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.