Devlin takes his leave and steps out of the inn, and for a moment it is as if he has walked under a waterfall, so intense is the rain which slams down on him.  At least here, close to the building, there is a little protection from the wind which blasts across the rooftops.

Around his feet, the water is flowing a couple of inches deep, rushing down the hill towards the harbour, carrying detritus and debris along with it.  One thing is certain, when the storm is over, the streets in the higher areas of the city should be much cleaner.

There is a movement, as if something is carried along on the lightning illuminated gale, and then it stops, its appearance resolving into a small dragon, which alights heavily on the inn's signboard.  And a moment later, Trista appears, running sure-footed through the torrent, each pace splashing more water up onto the already soaked legs of her jeans.  It doesn't matter much now.  The material could not possibly get any wetter.

Devlin steps out into the storm, the downpour is horrendous. He'd seen some bad storms but this was definitely one of the worst. He reaches up and pulls the hood of his cloak over his head; a hood that until recently was not there, if anyone noticed such things.


Not that anyone is likely to notice anything in this storm.

Devlin ducks his head against the weather and starts off, once again, in the direction of the castle. With the water flowing in the street it is like walking into a small stream.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:58, Sun 27 May 2007.

Through the thick curtains of rain, the figure of Devlin appears just outside the Inn. Trista slows, nods to the man, and turns to her things left on the steps above the flowing waterways. A hint of a smile touches her lips when she sees Berd’s protective fairies.


Sighing at the water, Trista rests against the walls and struggles to pull dry socks over wet feet. She tugs on her boots and flings the pack over her back. Certainly, they won’t find themselves at the Inn once Berd shifts them out of the Prison, so with Devlin's consent, Trista leaves nothing behind.


The woman squints after the man who has all but disappeared into the cascading storms. There’s no use wringing her hair out or attempting to become dry, she’ll be doused in a moment anyway. The rains do not bother her, though she does start to feel their bite. Perhaps the soaked figure of a forlorn woman will benefit their cause.

Trista bounds off the steps and catches up to Devlin, striding on his right side.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:55, Sat 26 May 2007.

Berd, steaming in the rain, sits upon Trista's shoulder, his wings around his huddled body.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:52, Sun 27 May 2007.

The walk to the fortress which serves this city as a palace does not take long.  The streets are almost clear of people now, because of the weather.  In the marketplace the stallholders are struggling against the wind, lacing sheets of canvas to hang from the canopies of their stalls, to protect their stock from the elements.  Most are having little success, as the heavy sheets flap and flutter in the wind.  One tears away from its fastenings, ripping metal eyelets loose, and rises to spiral and twist in the turbulent air.

At the gallows, the men are still working, though a not entirely surprising number of them have found an excuse to work on the structural supports below the platform.

Further on, and the gate of the fortress stands closed, a massive structure of blackened wood, riveted and banded with ancient, verdigrised bronze.  There are no guards in sight, but there is a smaller door in the barbican wall, just to the left of the gate itself, bearing a notice which reads Guardhouse.

As the threesome move out of the marketplace and past where anyone might notice Devlin begins to change as he walks.


First his clothing begins to change, transforming from his black cloak to a uniform similar to what Rel was wearing. It is the uniform that Rel always saw Major Bers in. Then more changes occur. Devlin seems to become a bit heavier, a bit taller. Not in reality, In reality he is adding emptiness within himself to push out and inflate his outer appearance; Much like putting air into a balloon. He does make one stop to pull a small mirror out of somewhere to take a quick look at himself and make sure that the image that is reflected looks like the image that he saw in Rel's mind. Everything was there, including the scar under the outer corner of the man's right eye.

Major Bers reaches down with his left hand to check the sword that hangs there. At least it looks like a sword hanging at his side. The thing will not actually come out of the scabbard, that would require Devlin pulling part of himself off from the rest. Not something he'd tried yet. It's amazing what can be done by changing the hardness and consistency of ones own skin; something Devlin had learned how to do out of necessity. When one travels great distances in the manner that he does it's always nice to appear that you are clothed rather than showing up on the inn's steps naked when you get there.

The black gauntlet is still on his right arm, mostly covered now by a flap of skin that looks like Major Bers’ sleeve.

Major Bers looks at Trista, "W'er 'ere miss. 'Bout damn time too. Thawt dis storm udd be takin' us a'sure." The man barks. Then he steps up to the small door in the wall next to the gate and raps it soundly three times with the side of his fist, actually jarring the door within its frame. "Urry up an get dis door open or I'll ave ya standin' guard on this side a it!" He yells at the door loud enough to be heard inside above the sounds of the storm.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:59, Mon 28 May 2007.

The familiar weight of Berd lends an odd sensation of peace to Trista; her body remains alert, but her mind relaxes. She slowly nods as she studies and memorizes the image Berd sends to her concerning Beldrin’s tattoo.

In the market, the dark and angry gallows needs must gather her attention. The workers have slowed in the inclement weather; good news for their task. The trio passes as sodden tarps crack in the wind. Water rushes with force through the streets, making those who walk work a bit harder, but it does not deter them.

Trista’s eyes snap to Devlin after his silent warning. While she saw the effects of Roman’s and Banglen-Yup’s shape-changing, she hadn’t witnessed the events themselves. She had, however, seen Chance’s dark clothing change to pajamas. But this is different.

Before her eyes, the man’s entire body changes, subtly but markedly. The woman forgets herself for a moment as her eyes widen. The man gains a bit of weight, a bit of height, and the structure of his face morphs. Startling, even with the advanced warning.

Most startling of all comes his voice, unrefined and coarse of language. She looks around and they seem to have come to the guardhouse. Quickly, she dismisses whatever awe or anxiety might have crept into her expression. She’s simply a woman in mourning with vengeance on her mind. Somehow, it suits the woman.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:31, Tue 29 May 2007.

Berd, not surprisingly, keeps a close eye on Devlin as he changes.  Curiousity flashes in his brilliant eyes - this is a trick which he is no longer capable of replicating.


Berd, on Trista's shoulder, remains...unremarkable, as odd as that might seem.

A message over the bridging "I come.  If you need aid I will assist as I can.  If you need help try to get outside or to an open window"

A small panel in the door opens, and an eye peers through it.  Then the door itself swings open.  A nervous looking guard stands aside to admit the officer, and the woman with the... animal... on her shoulder.

Just as he closes the door, the sound of the storm outside seems to redouble in fury...   The man makes a gesture of warding, and shoots the bolt home.

"Sorry Major Bers, Sir.  Afraid we weren't expectin' yer afore mornin', an' with the all the troubles over the last few months, we were given orders las' night, ter keep everythin' locked down 'til after the execution termorrer.  Just ter be on the safe side.  Specially since we've one o' the Amberite Lords payin' a visit."

The room is semicircular, and sparsely furnished, but there is what looks to be a small cupboard on the straight wall.  The guard opens the door of this, to reveal that it is enpty.  He reaches inside, and raps smartly on the wooden panel at the back, which seems to be sunk deep into the stonework, and yet sounds hollow.  The mystery is answered a moment later, as the panel opens, to reveal another guard, standing in a room which could be a mirror image of this one.

"Open the gate.  Major Bers is waitin'."

The two doors in the small cabinet close, and the guard turns to face the Major and his guest.  "Give it a moment, Sir, an' the gate'll be open."

Stepping across to the outer door again, he opens it  just enough to stick his head out and check the gate.  "It's openin' now, Sir."


Back outside, the gate stands partly open, leading into a short tunnel, perhaps twenty feet long, with a dozen or so armed guards waiting inside.  The far end of the tunnel is open, but the lower edge of a heavy portculis can just be seen projecting down from the roof.

Beyond, there is an open yard, and another wall, complete with a locked gate...

Major Bers does not say anything at first. He would have no reason to explain anything to a subordinate so he doesn’t.

Just before he heads for the now open gate he says, "So, tha prisnas still secure, Good. Ther'll be more charges ta'be listen' afore we hang da' bast'rd come mornin'," he says as he looks out the door at the gate.

Then he turns to the young lady and adds, in a slightly nicer tone, "Ca'Mon lass, not much furder now an' w'll ave dis done." With that Major Bers steps through the door and heads for the open gate and the tunnel that leads further into the castle.

Devlin does not say anything across the link, he is busy concentrating on his current form and mimicking a man he only knows by what Rel knows of him. He hopes that Trista and Berd can follow his lead as he improvises his way in to see Beldrin. So far no one has asked about either of them. He knows that Major Bers is not about to explain anything unless he is asked and then only if one of his superiors does the asking.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:40, Tue 29 May 2007.

Though Trista stands at the fortress, she’s still connected through the bridging, We are at the Guardhouse already. So if you want to be a decoy, you probably want to go now, James. Either way, I would think renewing your ties could only help us in Amber.

After Roman informs them of his nearness, she adds, Thank you, Roman. Be careful. She had not witnessed his transformation the previous day, but James had introduced him when he was in the form of a storm cloud.

At the gates, the trio is let in and Trista keeps her eyes open and her mouth shut. She gives a solemn, sad nod of thanks to the man who opens the gate for them as they pass. At Devlin’s newly-acquired accented voice, Trista grinds her teeth, “I’ll see the dog and be back for the hanging.” It’s quite easy to be angry at this prisoner she’s never met when she focuses all her year of rage into this one man, pretending he’s someone else.

She memorizes the lay-out and how the men move around as they make their way through the labyrinth just in case things go wrong and they find they need to exit this way.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:30, Wed 30 May 2007.

Berd remains on Trista's shoulder, silently watching.  Waiting.  His senses rove outward, questing for any around them who also might not be what they seem to be.

Bers leads the woman and her odd petout of the tunnel, and across the short stretch of open space to the inner wall.  The gate remains closed, but Bers turns as he reaches it, following the wall, ahile water pours down it in an endless cataract.

It seems that, if there is anything odd about the officer, people are too wet and miserable to realise it.

The courtyard forms a ring, between the inner and outer walls, and the trio make their way through ankle deep water, which swirls and eddies around the castle's overloaded drains.

At last they reach a point on the wall where the outer one comes close enough that a bridge spans the gap between towers on the two walls.  This is the spot.

They make for the tower on the outer defences, gaining scant shelter beneath the bridge.  Somewhere above and behind them, there is a flash of actinic light, and a roar which almost deafens them.  Lightning has hit one of the fortresses taller turrets.

Bers stands before a blank wall, then pushes against one of the blocks.  With a grating rumble, a section of the wall swings aside to reveal a narrow flight of stairs spiraling down into the ground, and water starts to flow into the opening, and down the staircase.

Inside, and Bers closes the door, cutting off the flow, and leaving them in darkness...

"Finally, out of that weather." Bers says after closing the door; the voice is the same, but the tone is softer.

But that's all he says aloud. Now that they are in the tower he allows himself a moment to rest.


Devlin returns his concentration to maintaining the form and speech of Major Bers and adds to those two things he is more comfortable with and used to maintaining; adjusting his sight so that he can see in the darkness and adjusting his hearing so that he can detect a pin drop at thousand feet.

The man reaches out in the darkness and takes hold of Trista's hand in order to lead her through the darkness. Then with his heightened senses he peers down the dark staircase and then tilts his head to the side to listen for any sounds in the darkness below.

Without having Devlin’s foreknowledge of this place, Trista keeps tabs on their path and the guards they pass. The chimerical lightning flashes in the glinting tides through which they slog.

The drenched woman watches with keen interest Devlin’s workings of the wall as he illuminates the hidden path. Water floods into the round stairwell, but with the bulky door once again closed, the water quickly spills downward, away from their feet. Not that it does any good to Trista’s sodden socks. In fact, at the moment, she feels quite certain she’s going to live her life a soggy mess much like milk-weary Cheerios.

It’s the socks, of course. Heavy wet jeans, clingy wet t-shirt, plastered wet hair; all of these don’t even register, only the uncomfortable wet socks down inside her boots.

She pushes a chunk black tendrils out of her face, “Normally, I like rain, but…” Trista’s voice trails off with no need to elaborate to Major Bers. Other than clearing her face, she stands still, her body getting used to the softer climate within the walls as Devlin further adjusts.


Trista stiffens at Major Bers’ touch, though she relaxes once she reminds herself the hand belongs to Devlin. She accepts and allows the shape-shifter to guide her though the blackness. Here, she is a liability with no particular powers to guide her or see ahead to where Beldrin lies.

The stairs wind downwards, a tight widdershins spiral, old and worn and slick with water now.  Treacherous they are, but there is a rope affixed through cold metal rings on the wall which forms the outer side of the staircase.

Down they go, that wall first made of stone blocks, then of rough-hewn rock, and then, after perhaps a hundred steps, the rope ends, and the air changes.  There is no longer an outer wall.  The staircase descends through void, echoes of their footsteps coming back from the distance, and disturbing the sleep of bats somewher in the dark extents of the vault.

Fortunately they reach the end of the stairs shortly afterwards, as signalled by the fact that they step into cold water, rising almost to their knees, at least for the humans.

And again there is a rope, this one suspended from a row of metal stanchions, leading away into the blackness.  Now the shuffle along, the rope their sole guide through the water, and after a time which seems like hours, but is probably far less, they enter a tunnel, which climbs steeply, just a couple of feet, out of the water, then makes two sharp turns, left and right, before they are blinded by the almost unbearable brightness of a single candle stub, standing on an old table in a large room.  It's cold down here, and breath mists, to sparkle ethereally in the candlelight.

One half of the room is blocked off, by steel bars, thick as a man's wrist, and rusted, while opposite the place where the trio entered, a flight of steps climbs up, some twenty feet, to a heavy wooden door.

The area beyond the bars is empty, save for a pile of ragged blankets.

Berd's eyes shine in the dark like twin galactic cores - two clusters of thousands of lights, all shimmering and dancing.  He watches Devlin carefully, then looks ahead, slowly sweeping the area before him with his cloaked senses.



Berd makes a face as he looks down in the water, and lets out a disgusted chirrup, scrambling higher on Trista's shoulder, almost onto her head.  It's ridiculous, of course - he's in no danger of falling in - but he eyes the dark liquid suspiciously until they move up the tunnel toward the cell.

When they finally arrive, Berd eyes the empty space with some curiousity.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:59, Mon 04 June 2007.

Devlin or Major Bers, depending on how you look at it, looks around at the empty area and his head tilts to the side as he goes over the information he retrieved from Rel...

Eeriness creeps through the dungeon as the group make their way down slick steps and through dirty waters.  Trista uses the rope when it’s available to free Devlin from the burden of her, but again latches on to the man when it disappears. Even through the deep waters when a rope is available, Trista lays her other hand on Devlin’s back, keeping the three of them in a tight grouping.

Trista bears the dragon’s scramblings in silence, amusement running through her mind but with no inclination to dwell on it in this place. Not in this dungeon. Not as they approach their goal.

Leaving the dark waters behind, they come to a light. Trista’s body tenses as her eyes squint in the sudden brightness of a small candle. The woman should stay still, behind Devlin. But the glow of candlelight beckons and so she takes a few wary steps into the room, closer to the table. A candle does not burn without someone attending, not for long. A guard, perhaps? She eyes the door at the top of the steps, wondering just how close they tread.

Idly, her fingers play across the flame.

From the top of the steps, beyond the heavy door, there comes the muffled sound of laughter.  Several people, all male, judging by the tones.

Devlin shakes Major Bers' head and listens to the sounds of the men above. This is where they should have found the man they sought. Now what?


This is not what he thought would happen. In and out quickly was what he had planned... When did anything go as planned... Never, which is why it was never good to plan things out in too much detail.

Berd reaches up one clawed foot and touches Trista's hair, delicately.  He gives it a short tug, as an experiment, then turns back to face the water.  Balancing precariously, the drake hisses in disgust.


But he faces forward quickly enough when the group arrives at the cell.  His eyes burn in the dim light, and he studies the heap of blankets carefully for a long moment.

Further would add more chances of discovery if they have to go through the jovial men through the next door. But that doesn’t seem to be the case as Devlin indicates this is, indeed, his prison. Trista frowns as she looks about the empty room again. If he was in the castle proper… James would see him.

That proves not the case as Berd confirms the presence of the accused. Trista’s head snaps to the heap of blankets. She steps closer, her eyes squinting to see what she cannot see; an act of futility. She stops before the bars, her hands wrapping around cold metal as she studies the blankets shrouding Beldrin.

Berd grins his thousand-needle smile, tugs at Trista's hair, and settles back on her shoulder.  He studies the cell, slowly sweeping his head to and fro, as if searching.

After a long moment, the drake reaches out one, clawed forefoot and pats the bars.  Then he lets out a soft, musical cheep.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:32, Wed 06 June 2007.

Devlin had jumped to the conclusion that Belrin was not present, but Berd's message makes him look a second time. It is only then that he notices the heap of rags moving ever so slightly as the man under them barely breaths. He can also hear the very faint sound of that breath.

Berd studies the bars, then the person behind them, lost and confused beneath the mass of blankets.  He taps the bars again, lets out a quiet, interrogative chime.

The dim light shines in Trista’s decisive eyes. With Berd’s information, Devlin’s prodding to hurry, and the men’s voices sifting down to them, the time for talking is over. Attempting to keep as quiet as possible, Trista begins to pull at the bars, to stretch them just enough for the three to slip into the cell without pulling the entire tracery of metal out of the ceiling and floors. That would simply be too noisy.

The bars are thick as a man's wrist, and rusted by years of cold damp.  They are secured at top and bottom by an equally rusty strip of metal, which is bolted to the stone of the cell.  Each bar sits in a hole, which passes straight through the strip.  The hinges and lock of the gate which seals in the prisoner are of the same massive construction as the bars, though the lock appears to be new, gleaming in the candlelight.

As Trista exerts her strength in an effort to bend the bars, she finds her feet slipping on the slick stone floor.  In an effort to improve her leverage, she braces one foot against the strip at the base of the bars...

And pulls...

For a long moment, nothing happens.  And when it does happen, the source of the event is unexpected, and almost causes the girl to fall, so sudden is it.  The strip is not quite so solidly built as the bars.  There is a sound like a cracked bell, dull and quiet, and Trista staggers back, holding the heavy bar in both hands.  The hole, where the lower end of the bar had been fixed, is stretched, and torn open at one side, and a piece lays on the ground, a couple of feet from the strip.

There is now a gap between the bars that a person could, conceivably, get through.

Devlin gets a "Not likely" look on his face as the small girl grabs the bars of the cell and tries to bend them apart. A slight smile when the girl slips, she was persistent but he really didn't think...

...And then the bar comes free of its moorings. Devlin's look turns from amused to one of, not quite shock, more of a studying of the her. The man's head tilts to the side. Definitely reevaluating her.

His head tilts back the other way an he looks at her for just a moment more before he smiles at her and then turns his attention back to the situation at hand. Devlin looks through the opening in the cage, Quickly, in case someone heard that. and he steps through the bars and toward the pile of rags.

The bars prove more difficult than she would have liked. Solidly built with heavy locks, Trista doesn’t give up though. She can’t give up. Persistence, and a change of stance, finally produces a favorable result nearly sending her crashing to the floor. Quick reflexes keeps her standing with the bar in her hand. She gives Devlin a small shrug and an eyebrow lift before quietly lowering the bar to the floor.

She nods at Devlin’s promptings to hurry and follows him through the bars, twisting her body sideways to slide through with Berd on her shoulder. Trista strides to the blankets and begins to remove them.

Berd waits, a bored expression upon his features, as Trista puts her hands on the bars.  When she yanks one free, he sways with her motion, not moving an iota.  Then the little drake slowly turns toward Devlin, and his lips curl in a lazy, smug smile.

That expression vanishes a moment later, as the trio move into the cell.

Trista nods and abruptly halts her actions; instead she shuffles her hand underneath the layers of cloth to firmly land on Beldrin’s shoulder. She’s unsure if Berd meant they all have to be in contact or not, so her free hand reaches out to gently land on Devlin’s arm. The contact with each of them sends a shiver down the woman’s spine.

Gunfire rippled the air, smoke covered the sullen moon, and screams rent the night. Trista knelt behind the scarred building amidst the rubble of a broken city at the feet of a friend. Blood bubbled in the gaping hole of Christopher’s chest. Tears streamed down the woman’s face, forcing rivulets through the dirt and blood caked there. “Can you do anything? Please, do something.”

Two men huddled close, one futilely pressing cloth to the wound. His equally battle-weary face looked up at the woman with haunted eyes, “I can’t. There’s nothing left to do.”

“Pray,” came the third voice of Zane.

Trista turned angry eyes to the man, her accusing hand jabbing toward the sullied cross hanging around his neck, “You think that thing is going to help him?”

Instead of matching ire for ire, Zane’s voice softened further as he looked at Trista, “You don’t believe, but he did. He believed, Trist. That’s all that matters.”

Trista lowered her shaking head with quivering lips for a long moment before she conceded, “You’re right. We need to pray.”

One shaking hand reached out to land on a blood stained shin of the still Christopher and the other landed on Zane’s shoulder as each of the others did the same. For now, the gunfire, the stench, the shouts and wails are put on hold. For now, they focus on their friend looking for peace in the midst of chaos.

A circle of love for the dying.

Devlin too stiffens at the contact, for different, and yet the same reasons. He had been reaching to touch the man under the rags himself as was natural, with his right hand, when Trista’s hand touched the arm and the exposed gauntlet.

Whithout warning, Nightbrand relays what it is the girl is feeling... Plays the scene for him to see. The thoughts are so close to the surface that it can not help but hear them... See them. But what was the reason for it to relay the scene to Devlin? He did not know. But still it was unexpected and caught the man off guard. Nightbrand had never done such a thing before. Devlin had thought his protector could only communicate with himself in that way. He stood stock still, not knowing what else to do at that moment, hoping for Berd to take them all quickly out of the place.

As the blankets, filthy, and infested with vermin, are pulled aside, there is a movement from beneath them.  The man attempts to grab them, and pull them tighter around him.

He is, however, no match for a strength which could pull iron bars out of place.

Finally he lays, revealed to their gaze...

The man is thin, the once-fine clothing hanging loosely upon his frame, and his face glistens in the pale light, as if covered with a sheen of water.  The skin is pale, and yellowish, and covered with oozing sores and angry red swellings.

His eyes seem blank, bulging slightly and bloodshot.  Despite the gloom, the pupils are contracted to pinpoints.

There is a stench of sickness about him.

His lips move silently for a moment, and then he manages to get the words out, "Is it time, already, Mother?"

Berd falls completely silent at the vision spiralling out from Trista's memories.  A vast sorrow wells within him, and his cloak rises around the room, sealing the five within it away from the world.  Within that cloak, the little drake reaches out to his people, a lambent hand in the night of the spirit.

It is far better to light a candle, than curse the darkness.  Berd tries the only way he knows how.

Sometimes, I wish....  His faraway voice aches for Trista's pain, and the pain of those around her in the vision.

Then they stand similarly about a ravaged man.  Berd stares down at him, grief giving way to horror.  This man...Berd remembers him, jaunty and brave, strong and clever.  And now...he has been tormented.  Driven mad.  He -

Memories within Berd's mind, memories of fire, of blades.  Of jagged weapons designed to part soul from body.  Of countless techniques and weapons, not meant for torture, but for killing, and all of them failing.  Of agony beyond measure, of a cage of a thousand years.  Of crying in the night for a milennia.

They are his memories, but mixed within them are those of Cyan.  Of torment, and the pressure of twisting minds.  Of tearing pain, again and again.

At the last instant, he stops the memories from crashing into those around him, and only the barest sense of them leaks through.

Berd's eyes burn, and the cell begins to shine.  I am here, child.  He rises upon Trista's shoulder, her vision filling him with strength of purpose, focusing the rage within his spirit.  Despite the fury, his aetheric voice is quiet, gentle.  Who knows what Beldrin hears, exactly?  It is time for us to go.

Take his hands.  We travel.

A flooding sensation overtakes Trista as the unbidden memory surfaces and something flows between her and Devlin. Her head snaps in the man’s direction, unsure what has happened.

At the same time, Beldrin grasps her legs, but she stands solid. Her eyes turn to take in the man who has shaken more rags away from him, scuttling more filth into dark corners. He gives up his grip on Trista and allows his arms to fall back; a beaten man.

More hints of memories flood through the link with Berd. Unyielding sorrow and immeasurable pain consumes the moment. Glistening moisture appears in the tear ducts of Trista’s eyes. She blinks it away, feeling for Berd and Cyan.

And Beldrin.

She has seen torture, witnessed its cruelty. No being deserves this treatment, regardless of their crimes. No one. In her empathy, Trista moves to do as Berd instructs: her hand gently hovers down Beldrin’s arm to gently take his hand. No fear of his sickness or repulsion of his wounds forces her to break contact. He’s a broken man, but hope will see him whole again though he will be changed.

He will be changed.

Devlin remains still. Now that he has done his part, gotten them into the dungeon where they found Beldrin, he waits for Berd to take them away. Besides, his thoughts are elsewhere, in a private conversation.

He had always conversed with Nightbrand in a similar way that he 'talked' through Berd with the others. That mode of communication was not foreign to the man. But he had thought that it was only Devlin that could speak to him in such a way, because Nightbrand was attached to him, and it WAs attached to him. Since the day that Devlin had slid it onto his arm it had always been with him and he could not remove it, like it became part of him. The thing changed, much like he himself did, to a form that fit with whatever form the man took.

The truth of the matter was that Devlin did not know everything the device, or creature could do. He wasn't even sure what it was other than a gift from one of his parents; parents that he had never met. Was it a device? Or was it a creature that could think for itself? And why did it keep secret all that it was capable of? The thing always surprised him after he thought he'd figured it out.

But Nightbrand was being silent, it would not answer his questions. All it would tell him was that it was because Trista's thoughts and feelings were so close to the surface and that if she had touched him directly he too would have seen and felt just as Nightbrand had. Somehow Devlin does not completely believe that. He had always had to concentrate to pick out the information he wanted. Rel was easier, likely because Trista was questioning him about the same subject which brought the information into the man's thoughts, but he still needed to concentrate to retrieve that information.

On the other hand, Devlin could never force information out of Nightbrand as he could out of weaker minds. With Nightbrand there was a barrier, like a wall, that kept him out every time he'd tried. Devlin was beginning to believe that was because the thing had a stronger mind than his own. Could it take his thoughts without him even knowing about it? Did it matter?

Devlin waited, Trista holding Beldrin's hand, her other hand wrapped around his arm, Berd on her shoulder. Soon they would be away from here. There would be time to worry about Nightbrand later.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:10, Sat 09 June 2007.

The three humans, and the drake simply vanish, with all the fuss and drama of a popping soap bubble...  The feeble candle on the table doesn't even flicker at their passing.

To them though, things seem different...

There is a fall, and stars above and below.  Vast shapes move in the darkness, like monstrous fish (if ever fish grew big enough to snatch worlds as if they were no more than some angler's cunningly crafted lure).  Things live in the Underflow, and, for all anybody knows, maybe they do devour worlds occasionally.

There is a rushing sensation, and a twisting, turning, dizzying hurtle through the strange currents which move and guide the Myriad Worlds... a journey which takes both an eyeblink and an eternity, at one and the same time.

There are vast cyclopean cities, whose geometries strain the eyes, half glimpsed shadows of ancient ruins, and just once, an eye the size of the Sun, blinking, and following their progress as they pass.

And finally there is another fall, upwards this time, back into the world... and Beldrin vomiting on the ground.

There is rain, and storm here, but somehow muted, and further down the mountainside, the outer walls of the city.  A short distance away stands a hut of stone, with a sod roof.  Meager shelter, but shelter all the same.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:59, Sun 10 June 2007.

As Berd begins to pull them away from the cell and toward whatever destination it is he has in mind Devlin relaxes, allowing himself to begin reverting to a natural form. Then again, perhaps natural would not be the proper term. What he does is allow himself to return to what most of those he's met would call Devlin.

The trip is no less strange this time than Devlin remembers of these little jaunts of Berd's; the giant eye that seemed to follow them was particularly disturbing. The man is unsure how long the trip actually took. It seemed that it took a very long time, but he knew somehow that this was only from the perception of one that was making the trip.

Then they are outside on some hilltop, once again out in the weather. The storm still howled around them, though not quite as badly here as it was at the castle. Somehow the storm was aimed at that castle. Why or by whom the man had no idea, and once again he thinks that is was not a coincidence; as if the storm was sent to aide them in some way. Perhaps he was just imagining things.

For some reason Devlin thinks of that storm... so long ago now it seems... When he'd...

He shakes his head to dismiss the thought and looking around through the storm he spies a small stone structure through the downpour. It will have to do. He pulls himself free of Trista's grasp, bends down and hefts what is left of the man they pulled from the dungeon gently over his shoulder. Without pause he heads toward the structure.

As he leans into the wind and begins walking he yells over the sound of rain and thunder, "Best you call Cyan to us and whichever it is among you now that can provide healing. If my suspicion is correct we must do something quickly or we will have saved this man from a hanging only so that he can die a more gruesome death."
This message was last edited by the player at 10:22, Mon 11 June 2007.

I will try not to breathe
I can hold my head still with my hands at my knees
These eyes are the eyes of the old, shivering and bold

The rain falls, running down the woman’s skin and clothes, and washing the bile from her boots. Trista stands still, watching Devlin walk away with Beldrin flung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The positioning could exacerbate the accused’s injuries, but Trista watches with haunted eyes not hearing the man’s words.

She saw things she should not have seen.

She knows things she should not know.

Devlin.

I will try not to breathe
This decision is mine; I have lived a full life
And these are the eyes that I want you to remember

They left the infested cell through darkness amidst images straight out of Picasso, Dalí, Parade, Freud, Python, and Brazil. It was disconcerting, but no more than the images gently smothering her mind. Her eyes should slam shut, focus on the internal, but they cannot. She looks. She sees. She suffocates.

She weeps for Devlin.

Then they fall up and suddenly land on rugged turf with a little, stone hut nearby. A refuge. The three of them in the rain. Devlin breaks contact and pulls Beldrin out from under Trista’s hand. She stands and watches the man.

She knows the pain.

I need something to fly over my grave again
I need something to breathe

Stop. Don’t dwell. It’s gone. But what… who… So many questions; no answers. Her mind starts to close down, put up walls, keep safe. Trista has walked alone these many years. The Worlds have brought her into contact with others, many others, but still she kept apart, stayed aloof, kept to herself. Until now.

She laughed earlier with Berd as her nemesis. Real laughter. Lighthearted laughter. How long had it been? Close down. Stay safe. Perhaps she was wrong to allow someone in. Now she’s open and vulnerable to…

Everything.

I will try not to burden you
I can hold these inside; I will hold my breath
Until all these shivers subside,
Just look in my eyes

Trista closes her eyes, the act pulling her head down. It’s not time for complete withdrawal. There is work to be done. Over the bridging she reaches out We have Beldrin up a hill from the city. He’s in bad shape. Very bad. Torture. Disease. I’m sorry, Cyan, but come quickly.

Opening her eyes, newly determined, she follows Devlin into the shack, shrugging her pack off as she goes. She has a small medical kit and starts treating the wounds when beldrin is set down, but hopefully, someone else will come who is more useful.

I will try not to worry you
I have seen things that you will never see
Leave it to memory, me; I shudder to breathe
This message was last edited by the player at 12:12, Mon 11 June 2007.

The hut provides some shelter from the storm, and it is mostly dry inside, once the rescuers move away from the low entrance.  The rain and hail drum against the roof and walls, but the structure seems sturdy, able to withstand the lashing that the weather gives it.

The entrance itself faces somewhat away from the sea, and so the storm hammers against the heavy stones of the walls, while the roof has only the slightest of angles to it, and is composed of several layers of sod laid over sturdy beams and planks.

Clearly, the man who built this shelter intended it to last.

Beldrin is laid down on the dirt floor inside, and starts to speak again, though his words are in a strange language for the most part, until he ends with a laugh, and indicates Berd, "Funny cat!  Here Kitty-Kitty... "

Berd, rushing out of the underflow, turns his reptilian head and stares, first at Devlin, then to Trista.  His eyes burn as he turns them toward the broken figure of poor Beldrin, in his shattered madness.  One of his minds reaches out, ever so slowly, and tests the man's thoughts, seeking a gentle entry within his mind in an attempt to gather up his shattered psyche and hold it together.


Unless Meredith is availible, Dorian may be required as well.

The call goes out from Trista for Cyan, and still Berd regards the four others with him.


Berd reaches out one, clawed foot into nothingness....
This message was last edited by the player at 18:24, Mon 11 June 2007.

In the gloom of the hut, the rainbow flare of light which suddenly seems to surround Berd is almost dazzlingly bright.  As it fades, Cyan is there, one hand resting on the drake's scaled neck.


Beldrin looks up at the bard, "Pretty lights.  Do it again mother.  Make the pretty lights again."

Devlin places Beldrin carefully down on the floor of the structure and then moves off to the side. He sits with his back against a the wall.

"Those at the castle..." He begins, but just then Cyan arrives, but she brings none of the others with her. He wonders if she will be able to heal the man; he needs a lot of attention.

After things settle down again the man starts once more, "Those at the castle are not responsible for his condition." he says, "They did not torture him. His afflictions are caused by some disease."

He looks around, a lot has happened in a very short time and Devlin takes the time to rest. At least the trek from their landing to the structure through the storm had washed away the stench of the castles cisterns.

Devlin looks toward where Trista is standing. What had happened in the dungeon? Should he say something about that? He has knowledge of her past that he does not want, did not need to add atop his own past. She has been deeply hurt in her past; is that why Nightbrand had shown him that? Should he talk to her about it? Better it should wait; now was not a good time.

Devlin closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. In his mind events he would rather not remember begin to play out once again. He'd thought he was over this, had put it behind him. Why was he recalling this now?
This message was last edited by the player at 00:50, Tue 12 June 2007.

Kneeling by Beldrin’s side once Devlin sets him down, Trista opens the large First Aid kit, pulling out bottles, tubes, and various containers of bandages, gauze, and tape. Devlin begins to speak, but seems interrupted when a kaleidoscope of light flares about the dragon on her shoulder. Trista’s head jerks to look at him, squinting into the brilliance.

Out of nothingness, Cyan appears at their side, causing Trista to startle back on her heels. Crazy She’s seen Trump in action a very long time ago, but it still amazes her. The power of this group…

Composing herself, Trista begins her paltry ministrations, pouring antiseptic onto her hands to clean them and then dabbing the clear liquid onto a white cloth to clean the wounds as she welcomes Cyan, “I have a few things here for cleaning and disinfecting, but his body is so wracked,” she leaves off as Beldrin’s voice reverts to childhood again. Trista sighs and adds, “as well as his mind.”

Devlin takes up his unfinished thought. Trista frowns. “In that case, these mundane items will do no good,” she doesn’t stop though, but sees to one wound or sore at a time. Her eyes flick to Cyan, “I understand you may not know much more than I do about this. I can set bones and bind wounds, but that’s about it. If he is diseased of body, mind, and spirit, he’ll need more. Is there anybody in the group who…” she searches for the right word, coming up with something fairly prosaic “can heal through magic?”

"Lords of the West!"  Cyan drops down to her knees beside Beldrin, heedless of the muddy ground.  She knows him, yes - this is the man from nearly three years before.  But he is broken, shattered...sick, she realizes.  Both Devlin and Trista are correct.  She reaches for her pack....

...and sees Trista already with a first aid kit.  Her hands halt, then she moves to assist.  "Disease, yes," she replies distractedly to Devlin.  "Clean out the wounds, indeed."  That to Trista.  She takes up some cloth of her own and begins to assist, knowing the disinfectant bottle by sight - it seems remarkably similar to the one from her own first aid kit, used to kill the tiny bugs (or so Berd has explained) that infest a wound, sicken it.

The stench from Beldrin is appalling.

Her return smile to Trista is harried.  "In truth, you likely have more skill than I...I can only do as much as you say, and understand little of the science.  I recall someone speaking of Meredith as a healer, but where is she now?  And Dorian - he has the capacity, though perhaps his magic is not set to do so.  James evidenced ability, though not experience-"  Her jaws clamp shut as Cyan realizes she rambles.  "Berd - Dorian's palanquet, if you would?"

Berd slithers over, slips his tail into the small leather case, and comes out with a painted card.


The little dragon shuffles over beside Trista and with his looped tail, holds up the small, inked card before Cyan.  On it lies an image of a man, standing at a crossroads in the mountains.  One trail leads in along the broken ridge in both directions.  The other stretches back into the mountains themselves, and down to a dusty plain below.  The man's dark cloak is caught in midwhip, blown by the same wind that raises dust in the image.  In his hand he bears a walking staff; the other holds an ancient compass.  His hawkish face is thoughtful, the brows drawn together.

Dorian.

Cyan glances over at the card as she works, then pauses to forge contact...if she can.

Dorian! I have great need - please come!

The dark man passes through the door of the inn, his defenses not yet rising. He closes his eyes, as he takes the next step. What the hell was going on? She had been gone barely a minute or more, and now... what? No doubt, this had something to do with the prison break. He knew so little of what was going on since they had arrived in the city. One moment they were looking for passage to amber, the next they were breaking the law under the nose of an Amber prince. Whoever this man was, this Beldrin, he must be important, somehow.

He knows she can probably bring him through. He knows little of the magic cards she carries, but he has seen them used. He doesn't even ask her to do so. There is no time. He is speaking, lynchpins fire like the pins in a lock, unleashing a flood of magic.

The world shatters, flies apart. Fragments of the inn, the doorway, the street spin away in all directions.

In a heartbeat of time, the entire universe of universes--layers of stars and galaxies--are born, explode, give life to individuals and civilizations. Lives are lived, wars fought, love made, poems written about both, and then the stars gutter out to become cold black cinders. They hoard the last of their energy like ancient wyrms resting upon beds of gold and gems.

The world reforms, a cramped, damp hut; and Dorian is there among them, dusting frost crystals from his cloak.

He scowls. He expected armed conflict, battles. He did not expect coziness.

His critical, coal black eye falls on the man on the floor, and he tilts his head, studying. He was sick, hurt. Diseased? A worthy guess. Insane, too, he added. But he had skilled help already.

"How can I help?"

Devlin remains in the position he'd taken, after all he'd had a lot of experience remaining still...

Cyan and Trista are tending to Beldrin, a man that he has never met, and yet he’d saved his life... at least temporarily. But if Cyan believed that he must be saved. It had been so long since he'd seen her but according to Berd not much time had passes at all. That wasn't really a surprise, Devlin had known how extremely slow time passed where he’d been in comparison to the rest of the universe.

He wanted to say something to Cyan when they'd met, to tell her, though in reality telling anyone might have helped. On the other hand he was afraid to tell anyone, afraid to bring it all back up to the surface. He wasn't sure if he could take that.

The Girl... the little girl... Devlin remembers the girl and the thought pushes the dark memories from his mind. Sitting with his head tilted back against the wall and his eyes closed a smile crosses his face. If either of the women had looked at him just then they might think him insane (and they might be half correct) sitting as he was with his eyes closed and a foolish grin on his face while a man lay on the floor not five paces away dying of some unknown disease. The smile fades, but the memory does not, and he opens his eyes again to the here and now.

"I don't think I can do anything for him; disease is different than a damage. If this was damage done to him I could correct it, rebuild it from what remained." Like Aaron's eye so long ago.

He hadn't even heard when Cyan had spoken to Berd about those images she created. He didn’t even know how they worked, but he had seen them work.

As Devlin finishes speaking Dorian appears much as Cyan herself had appeared only moments earlier. He had no idea that it wasn't by the same means. Devlin looks at the man and his head tilts to one side as he studies him. He wonders which Dorian it is; the clone or the original? At one time he may have jumped up and insisted on knowing which he was. At one time he may have tried to destroy him if it was the original; the one that had destroyed entire worlds in a grief stricken rage. At one time...

But now the man just shakes his head and then nods. Devlin knew how the other man had felt. When he was at his worst Devlin himself would have destroyed worlds if he'd thought it would bring her back; if he'd thought it would help him find her. After all this time he understood and he simply nodded to himself; acknowledging his own understanding.

It seemed things were well in hand, so he remained where he was and watched. Maybe he could learn something.

With Cyan on her knees beside Beldrin, Trista shifts to make room for the other woman. She moves to work on the other side of the prone figure. She listens attentively as Cyan names off the possible healers in the group, and wonders where Merideth had gone if the Bard did not know. Perhaps to assist James.

The decision comes and Trista witnesses the Trump from this end of things as Berd holds up a painted card. In the midst of the putrid air of disease and the pulsing rhythm of rooftop rain, Dorian stands. Trista’s eyes follow the black robes up to the stern visage. An imposing figure, but the man had taken time to explain their quest to Trista and so she knows there is more to him than harshness.

In response to his question, Trista simply states, “None of us have the means to heal him.” She leaves it at that. Both Beldrin and Dorian are friends to Cyan and so it falls to the Bard to set forth further explanations. Besides which, Trista still finds herself troubled as she glances toward Devlin. Precisely, toward the arm she had touched. She does not stop her ministrations until asked to do so; she must do what she can.

Even while contemplating all that she has seen.

Berd replaces the palanquet into the case and hobbles back over to Trista, cradling the (subjectively) massive deck in his tiny claws.  He peeps once, watching the two women work and turning his lambent eyes upon both Dorian and Devlin.


No doubt about it - Trista is more skilled at healing than Cyan.  The bard follows the other woman's lead, observing her carefully to study her technique.  She touches Dorian through the palanquet for an instant, then the man is gone - literally and figuratively - to reappear only scant steps distant.  Cyan starts, her amber eyes wide for an instant, then offers a strained smile.  "Beldrin," she explains, as if that covers everything.  "Can you...do you have magic that might assist, Dorian?  Can you conjure something?"

A glance to Devlin - the man confesses his own power, vast as it might be, cannot compensate.  Curious, how among the greater Powers there is no means to heal...only with magic, and that unreliably.

Berd hunkers down, his eyes sorrowful.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:23, Wed 13 June 2007.

Of course he can help the man. It should be simple, so long as the disease was not spawned by one of the great powers. Then he might have to work at it. He is about to stride forward and take command of the situation when he sees notes Cyan's weak smile.

He places a hand on her shoulder, soften his voice and speaks. "I'll take care of him," he says. "He will be fine, but it will take some time."

He lets the hand linger, for reassurance. And because he wants to.

Then, he notes the babbling. The words are nonsense, scrambled. To the rest of the room, he says, "We'll mend the body first, then the mind--if we can. He will continue to need mundane ministrations until my aid can be worked."

He sits beside the man Beldrin, cross-legged. He takes care to drape his cloak just right around him and behind him. He will be here a long time. And it will be exhausting. It was good he had eaten recently, though he barely touched the food. The punctillos of preparation were important for such long work, posture, mental state and so forth.

This would not be a single spell. Diagnosis would come first. He would search for the influence of major powers or sorcery, then examine the weaknesses--the breaks as Jack once called them--to find the deficiencies in the immune system and body. Disease was, in essence, a weakness, a flaw; broken pattern would seek it out like an old lover, but care must be taken due to the nature of the power. Diagnosis only.

Once he knew only mundane afflictions were present he could go to work. First, he would conjure a device to encourage healing. Then, armed with knowledge of the diseases and affliction, he could conjure the appropriate medicines and antibodies, then the spell--a variation on a common one, tailored for defense against disease. It would be tiring, but he was taking the long route. Most likely, any of of those things would be enough, but he sensed these were deep afflictions.

Then, once the body was healing, he could examine the mind. He didn't plan to do anything there without consulting. An affliction of the mind could be as deadly as one of the body, so it was important.

He begins. Outwardly, he merely concentrates.

Dorian works though, to all outward appearance, he does nothin.  Hours pass, and the world outside grows darker still, as the sun, all unseen, slides down towards the horizon.  Before long, lightning is the main source of illumination.

After a little while, the dark robed man, his face and hands the only part of him visible in the gloom, passes his hands over Beldrin, and a creature appears.  Slug like, it is, but almost a foot long, and it moves to fasten on to the side of the sick man's neck, where it pulses in time with his rapid heartbeat...

While the creature works, and others wait, Dorian produces a small leather case from somewhere.  Where it came from isn't exactly clear, sudden;y he is holding it.  Opened, small glass vials within it.  They are marked, with neatly printed labels, and there are small instruments of metal and glass in the case with them.

By this time, Beldrin is looking better, and the frantic pulsations of the creature attached to his throat seem to be slowing.  He seems to be sleeping now, rather than unconcious from the sickness...

A while longer, and Beldrin's eyes open.  He coughs.  "Water?"

At Dorian’s promptings, and most likely alongside of Cyan, Trista continues relief for the physical sores around Beldrin’s body until the women have done all they can do. Antiseptics, antibiotic creams, gauze, and bandages have been utilized until Trista finds there is nothing more she can contribute.

As the stoic man continues his vigil through the hours of rain, Trista gives Cyan a quick smile and a whispered, “I have a good feeling about this.” Though Trista has never witnessed this facet of Dorian’s powers, he stands as an icon of magic in the woman’s eyes and so she has faith.

Trista packs away her things, leaving the kit available to Cyan if the other should wish to continue. She stands, stretches, and walks around the room. Finally, she takes up residence across from Devlin. Her eyes seek his, if only to give an awkward smile. Part of her wishes to speak to him now, but the part that wants privacy first wins out.

Then the creature appears in the aftermath of a lightning flash. It slithers to the patient’s neck and Trista remembers stories of leech therapy. A slightly disgusted frown crosses her eyes. Dorian, the healer, produces more items of interest; a type of med kit to Trista’s eyes.

If Berd is near, Trista reaches out to him, for the first time stroking his tiny scales.

Beldrin wakes and she sighs with relief. Cyan, being closer to the man, will no doubt satisfy his thirst and so Trista keeps her spot on the floor, waiting.

Dorian's eyes finally open, and he studies his patient with his real eyes, again. "He will need rest now, but he should be fine. It was a mere plague, luckily. I saw no signs of chaos, pattern or other such influences."

So much concern over such a small thing as the plague, thought. No matter the world, it was a common thing. How many histories had he read of millions killed by it? Was it really so small, even if he had the means to deal with it? He shouldn't pass it off so easily.

"Not that a plague is small, of course," he adds.

He slides the medicine bag towards Cyan and Trista, still open. "I need rest. I hope one of you knows how to use a syringe. Give him a shot of this one every few hours, to help him rest. Every other time, give him this one also--fill it up to this mark here. Have Berd or someone dispose of them when they are used."

If they knew how to use a syringe, they would also know not to use the same one twice. No need to throw caution out, though.

"He'll be okay, though," he adds this last part as an afterthought, remembering that the man is important to the others. "I'll be in my cabin."

He stands and exits the hut.

Outside, he wanders a hundred feet before finding a suitable spot and begins to concentrate on a cabin for himself, complete with welcome mat. He didn't want to appear standoffish.

Devlin watches silently as the others help the dying man and he wonders what to do. At some point he must have fell asleep because Dorian's words wake him.

As he'd said, he does not put much faith in coincidence, or chance. It seemed that the reason he'd run into this group, the task that he was needed for was complete and he wonders if he should be on his way; continue the journey he was on.

He gets up then and moves over to where Cyan and Trista are still tending to the man. Dorian had just exited. Devlin wonders for a moment where he was going, but only for a moment. He never did understand the other man.

Devlin looks at Cyan and Trista, his head cocks to one side, "I was..." he starts. Then starts again, "I was thinking that maybe I should stick around. Maybe I can be of further help."

The man shrugs. He really is not used to speaking and dealing within groups. Maybe it was time that changed. "But I can be on my way as well. I'll leave that up to you."

He looks first at Cyan and then Trista... what was he going to do about that. Another bad memory heaped on the others. Somehow he thinks that her pain is closer to the surface. Devlin had worked out much of his own troubling thoughts and it was only occasionally now that his past still haunted him.

Wadaya think, should I stick around for a while?

Coughing still, Beldrin tries to sit up as his eyes adjust to the gloom of the hut.

The first thing he sees is Berd, and his eyes immediately flash to Devlin, Cyan, Trista, and back to Cyan.  He groans, and gives up on his attempt to sit, slumping down again and laying his hand across his eyes.

Finally, after a few moments, he peers through his fingers at the bard.

"You again.  Are you going to show up every time I come across one of those damned cubes?"

When Dorian appears, Cyan is at first surprised by his choice of entrances, but then reaches up to touch his hand as it falls on her shoulder.  Then the man is away to work.  Berd watches, eyes glittering.  All the while he keeps up his own work, shuttling and shuffling various thought about in his packed little skull.  He clambers up on Trista's outstretched arm and onto her shoulder, and somehow manages to put up with the attention.


When Trista whispers to her, Cyan reaches out, squeezes her hand.  "Dorian is...well, to say he is a wizard would be redundant.  But he is, twice over."  In both power and skill.  She it utterly amazed at the objects and...well, repulsive creature that he conjures - disturbing or not, it does its job.  Much as Trista had, better than she, herself had done.

Small wonder Berd has taken to the woman, Cyan thinks, glancing across Beldrin at her.  There had been a time when Cyan would be jealous - this, she knows.  But how can one be jealous now, when one discovers the truth of the matter between she and Berd?  Her...father, in a fashion.  Always.  She knows that, feels that in her spirit, where she and Berd share a connection.

Nearly severed, that bond.  Healing slowly, but healing still.

Finally finished, Dorian abruptly rises with instructions.  While Devlin has improved, greatly, some of Dorian's strength seems to have gone to him, and perhaps it has - the dark man is worn, frayed about the edges.  Cyan begins to rise, but Dorian speaks of weariness, and a desire for rest...a cabin?  She does rise now, as he slips out of the hut and walks to seat himself upon the cold, bare stone.  The bard stares after him, her amythest eyes bright, but Devlin's voice calls her back, and she shakes her head.  Always something.

"Stay, Devlin."  She spins to face the man.  "You are most welcome here, by Questors old and new."  A quick glance to Trista, then.  She seems most...well, comfortable isn't the correct word.  'Curious' regarding Devlin's presence?  Not correct either.  "Any help is appreciated, Devlin, and you have brought more than your share!"

A weak voice, and Beldrin joins them.  Cyan hurries to his side to crouch, one eyebrow raised.  "Another time you find yourself in the thick of things, Beldrin.  At least now no bag is over your head, and I confess myself greatly relieved you are rescued and alive...but speak of the cube, Beldrin."  Worry sharpens her tone.  "You have found another?"

"Yes.  I found another." Beldrin sighs and lowers his hand from his face.

"I have informants in the city, and one of them spotted it, a couple of weeks  ago.  Maybe longer, I've been a bit confused lately.  No more than a month though.  There was a man who came in on a ship from one of the other Circle nations, and my man saw the cube when this traveller was studying it in a tavern, of all places.  Amateurs!"

More coughing, and Beldrin's breathing rasps in his throat.  "I took... took it off him, and sent a message to Amber.  Unfortunately I had no way of contacting them directly.  Because of the Trump problems, nobody up there will answer calls these days, so I had to send a letter by ship.  What I didn't know at the time was that the man I took the cube off was sick."

"Then I waited.  I became ill, and was arrested.  Somebody told the locals that I was a spy, and they're paranoid enough, just lately, to investigate.  The cube, when they found it, was strange enough to convince them.  After all, it had a picture of Cadiniagart on it, along with all those other places."

"By then, I was too weak to put up much resistance, and too unfocussed to use my little escape tool.  Mind you, it would have just taken me back to the house, which would have probably been the first place they came looking for me."

”It was a mere plague?”

Trista blinks twice at Dorian’s casual tone. Wonders and miracles seem to be every day events with these people. The mundane woman probably should be used to things such as this; she’s encountered power before this group of World Savers. But the easy display of gifts untold still leave a mark on her.

She nods at the syringe comment; she’s used them many times and doesn’t doubt Cyan’s ability as well. Then the man leaves to sojourn in a…cabin. One blink.

She looks up at Devlin as he stands and speaks. Trista had thought the man had, perhaps, come specifically to help Cyan. Though in retrospect, she remembers him mentioning some sort of personal journey or errand. His words put a small crimp on her heart. She wants him to stay. There are things to discuss, to learn, to… she doesn’t know what else. She and Devlin have unsettled business. No, ‘business’ isn’t right. It’s far too personal for that.

Almost absently, Trista continues to stroke the little scales found around Berd’s head and throat. It’s a soothing action for her, though he’s certainly not as soft as a cat.

She adds her own nod to Cyan’s invitation for the man to stay. Yes, stay. But before anything seems resolved, the patient awakes again, speaking of the cube Trista had only heard about in the barest of terms.

The woman pushes herself to her feet, giving a quick glance to make sure Berd is not too unsettled in the motion. She pauses a moment, looks Devlin in the eye and quietly says, “I hope you stay.”

The hint of a smile touches her lips before she moves to Beldrin’s other side, checking his temperature and pulse as he speaks. She pulls a new plastic water bottle, generic and cheap, from her bag, cracks open the top and silently hands it to the man.

To Trista’s ears, the story sounds believable. But she has not lived through the history the others have experienced. She moves out of the way and keeps quiet.

Devlin makes his mind up to hang around for a while, perhaps there is something more that he can do.

Beldrin mentions a cube, or rather another cube. Devlin remembered something about a cube, or cubes, but no details. He seemed to recall something about Berd taking them and dropping them into... something... that time that he, Cyan and Dorian at visited Cyan's mother. It seemed ages ago now, and for some it may very well have been ages.

Anyway, the thought of investigating one of these cubes intrigues the man. "You will need to remind me what it is these cubes do, Cyan. When you have a moment."

Cyan settles back on her heels.  So much information, so much to consider.  She pats Beldrin on the wrist.  "Rest well, Beldrin.  We are here, now, and we head for Amber.  You will be taken to safety."  Her sapphire eyes sharpen, and she crouches down again.  "The cube.  Do you know where it is?"

So.  The sickness in 'Trump' still plagues Amber.  I wonder...was Beldrin betrayed by the traitor?  Or was it simple chance?

Berd, upon Trista's shoulder, lets out a humming note, his scales vibrating slightly under her fingers.  Surprisingly, while not fuzzy, they feel like velvet - soft and warm, rather than cold and hard.  As tiny as the scales are, there are no hard ridges between them.

Cyan observes Trista's ministrations of the man, and silently nods.  The woman knows her craft, to be certain, and the marks on her hands, the small, almost imperceptable callouses, indicate another, more martial craft as well.  Her mind switches to Devlin's question, and she begins to speak in a faraway voice, recalling details as she does.

"We first encountered the cube in the possession of a woman name Cyrilla - at the time we thought her an agent of Amber, but as it turns out she was of the enemy.  Though it was possible she considered turning coat on them."  A glance to Beldrin.  "Beldrin had just killed her and attempted to steal what she had - a transportation device afforded the agents of the Enemy."

"We called it 'the Cube'."

An image forms in the minds' eyes of those gathered around Beldrin, an image created across Berd's bridging.  A glimmering, semi-transparant cube hangs in darkness, and upon its faces are images of landscapes.  Worlds.  They shimmer with the rainbow colour of palanquet, and as the Cube turns it becomes obvious that while it has six sides, it carries far more than six images.  Somehow.

"When the cube was brought to a new World," Cyan continues, "it would eventually form an image of the World, allowing travel back to that land.  Each time, it grew a touch larger.  I believe the scouts of the Enemy were sent out with these cubes to find pieces of the Broken God, and to determine which worlds were suitable for early conquest, to provide labour and factories to produce the weapons and devices used by the Archons in their wars."

A glance to Berd.  "Our cube was disposed of in a place we knew could destroy the strongest of artifacts - Orodruin, a terrible abyss of flame and heat - but not before it led us to many important Worlds."

"It was discovered when they came to my home and accused me of spying." Beldrin replies with a sigh, followed by a rasping cough.  When he recovers his breath a little, he continues, "To the best of my knowledge... it's still somewhere in the castle.  It was about the only piece of evidence they had against me."

"Which is stupid, because it's only evidence against me if you misinterpret it.  Which their investigators did, of course, because they didn't have any other explanation for it.  And while they were trying me as a spy, they thought that they might just as well try me as an assassin too."

It is unclear whether Beldrin is more annoyed about being accused as an assassin, or as a spy.  "The irony is, of course, that I am a spy, but the evidence they used in my trial has nothing to do with my being a spy."

The description Cyan gives of the cube is enough to make Devlin curious. If he'd know he may have... no use thinking about that now. Likely they'd give the thing to Corwin.

Belrin's tale is interesting, but the one thing that caught Devlin's attention was the fact that Cyan said they were headed for Amber.

"I was trying to get to Amber myself." He says "I was going to try and see if I could secure passage on the ship in the harbor. Didn't even know who to ask. The I ran into an old friend," He looks at Berd, "and a new one." and here he nods in Trista's direction.

"It seems once again that I should indeed remain with you. I arrived in time to help you with your task and perhaps you can aid me in archiving my goal."

The man's head tips and he contemplates Trista who seems to still be giving her attention to the man on the floor. After a moment he speaks to her, "Trista, when you have rested we should talk privately. I must... well, we'll talk about that then."
This message was last edited by the player at 10:41, Fri 22 June 2007.

The Cube’s image glimmers in Trista’s mind, reminding her of an M.C. Escher painting. It’s really a thing of beauty, if one can ignore the purposes it served.

She intently listens to the others; with each new telling, more of the puzzle completes, though it’s far from a finished picture in Trista’s mind. An eyebrow quirks at the man’s ironic spy comments. “What will you do now that you are no longer held in their prison?” That is, supposing Cyan does not send him back.

With Devlin’s further comments, it seems everyone strives for Amber, by one route or another. Her lips slightly curve with a nod of the head at the mention of ‘new friend.’ “Some of the others – it’s a rather large group – have gone to seek passage. Perhaps they will be back with news by now. Dorian was actually one of them.” Beldrin’s health had certainly kept them busy enough to not question Dorian about the ship. But since the man has taken refuge in his cabin, it’s unlikely the group was successful. “Of course, this storm could prevent any leavings tonight.”

When the man addresses her, Trista’s eyes reveal a concerned curiosity. She takes a moment to answer, slightly nervous over what the man has to say. Finally, she nods, “Certainly, I’m not really tired, but of course, you’ve no doubt had a long journey.” The woman pauses in thought as if just realizing something before turning dark eyes back to Devlin, “Although it would appear I’m quite hungry; it’s been some time since I last ate. I don’t have local currency, but perhaps Donovan will have some work for me in exchange for room and board. But if you cared to share a meal… we could talk then. Unless you are going to sleep, of course.”

She turns to the redhead, “Cyan, do you know how to use these syringes Dorian left? If not, I will stay to perform that task. But if you know how, then perhaps I’ll find my way back to the Inn with Devlin if he wishes.”

Cyan closes her eyes, wonders why people leap to these conclusions.  Why they are so eager to point a finger, find a scapegoat, and then....  "They fear," she whispers, and squeezes Beldrin's hand.  Gently.  "They fear, and they seize the first person who appears suspicious.  It may be they were guided to you, but it was their fear that led them to this."  She stares down at him with her topaz eyes.  "I am sorry you bore the brunt of it."

She looks from her crouch at Devlin's words, and her smile reappears - slowly, but it is there.  Even at the worst times, there are silver linings to be found.  "I had hoped you would...I know not how Aaron will take this, for he is still our leader.  But I suspect he will not be altogether displeased, Devlin."  The smile fades a touch.  "I think, though, that we should be appraised at some point of your goal, whatever that might be.  It is only fair, yes?"

Devlin and Trista exchange a quick set of words, and Cyan's eyebrows rise slightly.  She glances at Berd for a moment, then back to Trista.  Apparantly something has transpired, something important.  Perhaps regarding...well, she must still speak with Devlin regarding Nightbrand at some point, herself.  But this seems to be a trifle more than that.  When Trista returns to her, Cyan glances down at the syringes.  "I have...used these things in the past.  I am certain I can do so again.  If not, I will awaken Dorian."  She offers a sunny smile, despite the rain without.  "By all means - go, should you desire."  The smile fades a touch.

"My goal is simple.? Devlin says in response to Cyan's wish to know what it is, "It is the same as it was when I first met..." there is a pause. What he thinks is Serena and there is something about his face that says he's remembering something he would rather not. What he says is, "...you. I was told that my father is a prince of Amber. I would simply like to know if that is true."

Devlin does not miss Cyan's fading smile when talk turns to leaving. He would not mind having the discussion with Trista here and including Cyan and Berd, but Beldrin he does not know. Cyan seems to regard him highly, but still...

The man thinks it over for a moment and then says, "If we can light a fire in here I could perhaps do a little hunting. I’m sure that even in this weather I could sniff out a rabbit or three."

Beldrin sighs, and fidgets about a little, in an attempt to make himself a bit more comfortable.  "I suspected that somebody might have pointed the locals in my direction.  It all seemed a mite too coincidental.  I have a list of possible suspects... he taps at his temple, "... in here."

"Unfortunately, as lists go, it's a little too long to be really useful.  Just lately, it seems as if everybody in Cadiniagart is working for outsiders."

The man laughs then, but it soon devolves into a cough.  When his breathing returns to normal again, he continues, "When the city was on the verge of joining the Circle, everybody wanted to learn more about the place.  Amber's continuing problems there have only increased that desire for knowledge.  Sometimes I think that, if I weren't a spy, I'd be the only man in the city who wasn't."

"But if I'm becoming known, it might be time to move on, and hand the post over to another.  Pity, I've been here a long time, and I rather like the place...  Even if the weather is abysmal at certain times of year."

Before Devlin offered to remain in the shelter, Trista had decided to stay with Cyan and Beldrin, too. Between glimpses of Berd’s mind and Cyan’s faltering smile, it was the right decision. Of course, Trista doesn’t know Cyan very well (and Beldrin not at all) and so will not speak of… what exactly? Painful pasts? A third voice inside her head? Whatever Devlin wished to speak of will have to wait if he wishes for Trista’s participation. There will come a more prudent time. Hopefully.

Not wanting Cyan to feel uncomfortable with her sudden decision to stay, Trista’s lips quirk into a lopsided smile, “This would be as good a place as any to eat. If you could bring back something, I can help with the cooking.” Trista sits down with legs crossed on the other side of Beldrin as he speaks. She moves the medical bag closer to her, clearly indicating she’ll be responsible for the syringes. Or at least, help.

She smiles again at Cyan, warmly with no hint of regret, “If you and Berd wish to join in the hunting expedition, please do so. I know you haven’t had a chance to catch up on things yet.” Devlin is, after all, an old friend of theirs.

Trista again offers the bottled water to the reclining Beldrin when he spasms with a cough. His tale adds more details and conjures images of third world espionage; spies everywhere. “Well, you certainly can’t go back into Cadiniagart in the near future. Not when we just went and broke several laws to get you out of that prison.” Her tone is light, as is her strange mood.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:16, Mon 25 June 2007.

"You seem well-placed to discover what you desire, Devlin."  Cyan settles herself back down, relieved that the others do not plan on leaving quite yet.  They have things to discuss, but...  "With luck, we shall finally be at Amber."  Her smile is wistful as she reminisces.  Three times they have come to Cadinigart, her and Berd, and perhaps the third time is the charm.

A dozen years.  More.  How long ago did she decide to travel to Amber?

"Should you wish, hunt away," Cyan offers.  Her smile dips a touch.  "I have some food of my own - that should make the hunt easier for you."  Her smile grows more relieved at Trista's offer, and she shoots the woman a quick, grateful look.  In the past, Cyan served as the group's cook many a night.  Now, though....

...the stench of burned flesh fills the darkness, and her fingers slip and slide in the blood as she struggles to drag herself...

Cyan bites down on her nausea, shrugs it off.  "No, hunting is not for me.  I have lost my taste, I believe.  I will remain here, and should you wish solitude, Trista, I can leave you to your tasks."  Blunt, as always.  "On the other hand, I would be most curious to hear of whatever World from which you hail.  The World, its history...I have heard it is similar to Jonnee's, and James'."  Another shrug.  "Or anything of which you desire to speak.  Even that fat one, there."  A jab of the finger at Berd.

She pats Beldrin on the shin...gently.  "Listen to Trista.  She makes fine sense - now is the time for you to take a vacation, Beldrin.  Perhaps in Amber itself, or on a beach somewhere.  Preferably without being tied to a chair."  She flashes a smile at Trista.  "A sad occurance when last we met."

"Amber," she muses, "becomes quite well-known, now."

Berd settles down again, looking faintly piqued.  Coming, going, staying...people are so hasty.

Devlin does not hesitate long before he is on his way toward the door. He almost thought of asking Trista if she would like to join him, but his method of hunting pretty much eliminated that possibility. "I should not be long." is all he says before he moves through the door and outside.

Devlin notices Dorian concentrating on the hut and decides not to disturb him.

Slipping behind the hut into an area of more shadow he one again changes. This an easy change to that of D'Ombra. Once the transformation is complete the wolf disappears into the shadows, becoming one with them, and then begins sniffing the air for anything that would make a decent meal. Rabbit would be preferable, or perhaps some pheasant. If it were just himself he would be less choosy, but he doubts that the women would take kindly to a meal of field mouse or rat...

Outside, the storm stil rages over the port city, as Devlin moves out into the darkness, searching for small lives, cowering in the chaos-filled night.  Nearby, there is a house that hadn't been there earlier, and light pours from its windows, spilling only a short distance across the hillside, before the rain washes it away...

Beldrin acceptss the water, and drinks.  "Yes, I agree.  Things were a little too warm in the city, the last few weeks before my arrest.  Still, I stuck it out.  I've been here for years... people knew I came from Amber originally, but nobody thought I was a spy.  That's all changed now, of course."

"I need to find a way to get home now.  To Amber, I mean.  My home in Cadiniagart is probably overrun with troops by now, or it will be as soon as they notice I'm gone."

Amother swallow of water, and then he hands the bottle back to Trista, "Thanks.  It's a pity really, I had some nice things there, picked up over the years.  They'll likely be stolen, or damaged, I suppose."

"I hope it's the former.  At least then I stand a chance of getting them back."

Dorian steps into the hut, giving it a quick look over. It's exactly as he wanted, of course. The cot in the corner was a little longer than usual to accommodate his height, a warm fire crackled in the center, with smoke wafting out the hole above it. A shelf displayed a variety of fruits: dates, figs, raisins and almonds.

So why did it feel so empty?

Kind of foolish, in retrospect, to conjure up an entire separate hut just for himself. Had he really wanted to give everyone some extra space--or just one of them?

He nodded. That was the problem.

His work on Beldrin had given him time to think. His initial reaction to Cyan's words had cooled over time, as he went back to them--like a tongue to a sore tooth--every few minutes. Perhaps he had over thought the conversation, after all. All that meant is he wasn't sure what she had said, and he was left to wonder in a dark room groping around for furniture he knew should be there but couldn't find.

Would it always be like this, now that he had let so much be known?

At least he had thought to conjure a welcome mat outside the hut. It was an anachronism, made of heavy rubber, in contrast to the simple mudbrick and straw abode around him.

Before Devlin escapes, Trista calls after him, “Don’t forget the little dragon has quite the hearty appetite.” An eyebrow rises toward Berd as if in challenge to argue her point.

To Cyan, she responds, “I have no need for solitude, but you will find I am unused to talking at length. I have traveled alone many years; it’s a wonder I remember I have a tongue to speak with.” Self-mockery twists her lips, but unfriendly nonetheless.

Then Cyan moves on to Beldrin and Trista is saved from expounding on her past for the moment as the man speaks of items lost. “We might find a way to smuggle you on board whatever ship we take to Amber; with this group it should not be a problem. But what are these items you are missing? Perhaps we might find a way… I would offer to retrieve them for you, but my face is now known by some of the guard and I’d hate to have to hurt them needlessly.”

She looks about the tiny shelter and frowns, “I should start the fire, but it seems I forgot it’s raining; I doubt dry wood is to be found out there.”
This message was last edited by the player at 19:54, Tue 26 June 2007.

Before long there are several dead rabbits laying in a pile against the outside wall of the hut. The wolf had seen Dorian enter his own shelter and wonders why the man goes out of his way to avoid contact. Devlin understands the need isolation, and some of the reasons that one would wish to be alone, but...

The wolf goes back to his hunting, both remembering himself of Berd's ability to eat as well as Trista's reminder of that fact.

As he hunts he remembers the girl again... He'd allowed the meeting with Berd to dredge up unpleasant memories. Devlin was over that, he was sure. He'd spent a long time in a dark pit, but he was not about to go back to that now... He's seen entire lives now, his small life was nothing compared to...

After more than enough for a meal is piled against the outer wall of the hut the wolf returns to the form of Devlin. The band about his arm extends into the form of a short blade and he begins to clean what he has managed to find. He'd thought about eating the meat fresh as he usually would, but decides that having the discussion with Trista about what Nightbrand had shown him would be better over a meal, move into it slowly. He thought about this as he skinned and gutted the animals, also hoping that someone inside was preparing a fire to cook his gains.

Why did you show me Trista's private past the man asks the... whatever the hell it really was.... the thing on his forearm that called itself Nightbrand. Because you need to see that you're not the only one in the multiverse that has lived through pain... that know what being alone is all about... and you need someone other than me to speak with, someone that understands the things in your head, someone that can help you deal with those thoughts and maybe someone you can help in the process, someone still looking for a way to pull himself out of a deep dark pit.

When Devlin finally entered the hut he carried six, large, plump rabbits. There was a fire and the man quickly spitted the rabbits on sticks and place them over the fire.

The man looks at Trista. His head tilts to the right. "It seems... that Nightbrand has seen something of your thoughts. He should not have nosed in on... Nightbrand...?"

And then there is another voice, none that any save Devlin has ever heard before. At least it had obeyed him in that respect, but in this Nightbrand should speak for itself. The sound comes from the bracer about Devlin's wrist,... I apologize, Ms. Trista. But your thoughts of that night and of Christopher were so close to the surface when you touched me, I could not help but to see the events of as you relived them. I am sorry for invading your privacy. Do not blame Devlin, is was not his doing.

Devlin continues to turn the meat over the fire until they are cooked. Some a bit on the rare side. He chooses the rarest of the lot and rips off a hunk of nearly raw meet.

"I'm sorry that I did not try to find you sooner, Berd. I was gone.... a long time.... I cold not locate Serena..." There, he'd said it. The cause of so much time of despair and madness. I think I've found stability, I think I've come to terms with that.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:28, Fri 29 June 2007.

Trista's words provoke a quick gust of laughter from Cyan.  "And I have spent far too much time learning to speak, and discussing with yonder lazy reptile.  I shall speak for both of us, I expect, and you will pray for me to forget my tongue as well."  She studies the other woman, seeing the pain buried beneath the light words, and wonders what other pressures lie upon the woman.

Scars - those she sees, running deeply.

But Beldrin interjects, and Trista turns to reassure the man.  Cyan leans back, fumbling in her pack, hoping...

- Berd's head comes up, and his eyes flare for an instant -

...success.  The three-quarters full bottle hits the ground with a thump, and Cyan sighs with pleasure.  She pushes her pack back, closing the top to avoid unwanted guests (after the time in Cargach's homeworld, it has become a habit, even as the Warrior), and proffers the bottle to Beldrin.  "A drink may help in the short run...in the long, it is as Trista says.  We can bring you to Amber in one way or another, and perhaps assist in finding your treasures."  She shoots a look at the other woman, reclaiming the bottle when Beldrin is finished with it, and wiping off the lip.  Now Cyan offers it to Trista, her topaz eyes gauging.  '...needlessly.'  Confidence and concern.  For them.  The woman rises another rung on the ladder of her estimation, both of skill and character.

"I suspect Berd can supply the wood-" she begins, but then Devlin bursts back itno the shack with his catches.  Swift work is her first thought, then Cyan gets a good look at what he carries and turns away.  "Wood," she says, groping for her cloak.  "I shall find some for you, Trista..."  But too late, for a small pile lies in the corner already.

Berd grins.

One hand indicates the pile for Trista, and Cyan shuffles away from the cooking area, feeling ill.  Once the food is being prepared, she begins to pay more attention to the conversation, then abruptly sits up in shock as the cold, hard voice rings out through the hut.

Nightbrand finally speaks.

Her eyes blink in surprise, first at the bracer, then at Devlin.  Berd, still seated upon Trista's shoulder, slowly blinks at Devlin and drops his head in a nod.  Cyan, for her part, gives Devlin a small smile.  "It is a fine thing we have met, once again.  I hope, truly hope, that this time you will travel with us, Devlin."

She has lost too many friends over the last few years.  Cyan wishes to lose no more.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:42, Fri 29 June 2007.

Beldrin sighs, accepting the bottle from Cyan, "As long as they're not destroyed, I'll be able to get them back.  The men who located them for me, in the first place, are good at their job.  Amberites all, and expert at tracking down artworks and fine trinkets.  Say what you will of Amber... she pays her agents well, so I could afford the best factors."

He takes a sip from the bottle, at last, and promptly starts coughing again.  When it subsides, he speaks, somewhat hoarsely, "At the end of the day, a place is only a place, and things are only things.  Life is important, and I still have that, for which I'm grateful to you all."

"Are there any ships of Amber in the harbour?  I think I heard that there were, but it might have been a fever dream...  If I can get aboard a ship, I can get home with ease."

Cyan’s penetrating eyes seem to be judging Trista, though not with cruel intentions. The woman wonders how she stacks up to the bard’s, no doubt, high standards. Berd accepted Trista rather easily, and she him, oddly enough. Perhaps phase 2 of Trista’s life draws to a close and phase 3 will return her easier nature.

She accepts the bottle with a smile and takes a deep drink without attempting to gauge what it holds. The full-bodied, rich taste of brandy meets her taste buds and she remembers the old adage, A bad wine can make a great brandy. Much can be told by the chosen drink of a person. Cyan’s taste runs toward the refined and cultured, vastly different from the more visceral preference of Whiskey for Trista. In particular, Jack Daniels. Any will do, but Single Barrel if she has a choice.

She smiles and copies the woman by wiping off the lip before handing the bottle back to Cyan, “Thank you. I haven’t savored the taste of brandy in some time.”

Devlin’s quick entry brings the woman’s eyes, as well as Cyan’s before the other turned away just as quickly. The man takes care of cooking the rabbits himself, leaving Trista feeling somewhat useless.

Trista meets Devlin’s gaze, but stiffens at his words. Her eyes dart to Beldrin and then Cyan, uncomfortable that these things were being talked about in public.

Then it comes: the voice from her thoughts. Aloud for all to hear.

The woman blinks, once, twice. Her mouth opens and shuts. Again. Finally, she finds her voice, “I blame no one.” And that is all. She simply cannot bring herself to say more with so many in the room. But it would seem Devlin cares not to discuss further as he turns to speak with Berd and Cyan takes up the conversation. She, too, hopes Devlin will travel with them, but she isn’t certain why.

Trista sits back on the ground, and as Beldrin speaks, Trista softly mutters to the man, “It’s time for meds.” First, she cleanses an area on Beldrin’s arm. Then she checks the hypodermic syringe, draws liquid into it, turns it upside down, taps it, and expels a small amount. Her actions are quick and efficient; a sign this woman has done this so often, the motions are second nature.

At Beldrin’s question, she looks to Cyan, “I haven’t heard from the other group; have you or Berd?”

Her eyes glance to Berd on her shoulder, “And I’m guessing you’re close to famished, soon, very soon.”

"No matter.  If there's no ship, another way will turn up." Beldrin replies, with a somewhat skewed smile, "The way things are in Cadiniagart lately, I'd walk to Amber, barefoot, if need be."

"For now though, a little food, and some rest would be good."

For some reason Devlin believes that his words, and his allowing Nightbrand to speak aloud have upset Trista. He short quick answer was less than he expected. But then he is still pretty much a stranger to her, and her to him. Now he has information of her past that she would keep secret. He adds his own short comment, "Perhaps later then."

The man wants to say more, but at the same time he wants to say nothing. So he shakes his head deciding not to say anything and goes back to the rabbit. He's already said too much. Finding this group had brought things to the surface, caused him to think, caused him to speak when he should not. He'll wait until asked.

When Beldrin asks of food Devlin plucks some of the rabbit from the fire and move over by him. The man squats and holds it out. "You are a spy for Amber." A statement, not a question. Beldrin and Cyan had both said as much. "Have you ever heard of me? Devlin? I'm told my father is a prince of Amber. A spy such as yourself may have heard the name?"

"I am unsure myself, Beldrin - we shall have to contact the others, see how they do in their search," Cyan decides, taking the bottle back from Trista with a small nod of thanks.  The level is somewhat reduced, and she reduces it further.  "You are most welcome, Trista."

Hardly surprising the woman seems nonplussed at the discussion, though - Devlin and...Nightbrand speak of intrusions into thoughts, something private for most people, Cyan included.  She would be distressed, herself, had the being probed her own mind.  The bard turns away, giving Trista some space as she busies herself putting away some of her own gear.

Medication time, and Cyan moves to study Trista's exact movements with her topaz eyes, watching carefully as the woman uses the syringe upon the patient.  So.  That is how it is done.  She should try it herself, next time...under Trista's supervision, of course.  Likely as not, there were subtlties of which she remained unaware.

Berd, for his part, chirrups impatiently to Trista's question, and gazes at her with lambent eyes.

Devlin, it seems, has questions of his own for Beldrin - questions that could be terribly important, given their destination.  It falls upon her to discover what the others have found.  Cyan considers, then dives back into her pack for a moment.  The case of cards comes forth, and she selects one.  James, seated in a grassy glade, with trees around him, his heavy blade propped nearby, his pack behind him for support.  While the glade is sunlit, the trees behind lie in shadow.  The man himself seems expectant without tension, a slight smile on his lips and weary sadness in his eyes.

A soldier, awaiting the next call to duty.

Another card flips over - this one of a man, another traveller through strange lands.  He wears battered armor upon his breast, its unbreachable bulwark scarred and savaged.  A sword-hilt juts from behind his back, and his hair overshadows one of his eyes; the other gleams with nearly a fevered purpose, a driving determination.  Behind him, a wisp in the mist, is the form of a woman, transluscent, more hinted at than explicitly inked.  Aaron, pushing forward, as always.

"Palanquet."  Cyan grins.  "Shall we see what James and Aaron have to say?"  Her smile wavers.  "Would you like to attempt a calling?"  She glances to Devlin, then back to Trista.  "Berd and I might forge one of you, should you so consent.  We should, for everyone who agrees."

"I've never heard that name.  But then, I have only limited contact with Amber, for the most part through just one of the Princes.  It's entirely possible that, if your father is the particular Prince that I report to, he has never seen fit to discuss such a personal matter with me." Beldrin answers Devlin, thoughtfully.

"And if he is one of the other Princes, then the chances are that he may have kept the existence of you, his son, a secret, even from your aunts and uncles."

"I am sorry to say that the lords and ladies of Amber make much of secrecy, even among themselves."

"That's a pity," Devlin says as he stands, "But not unexpected. Mordan told me much the same. I don't think that even he knew exactly who he worked for. Why I want to know if I'm part of a family that seems to think its children need protection from that family..." The man shakes his head. I guess I just want the truth of it, and from what I know I may not even get the answers I seek if I manage to get to this place.

Devlin looks around at Cyan and Berd, "But I was told by... she told me... that the only way to know for sure was something she called a pattern. I don't know what it is but I gather there is some danger if I'm not part of this strange family. All that I know is that something draws me and I'd like to know what it is."

Trista half chuckles in reply to Beldrin’s quip about walking to Amber, for politeness’ sake. She watches Devlin as he asks about Amber, revealing his father may be of the royal house. Not just far down the lineage like Trista might be, but a son of a Prince. He fits in well with this group.

The woman picks up a skewered rabbit and begins to nibble on it, giving the little dragon a conspiratorial wink, “I think Devlin has taken good care to let you have your fill, here.”

Unfortunately, Beldrin has no information for Devlin, but with the travels there soon, no doubt, he will find his answers. She hopes so, for his sake. She seeks her own answers… but has grown reluctant to actually find the truth. Perhaps, for her, not knowing is best.

To Cyan’s question, Trista hesitates, but forges ahead. “Yes, I will be a part of that - bridging?” She looks Berd in the eye and gives a small nod.

At the mention of pattern, Trista looks up, “I’ve heard of such a thing in my travels. A great series of curves that those of the blood may walk, but to all else, it is death. But I don’t know what it grants the successful walker.”

Devlin and Beldrin discuss issues of parentage within the Amber Royal Family, and Cyan keeps her ears perked to ensure if any questions come her way, she is prepared for them.  But talk soon turns to the Great Pattern, and the bard considers her own knowledge of that mighty creation.

Her understanding, she realizes, is woefully incomplete.

"There are people close by who may be able to answer your questions regarding the Great Pattern," she notes, quietly.  "I shall point them out to you, that you may ask your questions of them.  My own knowledge is inadequate, and Berd...he prefers not to speak of the Pattern.  I know not why."

Berd's smile is as sharp as the teeth it exposes.

"Well, there is that.  Attention," Cyan admits.  She shrugs.  "In any case..."  The bard shuffles over to crouch beside Trista.  "It was not a bridging of which I spoke, but this."  She holds up the two cards.  "Palanqueti.  Artwork with which I can communicate and travel.  Shall we begin with James?"  Ruby eyes shine in the dim light.  "We might then pass on what James has discovered to Aaron."

Cyan holds up the card of the weary soldier.  "If you wish to speak with James, with me, simply touch the card.  Or my shoulder.  It matters not which."  Another small, quick smile, then Cyan focuses her attention upon the palanquet.

...James.  James of Amber, Walker of the Great Pattern....

Trista has heard of Trump, cards similar to Taro so many seem fond of where the woman once lived. Her father had mentioned them, though she has never seen one. With curious eyes, she admits, “I’ve never seen these but I’ve heard of them, though they were called ‘Trump,’ I believe.”

The woman raises a hand, hesitates a moment, and places her touch on Cyan’s shoulder, leaving the card alone for now. She hears the voice of Cyan and marvels at this newest of communication devices.

"You Walk this pattern? I had thought it was just some kind of recognition device."

This gives him something to think about. Mordan had failed to tell him anything of this pattern, just as he had failed to tell him the true nature of the cards he'd used to teach him about the members of This family. He wonders if the his teacher had any knowledge of these things to begin with and decides that likely he did not. The man had been very thorough in his teaching of shape shifting and Devlin believes that he would have been just as thorough with anything else he had knowledge of.

Cyan brings up those cards and making one of Devlin. She had done so once before, a very long time ago for Devlin. "I told you once, long ago, maybe for both of us, that you may create a likeness of myself. Perhaps you could also make one of yourself that I might carry." Likely, at this point, Cyan is the only one he'd trust to contact in such a fashion. He's not altogether sure why he trusts her, but there has always been something, even when it was believed she'd turned to the other side.

Devlin resumes his place sitting against the wall and watches as Cyan and Trista attempt to contact James.