If Tahirah hears Aaron, she gives no sign of it, remaining still and quiet.

Listening, mostly.

As the wind picks up, her oversized robes ripple, but the hood stays in place.  She listens to the differing sounds of rain upon the water, from rain upon the earth, and rain still within the air.  She wishes briefly that she had some wood of her own, to start a fire; it couldn't last long, but while it did, it would have been interesting.

She seems almost apart from the storm.  Her robes move with the wind, but with less force than they should.  She sways slightly, but not in time with the forces gusting at her from the water.

She wonders if this sort of thing happens often around the sea, and smiles a little to herself.  She hopes so.  It's beautiful.

The wind continues to howl around the structures on the waterfront, driving rain and spray before it.

Dorian is sheltered from the worst of it, and Tahirah just doesn't seem to notice it.  Not so Will and Jer, who are forced to remain pretty much exposed to it, as is the third man in the livery of Amber, who rushes out of one of the nearby streets and approaches the two guards.  Yelling, to make himself heard above the storm, he informs them, "The prince has decided to spend the night at the palace!  There's a banquet in his honour, so he'll not be back before tomorrow!"


Further along the dock, Aaron stops by the ship with the three paddlewheels.  There is a small structure on the deck, little more then twelve feet square and seven high.  It has windows in three of the sides, and through them Aaron can see a figure silhouetted, and a tiny spark of orange light.  Somebody smoking then...


The approaching ship continues to make its way towards the harbour, wallowing heavily in the rough seas.  Flashes of lightning reveal men on her decks, attempting to strike sail in the teeth of the storm...


Will and Jer are a little disappointed by the news brought to them by the now-departing messenger, "Well!  That's charming, isn't it?  They might have told us that before the storm started again."

"We could have taken the boat back to the ship and been comfortable."

"Jer?  Do you reckon that bastard, Tyler, will be on deck in this?"

"No, he'll be down below, probably getting some tea."

"That's what I thought.  Got any ciggies?"

Tahirah stirs slightly, her attention finally caught by something besides the crashing waves and falling rain.

Something moving in the crashing waves and falling rain.

She watches the ship fighting the storm with a faintly detached curiousity.  She doesn't know much - anything, in fact - about sailing, but she can only guess that can't be easy.

After a few moments, she raises an arm, and extends a hand.  She pauses, enjoying the feel of the rain on her skin, despite the biting cold.  Then she begins to sketch a shape in the air; a sharp, jagged line, slowing into waves, then smoothing into a simple curve.  The curve finishes, and she raises her arm back up again, repeating the motion.

The storm continues to rage, hammering against the moored ships, and those unfortunate enough to be out in it.  Lightning flares repeatedly, and the thunder is almost frequent enough to develop a pounding rhythm...

The rain, mixed with a little sleet now, sluices down upon the quayside and the jetties, and flows off the buildings in torrents.  Jer and Will huddle closer to the wall, hoping to gain some shelter from the eaves of the structure.

Dorian, pressed against the side of another building, and not in the direct path of the wind, fares a little better, though he is still cold and uncomfortable.

Further away, Aaron is hammered by the elements, rain and hail and sleet stinging his skin and driving him back from the wheeled ship, in search of shelter.  There is a large shed nearby, and a quich push forces a lock to comply with Aaron's request for entry.

Tahirah's robe moves in the wind (though, oddly, it doesn't seem to be the same wind that is trying to knock everybody else off their feet), and she reaches out a hand to draw strange glowing symbols in the air, and the rain hisses into steam where it touches those arcane marks.

And out beyond the harbour, the approaching ship suddenly seems to be making better progress.  Not much better, but better...

Dorian pushes off the brick wall of the building, slipping out of the alleyway into the street. Storm? On Samhain, this would be an afternoon breeze. He pulls his cloak in tight around his scarecrow frame and bends his head into the wind, which plasters hair and hood against his face. He navigates without looking, though.

He hoped they didn't have to wait long. Perhaps Aaron would find passage on that other ship, or Morgan would find a useful land route. Either would be better than begging a ride from a Prince of Amber, what an entrance that would be. He felt relief that this Corwin had decided to stay the night.

For now, he would return to the inn and see what the others had planned, or had discovered.

"Gods, what a blast," Aaron hissed as he entered the building. He gazed out between the doorpost and the door itself, into the spitting, angry rain, and frowned.

"The hell. Should've just blundered back to the Inn." He spoke mostly to himself as he shut the door against the wind, wondering for the nonce about Tahira and her casting into teh maelstrom. He shook his head, and rather than interrupt, dediced to leave her to her business, even despite the storm.

He turned and faced the shed itself, wondering about the small building by the dock, and whether Corwin would stay out the storm or longer... they needed to reach Amber at some point, by some means, and there were a few sitting by them, now.

For now, he could only bide his time and consider the future. A storm was bad business, this close to open sea, and he didn't feel like getting sopped trying to make it back to the Inn. He'd have to wait it out.

Aaron turns, and finds that the small structure is very crowded.  Crates and bales are stacked within, filling most of the space, and making it seem even smaller.  Perhaps twenty feet deep, and only ten wide, most of the available soace is filled.

A small warehouse then.  Most of the crates seem to bear the same highly stylised image of an animal, possibly a bear.  Or a pig.  It's hard to tell in the dim light.  That light comes from a hurricane lamp hanging on a peg just inside the door.

The question of who would keep a lamp burning in there is answered a moment later, as two men, one of them burly, the other extremely so, step out from behind one of the stacks of crates, and into the narrow open space.  The smaller of the two, if the term could be applied to a man of his size, points a crowbar at Aaron.

"Who the bloody 'ell're you then?  Yer not the watchman."


Outside, the storm continues to rage, making the Amberites even more miserable.  Tahirah stands, seemingly unaffected by it, and watches as a ship approaches.  Around it the elements are in turmoil, wind and water and lightning in a frenzied dance of madness and chaos.  But the ship seems to ride within a bubble where, while not exactly calm, the storm is at least survivable.

Entering the harbour, the ship pushes its way towards a jetty a little way to the right, and the men on the deck struggle to bring her in safely, and make her fast.

There is a series of loud cracks and bangs, somewhere to Tahirah's left, echoing even above the sounds of the storm, followed by a tearing noise... and one of the moored ships loses a mast to the raging weather.

"No," Aaron said, turning to face the crowbar-wielding bruiser. "No, I'm not."

He leaned against the door, crossing his arms before his chest and using one free hand to pull wet strands of long, dark hair out of his eyes.

"To answer your question, I'm merely a traveler waiting for the next passage out of here. I just happened to get caught in this gale before I could make it back to the nearest Inn."

Giving the man a questioning look, Aaron raised an eyebrow.

"How about you? Do you often hang out in such tight confines as these?"

"Not through bloody choice, mate." comes the reply.  "On any other day, we'd be out there, at work.  But with the storm, we've decided it's better ter keep our 'eads down in 'ere."

"Long as yer not 'ere ter rob nuthin, we'll not be sendin' yer back out in the rain."

He pauses, and gives his silent companion a questioning look, before turning his attention back to Aaron.  "I'm Peyt, and this is Dovan.  'e can't talk, so 'e won't be interducin' 'isself."

A third man sticks his head around the corner of the stack, at a height which suggests he is considerably shorter than anybody else in the shed.  "An' that's Lenn."

"We was goin' ter play a few 'ands o' cards, ter pass the time.  Yer welcome ter join us, if yer wants ter?  Four players makes fer a better game."


The crew of the newly-arrived ship waste no time.  As soon as she is moored, and her sails furled, they are ashore as fast as possible, making for whatever shelter the buildings along the waterfront can provide.

Tahirah holds her concentration a moment longer on the manned ship, but they seem to be doing well enough.  The crack of the mast cuts through the rain very much like thunder, but so close...

She turns towards the sound, puzzled.  The shape of the ships there has changed somewhat, but...how?  She had seen ships in portraits before, but those looked very different, with the sails up and not half hidden in the driving rain...

She tilts her head a little, until she's looking at one ship almost sideways.  Oh.  That had been straight up before, not almost completely sideways.

With a little bit of a frown, she focuses on the broken wood.  Another symbol abruptly flares into the air in front of her, and she studies it for a moment, before reaching out to the glowing tracery with a finger and beginning to rework it slightly.

The air flames around Tahirah's outstretched hands, and every move she makes is reflected in the incandescent tracery which hangs before her.  Further away, the broken mast quivers.

There should be no difference between a broken table and a shattered mast.  In theory, it is the same.  In practice, though, the details are... somewhat different.  Tables are generally lighter, and not so encumbered with waterlogged canvas and tangled cables.

The mast starts to shift, dragging sideways across the dock, but that could just be the effects of the storm, and the uneven movement of the ship.  The massive timber lifts a foot, or so, and then crashes down on the dock again.

Aaron thought about it for a moment, considered, and finally shrugged.

"What the hell? I'm Aaron. Nice to meet you lot. Well met on a rainy day like today, and I'm something of a gambling man..."

He let that hang and found a seat, determined to let the time pass with at least some semblance of humanity left to it. Besides, when was the last time he gambled with something other than a part of his body?

Tahirah closes her eyes for a moment, holding the symbol before her.  The wood was willing, but the wind

Reaching up with her other hand, she begins the slower process of tracing out another symbol.  She thinks she can fix this ship, and perhaps leave it with a bit of protection...but she's beginning to find the storm less fun.

Aaron squeezes into the confines of the narrow space between the stacks of crates, where more crates and boxes serve as a table and crude seats.  Peyt sits on his left, the mute, Dovan, on his right, and the smaller man, Lenn, is positioned directly opposite.

"So, Aaron, yer say yer not from roun' 'ere, then?" Peyt drags a pack of cards from his pocket, placing them on the makeshift table, where a candle a lantern already sits, along with some cheese, half a loaf, and a bottle of... something clear.

"So... d'yer know 'ow ter play Blind Pig?  If'n yer don't, we can teach yer, it's easy enuff."

And so the game begins...


While Aaron enjoys the simple comforts provided by the hiding place of some of the dock workers, Tahirah is hard at work.  Energies writhe and slither through the air, flickering out from her oustretched hand to describe evanescent forms forms in the air, burning with an odd, eldritch light, which seems to drip from the runes and sigils, to boil away as it touches the surface of the dock.

The display is spectacular enough that Jer and Will step out of their, admittedly scant, shelter, so that they can get a closer look.  They lean into the howling gale, their heavy cloaks fluttering like the wings of frantic moths as they watch, open mouthed.

They aren't even complaining any more.

Along the dock, something has changed.  There seems to be a space where the wind has dropped, even as it still screams everywhere else.  Wood bends and flexes, as canvas rips under the weight of water it holds.  Cables seem to move like serpents, and the mast is pulled, slowly but surely, back into position...

Jagged wood knots itself, interlacing tighter and tighter, binding the halves of the mast together...

"Around here?" Aaron shook his head. "Nah. Been a long while since I've been near here, actually. Been out... at the front, don't know if you've heard. Hell of a lot of stuff going down beyond Cadiniagart."

He sniffed, raising his head. "Never played Blind Pig, no," he said, trailing off as he absorbed himself into the card game. "Been one, though!" Aaron said, and laughed.

And with a sound almost louder than that of the original destruction, the broken mast is back in place again, twisting and turning for a few moments, like a dog trying to settle comfortably...


"Reckon as 'ow we all 'as, from time ter time!"  They're all laughing, as they play what turns out to be a relatively simple game, involving  the collecting of pairs and trios of cards, all of one suit, or one value, and hoping that three cards laying face down on the table will match up with at least some of them.

Aaron seems to pick it up fairly quickly, and is scoring well, though not as well as Lenn, who seems to be very lucky.

Tahirah lets out a breath as the spell completes its work, and looks at the tattered remains of the sail.  Significant.  She glances over towards the ship that had just docked, remembering that, indeed, one of the very first things they did was to wrap their sails tight around the mast, so they wouldn't catch the wind.

Other ships with the sails down seem to be...if not perfectly safe from the storm, then at least very much safer.

Robes rippling around her, she turns to look up and down the docks, to see how many ships were caught unprepared, with their sails out.

As far as Tahirah can see, the other ships in the harbour are faring much better in the storm.  It seems that most of them were better prepared than the one she has so recently repaired.  The main exceptiuon, the latest arrival, sits in a zone of eerie calm (relatively speaking) while those of her crew, still aboard, work to secure her against the elements.

The Amberite ship, Unicorn's Wrath,, sits perfectly motionless, as if rooted to the seabed.  Waves crash around her, slamming against her hull. and yet the ship does not move.  Instead she holds her position, as if imbued with extra solidity.  Something about her simply shakes off the ferocious storm, as if she refuses to recognise its ability to affect her.



"Well then, lads, this is all well, an' good." Peyt remarks, cheerfully, as he gathers in the cards after Aaron wins a hand.  "What say we bet a few coins on each 'and, jus' ter spice it up a bit."

Tahirah spends a few more moments looking up and down the pier.  Most of the other ships seem to be weathering the weather well enough.  She watches the Wrath for a moment, feeling some affinity for it.

Then she turns, quite unaware anyone has been watching her, and begins retracing their steps from earlier, to find her way back to where Cyan had indicated an inn she recognized...

A wry chuckle and a slight shake of the head made Aaron smile all the more.

"Well, if you lot think you can handle what I'll bring ye," and he dropped a few bits of local currency upon the table. "Ante up."

In the back of his mind, he considered the storm. How long until it would let up? It'd been a long, long time since he'd been this close to the sea in such a gale as this... a long time. He would have to return to the Inn eventually, he knew.

Beyond the shed, the wind seems to be picking up again, causing rain, hail, and sea spray to rattle against the front of the structure, and the roof to creak ominously.

Thunder crashes overhead, almost continuously, producing a low rumble which vibrates through bones, and causes the drink on the table to ripple as if some great, primordial beast were prowling about just outside.

And the card game goes on, and Aaron wins slightly more than he loses, but not enough to inspire hard feelings in his fellow gamblers.

The banter around the table is the same as it is in countless other places where games of chance are played with fake Trumps... "This ain't an 'and, it's more like a bloody foot!"  "Who dealt this garbage."  "Ha!  Read 'em an' weep, boyos!"  "Bloody 'ell!  Yer makin' them Aces yerself, or sumthin'?" and through it all the mute, Dovan, grins and keeps grinning, even when he loses a hand.

The grin vanishes, though, when something breaks, somewhere above and beyond the stacked goods, and a howling blast of cold air scatters the cards.

Aaron is the first to rise from his seated position, a concerned and curious look on his face. His hand didn't go to his sword, but he did consider it.

"Anyone else other than you and me in this place, gents?" Aaron kept his eyes over the stacked crates, throwing the question their way in a near-whisper. "It better not be some fool you beat at this game who's deciding seeking vengeance."

"No one else 'ere that we knows of."

"Aye, far's we know, there's only us 'ere.  An' yerself, o'course."

Pey't clambers up onto the makeshift table, tryibng to get a better view above the stacks.  When he gets down again, the colour has drained out of his face.  "This might not o' been the best idea, lads.  A bit o' the roof's torn away.  There'a hole in the back corner now, that any one of us could climb through."

"Might be time ter call it a night?"

Aaron paused for a moment, thinking and considering the situation. He paused, shrugged and began getting ready to leave.

"Well, let's do this. My fellow travelers and I are staying at the Inn a bit of a ways from here. If none of you have a place to stay, I'd certainly pay out on rooms for you lot. This storm is garbage, that's for sure, and you're right that we can't stay here, Pey't."

Gathering up what things he had left, he prepared himself to go out into the storm.

"Last chance, gents. If you want to join me, stick close. No telling what this storm's doing to everything else outside."

The three men grin at Aaron, almost as if they were a single creature with three linked minds.  Clearly they've known each other for quite some time, and spent a lot of time in each others' company.

Peyt, as the unnoficial spokesman, is the one who answers Aaron's question, "Yer a good lad, Aaron.  Been a pleasure ter meet yer... but we's all got 'omes ter go ter, up the 'ill a ways.  We'll stop fer a drink with yer, but then we'd best be makin' a move... "

The shed door is suddemly blasted open by the wind, and some of the stacked crates, full though they are, shift and sway.

"Might be best ter go out the back way!" Peyt yells, over the sounds of the storm.

Picking up his crowbar, he leads the way to the back of the shed, where he proceeds to rip a couple of boards loose.  "Reckon this ol' place'll be flat by mornin', any'ow, so a bit o' damage 'ere an' there won't be spotted."

There is the crash of broken glass from somewhere behind them, "Nor a fire.  That were the lantern, I reckons."

"Ah... 'ere we go lads."

The newly created opening leads into a narrow alleyway, sheltered by the wall of the shed (which, from out here, can be seen to be swaying alarmingly).  From there, Dovan leads the way into a gap between two stone buildings, so narrow that Peyt has to turn sideways to get through, and then on, into the city...