Some time during the night, the storm died down to something a little more reasonable.

The wind, while still fairly strong, no longer threatens to tear apart the stone reinforced shelter, the lightning has stopped, and the rain is not quite so torrential.

The air, slowly brightening as morning spreads across the land, smells fresh and clean.

Beldrin is awake, having slept soundly, for the first time in a while.  Compared to his former accomodation, this shelter is not too uncomfortable, and he has the advantage of knowing that nobody here is planning to hang him.  At least not any time soon.

The cube is nearby, somewhere.  He isn't sure exactly where, and it isn't his problem now.  Cyan and her allies will dispose of it, safely... in fact, for all he knows, they might have done so already.

Around him now, the others are stirring.

Dorian had conjured a cot for himself in the corner (and for anyone else who needed one.) Now, he sat on the edge of it, still clad in his long underclothes. His hair a tangle, rather than the glossy black curtain that normally framed his sharp features.

He felt rested and strong, now, if only a little sore from the canvas and wood cot. He was trying to decide how he felt. Somehow, he still felt a bone-deep, rotten fatigue that ate at him. It was less now, a whisper deep down in the dark places of his soul. How long had it really been? This had all begun in Cadinigart. Perhaps that was when the weariness crept in, when he saw it all once again, when memories came flooding back.

We had others with us back then, he thought. What were the names? Andrej, Jack of course, Kaelyn, Leonardo--was that his name, and Jonnee, too.

And Cyan. At first, she had been like an itchy wool blanket. Now, that blanket was a comfort.

That must be it: Cadinigart had bore down on him with unusual, unexpected weight. It would pass.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:48, Sat 18 Aug 2007.

As those inside the hut begin to stir the door opens and Devlin steps inside. He looks back once to see if Trista is coming also and then looks back inside, "Morning," he says, "I hope everyone is well rested. The storm seems to be passing, finally."

"Rested enough," Dorian says. "True rest will only come with time, and much of it. And I fear I will not know that rest until I am either dead or this quest is complete, so I find myself anxious to press forward. How did you sleep, Devlin?" His eyes glance towards the door, noting that he had come from outside. Either he didn't sleep at all, or he slept only a little. Given the mans talents, sleeping outside would be a surprise--even with a storm raging.

Through the calming storm, Trista watched the rains lighten around the fortress. Not exactly a sunrise, it was nevertheless still beautiful. As Devlin made his way in through the fortress and the hut, Trista sighed, “Tequila would be good right about now.”

She follows the man into the hut. Even though Trista's energy reserves are great, at some point in the night she had put on a Gortex jacket to prevent the rain from completely draining her.

Upon entering, her eyes flick around the room to see Beldrin awake on his cot, Cyan seemingly still asleep, (Berd?), and Dorian sitting up with moppish hair and – she blinks twice to clear her eyes and make sure she's really seeing long johns. A grin immediately pops on her face which she fights back down.

Trista slips her jacket and pack off, setting them on the floor. “Perhaps some food and Berd can let us know if the others retrieved the second cube. Once they're disposed of, we can set about whatever plans we might have.”

The smile comes back and before she stops herself, she deadpans, “Nice p.j.'s, Dorian.” Honestly, she could have stopped herself, but some long dead part of her is re-awakening.

Beldrin clambers to his feet, albeit a little unsteadily.  "The storm has died?  Good, that should make travel a little easier, at least."

He stretches, then gasps, then starts coughing.  When he recovers somewhat, clutching at his ribs, he remarks, "I suppose I probably shouldn't have done that...  So, what plans do you have for getting away from here?"

"It seems that I might have difficulty travelling far."

In answer to Dorian's question Devlin replies, "I rested well enough." he lies, but he was not really tired. He's had a lifetime of rest.

"I too find that I am anxious to press on."

Beldrin is still having dificulty, but now that Dorian has cured his illness... He moves closer to the man, I may be able to repair any damage now that Dorian has cured your illness. Will you permit me to try?" he asks Beldrin, "It may be necessary to travel far, and quickly; one never knows."

"I suspect that there is no remaining damage, as such." replies Beldrin, "Rather, I believe, it's just the effects of poor diet and lack of excercise since I was arrested.  Weakness, and stiffness of the joints.  Nothing that good food and a little more activity won't cure, given time."

"My thanks for the offer though."

His expression grows thoughtful for a moment, as he ponders the situation, "How soon do you intend to leave here?  Do you need transport?  Horses, perhaps?  Or a wagon?  What about supplies?  I may be able to help with those, if required... at least tell you the best places to find them."

Cyan blinks to wakefulness as people enter, her jade eyes dull with sleep.  She slowly sits, her quill pen falling from her fingers; there is ink upon her hand, and she stares down at the pages of the book before her with muddled confusion.  Curled up beside her, Berd finally stretches, letting out a thin, whining sigh before shaking out his wings.  One of them slaps her in the face, and she brushes it aside with only the faintest of frowns, well-used to such intrusions.

"A good morning to all."

The little drake glances toward Trista, and his dim eyes slowly begin to shine.  He cracks open his jaws, revealing dozens of tiny, needle-sharp teeth, and breaths out a scintillating cloud that grows into a small vista, almost like a holographic display in the middle of the shelter.

There is a road, a dotted line running down its middle.  It leads directly toward a giant, smoking mountain, far away.  A sign at the side of the road reads '100 KM to waste disposal'.  A smaller one, beneath that, simply states: 'Underflow R-59'.

Two cars appear.  One, a Volkswagon Bug - an original, painted white.  The other, a sleek porsche, of the newer variety, glossy black on the dark road.  They roar toward each other, and as they whip by, the vista slows to slow motion.

Heading away from the volcano is Berd, somehow human-sized and relaxing in the Bug's seat, his clawed forelimb extended in a wave to the other car.  Luke drives the sleek porsche toward the volcano, his own hand displaying an appallingly large cube for Berd.

Time accelerates, and so do the cars, whipping away from each other.

The vista dissolves.

"Well," Cyan notes, slowly closing her sketchbook after verifying that what she drew last night has worth (and did not, for example, devolve into a scribble as time passed).  "I grasp the meaning, if not the specifics."  She glances around, noting the others.  Devlin and Trista appear to have been up all night...Dorian..not.  Lids blink over emerald eyes as she takes in his hair, his clothing, and Cyan covers a smile with her fingers.  "Indeed," she responds to Trista's sally - what PJ's are, she has no solid idea, but she can certainly guess.  "Perhaps a comb, Dorian?"  One hand holds out her own; with her hair cut shorter from her time in armor, it is much easier to deal with mornings.  She can do without for a few minutes, and Dorian's dignity is no doubt at stake.

Everyone seems to be interested in moving on - Cyan can hardly fault them, being so herself.  "Breakfast, then?  Or shall we eat as we go?"  Berd whines piteously, and she clamps one hand about his snout, giving him a small shake.  "You.  You have eaten more than your fill for days, now."  The words might be harsh, but her voice is quiet and soft, her grip loose.  Cyan shakes her head.  "Breakfast for you, then.  I shall seek out some worms in the grass."

Berd jerks his nose away and blows a disgusted raspberry, his forked tongue flickering.


Cyan winks at Trista, then shrugs.

As Devlin deals with Beldrin, Cyan quickly packs, then rises to stretch, arms above her head.  She winces once, and rubs her shoulder, a surprised expression on her face.  "Not so long ago I could sleep on the ground for days on end," she murmurs.  "I have grown soft."  She waves to Dorian's cot.  "When next we sleep, I shall most certainly pester you for one of the same, Dorian, wise man that you are."

"As you wish." Is Devlin's simple reply to Beldrin.

Then to the the others in the room, "Are we to join with the others or will we proceed from here?", he asks.

Dorian is already pulling his drab, brown tunic over his head. He pauses to glance quizzically at Trista. "Pee Jays?"

He finishes with the tunic and reaches for his drab tan breeches. He ignores the women for the most part, sensing that there is some joke there. Did they expect him to sleep in regal attire, cloak and all, with perfectly groom hair and never needing to shave? Perhaps the hut-fortress offered less privacy than the questors had grown accustomed to; perhaps they really had expected Dorian's appearance to remain static.

Let them have their moment. He was as human as the next man, save only for a keen psyche and awareness of sorcery and conjuration--and a few other tricks, most of which he had managed to keep secret even from Berd. If anything, Luke had taught him to embrace his humanity--though that wasn't really the being's intent.

"Thank you," he says, not bothering to add much warmth to the sentiment--though he meant it no less.

He accepted the comb from Cyan. The curls in his hair meant frequent snags and tangles. Not the funnest part of his mornings.

The curious look on Dorian's face satisfies and Trista let's it lie, not really wanting to explain – explanations ruin any amusement. The image conjured by Berd puts another smile on her lips, she recognizes Luke from Berd's earlier visions. Father and son in very different vehicles. “Nice cars. Well, that looks taken care of.”

As the others speak, Trista turns to Berd, “I think I can get you something out of my pack to tide you over... nothing much and certainly not tasty, but until we find you a proper breakfast, worms notwithstanding.” She digs in her pack for a fairly good sized jar of beef jerky and opens it up, offering it to the little dragon.

More amusement with the comb and Cyan's wink. Trista is in good spirits this morning; the night did her good.

In her head, she thinks of the other group, the members and their mission which she mostly understands. Concentrating, she does a tally of everyone involved in this quest. She blinks. Twice.

“Berd, Devlin, Cyan, Dorian, James,” she continues naming each one of them, “Banglen-Yp, Chance, Merideth, Tahirah, Roman, Morgan, Aaron,” she gives Berd a curious look, “and Luke.”

Her eyes rise to take in the others, “Not to mention Beldrin and any others who show up today,” just a small amount of irony taints that last thought... it seems people, new and old alike including herself, keep popping up. “That's at least 13 people. All traveling to Amber? That's one way to draw attention to ourselves.” Her count actually proves to be conservative, considering she does not know about Serena or Aaron's blade.

Her eyes turn pointedly to Cyan, whom she considers the leader (not having spoken with Aaron yet), “Perhaps there is a better way to do this. It's been my experience that small groups tend to get more done, are less seen, and move more quickly than large groups. Perhaps there is another objective, or two, which could be pursued at the same time. Something from before I joined your group? A lead?”