Little is known of Sephiroth, save that he is, or possibly was, an Archon responsible for a number of major projects in their scgeme to irrevocably change the Myriad Worlds to suit their own needs.

Unfortunately, the information regarding this particular Archon does not include a location where he might be found.

Luckily, the Questors have the means at their disposal to find the creature.

So it is, that some time later, those who are to track down Sephiroth, find themselves on the road, leading up the mountainside, and out of the city...
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:59, Sat 08 Sept 2007.

As the small group leaves the city a blackbird with red patches on its shoulders lands in the road. It looks up at Trista, head cocked to the side, in a remarkably familiar way. Then its small head tilts back and forth, left and right, several times as it whistles and sings.


The bird then remains still, head cocked to the left, as if waiting.

The bird halts her forward momentum. Trista had been expecting the bird, yet his sudden presence still takes her by surprise. Sleek black feathers with deep red markings near his head elicit an appreciatively smile from the woman.

She crouches down before him, but does not reach her a hand out.


To her companion(s), she says, “This little bird who isn't quite so little is Devlin's emissary come to accompany us.”

ooc: Since I'm unsure who exactly is here, I left it vague.

Chance halts, cocking his head to the side to look at the bird.

When Trista explains, he says, "So not an omen of doom, then." He smiles, and tries waving at the bird to see how it reacts.

So this was it. They were off on their own. He felt like they were a couple of children finally deemed old enough to leave the house on their own, but it felt good to have something to do. It felt good not to be in the Shadow of those who could sunder cites in half and pull small worlds out of their pockets.

He stole a glance at Trista. She didn't look like she could split anything bigger than a thick log, and that was just fine with him. The big guns among the Questors--Berd, Luke, Aaron, James and so forth--tended to make him nervous, anyway.

"So, what do you know about this mission, Trista? I've only got pieces, myself. All I know is Sephiroth was some kind of leader among the Archons, and that a henchman of his--Gazamiel?--might be ambitious enough to do us some good. I was thinking we should try to start with Gazamiel, maybe. What do you think?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:39, Mon 10 Sept 2007.

The bird tilts its head to the other side in response to Chance's wave and then flutters up to Trista's shoulder where is tweets and whistles in Trista's ear.


Then the bird begins inspecting the girls hair and scalp with its beak.

(OOC: Not sure who all is here so I'll wait after this to find out)

Trista half-chuckles, “I should hope not, though I don't put much stock in omens either way. Still, they can be entertaining by the right little old lady with wispy white hair and a cigar hanging out of her mouth. A crystal ball never hurts.” A perplexed expression crosses the woman's face, she can't remember the last time she shared a trivial anecdote.

Shaking her head once to clear the thoughts, she rises to her feet and watches the bird seemingly understand Chance's greeting and lift himself up to perch on her shoulder. “Ah, his name is Ämi. Ämi, this is Chance.” Her head jerks back slightly as a beak gently taps against her scalp, then she relaxes when he's obviously not pecking a hole through her head.

The revelation, both now and earlier in the Inn, that Chance doesn't know much about their current mission produces a slight frown. “I was hoping you would know. In the three days I've known of Archons, I've heard some of the history, but certainly not all. In other words, I have no idea who Sephiroth is.

“Those in the hut seemed to think it a good idea to speak with him, but if he's a leader – wouldn't that mean he's not exactly open to diplomatic conversations? Perhaps this Gazamiel would be a better place to start.”

A wry smile for Chance and she adds, “I think I'm mostly here to assist if things should – go South. But I'll certainly aid in any way I can. I'm afraid I'm better at being silent than diplomatic.”

Trista concentrates a moment and adds, “The bird seems to think there are other ways to garner information, though he hasn't dropped hints as to what they might be, yet. What do you think, Ämi, anything specific?”

ooc: I edited out Luke...
This message was last edited by the player at 16:10, Mon 10 Sept 2007.

Chance beams, laughing at her crone description. Instantly, his clothes flutter as if struck by a stiff wind, and they change. Now, Chance is wearing a black robe, old and frayed. The guitar case becomes a dirt-smeared crystal ball. He hunches and points a shaking finger at Trista. "Doom! Doom on you, I say. Doom on your little bird, too!"

The clothes flutter and the crystal ball warps, and he is back in his faded jeans, guitar case in hand. Only the smile remains.

"Recon, I would guess," he says to the last part. "And it's a good idea. Don't worry about information, Luke is great at filling in the blanks. We'll be okay."

He pats her on the shoulder (the one without a bird) and offers his best smile, the one that says nothing in the world can go wrong.

"I hope you don't mind, but the only way I can travel is by song. The guitar is what changes the worlds around us, and I have to play it."

The guitar case is now a six-string guitar. Made from the darkest wood, it glistens brightly with fresh polish. A simple design of a blue rose glides along the outer edge of the lower bout. Arcane symbols jute from the edge of the rosette, twisted angry things, yet tiny and discrete like jealousy masked by politeness.

The bird whistles some more, then suddenly flies off, landing on the ground to snatch a fat beetle from were it crawls along in the dirt.

the blackbird then returns and continues to sing its story to Trista and Chance.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:07, Tue 11 Sept 2007.

Berd elicited her first chuckle in many dreary years. Devlin witnessed her first laughter out in the rain. And now Chance receives a full body laugh, complete with flaring eyes in fake fear for Doom's harbinger. “I feel like Dorothy. Stay away from my little bird!”

She had watched Chance change into pajamas at the inn, but it's still a sight to behold with an unfelt breeze tugging at his clothing and the guitar coming and going. Another shape-shifter? Is there no end to them in this group? Trista might be a touch confused as to where Chance derives his power, not that it matters much to her. Power is power.

Suddenly he's there again, dressed much as Trista is dressed. The protected guitar in hand reminds her of another from long ago. To her surprise, she can remember without the old familiar pain shrouding her heart.

Thank you, Berd and Devlin. A silent thought for herself only.

At the mention of Luke, Trista's eyes glance around as if the man might have appeared, but she sees nobody. Her eyes pull back to Chance at his touch. She does not flinch, but feels the touch intensely, not having had much human contact except for Devlin in quite some time. His disarming smile puts her at ease, “Why do I get the feeling you can charm your way through any situation, Chance?”

Her eyes take in the guitar which she knows wasn't there a moment ago. Wasn't it in a case? Shifting slightly to better see the dark guitar, Trista's eyes slowly wander over the soft curves and glinting strings, warm memories flooding her senses. Her fingers reach out for the blue rose with intricate markings but stop before she intrudes on Chance's space.

Dropping her hand again, she looks up with a small smile curving her lips, “It's beautiful. I like guitar music, so I look forward to it.”

A sweet, vibrant sound carries on the breeze and Trista watches as the little bird sings and hunts for a beetle, bringing it to eat on her shoulder. Though mildly disturbed, she leaves the bird to do as he will, taking in his lengthy tale sent by Devlin.

Looking at Chance, she can see the man understands the bird, too. Good, that will simplify things.

Concentrating, she nods when Ämi finishes. “Chance will likely be able to tell you more, for I'm not sure I got everything considering how new this threat was to me then. But there was a sword...” Trista speaks of the sword, the brothers, and Merideth communing with the weapon though Trista is unsure if the woman gleaned anything from her magics.

Serious eyes fall on Chance, “What do you think?”
This message was last edited by the player at 03:48, Tue 11 Sept 2007.

Chance smiles, but this time it's a reaction. Not at her antics, perfectly matched to his larking, but at her. When he first met her, she had been in the room with Cyan and Banglen-Yp. Moody, distant and forbidding: that had been his assessment. Now? Where had that gone? Where was the glum brunette who looked like she might chop him off at the knees if he dared crack a joke?

And ... who cares? He likes this Trista a lot better.

"Charm my way through any situation?" he asks. "Well, I don't know about that, but Luke used to say I could charm the pants off a--" he coughs mid-sentence and then recovers, offering an apologetic smile. "I forget the exact word he used."

He notes her hesitant reach for his guitar, but she pulls away. "Here," he says and unslings the instrument. "You can touch it. I just don't like to let people play it. Whatever I think about when I play usually comes true, you know, so it can be a bit dangerous that way. I have to be careful not to let my mind wander when I play in bars. Do you play?"

He turns to the bird as it starts to "speak," and he listens. So ... no Sephiroth? Was that wise?

"I don't mind changing plans, so long as whatever we do is useful. I remember Luke pondered where the other brother went back on Charyk, too. I don't know if anyone ever searched for him in particular, but I know Dorian--and maybe Berd too-- searched the surrounding areas for the missing sword without any luck. I'm not sure what all more we can hope to find, but I can usually find what I want by playing my guitar and thinking about it--not with the skill the Lords of Pattern do, mind you.

"I also remember they mentioned one Hashmal back on Charyk. The little match girl did. He was a servant or friend of the brothers who was there. I didn't quite catch if he was Archon or human, but he could produce fire at will and helped them fight the enemies of Charyk. If he's still around, he might have some answers.

"I disagree that we didn't find anything of use on Charyk. We found the crystals and we armed the deadliest fighters I've ever heard about with them--the Birintizi. A weapon that can annihilate an Archon in the hands of one of those boys is something impressive. Ten thousand of them? That's big.

"Now, Dorian had this theory when we were on the other Charyk, that the place might be another pole of reality. We know there can be more than one, right? Luke told me Corwin made one, once. So, Dorian's theory was that just like Amber, the True Charyk--that's what he called it--might have a Golden Circle around it. The Charyk we saw wiped out might have been the True one, or it might have been a part of the Circle. I don't think we'll find the sword or the brother on that Charyk, but we might find the True Charyk from there--and then we might find the sword or the brother."

Chance smiles and shrugs, glad that someone had finally asked his opinion on something.

"As the scrooge-of-the-year candidate said, it's all speculation--but it's worth a look. Who knows."

ämi takes flight from Trista's shoulder only to alight on her other, closer to Chance, a moment later.

It watches the Chance as it sings, head twitching and tilting, left and right, continuously as it does. ämi remembers the Chance, even though it had never met it, just as ämi remembered the Trista.

The bird listened, knowing that the Man was listening too. ämi knew of the Man's other plans too, but knew it was not to tell that; only what the Man told the ämi to tell.

When the Chance was done singing ämi looked for bugs and worms on the ground and in the air while it waited for the Man to tell it what to tell next.

ämi was still learning, watch and learn and listen, ämi knew what to do.

An eyebrow arches over a wry smile at Chance's sudden angling off from what he had been about to say. “Memory can be funny that way.” Trista had lived years in a 'Boys' Club' atmosphere; almost the only female in crowded huts with men under fire of war. It's doubtful Chance could actually offend the woman. But instead of offering that tidbit of information, Trista silently enjoys the consideration shown her.

Perhaps she'll let him off the hook next time.

Perhaps not.

When the man holds the guitar out for her inspection, she looks up at him with questioning eyes. He seems genuine and so her hand reaches again and the tip of her index finger barely glides along the guitar's velvety surface as she answers, “Play? Not really. Oh, I had a cheap guitar once. I learned to read sheet music and I could pluck out a melody. Also the 'three chords and the truth'* and all that. But I have no skill, just the desire.”

Gently she traces the rose before dropping her hand once again. Looking up, she continues, “I knew someone who played beautifully. But his guitar didn't grant wishes.” Eyes mischievously sparkle as an eyebrow lifts again, “Especially not in bars.”

Then they're on to the bird's tale and Chance's thoughts on the matter. Trista is utterly still as she absorbs the information given by them both. The bird seems rapt by Chance's voice and then hops about collecting more snacks.

Trista takes a deep breath, and nods once before adding her own thoughts. “I remember those creatures, warriors. I didn't really know what they were about, but I met Jonnee who seemed to be with them. They unstuck one of the wagons in the caravan. I appreciated that.”

That, of course, is beside the point and the woman gets back on track. “Sephiroth and even Gazamiel could be put on hold. The risks seem to outstrip the rewards. Perhaps Old Charyk is the place to start. We are a small enough group, you, Luke, ämi, and myself that we can move fairly silently and withou -” she halts her train of thought and focuses in on Chance again, “Where is Luke?” The man had warned he would not always be with the group, but Trista hadn't expected his absence at the very beginning.

Although she expects an answer, she forges ahead for now, “So we can move quickly and without drawing much attention. That has to be on our side. Of course, I am here to aid you, Chance, and I will do what you decide.” Trista easily falls back into her long time role of supporting the boss.

*Bono Vox (Chance's alter ego? ;)
This message was last edited by the player at 05:07, Wed 12 Sept 2007.

The road continues up the slope away from the city, leading towards a deep, steep-sided notch between two peaks.  Above the road itself, atop the cliffs which bound the notch, two squat watchtowers stand guard.  There are men on duty up there, but their attention is directed away from the city itself.

If they notice the wayfarers on the road, passing beneath their vantage points, they give no sign of it...

The bird flies around the two as they walk and several minutes later alights once again on Trista's shoulder and begins to sing.


The Man said ämi was free to do as it wished. The link would only remain if the ämi wished it.

But ämi did know all that the Man knew and ämi knew this was important. ämi would stay he told the Man through the link. ämi would help find what was missing, but only if the Trista and the Chance wanted to look.

"Three chords and the truth? I like that. It has a nice ring to it. Who said it?" Chance asks while they wait for ämi to produce more information.

"The funny thing about bars is that the wish is usually to go somewhere else. Anyway, Luke is still recovering. This level of reality isn't really his natural home, as I understand it. Anyone mention the underflow to you? That's where he hangs out, I guess."

He listens to the bird's thoughts, again.

"The impression I got from the brothers we did meet was they didn't know anything about the weapons. I'm skeptical about what we might find. Old Charyk seems fine, but I think we should step lightly. There's no telling what the place is like, now. ämi, can you search ahead of us in Shadow? Give us an idea of what to expect before we get there--without risking yourself too greatly?"

The road leads through the highest part of the mountains, then starts to descend, until it forks.  One way leads down a steep valley wall, but the group take the other road, which follows the clifftop.  A short while later, they look down, into the valley depths, to see the unmistakeable sight of a pack of giant panthers hurrying along the other road.  The animals are, though, soon lost from sight, as forest closes in around the lower road.

The group on the upper road continue on their way for some time, and the road eventually starts to descend, until it runs along the shore of a broad lake.

After some little time, the road simply ends, at a wooden pier, where a ferry sits, moored.  A young lad sits on the rail of the boat, his feet dangling just above the water of the lake.  He is carving a small piece of wood, using a knife which seems far too big for the task, but which he wields with great skill, judging by the line of small wooden animals which sits beside him on the rail.

As the group approaches, he yells over his shoulder, "Daaaad!  Customers!"  Then he regards the strangers, "Y'all are customers, ain't ya?  Wantin' ter cross the water?"

“Ah, who did say it? I once heard a band called U2. Sort of fell in love with them, I suppose. I spent longer in that World there than anywhere else. The physical world was so familiar, but they had great baubles and gadgets and, well, bars. And music, of course.” Trista responds with laughter wrapping about the woman, feeling more natural with each use.

To the next, she replies, “I visited this Underflow when Berd removed us from the prison. Luke lives there?” Bewilderment clouds her eyes, “Space, stars, random objects like some surrealistic painting – it didn't seem like a place to live. Well, I guess we'll see him when we see him, then.” She doesn't sound particularly sad at the notion of the cold man not being around quite yet; it's a chance for Trista to get to know the musician she walks with. The idea appeals to her.

On with the business at hand. Trista listens attentively to Devlin's bird. A slight frown mars her brow when he seems to indicate he wishes to disassociate from them by setting ämi free. Yet, she cannot blame him for the bird certainly deserves to follow his own path.


After Chance speaks his mind, Trista nods, “We have to start somewhere. There is no easy choice, but I think Old Charyk sounds like as good a place as any. We can move on as we need from there.” Then she waits silently for ämi's response to Chance.

Something catches at Trista's vision, tugging her gaze down the hillside to see a few panthers and just a glimpse of a man before trees swallow up the vision. “It seems Morgan travels with his panthers; I suppose to Amber in his own fashion.”

They eventually arrive at the end of the road and the beginning of water. A smile quirks Trista's lips as she scans the little wooden figurines. She steps forward, crouches down, and openly admires them as she answers, “I will leave that to my friend to decide what path we take. You do fine work. I especially like the horse. May I?” She asks as she indicates she'd like to pick up the little horse.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:50, Sun 16 Sept 2007.

ämi whistles, and this time it is just a happy tune, with no meaning at all. He did not realize the man would want to free him so soon. But it was more than a bird, and it knew that, but ämi knew that it was important that he appeared to be just a bird.

The chance had asked a question and ämi thought about it for a moment. Could it scout ahead? The bird remembers what the man had given him and then sings "ämi can scout. Where should ämi look? Should ämi look at Charyk?"

Then they arrive at the boat, and curious the bird lands on the edge of the boat to get a closer look at the little wooden animals, especially at the little bird there. While it does so it whistles a little more.


[OOC: No point putting ämi's comments in a PL every time, unless it truly needs to be private.]

Recognizing that Chance is the leader of this tiny group, Trista does not want to step on toes and so she merely offers her opinion to ämi. “That would be my advice, to Old Charyk. Only if you'll keep yourself safe from the creatures who may wander its streets now that there's no one to keep them at bay.”

At the boat, she watches with some amusement as the little bird flits about the wooden creatures, throwing a wink back at Chance.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:48, Wed 19 Sept 2007.

"You Too? Funny name for a band. Probably some kind of social statement, eh?"

He shrugs then. "That's the impression I got from things, though I don't think the Underflow is his original home. Just where he hangs out now. I keep hearing that all roads lead to Amber, odd that we'd spy him as he passed, but I'm on expert on how these things work."

He sure wasn't used to being the decision maker. Often times, he was lucky just to speak his mind with everyone around. It was refreshing to have a moment of peace and quiet, though. He glanced at Trista. And the scenery isn't bad either, he thought.

"Yeah," he says to the boy. "I suppose we'd like to cross the water. How much does it cost?"

Old Charyk, for sure, he think to the bird. It'd be good to know what waits there for us. Don't put yourself in any danger.

He catches Trista's wink and grins.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:46, Wed 19 Sept 2007.

"It'd be sixpence each ter cross the water, what gets ya 'cross in two hours.  Or y'all can walk around, in about two days.  It's not so wide, see, but very long from end ter end." the boy answers, then turns to look over his shoulder, "Daaaaad!"

Then, seeing Trista's interest, he scoops up the small horse and holds it out to her.  "They cost tuppence each, Lady.  Throw one in the lake, when we're in the middle, ter guarantee good fortune, see?  The Queen of Waters likes animals more than people, and she blesses those as gives her gifts."

A sigh, and then he yells again, louder now, "DAAAA - "  "Yes.  All right.  I'm awake, lad.  Ah... customers, is it?"  The man is perhaps forty years old, and built like an ox.  His left eye (or, possibly, the absence of a left eye) is hidden by an eyepatch.  He wears a pair of loose-fitting trousers, of green wool, and a vest of leather.  A wide-brimmed straw hat completes his outfit.

"Well, the fare's sixpence a head, ter cross."

Not really knowing what U2 is suppose to mean, Trista just laughs, “I don't know, maybe.”

But the talk of Luke further intrigues her and she can't let it slip away, “Passing each other on the road, so-to-speak? I guess if he's showing up when you need him, it's all good.” She remembers the sour look on Cyan's face at the mention of Luke. But she also remembers the vision of him destroying a cube with Berd. Why the dichotomy? There was more, from Berd. Darker visions, darker pasts. None of my business. And it's dropped, just like that.

For now.

Her eyes linger on the man in the sunglasses a few moments, studying that grin and those merry eyes. He's different from the others, as if he hasn't let the weight of the world dampen his spirits. Remembering his playing and singing for Cyan and Banglen-Yp, he hadn't seemed quite so light. Yet, Charyk had just happened; perhaps he had been burdened by whatever his role had been in that battle.

She considers the man, the jeans, the guitar, and the grin. If Devlin and Berd freed Trista from her past, perhaps she could stay free with Chance. Even if just for a little while. Realizing she's been looking at the man for far too long, she suddenly turns back around to see the boy holding out the small horse to her.

The little sculpture finds its way into her hands and she handles it respectfully, admiring the chiseled form. “You don't say? I certainly could use all the good fortune any Queen wants to give me.” Gently setting the horse back in the boy's hands, Trista pushes up to her feet, “Unfortunately, I don't carry money with me, but I hope others will come along and scoop up all your treasures.”

Money. It could be a problem. In Trista's wanderings, she generally went without or traded work for what she needed. Keeping coins around which weren't used from one World to the next did her little good, and she couldn't exactly make coins appear like the Pattern Walkers. Or at least, not right where she wanted them. Stepping back and twisting toward Chance, she whispers, “I guess I should've warned you about that. I never have money.”

The dad appears and Trista offers a smile, “I was just admiring your son's carvings.”
This message was last edited by the player at 05:03, Thu 20 Sept 2007.

The man smiles, and walks across to lay a hand on the boy's shoulder, "He's got some skill in his hands, he has.  The Queen touched him. I reckons, or maybe touched his mum, rest her soul.  He takes after her more'n me, when it comes ter makin' somethin' from nothin'."

He looks around the group on the jetty, then to the sky, and back again, his single eye a brilliant piecing green, which matches the boy's eyes perfectly, "If y'all're wantin' passage, ya'd best ter get on.  We can start off right away, but I'd soonest not be out on the water once the sun goes down."

"Yeah... " the boy adds, "Sail thou not the waters, save only beneath the sun, for Leviathan, and the sons of Leviathan, doth venture forth in the darkness."  His words have an odd, sing-song intonation to them now, as if he is reciting something he knows well.

"Hush now, Sam!" his father warns, "If we leave now, we're sure to be back 'fore night."

An eyebrow arches as Trista considers the boy – the Queen-touched boy. Myths mean little to the woman, but she does not deny their importance to others. A warm smile curves her lips as she speaks to the Artist, “You have a gift, indeed. And one passed on from your mother? Cherish it.” Her eyes flit to the black bird as he studies the little wooden bird, “Look, even ämi enjoys your creations.”

As to whether they board or not, that will be up to Chance. Trista is prepared to walk if the man does not buy them passage.

The talk of Leviathon further intrigues her. Local legend or true creatures? To her way of thinking, certainly more mythology at work. Then again, who would have thought wheels of fire and knives baring the names of angels would be real.

ämi sings for his companions as he watches Trista and Chance and listens to them sing with the boy that makes the animals and the man with one eye.


"Will the Trista and the Chance take the water way or the walk way?" ämi asks. "ämi will try to look the old Charyk. The Devlin showed me where it was. ämi will be very careful."

The bird then flits back to Trista's shoulder and touches her cheek lightly with his beak.

The one-eyed man shakes his head, and chuckles, "Pay no mind ter Sam.  He likes ter listen ter the godspeakers, and their tales.  Likes ter recite 'em, too, don't ya son?"

The boy nods, and replies, "Just 'cause they're tales, don't mean they ain't true."

"But don't y'all worry.  Ter my knowledge, neither Leviathan, nor any of his sons, have lived in this lake." the boy's father assures his customers.

Chance presses one hand to his guitar, which had been a guitar since they drew near the place. While he listens, he absently plucks a couple soft notes on the instrument.

"Money's no problem." Chance smiles. "a sixpence each, you say?"

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out the required money.

"Nothing wrong with a good tale. Stories, fables, myths, legends ... the distilled blood of a people. Without them, what have you got?" He gestures to the placid lake. "Just water, I guess."

He looks at the coins in his hand. He's never seen the type before, so he doesn't bother counting. "What do you know--looks like I happen to have exactly enough for the two of us to cross the river, and an animal carving for each of us, too. Don't suppose you have another horse figurine for sale?"

Ämi's peck brings a surprised smile to Trista which remains as Chance brings out the exact change. And enough for two of the carvings, to boot. An amused appreciation lightens her dark blue eyes.

Distilled blood of a people? A poet, too. Zane played and sang, but he never wrote. All his songs were lifted from others, which was fine with Trista. She wonders just how far Chance's musical abilities stretch – most likely into eternity.

Trista turns a grin to the little bird again and mind speaks so as not to call attention to the insanity of conversing with a bird, “It appears we get to cross by water, ämi.”

Turning her eyes back to the father and son, she says, “I'm not worried. As long as you're willing, it looks like we're coming aboard.” Her eyes tip down to the boy, “And it looks like, due to the generosity of my friend, we'll be carrying your good luck charms with us.” Her eyes float across the little carvings, looking for a second horse.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:39, Mon 24 Sept 2007.

As soon as ämi knows which path Trista and Chance will take he takes flight and heads for the forest.

The bird sings "ämi will just look."

And then it fades into the distance, it seems...

ämi moves into that dark pace between worlds that the Devlin had shown it (ämi does not know how he does it, he just knows he can) and begins the trip back to Charyk.

"Show ya money, if ya will, but I'll take not one penny until we get ter the other side.  Should I die before that, I'll not go ter face the ancestors with unearned coin in my pocket."

The boy, Sam, grins, as his father sets about releasing the moorings.  "Pay no mind ter him, nothing's going ter happen."

"Don't reckon it'll rain, but if it does, that's what the deck house is for.  There's benches in there, too.  They're no more comfortable than church pews, but if y'all need a seat... "

With everybody aboard, and the moorings released, the boatman fetches a broad-bladed oar from beneath the rail, and fits it into a metal tholepin at one end of the boat.

With powerful strokes, he starts the boat moving, and Sam moves all the carvings down onto the deck, where he sits and continues carving.  "Back in the okd days, ya know, these would've been real animals.  But I had a dream, where I heard a lady's voice call out from under the water.  She said that there wasn't no reason ter be hurtin' animals.  Said a carved animal's as good as a real one for this."

Black wings take to the sky, pulling Trista's eyes with them until they disappear from view. Take care. A silent thought to her little friend.

Suddenly, she's not linked to another mind. For the last three days, she's held a nearly constant communication to Berd, then to Devlin and the black bird. Now, silence as it had been her whole life. Just a touch of melancholy flutters through her.

Trista climbs aboard, taking her little horse carving and watching as the boy lets Chance pick out one of the other horses. A smile touches her lips at the parallel between the horses and between the people.

Leaning against the railing, she listens as the boy talks of his visions. “Sounds reasonable to me; I'm not a fan of needlessly hurting creatures. Sounds like a smart Lady of The Lake down there. Do you have those types of dreams often? I mean about the old stories?”

"Sometimes I won't dream 'bout 'em fer a month or more.  Other times, most likely in the spring, it'll be every night fer a week or two." he says, still carving.  The wood takes shape beneath his hands... and a mouse, sitting up on its haunches, gradually appears

The boat continues to move across the lake, driven by the single oar at, what is for this crossing, at least, the stern.

"Sometimes the Queen will talk ter me, and tell me the story.  Other times it's like I'm there, while the story happens.  I saw Levathan once.  Dad's right, Leviathan couldn't live here.  It's too big ter fit in the lake.  The sons of Leviathan, mind, one of 'em could live in here."

"I di'n't like that dream none.  Too scary, with all the wheels, an' the fires.  The Queen said, after, that what I saw was how the world'll come ter an end."

"Dreams are interesting things," Chance says. He looks like he might add more to that, but he stops speaking and looks away.

Either the boy has a vivid imagination capable of bringing a continuity of dreams through his fantasy or...

'...with all the wheels, an' the fires.' Trista darts sharp eyes up to Chance to catch his reaction. She's disappointed when he has none, seemingly distracted. Then her own head cocks slightly, her eyes focusing on some unseen object in the middle ground.

Her preoccupation lasts only a few moments and she focuses on the man in black again, but she finds no help there. Her eyes sharpen, knowing in their group it will be Chance as the target and not herself. That's why she's with him, of course. Resolve clenches her teeth; nothing will happen to the man if she has any say in the matter.

Be careful, Devlin and Berd.

Taking in a deep breath, she smiles for the boy, “I don't blame you; that dream sounds intimidating. I hope the Lady is more selective of what she shows you in the future. She should be sharing the miracles of her underwater home and let your imagination swim free with the fish.”

Though her eyes remain calm, her insides squeeze in on themselves with worry over this boy and his father. He's not being sent random dreams, not with the 'wheels' hovering in them. Hopefully, he is merely a witness and not a future participant.

Chance swallows, looking out over the vast lake. Lost in his own thoughts, his lips move slowly, mouthing a word.

Leviathan, he repeats in his mind, wouldn't fit in this lake.

The lake could be a small ocean.

Once again, a feeling like sick vertigo washes over him at the sense of enormity. He had escaped it for a few hours, being away from the other questors who could do so many impressive things. Now there is this thing that would likely consider this ocean a sip of water. He shakes his head.

Coming back into focus on the here and now, he catches the last of Trista's words. He tacks his own small consolation onto the end. "I'm sure she will."

"Say," he says, crouching so he'll be at eye level with the boy. He offers a warm smile. "I don't suppose you've eer thought about writing those dreams down, have you? People might want to know about the things you've seen, someday."

The knife stills in his hand.  "I can't write that good, Mister.  Can make my name, and some other words, but that's all." the boy says, looking up at the sky, around the interior of the ferry, at Trista... anywhere, except at Chance.

His eyes come back to Trista again, "Dreams are dreams.  The godspeaker says that the Queen shows me what She wants me ter know about, and how maybe the bad things are as important ter know as the good things."

"I know which ones I like best, but if the bad ones are important... then I should see those too."

His starts carving again...

At the boy’s awkwardness, Trista chooses not to comment on Chance’s suggestion though it would be a good idea.

Then he speaks of things a child shouldn’t even consider. As he turns toward his chunk of wood, Trista eyes him with a touch of sadness. Too young to be so level-headed about ‘bad things.’ Godspeaker?

Straightening herself up and shifting to lean against a railing, Trista lazily watches him work, “Who’s the godspeaker?”

"At the chapel.  He tells the stories about the Queen.  And about the King in Yellow, and the Hooded Man.  He teaches the lessons from their scriptures, and tells us how ter live right, by the words."

The boy looks curiously at Trista, "D'ya not have godspeakers, where y'all come from?"

Warmth floods Trista's eyes, this boy reminds her of past friends. “You know, I think we do have something similar. I just don't call them by the same name. I like that though - godspeakers. Maybe when I pass this way again, I'll stop in and talk to your godspeaker.”

Chance straightens a bit. Learning to read and write was easy enough in most cases, but the boy's sudden discomfort puzzled him. Perhaps only these godspeakers were allowed to read and write? If that were the case, Chance's suggestion would have unknowingly been loaded with much more meaning. Of course, that was just one possibility. It could be anything.

Nevertheless, he sees no reason to meddle or stir things up, so he backs off, physically and conversationally, letting Trista take over for a while. She seems to do much better with the child.

No, that wasn't it. The boy said he could write a little--his name only. That tore a whole in his first theory, but there must be something there.

Rather than fuss over it, he smiles and admires Trista's casual-but-warm manner with the boy.

The boat makes good progress across the water, propelled by strong sweeps of the single oar.  Sam, continues carving, pausing occasionally to point out landmarks on the shores of the lake.

"That there mountain, with the three peaks, is Ironheart, where the King in Yellow first brung his men to mine fer metal fer the making of weapons, when he was fightin' the war against the Hooded Man."

"The mines, and the furnaces, and the forges were hot, and He led them down to the shores of the water, and did Command them to drink, that they might slake their thirst.  And there did the Queen of the Waters see Him, and She was smitten with Love for him, so bright was His face.  And she bade him, 'Put aside this foolish War, for there is no Good in it.'

The boy shakes his head, "Course, as all know, the war didn't end.  Leastways, not fer a coupla hunderd years.  But the Queen married the King in Yellow, and their first son was Leviathan.  Though the Hooded man twisted his heart, until he turned against his own Mam and Dad, and against the whole world, fer that matter."

He points again, to where thin trails of smoke rise from a mountain which bears the unmistakeable shape of a volcano.  "Mount Fury, where the fires and the wheels came from, in my dream.  The mountainside opens like a door, and they pour out.  The godspeaker says it's always been a place of Evil and Damnation."

"Watch yer language in front of the lady, Sam."

"Sorry, Dad.  Sorry, Miss."

"Mount Fury," Chance says, turning his gaze in the direction of the mountain. "What happened to the wheels and fires after they came out?"

Trying not to draw too much attention to it, he glances at Trista to see if she's thinking the same thing.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:52, Wed 17 Oct 2007.

The King in Yellow. The Hooded Man. The Queen of The Waters. Wheels and fire. The story proves interesting and Trista's gaze hooks to the triple-peaked mountain. Sam tells the story of the Archons, a story of love, jealousy, and treachery. Sounds about right.

Trista's eyes shift to Mount Fury. If the Archons poured out of there, would they again? Or has this particular portal gone dormant? Perhaps it needs a little help to remain that way.

Like a proper father, Sam's dad chastises him for his language. Trista responds to the apology with a faux stern frown, “I'll let it go, this time.” Her lips curve to a shallow grin and she gives the boy a wink to know she doesn't mind.

Chance asks his question and Trista wonders if Sam's dreams are of the past – or of the future. She meets his glance, holding his gaze with an almost imperceptible nod. There's a temptation to open a mind link, now that she knows she can, but feels it isn't her place. Hadn't he agreed that communicating in that silent medium was new to him, as well? Or at least, he wasn't completely comfortable with it.

The boy has the decency to look properly abashed, at least when his father can see him.  The eye on the side of his face away from the man gives Trista a wink.

Then, "I don't know what happens after.  The Queen told me that the wheels and the fires will come at the end of the world.  How'd she say it now...?"  He screws up his face in concentration, trying to recall the exact words of a dream.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, and a little higher pitched, "Their coming has been forseen, in times long past, and it shall herald the End of Time.  All lands shall be laid waste, and all their peoples slain.  All the fields shall be planted with seeds of metal, and flame shall be their only yield."

His voice returns to normal, "And it talks 'bout it in the books at the chapel, but the godspeaker don't like to tell us younguns them stories none.  Says they're not good for young ears."

"I sneaked me a look, though, and there's tales in there of how some people can stop that happenin', if only they can figure out how to do it.  That part wasn't so bad."

Chance's face grows stern and he looks away from the boy. It seems they had stumbled on something important. Luke had mentioned such coincidences, as if some invisible guide brought them to important destinations when they least expected it. Or perhaps their intent guided their feet to important crossroads. Either way, they had found one.

He turns to Trista. "Perhaps Charyk will have to wait. What do you think?

Prophecy. Out of the mouths of babes.

Trista's stunned for a moment - the prophecy rings too true. Then she remembers Devlin's words of the Flow and Fate. It seems Chance has similar ideas and the woman looks to the man in shades for a long moment before nodding her head, “I think you're right. We wait for ämi anyway, may as well utilize our time.”

Pulling her eyes away, Trista puts on a smile for the boy, “You've intrigued us, Sam. We'd like to see the Godspeaker this evening if you,” she turns to the boy's father, “or your dad can point us in the right direction. Is he back the way we came?”

Trista shares his own thought of speaking to the Godspeaker first, though he had a strange feeling they would be visiting Mount Fury soon. He flashes a quick smile her direction at her request, showing his appreciation for her idea. He really was lucky to have her along. He found himself somewhat anxious for a quiet time when they could talk more.

Just talk, Chance? he wonders. Have you fallen so far that you're only interested in talking? What next? Can't wait to crochet a sweater with her?

He sighs and looks out over the glassy, dark waters. A faint smirk showed his amusement at his internal monologue.

"No, he lives over the water.  When we get closer, y'all should see the chapel, easy enough.  Unless'n it's rainin', or a fog comes down."  He looks up at the sky again, "But I don't reckon either'll happen.  Not today.  Sky's not right fer 'em."

He works, carefully, on the mouse's left eye, and then says, "Seems like y'all've heard some tales anyways.  From the godspeaker's book, I mean.  Like the City Outside The Sky, fer instance."

Instinct sends Trista's eyes out over the water to land, in the vain notion she might see the chapel. Naturally, it isn't there and so she brings her gaze to Chance – his profile seemingly amused at the waters.

Back to the boy, “I've heard hints and bits of tails, I suppose, about Leviathon and his sons. But I'm afraid,” she leans in close for her self-defacing confessional, “I'm not much of a story-teller. Very dry and boring. Stumble over my words all the time.” Well, perhaps not the latter, but definitely the former.

“However,” her brow arches conspiratorially, “you might find my friend over there to have a knack at that sort of thing.” A leap, of course, not having heard Chance tell any tales, but he can sing and so he has to be better than Trista. “Perhaps he'll favor you with one before we land.”

City Outside The Sky? All sorts of thoughts flood the woman from simply the Worlds to perhaps Harbonah's fortress where Devlin probably now walks.

Chance turns from the water to study Trista, curious about why she had described herself in such a manner. He wasn't surprised that she didn't see herself as a storyteller, he had never witnessed her stumbling over words her words. In fact, he guessed there was a bit of well-spoken fire beneath her cool exterior. And was a really great exterior.

"Music is more my forte, but I've been known to turn a tale or two when the occasion merits."

Rather than break into a story, he asks another question. "Do you remember anything it said about these people who can stop it, if they figure out how?"

The boy's face grows puzzled, and he fixes Chance with a gaze which makes it plain that he isn't sure if the man really understands him, or not, but he's going to try to explain a difficult idea.  "It just says that they'll come, an' that they'll try to figure it out.  But it can't really say how it'll all turn out...  It ain't happened yet, so the story ain't finished."

"Maybe they'll stop the End, maybe they won't."

"We know the End'll come.  The Queen said as it will, an' it'll come with fire an' metal, an' lightnin's.  But the rest, 'bout how the people will try to stop it, well now, that's just stuff what folks added on to the story.  Tryin' to make it seem less bad, I guess."

He pauses, and then adds, "Some parts're true prophecisin'... the bits the Queen said.  But other bits're added later, by regular people.  The godspeaker says as how there's a special word for those parts... he calls 'em a pocrypha, which means that they maybe ain't all true."

The journey continues long into the day, and Sam points out more sights, like the crag where Saint Nathaniel cast himself from the clifftop to prove his faith to the Hemigoths, and the place place where the prophet Simon bathed the feet of King John in the waters of the lake, so that the spirit of the Queen entered him and he became one of Her most devout followers...

The hous pass pleasantly enough, and eventually a small town comes into view on the lakeshore.  Not long after that, it becomes apparent that this is to be their destination, as Sam points out the wooden steeple of the chapel.

Minor chatting and long but comfortable silences mark the trip over the water. Trista spends much of it looking off into the scenery they pass, attempting to know her surroundings. An old habit that would be difficult to shed.

If the boy indicated when to toss the wooden animals into the drink, she did to appease his sense of propriety. Otherwise, she'd be happy to tuck the little horse into her pack.

Though she suspects no dangers lie in wait within this sleepy little community, the habits of an experienced fighter kick in and she's checking the area, noting possible troublesome spots in the buildings, the trees, and the outlying areas. For all intents and purposes, Chance is her ward and she will do what she can to ensure his safety.

Trista leans against the railing near the man while looking at the simple steeple, “Hopefully, we'll hear a good tale or two from the Godspeaker.” She turns a grin toward the man, “Maybe stretch your own story-telling abilities.” The grin widens slightly at the gentle teasing.

Turning back to the boy and his father, she asks, “Does the Godspeaker go by another name? Something common?”

Chance studied the town, interested in themes and personality more than tactical matters. It appeared simple, quaint even. The people who belonged there, he guessed, were likely practical and simple folks. They probably held their religious beliefs strongly, and thus might have a few quirky habits or practices among them. He hoped they would be tolerant of outsiders who didn't know their ways. He wanted to share this insight with Trista, but it would probably sound odd or even offensive to the boy and his father.

He glanced at the boy. Whether or not the other parts were added didn't matter. Talk of wheels of fire and metal and such deserved their attention. Luckily, their mission lacked urgency.

"I doubt my storytelling needs any stretching," he scoffs, with a playful frown.

He leans back on the frame of the boat. "So is Trista your full name, or just the familiar part?"

"He's always been just the godspeaker, so far's I knows." Sam says, thoughtfully.

Then his father, quiet for most of the trip, interrupts, "Now, that's not all true, though Sam likely wouldn't know any better.  I can recall a ways back, 'fore he came ter be the godspeaker, his name was Steele.  Mason Steele.  His mom still lives over ter the west end o' town."

The boy looks shocked, "Ol' Ma Steele's the godspeaker's mom?  I heard she had a son once, by Billy tol' me as how she must've ate the child, 'cause he weren't about no more."

"See, son, that's what happens if y'all keep the company of fools like that Billy Saul.  Just gonna end up with a head full o' nonsense."  The man shakes his head, though he is smiling.

It isn't evasion which hangs Trista's mouth slightly open as she obviously searches for an answer for Chance. Perplexed eyes fix on the man's shades. Nobody has ever asked her that. Ever. At least, since she dropped her last name all those years ago.

Before she can save herself with an answer, Sam and his father tag-team answer her. She allows the distraction to turn away from Chance and smile at the father-son team. “Ah but stories of mother's eating children? That's an attention-getter. Good to know it isn't so, isn't it?” A warm smile for the boy prefaces her eyes turning back to Chance.

“Once upon a time, I had a last name. I dropped it years ago.” Trista tilts her head back as her curious eyes pierce through the dark glasses, “I could ask the same question of you. In fact, I've never met a 'Chance' before. Is that your real name?”

The boat glides smoothly up to the jetty, and Sam's father brings it to a gentle halt with practiced ease.  He and the boy move to tie up, and then the man turns to face Chance.

"Well, this is it.  Now I'll take the money, seein's how the the job's done, fair'n'square." he says, with a smile.

In the town, a bell starts ringing.

"If'n y'all were wantin' ter talk with Mason Steele, it might be best ter get some grub, an' wait a while.  Sounds like somethin's happenin' at the chapel."  He glances up at the sky, "It's a mite early fer the evenin' service, so it mus' be somethin' special.  No idea what, though."

"It's the Feast of Aaron today." Sam offers an explanation, "So it'll be the Afternoon Sermon... the one 'bout the slayin' o' the Ice Beast, an' how Holy Aaron got blinded."

"Ah... Aaron is it?  I don't know where this year's gone, Sam." the boatman shakes his head, "The days're just flashing past."

The boy says nothing further, instead lowering his head, and returning to his carving.

As they approach, Chance steals a glance at the town. His eyes sweep casually over the scattered, single-story wood houses. He likes what he sees in that brief glance. It has a feel of comfort and easiness. He's always liked the rural communities, with homes that seem to have been tossed out to land where they might, like a farmer scattering fat pumpkin seeds. He guessed there were less than a hundred or them.

He turns back as the father and son speak. They share an easy comfort, one that he never knew as a child. He admires the boy. He's bright, with an ear for stories, and--it seems--a gift for dreams, too. Chance wouldn't be surprised if this boy were to be the next godspeaker, someday. And he carries the dreams well, Chance thinks to himself. Not everyone does. Some would be driven mad by them.

So the current godspeaker still has living family in town. That might be good to know, though he doubted they would find need to disturb the man's mother. Still, Chance had a long habit of memorizing details when he entered a new place.

"Chance?" he smiles. "Well, it's short for Chauncey. Lord Chauncey Trafford, actually." Funny how one's own name could feel like old clothes: worn, too small, unfashionable, awkward, disrepaired. "I was raised in a place called Azoth. Chivalry was a big deal there, as was the gentlemanly duel, but they had more technology than most places I've visited since. That place just never seemed to fit me right, you know?"

With a slight shrug, he adds, "But that was a long time ago. It's just Chance now. I hope you don't feel I was prying. Trista is a lovely name."

He turns to listen to the father and son speaking. A man named Aaron blinded? Irony abounds.

"That sermon might be worth hearing," he says to Trista. "But on the other hand, I think I could use a drink. What do you prefer?"

Trista steps from the ferry, turning once she lands on solid ground. “Thank you for the lift.” Glancing back at the sound of bells, she listens with interest to the impromptu sermon, or perhaps not so impromptu. Ice beast? To Trista, it doesn't tie in with the wheels of flame and blade.

She gives the father a smile, “Thanks, maybe we'll check it out. Take care of Sam,” her smile faded, replaced with absolute seriousness. A child with that kind of knowledge...

Once Chance pays the man, Trista falls in beside him as they begin a casual pace toward the town. Surprised eyes dart to the man as if to exclaim, “Lord?!” He doesn't look much like a Lord, nor does he feel like one. At least, not the kind of Lords she's met in her life. There's a story there, and she looks forward to discovering it.

Which is odd in itself. For so many eons, she's avoided forming bonds. Then she meets this odd band and seems to be forming them left and right. Berd, Devlin.... I wonder  how the little bird is doing? And now the Lord brings up getting a drink which sounds like heaven. A drink and casual talk, relaxing with a friend.

Or not-so-total stranger. Whatever.

There just a hint of color in her cheeks after the compliment and she looks off in the direction of the church, sighing, “I'd love a drink. I don't know though, in a small place like this, there might not be anything open during a sermon.” She cocks an amused eyebrow up at the shaded man.

“But I doubt we'd get the chance to speak with Steele directly after a sermon either, not with people hanging around to thank him. Maybe take a rain check on that drink?”

The town is a jumble of narrow twisting streets centred on a an area of packed earth, which doubtless serves as a market, on appropriate days.  The buildings are low, cottages of wood, for the most part, topped by thatched rooves.   Most of the wood is painted painted a dark red.  Windows have glass in them, rippled and bubbled, and with a yellow tinge to it.

Only a few buildings have more than a single storey.  In those cases, the lower storey is stone, with the upper storey of wood.

There is a tavern on one edge of the open area, and another large building opposite it.  The chapel, the tallest building in the whole town, is easy to find, with it's high wooden spire rising well above the other structures.

There are a lot of people about, and most seem to be heading towards the chapel.  The sound of the bell continues to summon them.

Chance meets her surprised look with a smirk and a shrug. He mumbles, "It was a long time ago."

"Sure, a rain check is probably wise. Interesting that the tavern is just across from the church, though. Maybe it's not such a bad place to wait for him, but business first--or you'd never get me back on task."

So different from the others. So casual and relaxed. Chance has never met Urgency in Trista's eyes. Though that's probably just who he is now. Too bad Urgency has decided to tag along with them, prodding Trista to witness this bound-to-be-boring sermon.

A spontaneously brilliant smile lights up the woman's face, “When I'm ready to forget everything, I'll remember to seek you out.” A flash of mischief sparks in her stormy eyes.

“Come on, we can always slip out if it proves unbearable.” A hand reaches out, almost slipping into Chance's hand as if to grab it and pull him along. But it changes direction at the last moment, rising to push hair out of her face, a look of self-surprise flashes across her eyes. It's one thing to be loosening up, it's another to feel too comfortable.

More subdued, a touch of embarrassment marks her body language, and she quietly says, “We can get a seat in the back,” as they draw near the church.

The chapel door stands wide, greeting worshippers.

The interior of the structure is very plain.  Simple stone and wood, and little in the way of decoration.  There are windows, at the far end of the single room, tall and narrow, each with numerous small panes of thick glass.  Candles are everywhere, supplementing the dim, yellowish light which filters in through the windows.

Below the windows is an altar, draped in white cloth, a little frayed and faded, and clearly patched.  On the altar are three wooden figures, each a couple of feet tall, two men and a woman.  The men are both armed, one with a sword, the other with a large hammer.  The swordsman's face is covered by a large helm, the other man's face is bare.

The woman is not armed, and her hands are stretched out to the side.  She appears to be holding a hoop, or large wheel, of some description, between her hands.

There are a twenty or thirty people seated on the pews, facing the altar, most with their heads bowed.

Behind the altar, a rope leads up to the ceiling, and there is a young man pulling at it quite zealously, causing a bell, presumably in the spire above, to chime.  A second, older man is with him, dressed in a dark yellow robe, and leaning on a cane.  That one glances towards the door as Trista and Chance enter, then hobbles towards them, beaming.

"Welcome.  Welcome.  We seldom see strangers at chapel... please come in and make yourselves comfortable, though that may be difficult.  We are a poor community, and the pews are hard.  The service will start shortly."

"I am the godspeaker of this township."  He looks down, and gestures towards the robe, "Obviously."

Chance painted a perfunctory smile on his face and scanned the room, taking in the windows, the altar, the statues, and the people. He waited for the robed man to approach.

"Godspeaker," Chance greets with an incline of his head and a cozy smile. "My name is Chance, and this is my wife, Trista." He paused and turned the smile her way, gaging her reaction to the fib. Not that a fib was needed, but stories and tales were the ground on which Chance walked--and a fib was just a story, to him. (He preferred the stories be in song, but they were stories nonetheless.)

"I hope you don't think us too odd, but we decided to travel far and wide for our honeymoon, and our footsteps have brought us here. We were hoping to talk to you after the sermon? Our religion is slightly different where we come from--we have traveled very far--but many things are familiar, as well. I guess, well, I guess I was a bit intrigued, is all."

The godspeaker looks from Chance, to Trista, and back again.  Still with his broad smile.  "Of course, I'd be glad to talk to you.  We're a little off the trodden path here, and it's good to talk with travellers, if only to find out what's going on in the rest of the world."

"I get a letter from the High Speaker at Whithaven, every month, but it doesn't deal with secular matters very often.  A little news would keep people interested in seeing me, for a month or two, if I ration it carefully."

At that moment, he catches sight of a group of people entering the building, a somewhat rotund man in his forties, perhaps, a stick-thin woman, of similar age, three younger women, one of them accompanied by a young, nervous-looking man.  All are well dressed.

"Ah... excuse me." the godspeaker says, "I need to speak to these people, but I will see you again, after the service."

And then he is gone, hand extended towards the older man, in greeting, leaving Chance and his (newly acquired) wife to find themselves somewhere to sit...

News from abroad? Chance suppresses a near-grimace. That might be a problem, really. Well, he would just have to fake his way through it, just like he did most everything else in his life.

He nodded amiably as the godspeaker moved off, and glanced at Trista to see how she was doing. He didn't favor the idea of sitting through a sermon, but he'd been through worse.

Trista's not a religious person. How could she be when she knows what she knows? But this church of simple wood and simple people is to her liking. If she believed in a God, she'd want to chat with him here, if not in a bar or under the desert stars.

As the old priest makes his slow way toward them, Trista studies his kind face. She smiles and nods a greeting, but remains quiet as Chance introduces them. Apparently, they've gotten married somewhere along the way. There's a very slight eyebrow lift, but Trista covers it with a glance about the room and contemplates if that was Chance's way of testing her resolve to keep a straight face. Fortunately, she's dealt with many spontaneous lies in her former life and handles this one fairly well. All things considered.

What she really wants to do is break out in laughter and slam back a shot of something ungodly.

As the man leaves, Trista quickly gets in a, “Thank you, we look forward to talking with you later.”

Once the man is away, Trista meets Chance's glance and notes, “I guess I lost my wedding band,” a glance across the man's hands, “seems you did, too.” She almost holds back a grin, but doesn't succeed.

She doesn't relish the sermon either, but it would be rude to leave after they showed interest. Trista nods toward the back row, “Looks like we could have it all to ourselves.” After stepping into the pew, she sits, shifting the machete strapped around her thigh with practice ease.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:22, Sat 19 Jan 2008.

"Lost?" Chance asks with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

The guitar slides down and forward, coming to comfortable rest under his arm. He glances around to see if anyone notices as his fingers touch steel strings, gently bumping them causing soft, barely audible notes. He leaves plenty of space between the whispered notes.

His eyes glaze a moment, making him look lost in thought.

"Or...." He holds up his hand, balled into a fist. He turns it over revealing a pair of matching wedding bands. They are white gold and decorated with a strange pattern, a sort of jagged Celtic ravel. "Just misplaced?"

He half smiles, one cheek dimpling more than the other. "Good point, by the way. I guess if I make a cover story, I should make it look good. They won't last beyond this world. The style okay?"

His other hand continues to embrace the guitar, lovingly gracing the strings to produce the occasional whispered notes.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:02, Sat 19 Jan 2008.

The quiet notes are lost in the sound of the bell, the shuffling of feet, the rustling of clothes, and the softly spoken words of greeting as the chapel fills up.

Before long the pews, just as uncomfortable as the godspeaker had implied, are about three quarters occupied, and the bell stops tolling.  The godspeaker moves to the front of the room, close to the altar, and the congregation climb to their feet.  The man turns to face the faithful, raising his hands in some sort of ritual gesture.

The audience sit, and the godspeaker starts to speak.  "In those days there stood a city, at the foot of a great mountain, and the people of that city lived in fear, for they were sore harried by giants and unwholesome beasts."

"Now, it was in the winter, that there came to the city the Hero Questors.  The Beast was there, and its Servant.  The Sorceress, and the Fool.  The Wolf Queen, the Dark Mirror, and Holy Aaron."

"The enemy stood before the walls of the city, and Holy Aaron did reach forth and break the dark magics of the giants.  Then did he lead the warriors of the city, and they stood upon the field and did battle with the giants and their minions."

"Holy Aaron was triumphant, though at great cost, for one of the giants did strike out his right eye.  Thus are we shown that victory is not always easy.  It must be striven for, at whatever cost to ourselves."


The service continues, with song, and prayer, for perhaps an hour, during which time the pews do not grow any more comfortable.  Finally though, it is over, and the townsfolk start to file out.  The godspeaker moves to the door to wish them farewell, and when all are eventually gone, he returns to Chance and Trista.

"So... did you enjoy the service, my friends?"

Church, Chance thinks to himself. Well, this is a hell of a first date you've taken the lass on, Chauncey. Or would this be the honeymoon?

Other than fidgeting to adjust which buttock took the brunt of the pew's unyielding surface, he did his best to remain calm and still through the service. Midway through, he revealed the result of the second part of his toying with the strings. From beneath his jacket he produced small skin, ostensibly just a water skin to observers, but with much better fare inside. After a healthy sip, he passed the skin to Trista. After all, wine was appropriate for services, wasn't it? Well, some religions drank wine in church. He was sure he'd heard that at some point. (He would have conjured something stronger into the skin, but he was afraid stronger alcohol might ruin the skin. And a tin might be too obvious.)

The interesting tale was not lost on him, though. Holy Aaron? These people really needed to update their phone directory. He listened, hoping to glean any information he might. Of course, he had to be cautious. The boy had said that many parts had been filled in by mortal hands. He mulled over the other names given the Questors: beast, servant, dark mirror, Wolf Queen, sorceress and fool. Some were rather obvious. With others, the title provided an interesting insight.



I'd rather have shoved a power drill up my nose, but "Just wonderful," Chance grins. He snatches the godspeaker's hand and clasps it firmly with his. "I dare say it's been many years since I've been so intrigued by a service."

He takes in a deep breath and glances around. "Say, is there a place we could talk in private. There are some matters of import I'd like to discuss. It'll be brief, I promise."

Intrigued, Trista watches something going on with Chance as the mischief in his eye gives way to a glazing, and he seems to absently creates a few lonely notes of music. Then the bands appear.

Magic.

That's the only word Trista has for it, from Devlin's shape-changing to Chance's creations. Magic. A touch of wonder brightens the woman's eyes as she takes one of the proffered bands. After admiring the design, she slips the ring on her left ring finger, barely remembering where wedding bands are suppose to reside. She and Zane had never felt the need to be married, particularly in a world where the married were heavily taxed.

A quick smile, “You have good taste – husband.” Irony laces the light humor in her voice, “Beautiful.”

As the newlyweds enjoy their tokens of mutual bondage, the church fills up around them and, finally, the Godspeaker takes his place. Trista relaxes against the wooden back and proves more the still parishioner than her fidgety companion.

The story proves interesting, though Trista doesn't grasp the familiarity of it until further in when it finally dawns on her just who Aaron must be. It should have happened earlier, what with what they learned on the ferry, but Trista doesn't know all the ins and outs of the story. A few glances dart toward Chance to see his reaction, but the man seems more distracted than anything and soon she finds out why when she gratefully accepts a sip of wine. Make that a gulp.

The woman rises as the Godspeaker approaches them and adds her nods of appreciation to Chance's compliments, and hopes to at least find a more comfortable seat for their discussion.

"Of course, of course." the man replies to Chance's question, "I'm afraid I've been a little rude."

"This way, please."

He leads the way towards the altar, giving Trista and Chance a closer look at the figures upon it.  The female figure can now be seen to be holding what appears to be a hoop, carved in such a way that seems composed of numerous small fish, arranged nose to tail, as if swimming in a circle.

There is a doorway to one side of the chapel, and the godspeaker moves through it, and into a narrow corridor with several doors opening off it.  Stepping through one of those doors, he beckons his guests into a comfortably-furnished sitting room.  The walls of the room support a number of paintings, most of which look to be religiously themed.

A large window gives a view across the countryside beyond the town... bleak, rugged moorland, with scattered trees.

"Please, make yourselves at home.  Would you like tea?"

As he and his "wife" pass through the doorway, Chance is weighing his options. The people seem to have prophecies and stories that relate to the Questors, which means they might have information. It also could mean nothing, and he knows that, too. His job is to gather what he can and then try to sift it for truth.

Of course, if this place really has nothing of value for them, then it would be best to move on quickly.

As they pass down the corridor, he glances at Trista. Dare he speak the truth? Sure, it would cut to the heart of things, but it might stop them in their tracks, too.

When they enter the sitting room, Chance makes sure the door is firmly shut.

"My apologize, godspeaker," he says. "But we are in a hurry and we need information."

As he turns, his clothes flutter. Beneath the fabric, steel glints. The fabric gives way and reveals a shirt of silvered chain. Leather ties and straps ensure it fits tightly over a cloth undershirt. The jeans melt away to more armor, chain and boiled, blackened strips of thick leather. The longsword melts into a hefty sword.

Drama--the Butter & Jam on Chance's biscuit.

"I hope you'll forgive the deception, but we must travel with care. The enemy is always on our heels. I think you know something of that, though."

Even if he didn't, Chance guessed he might play along.

"These people in your sermon--Holy Aaron and so forth--we need to know they whole story. We need to know what happens to them."

From you, or from this lady in the water the kid talked about.

"Especially if there is a musician and a dark-haired woman, a warrior, among the stories."

Why put others first?
This message was last edited by the player at 22:31, Thu 24 Jan 2008.

“Not rude at all,” Trista quietly says as the pair follow the Godspeaker through the chapel and into the back. The woman notices the details of the architecture, not connecting special significance to anything in particular but it'll be stored away in her memory. As always, she pays attention to the lay-out of the building, the hallway, the doors, being very aware of her surroundings.

Trista moves toward the window, takes a quick look around, and turns back with the idea of politely declining the offer of tea. An eyebrow almost rises as Chance's clothing melds into something so not Chance. At least, not the Chance with whom she's been traveling.

Her first inclination would be to tighten her stance, have a hand on her machete, and be prepared. But most likely the transformation will put the Godspeaker on edge as it is, so the woman's stance actually softens with one hand gently laying along the windowsill. Trista's ready, but attempting to put the man at ease at the same time.

There's no beating around the bush as Chance plows ahead with what they both seek. Trista, not being particularly good with adults, keeps quiet, but she offers a reassuring nod to the man as if to say, 'We're friends here.'

Perhaps they'll get a glimpse of the future.

The godspeaker recoils, as Chance's garb changes before his eyes, and his first reaction is one of shock and horror, "Witchcraft!  Sorcery!"  The man's eyes widen, and his hands tremble.

And then, with a clear effort of will, he seems to draw on some inner strength, as he reaches for an object on the dresser behind him - an upright post, like a candlestick, with a design of six circles around a seventh, the seven interlocking like links of mail.  He brandishes the item towards Chance, occasionaly moving it in Trista's direction, "If you have come here to cause injury, then you have failed already!  You have no power here, Dark Ones.  Even this house stands upon Blessed Ground.  I banish you!  Back to the Abyss with you!"

Again, he starts to look concerned, as his guests refuse to be properly banished.

Weakly he thrusts the strange symbol towards Chance, who doesn't immediately burst into flames and vanish in a cloud of foul vapours.  Then the godspeaker's shoulders slump, and his eyes drop to the floor.

In a more resigned voice, he says, "Either I am mistaken, and you are not of Darkness, or you are far more powerful than my teachings have led me to expect..."

He trails off, and falls back into a chair behind him, still clutching what must be some sort of holy icon.  His cane clatters to the floor.

It doesn't work, of course; the whole 'put the man at ease' thing Trista had attempted. No, the man certainly didn't take to Chance's transformation. Brandishing terms like sorcery and witchcraft, the man clearly was on edge.

He gives up trying to dissipate the evil demons and Trista's stormy eyes turn compassionate. For the moment, she remains as she is, standing by the window. “We aren't here to hurt you or anyone else. We're just here for – knowledge.”

Carefully, slowly, with her hands open, Trista leaves her spot to pick up the fallen cane and lean it against the man's desk where he can easily reach it. “We didn't mean to frighten you.”

Glancing toward Chance, Trista clearly doesn't know how to salvage the situation and waits for the more experienced Lord to do so. Still moving slowly, the woman backs away toward the window again.

"Both, perhaps." Chance smiles. He reaches up to adjust his sunglass, still in place despite his otherwise medieval fashion. Good, the man is off guard. He likes that. He likes to keep things off balance.

"But we are not of darkness, nor are we interested in harming you. We're friends of a man named Aaron--and hand and one eye until recently--and a group of Questors. We couldn't help but notice similarities between your story and ours. It raised the natural question: is our Aaron the same as your Holy Aaron? No, we don't call him Holy Aaron--at least not with a straight face--but the similarities are undeniable. Perhaps if I told you our story, you could decide for yourself?"

The man remains where he is, and he keeps his eyes on Trista, stealing the occasional nervous glance at Chance.  He stays silent for a long while, his expression growing thoughtful, until, finally, he speaks...

"Would a servant of Darkness tell me the truth?" he asks, quietly, "I suspect not."

"Very well, tell me your tale.  With luck and faith, perhaps I can see what lays at the heart of it, truth or falsehood... "

And now he fixes his gaze on Chance, " ... and with more luck, you'll be punished for any untruths you do utter."  He gestures towards a small painting on the wall closest to the male visitor.  It depicts a woman, standing beside a lake, with fish leaping from the waves behind her.  "In this place, I'll not be the only one listening."

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.