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."