp •• A•lone ••

Another sad statement, along with a sad smile.

•• Bang•len••Yp • search•es • for • other ••

Words heavier than ever before and the gaze are cast down towards the ground.  A single tear fell and a confused look partly replaced the sad as a hand lifted up to dry the cheek.

•• I • rain • in•side ••

A puzzled statement aimed at no one and the kitten nudged her again, gently purring where it snuggled up against her neck.

---

Staying a little to the side as they approached the city, the strange blonde watched and listened but said nothing.  She had nothing to offer and the internal rain had dampened her otherwise cheerful spirit it seemed.

 

Beyond the gate, the road leads down wards across an open space, with fences of wrought iron enclosing the short grass to each side.  One might suspect it to be an ornamental park of some description, but its position against the base of the city walls, coupled with the very sharp, though highly decorative, tips on the vertical bars of the fence, make it seem more likely that it is intended to serve a defensive role.

Then they ride between the first of the houses.  There are people here, made miserable by the weather.  All are busy, going about their daily business, though there always seems to be a clear path for the panthers through the crowded street.  The wind, blowing in from the sea, stirs the remnants of the flags, streamers, and pennants which still adorn the tall stone buildings.  Closer, more details are seen - the predominant colours of the decorations are green and white (often depicting a white unicorn on a green field), or blue and white (three white ships on a blue background is a common motif here), though other colours and designs are also present.

Moving through the streets, many of the buildings show signs of damage.  In the more extreme cases, this appears to be quite severe.  Some of them are boarded up, their doors sealed, or stare out at the travellers through broken, vacant windows.

A market square, with far fewer stalls than it could accomodate, though those that are present seem to be well-stocked, and doing brisk trade.  The crowds are here too, buying from the market, or from the shops which surround the edges of the square.  A few are standing about, gossiping idly, in one corner of the marketplace, while watching a dozen workmen constructing a gibbet on an elevated platform.

Dorian kept words to himself as they rode into the city. Once bright, the city no longer seems as prosperous as it once did. Perhaps it is merely the rain coupled with the rebuilding efforts. It was a tragic thing to have a home destroyed.

Across the marketplace, and downhill, on the way towards the harbour.  The houses down here are mostly in better shape, with fewer signs of the troubles which have afflicted the city.  There also seem to be even more people about.

Onward and downward... the street follows a gentle curve to the left, then straightens out, and a narrow slice of harbour and ocean can be seen at the far end.  And a ship.  Though difficult to see details at this range, the pennant at the masthead appears to be greeen and white.

Just as they pass a narrower side street, Cyan stops, and looks past the people flowing in and out of the smaller thoroughfare...
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:34, Wed 18 Apr 2007.

Cyan nods to Roman's assessment of the situation vis a vis the assassin.  "Indeed.  It seems unlikely..."  Her voice trails off as she stares around the city, hearing words echoing from the distance of the past.

"...It seems the rumours about Cadiniagart might be true, certainly the citizens look to be celebrating something...."

She blinks, turns a serious face to Banglen-Yp.  "Nothing, save identification.  A name is but a marker, to hold place for others to find."  It is difficult to follow what the woman might mean, and memories rush in on the bard, distracting her.  She flinches away from the gibbet, turning her face from its ugly, twisted shape.  She searches for another.  Like her?

"Earth."  She nods.  "I have heard of this world, perhaps more than one of them.  Perhaps Jonnee's was named so...."  She looks at the war-torn world around her.  "Trista, it seems the reflections of your worlds are not so different.  Jonnee's world is a world of sudden violence, and James'...well, there have been wars."  An understatement, as any looking in James' eyes for long enough would know.  She looks at the other woman directly.  Small wonder she seeks to defend those who cannot save themselves - perhaps she has seen enough of that in the past?

Then something catches her eye.  And the voices rush in like water through a cracked dam.

"Look at this place, Berd.  Isn't it beautiful?"

"Hello! Iss anybody dhere?"

"Ah... fergive me please.  Donavon's the name.  I'm the owner of this establishment."

"Since I want not to burden you with asking me yourself and to save you the work of going through this twice, I will take the same as the young lady with the unusual draconic companion."

"Greeting, innkeeper. Room, bath and a plater of whatever it is that smells so good."

She sways in the saddle, face as pale as one who has been stabbed, and stares blindly at the grey stone, blue tiled inn before the group.  Somehow it has escaped damage, and looks much the same as it had...six months ago, over two years ago, depending on which path one too to arrive here.  The straight, or the winding.

"Blue Rose," Cyan whispers, looking at the name of the establishment.  She swallows thickly, and suddenly Berd bursts off Lexy's shoulder to dart through the air onto Cyan's.  He croons quietly, his tail wrapping her neck, one wing unfolding to shroud her head.  Cyan reaches up to touch the drake, her fingers trembling.

"Should we require an inn," she says quietly, somehow pitching her voice to cut through the hustle and bustle of the square, "you will not find a finer one than this.  And the innkeeper, a good man, may be able to answer some questions."

Here, she bumped into Duncan and Morgan.  Here she met Otandal, the poor, doomed shapeshifter.  Here Derek toasted Amber, and she, herself, traded songs with Lexy.  Here it all began, she thinks, staring at the building.  And now they return, bearing new knowledge, new strengths, new sorrows.  A cold wind blows down her spine.

Here begins the end.

Roman shakes his head at the conversation between Trista and Banglen-Yp.  Trying to get Banglen-Yp to explain herself in a comprehensible fashion is a difficult task, requiring much patience.

On hearing Cyan's comments on the inn he remarks.  "Do we travel by sea or land ?  If by sea it would be well to book passage, before seeking accomodations.  The ship in the harbour bears a flag in Amber's colours"
This message was last edited by the player at 11:04, Fri 20 Apr 2007.

"By sea.  That is the traditional way to Amber from Cadiniagart.  'Though I will feel a little exposed out at sea."  James answers Roman.  After all that's how he arrived here.  Six months ago.

"Cyan's right, there have been wars.  But that's not the whole story.  My world, like any other I suppose, is a big place.  It has its share of wonders as well as tragedies.  When I was younger, I sought out conflicts to test myself.  It took me a long time to wake up to the harm all the fighting was doing to me.  I guess what I'm saying is my experience isn't typical of my world."

Uncertain how to comfort Banglen-Yp, or answer her questions, Trista fell silent in their travels. Cyan provides an answer for the strange woman, but whether the blonde would understand or not remained to be seen.

Cyan’s words about violence and wars prompts a nod from Trista, “Violence seems to be a common theme in man, whether between battling countries or erupting in personal disagreements.” Sorrow again rests in her eyes.

James expresses some of what his history holds, and Trista again wonders at Berd’s conclusion that James and she share a commonality. It’s there, she can see, but to what extent will have to be discovered as they come to know one another.

“This is a large group, certainly half could see about a ship and the other check for information within the Inn. If by sea, perhaps we will not have the luxury of staying the night if a ship is to be had immediately.”

Under the present circumstances Roman considers the local authorities to be less of a threat to him than any agents of Amber who might be around the ship.

"If we're splitting, I prefer to remain here",

Dorian pauses with the others. He looks to the inn, then Cyan. There were more memories here for her than for the others. To the company, he says, "I will go to see about transportation, then. We have no business here. If we can pass on to Amber quickly, so much the better. If not, we should endeavor to spend our time here well. Anyone who wishes may join me."

It wouldn't take more than one, but the talk of splitting up caused him to leave the invitation open. He especially wanted it open for Cyan. He wasn't sure, but he suspected she might wish to be distant from this part of the city for a time. She could just as easily wish to remain here with her nostalgia, so he didn't address any invitation directly to her.

Tahirah gently guides her panther a little closer to Dorian.  She was, by necessity, starting to get the hang of riding, but it still helped that it was a perceptive and highly cooperative mount.  She swallows, first; she really hasn't spoken since leaving Parcifal's Charyk, and she always takes care to speak clearly.

"I would go to see the ships," she says.  Not a grand pronouncement, perhaps, but they don't all have to be.

"I'll go with you, Dorian," Aaron responded. "Been a while since I've been aboard ship. I'd also like to get a good measure of how long we'll be out to sea."

Aaron had other reasons, of course, but those were just the initial ones. He wanted to get moving on to Amber as soon as possible.

"By sea, it would seem," Cyan notes quietly, when Roman's questions are answered by others.  She listens to James' explanation, turning to stare at him in ruby-eyed surprise as he confesses to having found wars to 'test' himself.  A shock, that; he must have changed a great deal since then.  Wars tend to do that, she reminds herself, with a glance down at her hand.  The bard reaches up, scratches Berd's chin for an instant, then glances back at the Inn.

Trista's comment sparks a slow nod from Cyan, her weariness of the spirit, rather than the body.  "Truth, regrettably.  On this journey we have seen enough of people's faults, their quick turn toward violence.  Not all, of course."  A tired smile back to Trista.  "Only...enough."

She expects both James and Trista, along with the other World Walkers, have seen much of that themselves even before joining.  The sorrow in Trista's eyes seems to bear that out.

And now Trista puts forth a good plan - one that will allow them to scour the city both for transportation, and for information.  Cyan nods, understanding - fragmentation is poor when in battle, but this is a different situation.  Now, it seems, three have declared for the ships, and one for the Inn.  Cyan nods, slowly.  "I would speak with Donovan, the innkeeper.  He may recall me, and be able to fill my cup of knowledge, so to speak."

Berd bobs his head, and Cyan sighs.  "And perhaps find dinner, yes."

And so the group splits up.  Some head for the harbour (Part 59b), while others opt for the inn (Part 59a).