Moody clouds settle in Trista's eyes; a guarded sadness over the man's misperceptions. Yet, they cannot be helped at the moment.

Chance seems in his element, taking the man's reactions in stride. Trista glances at the painting - Sam's Queen of the Sea. So they all believe in her? Real or myth? Anything, after all, is possible....

"A servant of darkness would tell you whatever would make you do what he wanted, regardless of how true or false it might be. The truth can be used to deceive as easily as a lie. So the question shouldn't be whether I am willing to lie, for you know that I am, but what I want from you. In fact, all I want is what I have said: to hear the stories of Holy Aaron and everything else. Wouldn’t a servant of darkness already know these stories? Or, like I offered, you can listen to my stories and tell me if they bear any resemblance to the stories of Holy Aaron. The choice is yours. If you don't wish to talk, we won't force you. We'll leave your town and you'll not hear of us again. Bear in mind, though, we could have carried the deception on further, but we only did so as long as we had need. The deception is for the enemy, not you."

"Very well, I suppose there is, at least, a grain of truth in your words." it's clear, from his expression, and the way his eyes flick constantly between his two visitors, that the godspeaker doesn't altogether trust them, but it does seem as if he is prepared to speak to them.

"The tale, put simply, is of a war which will mean the end of many things, and the changing of many more.  It began long ago, and far away, with a battle between angels.  Many were cast down by their brothers, and they vowed to make a new home for themselves, in the lands of men."

"But there were mighty heroes then.  There was Holy Aaron, of course, and the Sorceress, Lexa, who could become anything she desired.  There was the Beast with One Thousand Heads, and his Servant.  There was also the Fool, and his Dark Mirror, though that one was not known about at the start, and the Wolf Queen.  Others too, who came and went over time, like the Storm Princess, Kia, daughter of the Wolf Queen and the Fool.  The boy, John, with swords for hands, and the giant, Andrey... "

"So many of them... and so many of them doomed."

He shakes his head, growing thoughtful for a moment, and then continues, "All of them tried, but they could do nothing to prevent the war.  The scriptures tell us that they are still fighting, with new allies... wizards, beasts, monsters, bards... all fighting against the Great Enemy."

"But they also tell us that the End Days will come.  There is nothing they can do to stop it happening.  The final battles will be fought, and with luck they will be able to bring forces to bear which can stand against legends, and win."

"With luck?" Chance rubs his chin thoughtfully. This was where it became tricky. "Is there anything but luck that could help us win in the End Times? You know, like a weapon or a place of defense ... anything?"

It was tricky because if he thought they were the enemy, then the last thing he would give them was this kind of information.

"Do you know anything about what forces we might need to bring to bear against them?"

The godspeaker studies Chance's face, thoughtful and silent, for several seconds, before shrugging.

"The scriptures, or rather, the Apocrypha, don't go into that much detail.  They describe the major events."

"They do mention that John will bring an army, numbered as the stars in the heavens, and they will have a weapon with them that can pluck the enemy from the skies, and rob them of much of their power."

"The Beast with One Thousand Heads will fight, and lay waste to the citadel of the enemy, but his Servant will betray him, and be revealed as a second King in Yellow, only to return later, begging forgiveness."

Another shrug, and a shake of his head, "These are, as I said, the words of mortal prophets, who dreamed of these things, centuries ago, and recorded them.  I suspect that they didn't understand everything they saw, and struggled to describe some of it.  At least two of them even say that."

Trista keeps to the side, Chance is in charge here, obviously feeling comfortable in his roll. A showman, certainly.

Cyphering what the man says isn't Trista's forte either. If she knew more of the stories, if she had been there through the struggles... perhaps. As it is, she can place a few names with their mythological counterparts. But it would seem that not much is said about their future, only what has already taken place.

Maybe the woman in the sea...

Quietly, Trista asks, “Can we speak to her,” she points to the painting, “directly?”

Chance opens his mouth, though he isn't sure what he's about to say. He often spoke without thinking, just to see if his mouth had a better grasp on the situation than he did. It usually did.

He wasn't so sure this time, but Trista saved him, speaking up with--he had to admit--a great question.

He smiled reassuringly at her, then turned back to the godspeaker with one eyebrow lifted inquiringly.

"Yes.  She hears every prayer by the faithful, of course, and everything which is said where her image is present." the godspeaker nods, his expression growing softer as he studies the painting.

"That is her nature.  To listen to those who follow her, and are true in their hearts.  She seldom answers directly, but sends prophetic dreams, signs and portents to those who ask.  Sometimes she will intervene more directly, such as last year, when the skies opened, and the rain helped Heldrod and his sons put out a fire in their barn."

"Very rarely, she will appear, to speak to those who call upon her."

Just another God-myth. Disappointing, really. Yet, the boy...

Trista nods once, “We'll keep that in mind.” Her eyes look directly at the painting, “Perhaps we'll be fortunate enough to see her -  when she's ready.” A subtle invitation just in case there's an actual entity behind the illusion.

Stormy eyes find Chance again and gives an almost non-existent shrug; she's out of ideas. Chance, though, probably isn't.

Chance is already smiling, even before Trista's eyes find his. The smile blossoms into a boyish grin, and the sword in his hand is melting. The handle becomes the figerboard, and strings grow from the heads, winding down to string themselves at a perfect pitch.

"And song, godspeaker?" Chance asks. "She hears songs in her honor, perhaps?"

He turns his gaze on the painting, studying the lines and colors. It's not a perfect representation of the goddess, if she exists, but it might be enough. His fingers strum a soft chord, deep and moving.

His head nods thoughtfully.

"I think this one time, she might. Might I have some time with her, or any image of her?"

Why wait for a goddess to appear, when you can dial her directly ... if she exists. Well, that was the crux, wasn't it? Chance suddenly realized the absurdity of his plan and his face grew serious. It was probably a waste of time, but something in the way the boy spoke had made him an armchair believer in this goddess. Hell, he believed in Berd. How could a goddess be so inconceivable? Why not? At the worst, he sits for an hour and plays some songs with Trista to listen to them. He'd couldn't imagine a better Sunday.

He nods. "It couldn't hurt, at least."

Unless she turned out to be the vengeful, fire and brimstone, first-born sacrificing kind of goddess. Then it could hurt an awful lot.

He looks at the painting and begins to pluck out a few testing chords, searching for the notes that would describe the goddess. It was a portrait of sound and emotion, rather than paint and canvas.

It took some time to feel the song out, but in the end, he played it from beginning to end. The rhythm was soft, and the timing varied, sometimes slow and sometimes fast. He actually shifted tempos during the bridge, leading into a placid chorus that was smooth and glassy, broken only by the rarest ripples of music.  The refrain was light and pattering. The riffs were short and tempestuous, and the outro seemed to linger long after the song was done.

At last, he let his hands fall from the string. His face had grown a shade more pale, save for dark patches under his eyes. His shoulders were slack. His movements lacked the usual bounce and energy.

He waited in the silence, holding up a finger to ward off any early interruption. He listened in the silence of his mind for the touch, knowing he would have to open himself up to a power beyond his ability to oust, and willing to take that risk.

The words of the philosopher echoed in his mind: God is in me, or not at all.

As Chance begins to play, the notes are influenced by the image of the woman, with the fish leaping from the lake behind her.  The music seems to blend with the painting, almost drawing the woman out into the room, surrounded by a shimmering rainbow-hued pearlescence.

Trista and the godspeaker listen to the melody, and to their eyes, the woman seems to move, her hair blowing in a breeze that those sitting in the parlour behind the chapel are unable to sense...  The fish leap, and form a halo, of sorts, swimming in a circle in the air around her head.


The temperature in the room drops sharply, and there is a dampness in the air.  The woman in the painting smiles, and a voice, more like the babbling flow of water in a shallow stream than like anything issuing from a human throat, asks, "Who are you?"

From witnessing man turn to wolf, talking to birds, stepping through tarot cards, to befriending dragons, Trista has surrounded her plain life with magic. And through it all, she's on a path to rediscovering herself. But just who is she?

An empty, hollow guardian opening up to a wise ancient on her shoulder and finding hope. A broken girl crying endlessly on Devlin's solid shoulder. A woman with a single tear glistening down her cheek at the unexpected beauty of music. She's been here before, years and centuries before, enjoying music from those around her. But this is  different and surprisingly new, and she's moved beyond words.

It's not the music itself, perhaps. Nor the guitar man who gently finds truth in the notes he plays. It's the unequaled knowing of another being. Trista watches as Chance discovers the woman in the painting. She almost feels like an intruder to the intimate tableau. Trista takes a step back and leans against the window sill.

Her mind plucks images from her past of other guitars and other men. Of beauty and torment. Of who she was a century ago and who she was a week ago. Who is she now? Who will she be tomorrow?

Through it all, the painting moves as if in response to the guitar's gentle tugging. The beautiful woman comes to life and speaks. Her voice evokes a mountain stream and Trista suddenly thinks of Berd and wishes he were here to share in this moment, though most likely, he would not find it quite so inspiring being a creature of power himself.

The mesmerizing spell broken, Trista wipes the single tear from her cheek and stands again. She takes the same stance as before, but she's a different woman, one she does not recognize. One influenced by those she's met since Charyk.

A better woman.

Not trusting herself to make eye contact with Chance, Trista glances toward the priest for his reaction and then settles her gaze upon his goddess.

The guitar hangs loose from the shoulder strap and Chance's jaw hangs equally slack. It worked? Suddenly he remembers warning about Trump infections or something like that from the Archons and wonders how closely his music is tied to that.

"Um ... hi." His voice cracks a bit, having tried out while hanging open. He quickly regains his stride, though. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. My name is Chance, and this is Trista, and this ... well, I assume you know the godspeaker of this village. I would not have contacted you but our need is great. We seek information. I am a friend of a man named Aaron, who battles beings we call Archons--beings of fire, lightning, and metal--along with a group of others. From the accounts in the scriptures the godspeaker teaches from, it seems you might know something of this. It would be a great help if we could speak with you for a time."

He glances at the godspeaker to see how he is reacting to the goddess' appearance.

The godspeaker's eyes are fixed on the feet of the goddess, as he attempts, not entirely successfully, to blink back tears.  Moving towards the man, the goddess lays a hand on his shoulder, "Please, leave us, I have nothing to fear from these people."

He stands, his head bowed, and walks out of the room.  Once he is gone, the woman turns and regards the strangers with interest, "Aaron still lives?  That's good news."

She laughs quietly, then, "Unexpected news, but good news, nonetheless.  I will do whatever I can to help you.  Ask what you will."

This experience must be overwhelming to the Godspeaker. Trista's heart goes out to him as she watches him leave the room. And why does the goddess require him to leave? Does she fear him learning the truth of who or what she is? Will it be too much for him to handle, this coming conversation?

An inward sigh and he's gone. Trista turns her attention back toward the watery woman and her conversation with Chance. Ready, but not expecting anything untoward.

Chance watches the godspeaker leave the room. That was unexpected and, he felt, a bit harsh. What more could a religious man want than to see his deity face-to-face and hear a few of her words. To be sent away must be awful for him. On the other hand, it might be a bit of a relief for the man. Either way, Chance wished he could intervene, but there are more pressing matters.

"Yes, well," Chance said falling into his usual demeanor. "I guess we're all a bit surprised Aaron's still around, too. At any rate, we were on our way to investigate the ruins of Charyk where we fought our last major battle and happened upon this world. That mission was a bit of busy work, I suspect, so we decided to investigate this angle and see what we could find--and here you are."

So far so good, Chance thought. She was a female and he was ... Chance. The odds were on his side! The trick was to keep himself from being too charming so as to not make Trista jealous. He'd grown fond of her and didn't want to push her away. The odd thing was that the fondness was more than his usual sort of fondness for women.

"Now, forgive me for being so bold, but what we've learned so far from the godspeaker and the marvelous boat boy is somewhat cloudy. Ultimately, we'd like to know about the final conflict and how we should prepare, but perhaps we could start with your name? I couldn't help but notice that this painting is a trump, as Luke calls them. Since no one here knows about that, or has the power to use one, I must wonder how this all began."

Chance pondered that the painting could have been created by a particularly talented and powerful godspeaker or worshiper sometime in the past, only to be placed here and regarded as everyday art for possible centuries.

Or was it something deeper?

Deeper....

Chance recalled stories of an Amber that existed in the waters nearby, a sort of reflection of the city. He wondered if this 'goddess' were not really in the lake at all, but actually a denizen of--what was it caleld--Rebma? Was that it?

"Trump... yes.  A word I haven't heard in... what?  Five hundred years?"  The goddess stares into space, somewhere above and behind Chance.  "I suppose it must be.  Yes.  It seems that time really does fly sometimes."

"That's how long it's been since the Beast, you might know him as Berd, was here.  His servant, the bard, Cyan, made the portraits for me at that time, three of them."

She pauses, considering her words carefully, and then, "As for how this started... well, Aaron would know me as Lexy.  We fought together, when the first parts of the Shattered God were found, and started all this.  But as our companions fell by the wayside, I decided I needed to go into hiding for a while.  This seemed like a good place."

"When Cyan came to see me, I was surprised, because I'd heard that the bard had gone over to the enemy, but he assured me that he'd rejoined the others, and he made me the Trumps as a gift... a gesture of good faith I suppose."

"He also told me that most of the others had died, or been driven into hiding.  I know that John was raising and training an army somewhere, but I had no real news of the others.  Now you tell me that Aaron is alive and well, and taking the fight to the enemy again.  That is the best I've heard in a long time."

"I just hope they can act soon enough.  Lately I've had the feeling that the End is getting closer.  I think that Archons have visited this, my haven."

Lexy....

Well, no one told me about her
Though they all knew

Memories flooded Chance's head. It seemed like an old story now. He'd mulled it over in his mind countless times. Thus, he knew the name. How that fit with what he saw here didn't quite fit in his mind. Adding to that was that Berd and Cyan had been here before.

So Lexy had gone into hiding at some point, and it had been five hundred years for her.

Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there

He couldn't help but wonder if he should be so wise, too. He pushed that concern aside for the moment. He should contact Berd and Cyan. Maybe they would want to know he was in contact with her. Of course, if Cyan made this trump ... palanquet, then ... they would know how to contact her, should they need it.

Of course, now it made sense why she asked the godspeaker to leave.

So where does that leave things, he wondered? Was there something he should say? He guessed she'd be hungry for knowledge. He could tell her the tale of the questers since they saw her last.

"Yes, Aaron does live, as I said. Berd and Cyan are with him. Cyan did indeed go over to the other side, though not entirely of her own will. There were ... circumstances. And others have joined the quest, including myself and Trista, here. Then there is Devlin, Dorian, Morgan, Banglen-Yp, James, Tahira ... and others have come and gone, too."

He spreads his arms, in a gesture of uncertainty. "I guess I'm not sure what I should do at this point. Is there anything we can do to help you with anything? I'd be happy to fill you in on what details I know of the quest."

Well, let me tell you about the way she looked
The way she acts and the color of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there

Although Trista has heard the history between the help of Dorian and Berd, and some from Devlin, she doesn't know specifics like names. 'Lexy' means nothing to her, but clearly she was with the group in the early stages. Trista is really just an interloper here; clearly Lexy does not prove a threat to Chance. However, she'll stay until asked to leave – there is much to be learned in the exchange between the two.

The goddess, Lexy, as she was once known, looks puzzled at some of Chance's words, "Cyan?  Her?  I'm sorry, but the Cyan I knew was definitely a him."

She glances at Trista, and back at Chance, frowning, "Huge man, built like some red-haired bear, but he could draw and paint and play that flute of his with incredible skill."

A tension starts to spread around her then, as if a storm were approaching, charging the air with energy, "I warn you, if this is some trick... "

"A trick?" Chance sighs. "I'd think you should know enough about the myriad realms to know how these things happen. An impostor would be able to get more than just names right. Gender isn't hard to match up, and our Cyan is definitely female. Obviously, we know different people with the same names, so--just as obviously--we can't do anything to help each other. Sorry to bother you, but we'll be leaving now."

Ever since he came to this world, everyone had been suspecting him of some trick. It probably had to do with making up so many stories, but he tried to be truthful when the time came for it. Now, seeing that the whole thing had been for naught, he was tired and ready to move on to something else.

How could Trista not have noticed the gender issue before now? It's something she should have caught, but didn't. This Lexy knew a male Cyan, so evidently she's some sort of mirror - is that how they're described? - of the Lexy who Chance knew of. An alternate. Still with information, possibly.

Trista's body tenses as the woman seems to gather power around her. Her hand does not move to her blade, but she's ready. Very ready. Two steps forward, coming abreast of Chance then the man surprises her by backing out of the situation. He doesn't seem to think this woman has any thing else to offer.

Trista's eyes lock in on the watery woman, “Before we go – treat these people well, they deserve it. The ferryman's son, Sam? He's just a boy, send him some fun dreams once in a while and skip on the horrific stuff. He doesn't need that kind of burden. I'll be checking in this way again, see how he's doing.” Her voice keeps to a conversational tone with no threat lacing it, though her stormy eyes may convey the warning nonetheless.

Lexy looks uncertain as Chance provides an explanation.  There is still something there, like a knot in the fabric of the world, but it doesn't seem to be wound so tight now, as doubt makes her less sure of the threat represented by the visitors.

"The Myriad Worlds... ah... you mean Infinite Shadow?"

"A pity we can't help each other.  I will defend this world as best I can, when the enemy comes, but it will be harder without the others to help.  But, at the end of the day, what choice do I have."

She sighs then, "I told Aaron that we shouldn't divide our strength, but we did, and now it's unlikely we'll be able to regroup in time to do anything."

As Trista speaks, though, the goddess smiles sadly, "Sam.  I know Sam well.  I try to ease his burden, but there is a fine balance between being gentle and completing his education.  And he will need that lessons I'm teaching him, if he is to become a worthy successor to his real father."

"Well, I guess that's all there is to it," Chance said. Apparently giving up--or doing an excellent job of appearing to do so--he began to turn away from the painting.

Then he stopped, half-turned. "Unless," he mused with practiced slowness. "We could find some other way to help each other? I mean, even if we aren't who we expected, we do seem to be on the same side, near as I can tell. We both consider the archons to be enemies."

He turned back to face her again. "What is it you require to defend this world? To be perfectly honest, I'd hate to see this quaint little world fall--I've grown fond of Sam as well, among others--and we'd very much like to know of any Archon activity in the area. Perhaps something could be arranged?"

Lexy's answers concerning Sam didn't exactly put her at ease. It's the last of what the woman says regarding the boy's true father that puts Trista on guard. She could have completed the thought by adding in who the man is, but instead she leaves it hanging as if silently begging Trista to inquire as to who the man is.

She's playing games with me? Maybe not, but Trista doesn't like it. She'd much rather people were open and honest and didn't play mind games.

Chance gives her time to consider as he seems to come up with an idea at the last minute; an idea for mutual assistance. Trista certainly doesn't see through it and simply looks expectedly at the painterly woman for her answer.