Harbonah.

An Archon considered cruel, even by the standards of other Archons.  A leader who controls by inspiring the fear of things far worse than mere death, in the minds of lesser Archons.

And now a group of Questors must travel to the very heart of Harbonah's domain.  The last place in all the Myriad Worlds, or beyond them, that any sane creature could wish to find themselves.

Cyan seeks solitude and quiet to work on the palanquet, unsure if it will even work.  Palanquet utilises energies which can reach from Amber to the Courts of Chaos... even so, Harbonah's stronghold may lay too far away.

For hours she works, and every stroke of the pen brings another memory of torment and pain.

All day...
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:58, Sat 08 Sept 2007.

Dorian can't help wonder about Cyan as he prepares. What turbid depths did she plumb to recall the details of Harbonah's place. Or was it merely art, no more stressing than painting a bowl of fruit? He didn't know.

And would it even work? Would they end up in Harbonah's Fortress, or some facsimile of it out amidst the untold vastness of shadow?

Only time would tell. That was a problem for Cyan to wrestle, and he had larger things to deal with. New discoveries, he had called them--her. Fascinating. And what was the risk of bringing this discovery along?

He looked at the ground of his new hut, conjured to replace the old one that was smashed in the storm. Awkward? Definitely.

He sighed, and then stood. He could prepare no more. Time to see if the others were ready.

He walked to the other hut and entered.

"I am ready."

OOC: not sure if we're in the same location, but here goes....

A small face leans out from behind Dorian, peering at the others in the hut with wide, curious eyes. She is a child, barely eleven years old, with a face like porcelain, which is framed by glossy black curtains of hair that hangs past her shoulders like a waterfall of pristine black oil.

And she floats. Strands of hair fans out behind her, as if in an invisible breeze, as if she had forgotten gravity once exited for her.

Cyan works feverishly but with meticulous care, creating the command room with every stroke of her quill pens.  First, the outline - a dark, squared-off room, with tiny, shimmering lights on the obsidian walls, and a single, rough-hewn throne in the middle.  A door, another door - two, in total, both visible from where the 'observer' stands.  A spray of lights and symbols in the air before the throne itself, hanging without visible means of support.  The 'display', as she came to know it.

A woman, pale skin and a black-silk robe, seated upon the-

No.  Cyan closes her eyes.  Her lips thin.  That was me.  Me.  And not me.  The General.  The Warrior in Jet and Gold.  She bites her lip, ceases to sketch the woman, marked to be filled in as the picture progresses.

Filled in, but never forgotten.  Nor forgiven, for that matter.

Concentrating as she sketches, Cyan begins to slowly weave a pattern of forces into the art itself, creating (she hopes) a sympathetic link to the place depicted.  A drumskin she will settle over the underflow, to be pulsed by her spirit, its particular vibrational signature matching perfectly only one place in all of the Myriad Worlds.  And then, once signal reaches receptor, it will enable a gate to be opened.

So goes the theory, filled in recently by Berd's recollection of the Underflow and its uses.

But an interruption - Dorian, entering their own little fortress through the door, rather than any magical means.  She glances up with a wry smile, and brushes damp hair from her brow, then freezes at the sight of the little child behind the dark man, an apparition made solid.  "Dorian?" Cyan begins, and stares at the girl's dark eyes with her own, ruby orbs.

Berd lets out a tiny little chime, fixing his burning gaze on the entering pair.

"Yes?" Dorian frowns, following her gaze. It ends at the child. He pauses, thoughtfully, then turns back to her. "You can see her too, now?"

Again, he looks back to the child at his heels, and then back to Cyan.

"Very well," he concludes. "I suppose an introduction is in order. This is my daughter: Galatea. At least ... " he voices turns somber, " ... at least a fragment of her psyche that I, apparently, managed to salvage at the moment of her death--unknowingly, even."

The child beams at Cyan, eyes sparkling with warmth.

His...daughter.

She knows he had one...at least, Cyan can remember he did.  Remnants.  That was far, far too close to her capture, and such memories are cracked, to say the least.  She stares back at the bright-eyed spectre with her own, bright emerald eyes, then flicks a look back up at Dorian for the rest of his explanation.

A fragment.

One eyebrow rises, and she turns her head to Berd.  The little, bejeweled beast bobs his own in reply, and chirps again, this time in greeting to Galatea.  He doesn't appear the least bit surprised to see the girl, and obviously has no trouble recognizing.

"Suddenly I feel as though I am the last to meet her," Cyan murmurs, a small smile touching her lips.  "Galatea," she begins, more seriously - truly serious, not offering a gesture - "it is my pleasure.  I have heard something of your father's past; that you are here no doubt means a great deal to him."  Her face is sober.  "I, too, am glad - the tale of your loss was a heavy one."

She falls silent, then, uncertain where to proceed, and a frisson runs down her spine.  To Cyan, distinctions of 'fragments of psyche' break down in translation.  The girl is a ghost, a spectre of her former self.  An unfettered soul.  Years ago it might have frightened her.  Now, after this quest...it simply feels unreal.

And the friendly light in Galatea's eye helps to put her at ease.

Devlin stirs from his place in the corner of the hut, he'd managed to finally get some sleep while Cyan worked, though he'd dreamt of blackbirds, Archon, gray eyed attachers, lovers with red and black hair, and even lying in pieces across the myriad worlds.

He was not exactly asleep when Dorian came in, he's woken earlier but rather than stir he simply stayed where he was, watching Cyan work on her drawing. He had to admit it was rather life like.

He didn't say anything still, rather he remained where he was. Better to wait, he thought. But soon...
This message was last edited by the player at 00:29, Thu 13 Sept 2007.

The child's bright smile diminishes to merely one of warmth. "It is the past," she says. Her lips don't move, but her voice is like a flute that has learned to speak. "That past will take care of itself. I am here because I wish to help however I can. And the pleasure is all mine. Father thinks very highly of you."

By way of explanation, Dorian adds, "Somehow, she has figured out how to prepare and cast sorcery, among some other things. This is why I took time to prepare, in fact. I had to ... come to terms, I guess ... with her manifestation. It seemed a convenient time, since you needed to work on the palanquet. How is it?"
This message was last edited by the player at 04:53, Thu 13 Sept 2007.

Cyan glances down at her work, embarassed at Galatea's words.  It still amazes her that anyone could think highly of her, after the last two years.  Then again, they did not see much of the ruin she left in her wake...  Stop that.  Be fair.  Dorian himself has fallen to low points - surely he knows what it is to tumble from a state of grace.

That almost gets a snort from her.  'State of grace', indeed.

The past will care for itself.  Cyan mulls over that thought for a heartbeat or two, considering how it applies to Galatea, how it applies to her.  Then she smiles again at the girl.  "Few indeed offer to help freely, and we welcome any who will.  As for your father's respect, for this I am gratified."  She inclines her head to Dorian, a small smile on her face.  Memories dance in her thoughts, memories not her own.  Dorian's memories, offered freely.

She does not yet know what to do with them.  But she will, Cyan knows.

Her eyes still upon Galatea, she answers her parent - her only true parent.  "Galatea is your daughter, Dorian - I hardly find it surprising she already weaves the forces of the Worlds."  How Dorian 'came to terms' with Galatea's presence, she knows not, especially after the agony she knows he felt, the guilt and pain at her loss.  A small smile quirks her lips, and Cyan finally looks up at Dorian with topaz eyes.  "I am mostly finished.  Only a few finishing touches left.  I hope Aaron will not be long."  She studies his eyes for a long moment, but as always, they are impenetrable unless he chooses to give.

What do you feel with your daughter at your side, Dorian?  Is the pain assuaged?  Or does it grow sharp at the sight of this beautiful spirit?

Devlin pays only small attention to what is happening, he does not pretend to understand what is going on with the specter that Dorian calls his daughter. At any rate he's got other things on his mind.

For a moment he thinks about telling them that he'd sent part of the group in an unexpected direction, then decides against it. Again he did not like himself for his secrets and again he reminded himself of their necessity.

Finally he speaks up on an entirely different subject. It seems he does not realize that he might be interrupting a conversation that Cyan an Dorian might be having. It seems that he just was not paying close enough attention to notice. "Cyan, I have been thinking. There was some mention of there being a virus or something that has infected those, what do you call them, pulankits?" He still wasn't sure about her pronunciation. "It seems there was something mentioned about the ones in Amber not being usable? Is this correct?"

Galatea's eyes slip towards the ground, and she bows towards Cyan. "Not so free--I am bound to my Father. He helps, so I help. Yet, I think I would be inclined to help despite that, if given the chance."

A small smile plays over Dorian's lips as his daughter speaks with Cyan. What could be more interested than those two conversing.

When Cyan addresses him again, he nods. "Hardly surprising, indeed. We will give you time to finish."

Time passes, long hours of work, and discussion of ideas and plans.  And then...

A thin whine, like the sound of a mosquito, pushes itself above the threshold of audibility, and continues to grow in strength.  There is a fluttering mingled with it, like a banner moving in a strong breeze.  Sourceless, it continues to grow in strength...

"I have little doubt of that, Galatea," Cyan replies.  "In fact, no doubt at all - not after what Dorian has said of you."  She glances toward Devlin.  "Yes, the 'Trumps' of Amber have been infected by a disease - a magical curse, or sickness."  She draws out a single card, tosses it to the man.  It was - once - a trump, and even has the sign of the Unicorn on what remains of its back.  Now, though, the front of the card is burned through, and it is almost impossible to determine who the trump depicts.  "Here is the remains of one.  My palanqueti remain untouched...for now."  She nods her head.  "Pardon me."

After the conversation, Cyan turns back to her work.  But her varicoloured eyes turn to Dorian and his daughter more than once, and a thoughtful expression works its way onto her face, even as she focuses upon the palanquet.  But soon the picture takes over her concentration, and her jaw tightens as she draws.  Oh, yes - Cyan remembers this room all too well.

The noise, a grating annoyance, interrupts her work, and she glances up just as Berd, lying beside her, raises his head.  Confused, fuzzy-brained from her concentration, she runs fingers through her hair.

The noise, now sounding like a combination of angry wasps, and the frantic flapping of an injured bird, continues to rise in volume, and yet still has no visible source...

At the same time, there is a tension growing in the air, as if the world itself were being pulled out of shape, stretched...

Cyan slowly rises to her feet, ruby eyes dark with concern.  "Berd?" she begins, hesitantly.  Berd shakes his head, appearing irritated, and hurries to hop atop her pack, still lying on the floor.

Abruptly Cyan freezes in place, then shakes her head.  "These things always have splendid timing," she mutters.  "Aaron?"  Her eyes unfocus slightly as she speaks.  "I stand ready for discussion or to receive your hand."  There comes a small, embarassed pause.  "One hopes you understand my meaning."

As the sound begins Devlin looks around wondering what it might be. Then the sound gets louder. He sees Cyan rise and does the same. Berd seems agitated.

"What in Hell is that?" He asks no one in particular. "It feels like something is trying to pull this world apart."

Devlin gets his anser within moments... the very fabric of reality seems to tear and shred... and a whirling nightmare of unthinkably sharp blades, some of them in improbably bright colours, pushes through into the world, from... somewhere else.  With it comes intense cold, and a brief flurry of snow, and then it is as if a gate slams closed behind it.

It hovers for a moment, and the pieces of metal which compose it bang together, generating loud clashing sounds, and showers of sparks.  Then it orients on Cyan, and a voice like the sharpening of knives fills the air, + YOU ARE DI/_FFIC/ULT TO FIND, /^GENE/RAL.  THIS IS FORTUNATE.  I D/^{OUBT I}/T WILL /_SA/VE YOUR LIFE, IN THE LONG TERM, BUT IT SHOULD, AT LEAST, EX/_TEN/^{D IT A LIT}/TLE. +

And then it laughs, like the tolling of a cracked bell.

Berd hisses, and power gathers in the room...to die, an instant later, as Cyan steps forward with a glad laugh, even before the archon speaks.  "Hold, Aaron!"  She raises up one hand, mindful of the gleaming blades, and gives a short bow.  For an instant, there had been fear, rage...all gone, now, at full sight of the danioti.

"Right!"

Her brilliant eyes dance through shades, running from amber to sapphire.  She glances back at the Questors, a broad smile on her lips.  "You recall?  I sent Right and Left to the Nephillim...welcome, Right.  You have come far, and from cold climes.  And..."  Shadows fall on her features, and her eyes dim, growing colder, harder.  "You are hurt.  What transpires?  Where is Left?"

At the noise, Galatea looks around with curious eyes.

Dorian glances at her, then watches. His fingers twitch, as if preparing for something, but he does not appear alarmed.

The danioti appears, and his eyes narrow. His fists clench, but he doesn't speak. He knows this is one of the general's servants, for now, and he lets Cyan deal with it.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:27, Wed 26 Sept 2007.

+ I HAVE BEEN INJ/_URED/, YES, AND I WILL RECOVER, WHEN THERE IS OPP/_ORTUN/ITY.  THERE HAS BEEN MUCH FI/^GHTI/NG BETWEEN THE FA/_CTION/S.  MY ROUTE HERE WAS... CIRC/^UITOU/S TO REDUCE THE CHANCE THAT AN/^OTHE/R MIGHT TRACK ME. +  The Archon seems quite proud of his cleverness.

+ LEFT STILL WORKS WITH THE N/^EPH/_ELI/M, AS DO I.  THEY CAME INTO PO/^SSESS/ION OF SO/_{ME INFOR}/MATION WE FELT YOU SHOU/^{LD HAVE IMM}/EDIATELY, SO IT WA/_{S DECI}/DED THAT I SH/_OUL/D BRING IT TO YOUR AT/^TENTI/ON. +

+ SHOULD I REV/^{EAL TH}/IS INFO/_RMATI/ON BEFO/^{RE THESE OTH}/ERS, GEN/_ERA/L?  IT CONC/^{ERNS... HAR}/RY. +

As IT appears, Devlin backs away. As he does so the black metal on his wrist spreads out and covers his body, encasing the man in a suit of thin black armor. At his fist a blade begins to form. He doubts that he had a chance of defeating IT but he would protect those with him...

Then Cyan steps forward and greats the thing. It is then that Devlin remembers the two creatures that left Charyk with her; the two that swore their allegiance to her. This was one of them. That did not matter, he trusted none of them. In the end even these would turn against them rather than meet the fate that Devlin had planned for them.

Devlin does not relax, he has no love of these things and he is not about to pretend he cares to have them about. But it says it brings information.

And so, Devlin stands, arms crossed, listening for what it has to say.

As he waits Devlin begins to study IT.

...Tamiel had once told Devlin that is was not possible for IT to explain what it it was. Something about fish and water. Jibberish spoken by one that thought itself a god speaking to creatures it felt were insignificant. He still resented the way these creatures thought of those they destroyed...

Devlin looked deeply into the structure of the thing, he could learn the way any living or non living thing worked. If he chose he could become anything... animal, mineral, solid, liquid, gas... It made no difference. At the most elemental level all things were made of the same stuff, it was just put together  differently. Given enough time to study it he would even be able to use the things own powers as his own.

The man stood motionless like rock, his ears listening for this news, his eyes staring out of the black armor like daggers.

The tension behind her ratchets up notch after notch - Cyan is well aware of the opinions of the others with regards to Right and Left.

In this one thing, she cares not at all.  Let them think what they like - she does not blame Dorian or Devlin for their feelings.  But Right and Left helped keep her sane, helped her question her loyalties.  Helped her.  And simultaneously they, themselves, grew and changed.

They are only what they were bred to be, much as I am, myself.  And yet if I can seize my own destiny, if I can make an attempt to strike out for myself, can they not, as well?  They may never be creatures of compassion, of caring.  But they think.  They consider.  They have transcended what they once were.  Much as she, herself, has done.

Her smile grows at the mention of Left, and relief fills her.  "Well done," Cyan whispers.  But the expression freezes at the mention of Harbonah, freezes then fades, and her body tightens for an instant before growing dangerously relaxed.  Fury boils in her veins, followed by a hot, acidic tide of hatred.

"Say on," replies the Warrior in Jet and Gold, her onyx eyes fixed on the deadly wheel before her.  "Tell us the news of Harry."  A wintery smile touches her lips, its cool amusement belying hate's burning furnace within her chest.

+ YES, GENERAL.  HOW/^EVE/R, I CAN DO BETT/_{ER THA}/N MERE/_{LY SPEA}/KING OF THIS.  OB/^SER/VE... +

From the invisible pocket at the Archon's core, a crystaline shard appears, drifting out slowly, before halting, to hover between Cyan and the Archon.  Colours, mostly the shades of flame, bleed out from it, and an image gradually takes shape in the air.  A living image, filled with movement.

An Archon, in a room of flame...

+ THAT ONE IS SA/^LAMI/EL. +


OOC: the remainder of Right's recording can be seen here: "link to a message in "Amber: Shadow Wars"", after which, please return to this thread.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:42, Tue 25 Sept 2007.

"Well," Devlin says when the vision fades, "it seems we know what Harbonoh's plans are now; which may remove the need to enter his stronghold." As he speaks he continues to stand dead still, still staring intently at the thing that brought the message. He almost begins to consider giving it some consideration, that it can be trusted, then doesn't.

The man has been giving much thought to a great many things over the course of the last night and day, perhaps it is time to share some of those thoughts.

"If you will listen," He begins, "I have some thoughts that may have some effect on our plans." Finally he removes his eyes from the spinning blades to look at Cyan. "When we have finished our business with... " He was about to spit out the word "That", but decides against it. Cyan gave it some measure of trust. No matter what he thought of the archon he still respected Cyan and her opinions. Instead he says, in an almost civil voice " ... Right."

Then he falls back into silence and returns to studying the inner workings of a danioti.

Cyan watches and listens in silence, observing the discussion between the archons with porcelain features - pale and emotionless.  Berd, for his part, crouches atop her pack, his burning eyes fixed on the scene before them.  He, too, holds himself motionless.

Finally the awful vista fades.  Cyan turns ebony eyes from the empty space to Right.  For a long moment she does not speak, remembering Harbonah's laughter from times past.  Finally her mouth, a slash across her pale skin, cracks open.  "Well done," the General whispers.  "Well done, Right."

She knew she would be targeted.  She knew Dorian already was.  To hear it...well, the point has been hammered home most effectively.

For the moment she holds off answering Devlin.  "Right - are there Nephillim in Harbonah's army?  Or has he found a better way to ensure the loyalty of his followers?"

Listening to the two Archons snipe at each other in their awful voices brings back memories she would rather not have.  The General presses them aside and shoots a quick glance at Berd.  The little dragon curls up atop the pack, his burning eyes narrowing, and Cyan turns her attention to Devlin.

"I would hear your thoughts, Devlin.  But know that I remain convinced it is necessary to enter the stronghold.  This information, while of critical import, is insufficient - we need further knowledge, and we may yet find something of use in Harbonah's fortress.  It might be an object, it might be critical pieces to the puzzle, it might be an opportunity."

Cyan's praise brings a note of pride to the Archon's broken voice, as it continues, + TO THE BEST OF MY KN/^OWLE/DGE, THERE ARE STI/_{LL NEPHE}/LIM IN THE ARMY, THOU/^{GH RECENT DEV}/ELOPMENTS MAY HAVE RED/^{UCED THE}/IR NUMBERS.  HARBONA/_{H HAS ORD}/ERED GREATER VI/^GILA/NCE AMONG THOSE PLACE/^{D IN AUTH}/ORITY, SINCE THE DEFEAT OF THE F/_ORCE/S AT CHARYK.  FOR THE MO/^{MENT, THO}/SE WHO ARE EVEN SU/_SPECT/ED ARE DEST/^{ROYED IMMED}/IATELY. +

The Archon spins, still with the discordant clashing of blades, a far cry from the quiet whirring hum of previous days.  Attention seems to shift to Devlin for a moment.  + THE GEN/_ERA/L IS CORRECT... HARBONAH's PLANS ARE STILL CON/_CEAL/ED.  THE ARMY HAS BE/_{EN EXPA}/NDED, YES, BUT IT HAS BEE/_{N EXPAN}/DING FOR SOME TIME.  THE ONLY /^REA/L CHANGE IS THAT, PREV/_IOUSL/Y, IT WAS DED/_ICAT/ED TO CON/^QUE/ST, AND ENDING RE/^SISTAN/CE WHERE IT WAS FOUND. +

+ NOW, HARBO/_{NAH HAS DEC}/IDED THAT CHANCE DI/^SCOVE/RY IS NOT ENOUGH.  A PORTION OF TH/^{E ARM}/Y HAS BEEN COM/_MANDED/ TO SEEK OUT POSSI/^{BLE R}/_ESISTA/NCE, AND EN/^{D IT BEFO}/RE IT CAN CA/_{USE PROBL}/EMS. +

Back to Cyan again, and, + THIS, OF CO/_{URSE, ME}/ANS THAT YOU ONLY FACED ARCH/^{ONS BEFO}/RE, WHEN YOU INT/^ERFE/RED IN THEIR PROJ/_{ECTS.  IN FU}/TURE, THEY WILL BE H/_UNTI/NG YOU.  YOU MI/^{GHT ME}/ET THEM IN PLACES WH/_{ERE YOU DO}/ NOT EXPECT TH/^EM. +

+ ^THI/S IS WHY WE DEC/_{IDED YO}/U NEEDED TO BE W/_ARNE/D. +

"Mr. Right?" The girl drifts closer, eyes bright with curiosity and study. She extends a hand, as if to caress the whirring blades, but then thinks better of it. Something rend even spirit. "Before you go, would you allow an experiment? I know it might be, perhaps ... uncomfortable ... for you, but it will help us. On Charyk, my father--" she gestures to Dorian--"discovered a way to obscure the sight of your kind. He believed it merely left a hole or gap in your perceptions. We would be honored if you would permit him a few minutes to hone the effect?"

Behind her, Dorian merely waits. Her request invokes no surprise in him, as if he had known her request from the start. Apparently, she is to be the diplomat in the family.

The damaged Archon falls silent, save for the  discordant sounds that it makes, simply by being.  Sparks shower from it, occasionally, as errant blades strike each other.  Then it speaks again.  + I DO NOT KN/_{OW YO}/U.  HOWEVER, I WILL PE/_{RMIT TH}/IS... EXP/^ERIME/NT... ON TWO CO/_NDITIO/NS. +

+ FIRST.  I AM SW/^OR/N TO SE/^{RVE THE GEN}/ERAL.  I WI/_{LL NOT PE}/RM/^I/T AN/^YTHI/NG THAT MIGHT P/_ER/MAN/^ENTL/Y DA/_{MAGE M}/Y ABI/^{LITY TO DO TH}/AT. +

+ SEC/^ON/D... + and then there is a long pause, as if the Archon is searching for words, + I WI/_{LL ALL}/OW THIS ONLY I/^{F THE GENER}/AL SAYS T/_{HAT IT IS ALL}/OWED. +

Harry, it seems, is tightening up his security.  Not so good for the Nephillim, but simultaneously it might cause irritation and discontent in his own armies.  There is a price one pays for the use of force and fear to control.  The General ponders the situation thoughtfully.

"We will certainly be upon the lookout for roving bands of hunters."  Her lips thin.  If they come at the group in numbers, Berd will likely detect them ahead of time (and possibly Dorian, as well).  Should they seek out the group in small units, they can be destroyed.  However, the possibility of destroying the entire scouting party would be minimal - one escaped archon would disrupt whatever work the Questors carried out, as they would have to flee, immediately.

More would come, and quickly - in such numbers they could not be fought.

"Grave news," she mutters, shooting a look at Berd.  The drake blinks several times.

The Warrior's eyebrows rise at Galatea's request, and she slowly nods.  Yes.  Better to remain hidden than fight - outright battle against the Archons is a losing prospect.  She shoots an inquiring look to Dorian first, then steps forward.

"Yes.  I agree to this, bearing in mind Right's condition.  Whatever shape this experiment takes, it shall not bring him to any harm.  If it appears to do so, it must be halted.  Immediately."

Devlin continues to stand still as a stone, to wait, and to study. Even he can see that the danioti is damaged. He looks more specifically at where it is damaged; he wonders if he could repair the damage. Not to ease the danioti's suffering, but just to see if he was capable.

But that would mean forging a mental link with the thing and he's not sure that's something he would ever do voluntarily. Still, it would go a long way toward increasing his knowledge of it.

For now Devlin remains silent.

The child's eyes turn from the archon to the general and back several times, as the slight smile plays across her face.

"No harm, of course, but ... I think we'll pass on the experiment. I'm sure time will provide plenty of opportunity, anyway. We are ready when everyone else is."

Dorian's features harden around the edges; a subtle shift one would only notice if they knew him well. Somewhere inside the fathomless dark eyes, a spark sputters and burns out.

"Yes," he says. "I'm sure we'll not be short on opportunity.There's no need to slow down our plans right now, is there. How long, until we depart?"

Cyan stands still for a long moment, considering Dorian and Galatea's response.  She studies the pair for a long moment, then lets out her breath in a small sigh.  A shrug follows, twinned with a concerned nod.  "As you wish.  Aaron stands ready to join us, I believe.  I only need to complete the palanquet, then we can be away.  My thanks, Right, for the timely warning."  For a brief instant she considers something, then shakes her head.  "Will you be safe, Right?  Out of danger during your trip home?"

Berd keeps to his silence, waiting.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:14, Mon 01 Oct 2007.

A small pause, then the corner of Cyan's mouth twitches up.  "And Aaron..."  She reaches out one hand, and rainbow energies flare about it.  So long since she has seen those brilliant colours, and suddenly she remembers the waterfall, rainbow light about her, a tiny, fluttering drake gazing down at her with burning eyes.

'Bird!  Bird!'

Her fingers clasp, and she pulls.

"...is here."

Right consider their decisions, in silence, for a long moment.  + I AM... SOR/^{RY?  IS TH}/AT THE P/_ROPE/R WORD?  I A/^{M SOR}/RY THAT I CA/^{N NOT HEL}/P YOU IN THIS E/_XPERIME/NT. +  Then, without moving, his attention seems to shift back to Cyan.

+ I WILL FO/_{LLOW A}/N INDI/^R/ECT ROUTE, GE/_NER/AL.  I NEED TO VI/^{SIT A PL}/ACE WHERE I CAN RE/_{PAIR MYS}/ELF.  I BELI/_{EVE I SA}/W SUCH A PLACE O/^{N MY WA}/Y HERE.  THO/_USAN/DS OF MET/^{AL VEHI}/CLES, IN ALL COLOURS, PI/_{LED UP IN A COMPO}/UND.  SOME OF THE CO/^{LOURS WERE V}/ERY... IN/_TEREST/ING. +

"You don't need to apologize, Mr. Right," the child says. "It's just not the time for such experiments. There was ... new information, of a sort. Besides, we believe you might be too powerful for the experiment to have any sway."

...and Aaron appeared, seemingly none the worse for wear. He paused beside Cyan, his hand still in hers, then released it from her grasp of his own accord.

He took a breath, savoring the pause, the oneness that spoke of both loss and achievement. Ilse was a weight on his back, and a weapon. That was all the sword was, now.

Aaron nodded to Dorian, passed a curious look in the directions of Galatea and one of recognition at seeing Devlin, but it is upon Cyan, and by extension Right, that he turns his attentions.

"What news? Short and sweet, please," he requested, a half-smile following shortly thereafter.

New information?  How curious.  Cyan, however, holds her tongue for the moment.  Had Dorian wanted people to know, he would have told them.  If he and Galatea withold, they no doubt have a good reason.  She trusts them.

"Very good, Right," the Warrior responds, falling back into habitual diction.  "Don't put yourself in any danger for an extra bit of cherry-red, hm?"  A smile quirks one corner of her mouth.  "I'd like to see the final result someday."

Then - Aaron.  He materializes, hand clasped to hers.  Cyan lets him go and steps back, sensing only that something is different in his bearing.  He seems lighter, somehow, in a curious way she cannot quite define.  "Short and sweet?"  One eyebrow quirks above her onyx eyes; she blinks, and colour swims into them.  "Right brings us dire news - Harbonah now sends his army far and wide, in search of us.  Dorian and I are to be brought before him - alive."  For an instant her eyes lighten, the colour leeching away, but it floods back a moment later, blood ruby in her pale face.  "All others are to be slain."

She grimaces.  "Harry can be terribly simple in his desires," the General notes.

+ HIS DES/^{IRES AR}/E, INDE/_{ED, SI}/MPLE.  HE S/^IMPL/Y WISHES TO R/_{ULE THE}/ UNIVERSE. +

There is a sound like the tearing of metal, and the slow grinding of stone.  When it ends, Right speaks again, + WITH YO/^{UR PERMI}//_SSIO/N, GE/_NE/RAL, I SHA/^{LL DE}/PART NOW.  I B/_ELI/EVE THER/_{E WAS SO}//^{ME CHER}/RY RED, NO/_{W THA}/T YOU ME/^NT/ION IT. +

There is a sudden screech, and a flurry of sparks, and something thuds into the ground beneath the Archon.

"Interestingly," Dorian notes, "he'll have a difficult time finding the real Dorian. And if I am captured, he would find himself facing more Dorians than he may expect."

He smirks.

"Though it would not be pleasant, I have long since prepared for that eventuality."

Instinct screams at him that he shouldn't speak so openly in front of th enemy, but he does it despite himself. He does it for Cyan. She trusts Right.

Yet, there is one more thing he must do. Not for the struggle to regain the universe, not even for Cyan, but for himself.

"And, Right. For whatever it is worth ... the destruction of, Hosk was it? I know it won't bring them back, but ... I apologize to you and your kind. I crossed a boundary that I should not have crossed. It was, indeed, evil of me. I promise that kind of destruction will never happen again, so long as I am able to stop it."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:59, Thu 04 Oct 2007.

Aaron smiled sadly at the news. He had made the right choice then, at the right time. It was not the perfection that Arianne had sought, but there was a perfection of time and place here that could still be appreciated.

"You both have my sword, if that's any consolation." He said to Cyan and Dorian. "Even better, Arianne is in the process of setting up a... retreat for any of us who need to escape Harbonah at speed. I don't know how much time we have left, but it shouldn't take her long to prepare and intitiate our defense."

With that out of the way, he nodded. He knew also that it didn't matter who was in company as he spoke of Arianne and their proposed defenses. Harbonah would find Aaron and everything he loved one way or another... but there were other factors behind it as well. If they were being spied upon, then let the enemy think that he was lax with his commentary. To their own peril.

"What are your plans?"

Dorian and Aaron seem to not notice the fact that the danioti is falling apart in their midst, or perhaps they were ignoring it. While Devlin was listening to their conversation he was also studying the creature and he did not miss it.

The man takes his eyes off the thing to look at Cyan, one eyebrow raised.

He also relaxes a bit... in it's condition the archon seems not much of a threat; the black armor begins to shrink back as Nightbrand returns to normal state.

Still he says nothing and waits, if only because he's not sure what to do as he begins to doubt his own feelings.

Sudden concern flickers on Cyan's face at the sound from Right, and she bends down inches from the whirling blades, unafraid, to pick up a bent piece of canary yellow metal, about the size of a dagger-blade.  Her lips thinning, she stares up at Right.

Her hard expression softens a touch at Dorian's apology, and she shoots the dark sorcerer a grateful look.  Boundaries.  Haven't they all crossed the, now?  Berd, long ago.  Dorian, with Hosk.  Aaron with his own flesh and blood.  Devlin...who knows what boundaries he crossed that leave this darkness in his eyes?  And herself, of course.

"Right, go swiftly and carefully to your graveyard of metal.  You bleed - this is not good."  Deformed blades clatter against each other, occasionally ejecting from the whole.  Given time, Right may bleed away to only a few, forlorn edges, whirling about an empty hub.  She will not see that happen.

"I would rather not have you captured at all, Dorian," she notes over her shoulder.  "I prefer you as you are now."  Slowly, the General stands.  "My thanks, Aaron - as always.  And thanks to Arianne, as well...you say she is not here?  Preparing something?  Where, then?  And how?"  One hand indicates Ilsefravnir, upon Aaron's back.

"My plans?"  Her grin is feral.  "Well, I happen to have here an open door into Lord Harry's fortress.  I was wondering if you, Dorian and Devlin might consider accompanying me for a visit?  We might snoop about, stick our hands in the silver, and read a few diaries.  After all, Harbonah has put so much effort into inviting us for a visit..."

Berd's smile holds a thousand daggers.

"Why disappoint?"

+ AS YOU CO/^{MMAND, GEN}/ERAL. +

The Archon starts to vanish, the damaged blades turning what should have been a smooth, silent translation into the Underflow into a raucous shredding of reality.  Then the fading stops, and Right returns for a moment.

+ I A/^{LMOST FOR}/GOT - AND I BELI/_{EVE THAT LE}/FT WOULD ALSO WANT ME TO GI/^{VE YOU THI}/S ADM/^ONITI/ON, GENERAL - BE CA/_REF/UL. +

The creature of metal resumes its fading, and finally is gone...

As Cyan mentions her plan, Aaron exhibited a grin very reminiscent of his olden ways, the ways that used to make Jack and Cyan both nervous when they were around him. His eyes glittered with excitement, flicker-changing autumn colors, the imprint of San Anyn.

"I've always wanted to invade a heavilly defended fortress," he said, and his excitement seemed to fade slightly as he turned to her other request. A sigh escaped him.

"Arianne, yes," he responded, and he paused. "We gain another hand in another world, to assist us in any way she's able."

He unsheathed the sword, white on one edge, black on the other. He crouched, impaled it into the ground between his knees, running a finger along the flat of the flexible weapon.

"She deserved her freedom, more than she argued she did, anyway. Keeping her beside me was weakening her, and her distance from the world of her birth was making it even worse than that. But she lives now, preparing San Anyn, preparing the Sjardring Forge, for the inevitable conflict with Harbonah's forces. Those are just the basic facts. It's much deeper than that, but we don't have the time, and I don't wish to try your patience, friends."

He balanced the sword between the fingers of his right hand and rose, inhaling and exhaling.

"Ancient rites and all that, Cyan. Awakening a woman who was sleeping for... well, long enough so that time became nothing more than a concept to her. Now she understands the madness of barely-restrained guilt, and the true price of absolute genocide."

But even as Aaron spoke it, he felt his inner self replacing the 'she understands' in that statement with 'I understand', and it pained him for a few, long seconds.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:04, Fri 12 Oct 2007.

"Likewise," the General whispers to her one-time bodyguard.  She raises a hand in a salute, silently wishing both Left and Right well.

Berd glances her way for a moment, and Cyan ducks her head, dropping her sapphire eyes in embarassment.  The drake snorts out a puff of multicoloured, shimmering smoke, then launches himself into the air to take up residence upon her shoulder.  There, he begins carefully preening himself, rubbing at smooth scales with his nose.

"You shall have your wish, Aaron," Cyan replies with wry amusement, before shooting a glance at Dorian and Galatea.  The little girl worries her...not Galatea, precisely, but the wisdom of bringing her into the fortress of the Archons.  While Cyan does not know her upbringing at Samhain (and admits it must have been far from what she considers the norm), she feels a twinge of unease at the thought of taking a child into Harbonah's monolithic refuge.

Still, it is her decision, and Dorian's, as her father.

Then her thin brows come together in a bemused frown.  It is so very difficult to imagine Aaron without his shadowy soul-mate.  "So now you are alone...and yet, you maintain yourself," she states delicately.  An attempt at diplomacy, one which Cyan abandons a moment later.  "Aaron, will you hold to your control?  I realize that I, of all people, am the worst to be questioning this, but I must know."

A woman?  There comes a splintered memory of a laughing sorceress in Aaron's mind.  "And whom does she awaken, Aaron?" Cyan inquires carefully.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:12, Wed 10 Oct 2007.

Galatea watches the salute and Berd flight to Cyan's shoulder with a twinkling smile that dances somewhere between amusement and fascination. Watching her, it would seem nearly everything fascinates her. The world is new, brilliant and beautiful. For the first time in a millennium, she has eyes, eyes and her own emotions with which to explore her environment. She gulps it in like a desert suddenly flooded by glacial waters.

Dorian's stance stills and straightens a bit as Aaron arrives. His dark eyes sweep over the man, looking for--and noting--changes. He pulls his cloak around him in a tight circle that outlines his sparse frame.

His eyes move between Cyan and Aaron as she poses her questions with the delicate care of an artist. He says nothing, knowing she has asked what presses upon his mind as well.

Aaron snorted, then laughed out loud. A hand rose to his forehead, and he couldn't help but shake it in the negative at Cyan's commentary to his sanity.

"It's the little things that nag at you, Cyan. The memories. A spray of blood from a beloved friend; the cold ring of steel as a comrade draws his sword against you; the woe and pain of subtle betrayal by one you loved so dearly; or that last, lingering image of a circle upon the floor, made up only of your own slain bretheren."

He stuck his hands in his pockets, eyes growing both fond and distant. A slight, sad smile hinted itself at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes chose not to show it. They merely shifted, here and there.

"Which one of these things prodded at my conscience? Was it all of them? Can I even answer that? Either way, I chose to forget. I denied every sin I ever committed, and the Pattern let me do it." He shrugged. "During our travels, it was most likely guilt that plagued me and brought about my rage. Nothing so lame or convoluted as any of my other excuses."

Aaron sighed at the memory. Being dragged across the floor by Jack, now that was embarrasment. He continued.

"Ironically, it was Arianne's defense that bolstered my denial. It was only after I had abandoned your Quest and slain my own daughter and her innumerable children that reality, and the grasp of San Anyn, began to bring about the truth of my so-called 'madness.'"

Aaron removed a cigarette from behind his right ear and lit it with a match produced from the sleeve of his trenchcoat. Its glow lit his face for a moment, and he put it out between his fingers. Inhale. Exhale. Self-analyze.

"These eyes," he said, and now the smile was there. "These eyes mark my eventual demise. When I die, San Anyn will reclaim me for my crimes, no matter where my body lays its last. There is a seed - a parasite - within me. Within Arianne, as well. You should see her eyes!" He laughed a sad, sharp thing. "The tree will grow from me, through me, fed by what's left of this body. Is it payment enough? No, not really." He exhaled again.

"No, not at all. I can never do enough to be taken away from the actions I performed as a naive youth, who was once in love with a world and its inhabitants, and who was scorned so savagely by them all." Inhale. Exhale. "It matters little. Old history."

Aaron gazed at Ilse, for he had removed the blade to add flavor to his explanation. Now he resheathed it and chuckled.

"My Maiden and I once spoke to you of Truth, Dorian, Cyan. Truth? What is truth? Self-understanding? Realization of the world around you?" He laughed. "Bullshit. I am a sword. I kill. That is my truth." He laughed again, and snorted.

"Arianne den Ilsefranvir rests in San Anyn and plans our defense, if need be. Who she is is who she has always been, and much, much more. Is she as mad as I am?" Aaron shrugged again. "Perhaps. She lied for me. Mayhap she loves me, also, but her love is the love of San Anyn, and that is a thing I respect but keep distant. Does she know what rests at stake for the lot of us?" Aaron nodded firmly. "Oh yes. Would she betray us? I think not. She knows pain. But pain has a way of aggravating the soul. That is why I freed her, to let her pain ease. She stands strong, and has my trust, as far as that stretches."

Again, a nod.

"For her, let that be enough. As for me being sane? Insane? Who defines it? I am myself, and I'll be satisfied if I die beside you both. Let that be enough."

Then he turned and faced Cyan. The cigarette bobbed, and he smiled.

"You?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:10, Fri 12 Oct 2007.

Aaron arrives... The archon Cyan calls Right leaves... Devlin waits quietly.

Cyan and Aaron speak of the man's sanity. Devlin listens, but does not interrupt. The man speaks of dying beside Cyan and Dorian... Devlin does not expect to be included there. Indeed, he was once the object of Aaron's wrath, not doubt the man would have tried to kill Devlin... if he could have found him... (Not that he could have succeeded.) He's unsure if Aaron will ever likely get over that... really.

Devlin has his own thoughts he'd like to share, about other matters, but he waits and does not interrupt. His thoughts will wait.

Cyan closes her eyes at Aaron's words, a deep pain in her for the wounded man.  Wounded, and slowly bleeding to death, it would seem.  She nods, her lips thin, face pale.  "I never doubted Arianne's devotion to your cause, Aaron.  And I pray your life to be long, and give you many opportunities to seek amends."  Strange, how out of all of the immortals she knows well it is only Aaron who, to her, seems truly fated to pass onward.  Dorian has lived a thousand years, and will remain forever.  James is granite inured to erosion.  Berd...has always been, and always will be.

But Aaron seems to fall through his life like the leaves in his eyes.  And to every fall, there is an end.  Someday, possibly in a year, possibly ten, but more likely several hundred (for the man will not die easily), he will perish.

Then it will rest to James, Berd, and Dorian to hold up the four corners of the universe, she considers wryly.  Perhaps Devlin as well, and Trista.  She does not know if the others are made to stand the test of years.

"I know well of guilt," she murmurs, opening her amber eyes.  "If you can face it now, it speaks well of you.  But if this tree grows through you, will it carry a part of yourself, as well?  And as for truth...perhaps the only truth one needs is that which one carries within.  If you are a sword, so be it."  Her smile quirks.  "The universe has need of swords."

Bending, she recaptures her near-finished palanquet.  "As for sanity, I am a poor judge..."  Berd winces, but Cyan continues.  "You seem controlled to me, and that is enough.  I do say, though, I would not be pleased if you, or any of us, died upon this quest...hardly satisfiying."  One eyebrow rises.  "Shall we try to avoid that?"

Then she pauses.  "Or were you asking in regards to my own sanity?"  A wave of her hand encompasses the others.  Devlin, silent and dark, his mind as fluid as his form.  Berd, a drake-once-else, with a unique split personality disorder and fragmented memories.  Dorian and Galatea, yin and yang, the sum greater than the whole and the daughter perhaps a remainder from the father's first attempt at long division.

"Does it matter, so long as I function as might be predicted?"

Now a final laugh, sharp and biting, emerged from Aaron's throat.

"We understand eachother, then. What price sanity, eh?"

Now his attentions turned to the task at hand, a steadiness in his eye, his bearing.

"Explain the depth of our plans, Cyan. I wish to know how we're to make... Harry, was it? Yes. I wish to know how we're going to make this the worst day of Harry's life."

"There have been times," Cyan says quietly, "that I confess I have held little understand for some of the people here."  She crouches, fixing her gaze on her work, ignoring the slight heat in her cheeks and decidedly not looking at either Aaron or Dorian.  "But in this, yes."

"And as for this being the worst day of Harbonah's life...."  A final flick of the ink pen, and Cyan retrieves a small scalpel-blade, perhaps originally from her first aid kit but now ensconced amidst her inks.  The blade carefully slits the heavy paper.  Again silent, Cyan places the book upon the ground, the page lying atop it.  Berd crawls partway down her arm; reaching out his head, he breaths a small cloud of rainbow light onto the page.

The cloud swirls and twists about itself, obscuring the paper.  Then it flows into the page, as if poured rather than drawn, and as it does the page begins to fold.  Top, bottom, left and right - all fold inward, creating knife-edged borders to the picture.  Then the corners, just a touch to round them.  As they do, a bell-like tone rings in the air.  Once.

Cyan snaps up the palanquet between two fingers and holds it up.  "A plan.  Yes, a plan would be a fine idea.  Unfortunately, I can think of nothing better than creeping into Harry's fortress and poking about in search of something of use."  Her smile wobbles for a moment.  "Perhaps it will turn out to be the best day of Harbonah's life, but I cannot sit upon this any longer."

Now that Devlin sees Cyan's is through creating the picture she was working on, he speaks.

"Before we go running off to Harbanoh's keep, I would like to discuss something, or give you my... opinion..." He pauses fro a moment, shakes hes head, "... not sure that's right, but part of what I want to say is about these."

Here Devlin stops and holds up the burned out card that Cyan tossed at him earlier that day. He's seen cards like it, though he had no clue what they were capable of at the time, but there was no way to tell who's image was once on this one.

"From what you've told me," Devlin continues, looking right at Cyan, "These Trump, if they are not depictions of one of the members of this group, if they are instead depictions of the sons and daughters of Oberon. Those that might be able to provide us with information or assistance, they are unusable."

Devlin looks at the card and then tosses it on the floor; a gesture to indicate the trump's worth.

"But your depictions still work. Even those you created before this thing happened to the cards of Amber.

"Do you not find that... odd? ... suspicious? ... Why would the thing that is effecting all these depictions, trump... palanquet ... not also effect those we hold?"

Devlin stops speaking here; looks around the room at those of this group in order to give them a moment to think about his question. Before anyone can speak though, he answers his own question.

"Because someone needs ours to work? Because someone uses them against us, and that same someone does not want us contacting those outside our group. My belief is that each time you use those things to speak with each other that you tell one of our enemies exactly what we're doing."

Devlin's head cocks to the side and smiles an evil looking smile. "Which is why some of our number no longer move in the expected direction. If I am right, then the enemy believes they move in one direction, a direction that I believe to be useless and not worth his attention, while instead they move in a direction that I am hoping will lead us closer to discovering... " The man bunches up his forehead and crooks his mouth, "... Well, I'm not sure what they'll discover."

The dark man smiles again here as he tilts his head back and forth, looking at each member of this group. He's said all on the subject he plans to say.

After just a short moment he moves on to another subject, "As for going to Harbanoh's fortress, I'm not sure that is wise either. It might be an immediate enemy, but perhaps not the true enemy, the one that started all of this in the first place and wants to see the universe be destroyed. But I can see you're all determined to take that path."

Devlin here speaks as if talking to the whole group, but is looking at only Cyan. "Iii... No... When we return from this little jaunt, perhaps you'll listen to some ideas I have about who the true enemy is. I've had a great long time to think about these things, to let them sit and smolder in the back of my mind. When I left this group last, for you it has only been four days, for myself it has been more than 100 years. The information we gathered in Charyk, added to additional information I've recently gained..."

Another shrug...

"At any rate, I've said what I wanted to say, you can each think about what I've said or ignore it, your choice. Now, shall we see what we can discover in the lair of the enemy?"

"My understanding," Dorian says, "From what I've been told, is that the Trump-Palanquet virus worked through contact, which is why it was termed a virus in the first place. Cyan's Palanquet have had no contact with the affected ones, thus they still work for now. Berd and Cyan have long been aware of this. Perhaps my understanding is wrong, but I trust them--I trust her--to use them wisely, for she and Berd no a great deal more about them than we do.

"The one who knows more about them, the one who could do something about the virus, is not available. He made them. He could create this virus within them. I've looked for him, but he will only be found if he wants to be found. The only other source is within the Underflow, and Berd knows more about that than I do.

"And you seriously think care hasn't been taken with the Palanquet? We've taken great pains to not discuss plans while using them, for precisely the same reason you say.

"As for anything else, if you have something to say, then say it. We have no times for games, and to say you have information or ideas but wish to withhold them reeks of manipulation. There is no commitment to this plan, other than it is the best one presented so far. If a better one is available, what good is it to withhold it? Or are you simply hoping for a chance to say you told us so?

"So first, you've failed to tell us anything new. Then, you've told us you've worked behind our backs, redirecting our members without telling us. We've already seen what happens when the group doesn't cooperate.

"How long you've been gone is irrelevant. Ideas are either correct or incorrect, regardless of how much time you've had to go over them. In fact, too much time can cause thoughts to stagnate. And while you've been doing all this thinking, why weren't you actually trying to help out?

"So, at this point, you're not working with us, you're working against us. And further, we have no proof that you're even the Devlin we think you are.

"I'm willing to listen so long as you prove yourself to be trustworthy, but manipulating our members behind our backs gives me no reason to trust you."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:29, Sat 13 Oct 2007.

"Were we careful? Did not Cyan speak at length this morning with Aaron through his likeness? Did she not speak of our plans to seek Harbanoh? Sephiroth? Amber?" Devlin answers, but most of his attention stays on Cyan.

Devlin shrugs, "Trust me or not, it makes little difference to me either way. Is there anyone in this room that hasn't done something to indicates they shouldn't be trusted? I trust each you to do as you believe is right. I do no less and I will not explain my actions to you any more than you would, or have explained yours to me.

"We go to seek Harbanoh because it seems something Cyan must do. Can you not see that in her actions, feel it in her tone? I doubt we could deter her from this path even if we wished it; even if the rest of us do not go with her. It makes little sense to debate what other paths might be taken until this path is followed to its end. The debate will only waste time we don't have and I'm tired of such debates.

"I will go or stay, as Cyan wishes, and no other."

And now he asks the woman directly, "So, Cyan, Shall I stay or shall I go? I believe you'll need me where you're going, but I won't force my presence if you do not wish it."

"Let Cyan make her own decisions. I have faith in her. I trust her. She will do what is right.

"But don't play these games, Devlin. What do you hope to gain by saying you know we'll fail and then--only then--will you share your plan with us? To prove that we should follow you, perhaps? To make yourself look better? Is that it? It's foolishness. If you have information or ideas, share them. But don't play at this game of posturing and secrets. This group has had enough of them. Speak openly, with trust, and we will listen.

And as for trust, everyone else in this group has earned trust despite errors they've made. Their motivations are known. To say others have made mistakes in the past is no excuse for what you do right now."

Then he steps closer and lowers his voice. "My actions? Or the original Dorian's actions? Do you even know to whom you're talking? You haven't asked, so don't use my lack of explanation as leverage. You want to know--then ask. But stop playing games and grasping for leverage that isn't there. It's another game, another weak defense.

And if you're tried of such debates, why are you bringing it up, stalling us further? It does nothing for us. It's only an attempt to make yourself look better. That is why I say, speak openly and plainly--no games--or let us get on with it.

"So ... what is this plan of yours? What is this idea? What changes have you made to the group's plans?"

Cyan watches in dismay, opening her mouth as the argument begins.  She shuts it a moment later, slumping back against her pack.  She closes amethyst eyes while the two men pose point and counter-point, bickering over the situation, over issues of trust, over semantics, even.

Finally it appears as if Devlin leaves a pause, and she opens her eyes.  "Are we done, then?"  One hand comes up to rub at her forehead.  "No, thank you Berd.  Shall I attempt to deal with this in order, gentlemen?"

First she turns to Devlin, her bard's memory having catalogued the discussion, on-the-fly mnemonics dancing in her head to keep things straight.  "It is quite possible that something is listening in to us, Devlin.  I cannot discount that supposition completely.  Berd can, of course, attempt to detect such things, but even he could be defeated, as an eavesdropper needs only the proper receptor to pick up the..."  She turns to Berd.  "What did you call it?  Resonating waves through the Underflow."  A shrug.  "Whatever the case.  You make a good point, but cannot see how that will change things.  If it is the case, we would be dead before now.  If you wish for us to cease to use them, though, I will not argue against - we need only an appropriate alternative."

"Additionally, Dorian is correct - we were informed of the 'Trump' situation by someone far, far more gifted than myself or Berd when it comes to such things.  I am inclined to trust their word on the matter."  She taps her lips.  "Even so, it might be wiser to avoid their use for the moment."

Her eyes harden.  "I am curious, however, to know exactly how you convinced the other group to move in another, 'particular' direction.  Regrettably, we do not have time to discuss what you hope for them to discover, and I can see by your face you do not wish to give that away."

"Regarding Harbonah's fortress - yes, I will be going there.  It is your choice if you wish to follow.  Obviously there is more going on that we know of, but right now, at this moment, our enemy is Harbonah.  This other's schemes mean nothing if Harbonah is successful - his own plans must be stopped, and stopped now, and rest assured, whatever this possible other mastermind plans, Harbonah will not stop his own plans if the figure behind him is defeated."

She relaxes a touch.  "But I would be more than happy to discuss your theories when we return from this."

The bard moodily stares at her feet.  Is Devlin correct?  Does the reason she does this spring solely from her feelings on the matter?  No.  Dorian is correct.  He trusts her.  She must trust herself.

"I may not do what is right," she amends with a sigh.  "But I am certainly trying.  Dorian, Devlin has not said he believes we will fail...or, rather, I am certain he believes we will return, or I do not believe he would accompany us."  She eyes the shapeshifter thoughtfully.  "And he would be an invaluable assistance upon this little jaunt," she admits.  "Of course I would rather have you come, Devlin, assuming your manipulation of the other group was not precisely manipulation, but rather a discussion followed by a conclusion and then a change of plans.  Or something along those lines."

The bard waves her hand, a gloomy motion lacking life.  "Dorian wishes to know of your plans now.  And in what direction you have run the other group.  Unless it will take five minutes to explain or less, I would rather wait.  If it can be said succinctly, please do.  You can elucidate later."  She puts her face in her hands.  "But this fighting.  This arguing between the people in the group.  The attacks, the manipulations, the skillful turning of words back upon the other...it stops.  Dorian and Devlin, it stops or I leave, along with Berd.  Simple as that."

"I care nothing for who started it.  I care nothing for its perpetuation.  I only care for its ending."  She looks up, holds the palanquet between two fingers.  "I suffered through this with two different groups of Questors.  I am done with such things.  You both have spoken of support for me, and it warms my heart that you feel as you do.  But this?  This is not support.  I am sorry, but it is not."

She closes her eyes.  The storm will blow, the storm will blow over, or the storm will begin to snow.  She isn't certain which, but whichever way it goes, it is certain to be painful.  Heart-wrenching, perhaps.

On her shoulder, Berd lies quiet and still.  Probably fooling nobody.

Devlin nods his head at Cyan's admonishment, he had not meant to start an argument, only to state his view.

Because Cyan asks it, Devlin explains his actions as quickly as he can.

"It was not manipulation, not of anyone in this or that group. I would hope that it was a manipulation of those that listen in where they are not welcome, that is if they listen at all; to make them believe we head in one direction when we go in another.

"As far as those that head in a new direction, I simply made a suggestion. It was their choice to accept or reject the suggestion and I would have accepted whatever decision they made.

"There is not time now to go into the details of my suggestion, or their new path, or what I hope they might find. I fear it would..." Devlin looks at Dorian and back to Cyan, "...lead to a lengthy discussion.

"Lets do what we are going to do, perhaps we might bring an end to Harbanoh and his threat while we're about it. I'll explain further when there is sufficient time to do so."

Dorian raises an eyebrow at Cyan. He had to bridle his confusion, lest it had been evident on his face. Fighting? Arguing? Attacks? He nods, slowly. Apparently, she was still stressed and confused, if that is what this seemed to her.

He pauses a moment to study her features.

"If you are up to this, I am ready when you are." Her statements concerned him, sparking uncertainty.

He doesn't expect her to take his words well, and he'll never understand why the others become so emotional over what is otherwise--to him--just conversation. Still, it troubled him. What else can he offer her?

He glances at Galatea, who drifts lazily nearby, focusing her attention elsewhere, but a slight sadness marks her gaze.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:04, Sun 14 Oct 2007.

"Very well," Cyan murmurs into her hands.  She digests Devlin's words and Dorian's reply.  "I would hear your theories when we return, Devlin."  The edge is gone from her voice, completely.  Berd stirs uneasily on her shoulder.  "No, I-"  She goes silent and a moment later Berd subsides, smoke rising from his nostrils.  "Very well," the bard repeats, but very little is well.

Has she jumped to conclusions here?  How much of what she assumed arose from the truth of the matter, and how much from the fragmented memories, dancing and sparkling in her head like so many crystal shards?  Perhaps she should have taken Berd's offer, but...she will see this through.  A glance to Dorian, and she closes her emerald eyes again.

Opens them, staring upon the card.

"Here is the key," Cyan states, her voice quiet.  "Those who would travel, gather close."  And she lays her will upon the card, first to observe, then - when all of those who will follow to Harbonah's fortress, to travel.

Rainbow light fans out from the card, spreading around the bard.  Those who are to travel with her step close, gripping her arms as the world floods with colours (a number of which exist nowhere else but the fevered imagination of insane artists).

The card grows cold in her hand, and then...

... discontinuity...

... waves of heat wash over the group, as they appear at their destination, as if they are standing before the open grate of a furnace.  Rivulets of flame flow across every surface and, between the fires, ice rimes the stone, hissing into steam along the edges where fire and ice meet.

The chamber is not as Cyan recalls it.  With no valued human "guest" in residence, there is no need to keep parts of the fortress in a state which is comfortable (or even bearable) for that species.  Harbonah is not one of the Nephelim, and has no concern for any human who might unexpectedly enter his home.

There is, for example, the matter of the door.  Archons can pass through solid matter as easily as through air or Underflow, and have no need of doors.  The only thing which might serve as exits from this room are three circular openings, thirty feet above the floor.

Beyond them can be seen a sky, where the clouds burn...

"Great," Aaron intoned as they arrived. "If his taste in domicile mimics his personality, I'm pretty sure I already hate Harry."

Aaron scratched the back of his head, taking in the entirety of their new, quite inhospitable surroundings. He immediately began to sweat, but he dealt with it, a slight smile on his face.

"Any ideas?"

Cyan hunches slightly as she steps into the room, preparatory to a booming, mental voice.  None comes, and she relaxes.  Slightly.  Staring around with haunted eyes, she grimaces at Aaron's sally.  "Harry is most certainly worthy of your feeling, Aaron," she murmurs, struggling to get her bearings.

"There used to be doors.  Passageways.  Of course there is no requirement for them now - the General is gone."  Her smile lacks humor.  "And yet, what has he done with the Iron Warriors?" she wonders quietly.  Time for that later.  "From here I can tell the...direction for the War Room.  I think," she amends.  "Dimensional space is skewed," Cyan continues, the words odd with her accent and archaic style of speech.  "Berd informs me that things no longer rest properly in three dimensions.  Whatever that means."  She slowly turns about in place.  "Even this room has changed, drastically, yet the palanquet recognized it aura.  Yet what Berd shows me indicates my memories might yet be of use."

She points toward a wall, jade eyes unfocused.  "That way lie the chambers of torment."  Another wall.  "An audience chamber...I believe that would be foolish.  There, the War Room."  She glances toward Dorian.  "Archons carry their data in far different ways than scrolls, books, and keys of memory - it is possible you and Berd may be able to decipher it."

Her hand slowly indicates the floor.  "Harbonah's suite lies in that direction, I think."

Devlin had seen the likes of this place before, not personally, but through the eyes of one of his small friends. He looks up but does not need to be outside to know what is there... Burning clouds filled with the eshurianti... molten rock flowing as rivers around islands of ice...

He looks around the chamber again.

...And a fortress standing at the worlds heart...

The man uses some of the knowledge he gained from that friend of his and his body adjusts from the memory of it. His blood begins to cool to defend against the heat.

"We don't want to go that way, at any rate, I think. We'd be immediately seen by many of the fire wheels. That is if this place is anything like the birthing world. The sky will be full of 'em."

He looks to Cyan with his head tilted. "If we are here for information then we'd go that way" He points in the direction Cyan indicated was the War Room. The fact that he points at what seems a solid wall does not seem to matter.

Then Devlin looks down at the floor "If there is a chance of..." He cuts off that thought. He has an idea of how it might be done but is unsure if he's ready to try it. In this place he's likely be destroyed, no matter the outcome, before he could flee this world. And yet he considers it.

Looking back to Cyan, "But the choice is not mine."

Tiny beads of sweat glistens on Dorian's brow. He's used to the cool climes of Samhain and other such worlds. He's never been comfortable in the heat. He dabs at his face with a small handkerchief.

He glances at Cyan, trying to steal whatever information he can from her features. This place is a reflection of a part of her, somehow. That small, iron part of her was forged between these walls. The part that he has found he secretly fears.

"Bear in mind that he may have rearranged things more than you realize," he says. "In fact, he may have anticipated this. He knows your abilities well, I assume. The war room seems reasonable to me. Information is a weapon, and one we sorely lack. Let us move with haste. The longer we wait, the greater our chances of an encounter."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:51, Sat 27 Oct 2007.

The child appears moments after the others. Her vessel of travel being her father's mind, not the palanquet. Leaving her behind was not an option for Dorian; no more than leaving his own mind behind.

She lifts further from the ground a few inches and rotates, studying the walls in detail. If she sees any details there, she offers no clue to it. The shimmering heat passes through her and she appears cool and untouched as ever.

She turns her eyes to Dorian and then nods to some unspoken directive.

"I agree," Aaron spoke up after considering Dorian's statement. He then looked to Devlin, raising a curious eyebrow.

"If you have an idea, I'd like to hear it."

Aaron crouched, placing his right hand upon the floor's surface. He closed his eyes, getting a sense of this place, its environment. Sure, it was hot, but heat was a byproduct of production, whether simply elemental in nature or otherwise. The eshuranti were the living embodiment of that, one he took into account with a particular amount of respect.

He took a breath of hot air, tasting it. Yes. This was certainly a hellworld. A harsh, unforgiving landscape, perfect for cauterizing life and soul both. In a place such as this, even the strongest of wills could be bent or broken.

"This place leaves a bad taste in my mouth," Aaron said quietly. "We should get this over with."

Cyan spares Devlin a haunted glance.  "Yes...I would agree with you, save that Harbonah is rarely alone, and even all of us, prepared, would find ourselves hard pressed to defeat him swiftly, him unprepared.  And he is never unprepared."  Her smile is grim.  "With his people, he must be ever wary of treachery."

She can only imagine Harbonah's power levelled against them the instant they entered.  Had they a chance, she might consider it, but...no.

She hears both Devlin's thoughts and Dorian's, nodding along with the hawk-faced man's cautions.  "Indeed.  There may be traps.  Guards.  I trust everyone has their own, special talents to use to detect these things ahead of time?  Sing out if you see anything of danger."  Her smile is wry, now, her ruby eyes ironic.  "Carrying a tune will not be necessary," she amends, having heard Dorian's protests about his own singing voice before.

Aaron and Dorian counsel haste - she knows them well enough to understand they do not mean 'rushing', but careful, measured speed.  Cyan nods.  "Very well.  Extend your senses around us, what you have, and your protections as well.  Shadowy veils are of greater import here than adamantine shields, for our greatest defense lies in stealth.  Any singular Archons must have their minds seized immediately."

With that, Berd lays a cloak over them, fortifying it as best he can to protect them from psychic sight.  When the others are prepared, Cyan gestures them to move closer.  "Berd will move us as they move, through the Underflow.  But swiftly - hopefully we will be nothing more than a passing darkness to any within that river."

The drake gathers his power, and projects them into the War Room, aiming for something out of visual sight...though that will only be of use if a creature with EYES stands within the room.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:52, Mon 29 Oct 2007.

Devlin smiles, and actually chuckles at Cyan's words, and then turns to the others to answer Aaron's question, "Cyan, it seems, knows exactly what I was thinking, but it would not be wise to try it, not here, not yet. We should gather what information we can, if we can, and be gone."

And then Cyan bids them all to draw closer, and Devlin does so, as prepared as he can possibly be... for whatever might happen next. He'd made sure of that before the palanquet had been drawn.

Then, just before Berd moves them he adds quietly, "If you must run, do not hesitate to leave me." The tone is dry, emotionless, and not a request.

Dorian nods acknowledgment to her words. The underflow could be trapped, or conceal an ambush, but he wasn't aware of any better way to get around in here. He wondered at exactly how the information might be stored. Cyan had only said it wasn't like other places. Given that he had already discovered how they sensed the world (not a surprising discovery), he had a guess. If he was correct, it would be fascinating.

There are Archons everywhere here, thousands of them.  Some moving in massed arrays of flame and steel and electricity, some moving in smaller groups, or singly, carrying instructions, or requests, to those whose concern they are, or will soon become.

Most of those Archons, though, while here, are not precisely here.

There are thousands of Archons, and yet any of them could pass within a hair's breadth of the intruders, and never detect them, so long as that heir's breadth lays in the right... direction.  Time, and space, and other, more esoteric, dimensions make up the shape of this place.  Illusion, spirit, and shadow are as much a part of its substance as mere matter and energy.

A hair's breadth, a minute fraction of a heartbeat, a difference in quantum state... all of these mark the difference between here, and precisely here.

Senses reach out, and shrouds of insubstantial shadow fold and billow, and slowly, oh so slowly, the intruders race through the Underflow, sometimes passing through Archons, who detect them as no more than a brief, passing discomfort.  Most ignore it, but a few attribute it to the proximity of others of their kind, and occasional disagreements erupt.

The War Room lays within the fortress, from some perspectives.  From others, it is a bare mountaintop beneath a sky filled with burning clouds.  And it is empty.

No Archons.  Just hundreds of glittering spires of crystal, hundreds of feet tall, surrounded by shimmering images which change and shift constantly.

Aaron's eyes immediately darted here and there, centuries of combat (if not necessarilly warfare) experience simply falling into place automatically. There were no corners to check, no possible hiding place save for the very makeup of Reality itself.

That was a startling concept. Aaron didn't have time to be surprised.

So instead he gazed upon the spires in their multitudes of imagery, and smiled slightly.

"Big Brother is watching you!" he chuckled quietly, then shook his head. "Sorry. I humbly request that someone make sense of what I'm seeing, please."

But even as Aaron said it, his own mind was already filing things out into logical statements for later perusal. This was a War Room. Indeed, perhaps the single place they could cause the most damage, if they worked it out correctly. He began to find excitement 'neath the feelings of intensity.

Dorian turns about, studying the strange environment. It wasn't too far from what he had imagined, save the mountain peak and the exact form of the spires. He had suspected such things were possible, and if his guesses were correct it opened up a few interesting possibilities.

"Good, let's see what we have here."

He turns to the second closest spite and narrows his concentration on it.

Aaron, it seems, is as perplexed as her by the War room.  Things were different when Cyan was here, again.  Now there is no need for an interface she can operate.  "I remember the spires," she mumurs, moving to one, her footsteps near-silent.  "I had my own means of accessing the information...."  Berd, on her shoulder, concentrates fully upon his surroundings, allowing Dorian to peruse the information.  Some of his many minds scan and search, filtering the Underflow through his perceptions; others hold up shielding, cloaking, prepare lightning-swift sequences of spiritual assault.

_{Dorian.  When you have determined the methodology of accessing the information, I may be able to assist.}

Leave the research to the man who has studied the Archons.

"Devlin, Aaron...if we are no help here," Cyan whispers, "we should be prepared.  If we are discovered at any time, we must attempt to overwhelm our opposition in an instant.  If we cannot, we must flee.  And...while Berd can take us into the Underflow, he cannot easily evade the Archons as he might do with another creature.  They will follow.  If you have any ideas on how to prevent their following, to confuse our path, or to defend against them, now would be a good time to consider them and prepare."

Replying to Cyan's request, Devlin says quietly, "I've been thinking of a way I might be able to effect them, not all of them, I mean the fire wheels."

The man avoids using any of their proper names, though he's not sure that means anything.

"I'm not sure the skills I've begun to develop are sufficient yet, but I'm willing to try it."

Then Devlin looks at his wrist, at the black band there, and then directly at Cyan and asks, "Would you watch after Nightbrand? It cannot change to a form that would match the one I would take."

Reality is fluid here, in the War Room of Harbonah.  Images around the pillars blend, and flow together, flickering into an endless montage.

Here, a city burns, surrounded by armies, as Archons rain flame upon it from the skies...
Here, there is a wheel of blades spinning against a star-filled sky, and every blade is an Archon...
Here, Archons howl through a city of glass, and glittering metallic spiders strike at them with strange weapons, while darker, more savage creatures pin their spinning forms beneath a mass of bodies...
Here, a world where lightning dances constantly across a storm-tossed ocean, and wheels of actinic light and gleaming metal prowl...
Here, Archons race across the heavens, leaving runes of fire behind them, and then they are gone, as a hole opens in the sky, and the sun falls upon the land beneath...
Here, there are Archons...
Here...
Here...
...

Everywhere, in all the images, across innumerable worlds, Archons do battle, and in most of them they are winning.

Only one scene remains distinct.  It does not join the flow of the others, hovering instead at the centre.  A hellish, shattered world, the surface molten and boiling into vapour, and the very atmosphere burning.

Dorian nods. "I believe they may be similar to Amber's trump cards and your Palanquet. At least in function, I mean. They are windows, utilizing the Underflow, to many different worlds. I'm not sure yet how to control them, but it may also be that Harbonah is capable of watching all of them at once with no need to focus them on any particular world. What do you think, Cyan?"

"Overwhelm?" Aaron thought about it for a moment, then nodded to Cyan and smiled.

"You got it." He reached behind him, loosening his blade in its scabbard.

Turning, he looked upon the images arrayed before them, focusing - but not concentrating - upon the surging, flaming world in the middle.

"It's like a sun," he said quietly. "Either that's an example of the ultimate result of what the Archons are planning, or..." He didn't finish, keeping the remainder of his thoughts to himself.

OOC - Apologies everyone - stuff crept up on me, and I forgot I had things to answer.

IC -

"Certainly, Devlin," Cyan replies, holding out her hand without hesitation.  Berd studies Nightbrand with a cautious eye, scuttling around Cyan's neck to seat himself on the other shoulder.  The bard merely cocks her eyebrow at his antics, waiting for the device to be passed over.

At Dorian's words, her eyes emerald turn toward the images.  As expected, his probing mind has found answers.  "It may be...let me see."  The bard concentrates on the vistas, seeking for hints of palanquet amidst their terrible beauty.  She winces as her gaze falls on the world where the arachnids battle the wheels.  "THX1178..."  Her lips thin.  "They have weapons.  They have learned.  By the spirits, they hold."  For an instant she recalls their greeting of her, their aid, their people and world.  And the web that may still hang outside of Cyan's home.

Her free hand rises to brush her eyes.  It seems like so long ago.  Years, now...

"I would say your theory is correct, Dorian.  They have other uses, of that we may be sure, but yes.  Windows into the worlds.  I am attempting to see if they use the same energies as palanquet..."

Aaron stands ready, as always, his attention drawn to the center of things.  As always.  Devlin forms plans.  Dorian searches for weaknesses.  Aaron regards the center.  As it all should be.  "What do you see, Aaron?" she asks, still focused on deciphering the energies around her.

"What do you all see?"

The images continue to flicker and move, blinking from one to another with dazzling speed, making it hard to maintain a hold on the details...

"Correct," Dorian says, "but only in a sense. They do show multiple images, which I have not seen your palanquet do. I am merely noting the differences."

He turns to the central image, the burning world. His hand reaches up to stroke his clean-shaved chin. Eyes narrow and flit from detail to detail. A hellish, shattered world, the surface molten and boiling into vapor, and the very atmosphere burning.

"This one, however." His voice lowers and he gestures towards it. "I see lines of force, shadows of continents and oceans and mountains, all burning."

His eyes sweep over the point that burns brighter. The ocean swirls around that point. It's a vortex of fire that flows like water.

"And in the sky, points of flame. Constellations, yes. I know this place. This was.... "

This was.... WAS. This place is no more. He brow furrows deep, heavy eyebrows descend, as he tries to discern the meaning of this vision. Was it some kind of recording of the event? A memory? Or was it more? Did Harbonah have some gate that transcended time as well as space? Did the Underflow ... flow ... in more directions than they had guessed?

No. Harbonah used the event as a rallying cry to unite their kind. This was a recording, a reminder. Nothing more.

"Hosk."

He reaches out for it, as if to either caress it or snare it from some fate at the last moment.

Devlin reaches out his own hand to hold Cyans. There seems to be some delay until the man says quietly, "Do as I've instructed." Then the band on his harm shimmers, almost like a liquid, and then it moves in a fashion similar to a snake and if transfers itself from its place on Devlin's arm to the same place on Cyan's arm.


Almost at the same time the Nightbrand begins to move Devlin's form also begins to change. His from blurs, and unlike other times it does not solidify again. Instead he begins to transform into more of a cloud, a dark storm cloud about the size of a man. Then the cloud begins to rise.

Cyan briefly turns her gaze to a single pillar and studies it.  For a long moment, the scenery holds in place as she concentrates, the pillar keeping to the same scene.  Then she releases it, blinking amber eyes, and the flow of images reccomences.  "Curious," she whispers, then raises her voice slightly.  "It appears to be...what is the word?  Scanning?"

But her eyes darken as she studies the burning world, and she knows it.  The world destroyed by the allies of the Despised One.  The Nursery World, shattered and ruined by the Hated Foe.  Her teeth clench, and her stare fades toward obsidian.  The General's hand twitches, the Warrior tensing at the sight.  She would hunt them down, crush them for their betrayals, for their abandonment, for their-

<b>"Hosk."</i>  Dorian's hand, reaching for the pillar, invades her field of vision even as the man names the world.  Cyan blinks, her eyes ruby now, and turns to regard him.

She reaches out, lays her fingers on his wrist.  "No, Dorian.  Touch not the past."  The bard shakes her head.  "It is done."  For an instant, her fingers close on his arm.  Squeeze, but only just.  Then she releases him, her smile pained but true.  "Forgive yourself, Dorian.  All of yourselves, yes?"  A rueful exhalation follows, almost a laugh.

Reaching out to Devlin, Cyan accepts his hand.  Berd hisses once as Nightbrand moves across the bridge of their fingers to settle around her own wrist.  She blinks in surprise, one eyebrow rising in mimicry of Berd's spine, bowing like an enraged cat's.  The drake's burning eyes fix on the bracelet, but Cyan holds up a finger.  "I believe I am safe enough, Berd.  Cyan, if you would, Nightbrand.  That is my name."

Berd subsides with only a single glare for the once-glove.  He seems far more edgy, far more...protective than is his wont.

The Devlin begins to change, and Cyan pauses in her study of the bracelet to watch in wonder.

Devlin shifts, gradually becoming a cloud, heavy with moisture, at first, but in this place moisture does not easily exist.  The cloud starts to shrink rapidly, stablises, then begins to gradually expand again.  But, though it grows slowly, vapour still boils away constantly around the edges.

Standing close by, the others can feel the heat of that vapour, as it billows and drifts around them.  Only slightly cooler than the air in Harbonnah's War Room.

As Devlin begins to rise away from them the band about Cyan's arm speaks, in an almost whisper; it had been instructed to stay out of the minds of others and told it could speak, so it does so. "Cyan is safer with me about her arm than without, but I fear Devlin is quite vulnerable without me."

The cloud struggles at first to maintain it original size, but then it begins to slowly grow. The larger it gets the faster its moisture boils away from the heat of this place. It becomes quite obvious that that at some point it will be impossible for it to get any larger. Devlin the cloud knows it, but he also knows now that in another place, away from this heat, perhaps there is some defense against the eshurianti. Disappointed that he can do nothing to protect his friends in this place he decides that he must give up this form before he becomes fatigued and the heat wins the battle.

The cloud begins to drop lower to the ground once again.

Her touch pierces. It sends little pulses of desire careening through his heart, which he swats away (for now) like pesky flies. Now is not the time. There may never be a time. Focus on the quest. Lives are at stake. Emotions ... later.

Then her fingers close around him, light, but grasping his soul like a titanium trap. He could give in so easily; lean in, and slip an arm around her. It would feel like coming home from a weary battle, he knows. But he doesn't. He cannot.

So she gets nothing more than the same soft smile and he lets her pull away. It feels like dying.

Forgive himself? he ponders. What an odd thing it seems to be. He isn't even sure what it really means. The past is what it is. This ... forgiveness ... is just a shift of stance, a difference of category, but nothing changes. What does she mean?

He blinks away the thoughts, returning from momentary reverie--a swell of memories and thoughts, half shared with an identical twin being now lost somewhere in the tides of the underflow.

He nods and says, "I shall try, Cyan." For you.

"A burning ocean," he answered Cyan in a near-whisper, and, so he thought, mostly to himself. "A whorl of flame. Like the mouth of a dragon..."

This last was spoken almost in verse. Aaron's shifting eyes were clearly captivated, as if they were made for this vision. He studied it more and more carefully, wondering as to its importance to this journey. To him.

For each of them there was something here, he felt. This flame... no, this conflagration, had caught his eye alone. Aaron pursued it.

Cyan studies the cloud/Devlin for a long moment, watching with some concern as it struggles against the heat to find stability.  She grasps his strategy immediately, but realizes as he does that maintaining such a battle-ready body in this place will prove all-but impossible.  The heat is incredible, and she, herself, sorely misses her old apparel.

For Devlin, attempting to exist as a cloud of moisture, it must be agonizing.

"Best that you return to him," Cyan whispers to Nightbrand as Devlin begins to shrink, to coalesce.  Soon he will return to his solid, yet-mutable form, no doubt.

"To try," she says quietly to Dorian, her eyes jumping between the dark man and Aaron, lost in contemplation of destruction, "is all we can do, is it not?"  To try and fail, it might seem.  Dorian cannot turn away from his past - everywhere he goes, it faces him directly.  Cyan knows the feeling intimately, uncertain whether she might rise above her own.  Another glance to Aaron, and she realizes how many of them are caught by their misdeeds, the poor choices in their histories.  Dorian, for certain, though this one is only in part responsible for the actions.  Herself.  Aaron, and his journeys.  James' past within the world of his birth.  Even Devlin hides sorrows, recent ones.

And then the newcomers to the quest - ciphers, all.

Her smile returns, and she meets Dorian's eyes with her own, emerald gaze.  "Do what you can for yourself."

Moving away from Dorian, she hunts for answers only half-heartedly - in this place, it is her responsibility to guard, along with Berd, crouching upon her shoulder, holding the cloaking in place, defenses prepared, psychic batteries armed and waiting.  It is upon the others that she places her hopes for deciphering a clue.  An answer.  And to that end, "Aaron," she calls out, raising her voice a touch.  "What do you see in the fire?"

A trio of Archons hurtle through the War Room, there, and yet elsewhere, at the same time.  In this place, now that Harbonah no longer has to consider his all-too-human General, time and space are no longer the simple things that they were during her time there.

The leader of all the Seraphim neither needs, nor desires, such artificial constraints.


Shadows move, more felt than seen, and there is a presence, simultaneously nearby and infinitely distant, gliding across the War Room.  If it detects the intruders, it gives no sign, but moves directly to one of the crystal pillars, where it coalesces into a wheel of flame...


The images within that particular crystal freeze, and an Archon comes into view within it - one of the danioti.  The wheel of fire screeches out a single word, + REPORT. +

+ A GROUP OF THE TRAITORS WERE DISCOVERED HERE, JUST AS THE SPIES INFORMED US.  THAT GROUP HAS BEEN DESTROYED, BUT SOQED HEZI WAS NOT AMONG THEM. +

+ MIGHT HE HAVE EVADED YOUR FORCES? +

+ IMPOSSIBLE.  IT IS OUR BELIEF THAT HE WAS NOT HERE.  AT LEAST, NOT RECENTLY. +  The danioti seems very sure of itself.

+ VERY WELL.  DESTROY THE SPIES AND MOVE ON TO FENESCH. +

+ DESTROY THEM? +

+ A PUNISHMENT.  WHETHER FOR DELIBERATE FALSEHOOD, OR FOR NOT ADEQUATELY ENSURING THE ACCURACY OF THEIR INFORMATION, IT MATTERS NOT.  IN THEIR NEXT CYCLES, SHOULD THEY BE PERMITTED ANY, THEY MAY PERFORM THEIR DUTIES MORE DILIGENTLY. +

"I see Amber fallen!" Aaron hissed, his teeth gritted in a rictus of rage and pain as the City itself exploded in his mind, that explosion echoing out and out through the myriad worlds of his personal vision.

He stumbled a moment, leaning low, hands gripping his thighs. Aaron released his eyes from the image, from the vision, and took a few measured breaths to gather his thoughts and stabiility.

"This place... I don't like it. 'Avenge Hosk', I heard, an echo carried on a wave of destruction that did not cease. It swallowed world after world." He shook his head. "It was not like the motion of a conquering army. It was the disintegration of Reality."

Snorting, Aaron stood straight just as motion caught his eye. His blade was out instantly, but soon he was assured of their anonymity, and decided instead to simply wait out this interesting occurence.

"Spies?" He asked, glancing at Cyan and Dorian. "They search for Soqed Hezi. Wasn't he one of the Archons who assisted us at Charyk?"

"Careful!" Cyan whispers, though sound volume is likely unecessary.  On her shoulder, Berd focuses his entire attention on keeping them cloaked...while another 'entire attention' begins preparing a way out.  The fast route. "The distance between Harbonah and this world is the thickness of an onion skin.  He..."  She pauses.

Images flood back to her, disjointed, fragmented memories.  Voices.  Discussions.  Pain.  Reward.  Her stomach clenches violently, her face paling as her eyes darken.  She stands straighter out of reflex, almost as though to attention.

She knows this being.

"He is preoccupied," the General whispers, as she studies how Lord Harbonah interacts with his people.  "He does not even require torment of the spies before their deaths.  Something..."

A nod to Aaron.  "The traitor assisted the Hated One and the Destroyer at Charyk," the Warrior notes absently, her eyes still fixed upon the burning wheel.  Soqed -"  She closes her eyes for a long moment, her lips thin, and breathes out.  Then Cyan shakes her head, opens amethyst eyes.  "Harbonah will be most interest in finding Soqed Hezi," she continues, her voice dropping to a whisper.  "His lack of care toward the failure of the spies speaks volumes about his attention at the moment.  Not on us, not upon the spies and Soqed Hezi...Aaron, you see Amber, fallen?  Where?"

The cloud descends until it is almost at the ground and then begins to coalesce into the familiar form of Devlin. He is aware of what is going on, but it does not matter. He must return to a form that will not boil away.

"I can do nothing in this place." He whispers, apparently to himself.

The man looks fatigued after his failed attempt to provide some defense for the group and he looks unhappy that he was unable to succeed.

"Where?" she asks of him, and somewhat reluctantly, he returns to the burning image, desiring detail, meaning.

"In my image, Amber is a sea of flame." Aaron said it again, as if cementing the unbelivable. "What is this place, Cyan? Is it a place of future portents, of possible things? Or is it a mirror, reflecting the reality of myriad worlds, the deaths of 'other' Ambers and the countless realms surrounding?"

He heard the change in vocal inflection, the accessing of knowledge forced into entombment in his comrade's psyche. Cyan kept the General just beneath the surface. Aaron kept that information close at hand.

"It's possible," he continued. "That Harbonah is staging mock-yet-real-invasions of Amber in worlds that mirror her in specific ways. If I had Harry's resources, and his particular taste in genocide, I might do it just that way..."

He halted, shaking his head, deciding not to put himself in that frame of mind or even remotely close to comparison with Harbonah.

A shift of scene in the crystal, and a burning wheel is there, like a dimmer reflection of Harbonah.

+ REPORT! +

+ WE KNOW WHERE THEY WERE, UNTIL RECENTLY, BUT WE DISCOVERED THEIR PRESENCE ONLY AFTER THEY LEFT.  PRIOR TO THAT, CONDITIONS WERE UNSUITABLE FOR CLOSE INVESTIGATION. +  An image of a city appears, blue rooftops glistening wetly on a mountainside, above a harbour filled with floating wreckage.

+ SO, SALAMIEL, YOUR FIRST DUTY IN YOUR NEW POSITION IS TO INFORM IS OF YOUR FAILURE? +

+ NO, WE SHOULD CONSIDER IT MORE OF A LIMITED SUCCESS.  WE WERE ABLE TO LOCATE THEIR TRAIL, SOMETHING WHICH WOULD HAVE BEEN IMPOSSIBLE BEFORE, UNLESS THEY CARRIED ONE OF THE RECORDERS WITH THEM.  OR, IF NOT IMPOSSIBLE, PURELY DEPENDENT UPON RANDOM CHANCE. +

Harbonah dims slightly, and reduces in size.  For a while, he says nothing, until Salamiel, sounding almost desperate, speaks instead, + WE BELIEVE THAT THIS PROVES THE WORTH OF THE TRACKERS.  MORE SHOULD BE PRODUCED. +

+ WE SHALL CONSIDER IT.  MEANWHILE, DESTROY THE CITY AT THE FIRST OPPORTUNITY. +

+ THAT MIGHT NOT BE ADVISABLE. +

+ YOU WOULD DISOBEY ME, ON THE SAME DAY THAT YOU REPORT YOUR... LIMITED SUCCESS? +  Harbonah flares, bright as a sun, and his voice shakes the pillars of crystal.

+ ONLY TO SUGGEST THAT, SHOULD THIS WORLD REMAIN UNTOUCHED, THEY MIGHT BELIEVE IT TO BE AN UNCOMPROMISED SAFE HAVEN, AND RETURN TO IT, ALLOWING US TO ENSNARE THEM. +

+ VERY WELL, DO AS YOU SUGGEST.  BUT BE AWARE THAT WE ARE OBSERVING, AND HAVE LITTLE PATIENCE WITH LIMITED SUCCESSES. +

Salamiel disappears from the crystal, and Harbonah goes back to studying the evershifting images.

"We've arrived in a timely fashion, it would seem," Aaron quietly said to his comrades. "Rotten bastards."

He ran his thumb over the hilt of his blade, eyes glued to the flaming scene before him while he payed attention to Harbonah's meetings with his advisors - or lackeys, more likely.

Cyan turns an unhappy gaze toward Devlin for a moment.  "Can you take on the form of an Archon?" she whispers, though the idea disgusts her.  "It might give us a moment of time, an instant of uncertainty should we find ourselves face to face with the Enemy."  She cannot bring herself to raise her voice, not with Harbonah so 'close'.

"This place," she begins, in explanation to Aaron, "is a room of vision.  These pillars radiate the energies of palanqueti - hardly surprising, given the source of the Archons' power.  I believe it sees only That Which Is, rather than That Which May Be."  Her lips thin in a frustrated grimace.  "Though I cannot say for certain."

She shoots a worried glance at Aaron when he states his own thoughts on Harbonah's possible strategies - the grudging respect for the monster's tactics.  Dorian has considered the same, putting himself in Harbonah's 'shoes', so to speak.  Have not others sought to analyze his strategies similarly?  Have not others suggested terrible acts to attempt to stem the tide?  This war makes monsters of us all, she thinks with despair.

What good a universe saved, if those who populate it are nothing more than reflections of the enemy?  James understood this.  They all did, in truth - Aaron's abrupt halt proved he caught himself - but James, from what she understood, had gone through it.

I expect the others have, as well.  Aaron has spoke and hinted of terrible deeds in his time away.  Dorian...it goes without saying, given what he has absorbed from his twin.  And Devlin?  Suspicions, only.  And then there is herself.  And Berd.

We become the Enemy.

"It must be stopped, Aaron.  Before all of us-"  Harbonah's booming voice cuts her off, and Cyan hunches for an instant, waiting for the axe to fall.  But it is only another report, and she straightens to listen.  A chill washes over her at the sight of the city and she leans forward, an oath on her lips.  Berd shoots a quick glance her way, and Cyan subsides with a nod, her eyes like burning rubies.  Trackers - it is as Right said.  They are the hunted.  This Salamiel has inner fortitude.  Despite its fear, the Archon persists in arguing what it believes to be the best course of action.  Dangerous - very much so.

Or does it play its own game?

"Indeed," Cyan breathes in response to Aaron's epithet.  "Dorian - have you found aught of note?"

Berd, on her shoulder, remains hunched and readied.

Harbonah observes the rapid flow of images.  Occasionally the stream slows, allowing a more detailed study of a particular situation, but it soon resumes its rapid pace.

World after world, war after war.  An unendending torrent of death and destruction...

Speaking quietly back, Devlin answers Cyan, "I could take the form of a bladed one, perhaps." As he speaks he touches Nightbrand and it detaches itself, beginning to form back around the mans wrist. "If I can, I shall do so."

Dorian's gaze is distant, looking upward as much as outward. "There are many possibilities," he says, his voice slow and soft. "I have learned some things, but not enough. There is little I can be certain of with such short time."

His gaze drops and he blinks. Looking at Cyan from the corner of his eyes, he adds, "We should not destroy this place. There would be echoes in many places, and I believe this is only one of many such rooms. I also considered eavesdropping, but that is a dangerous road--as are all roads this close to Harbonah. Still we came here because we decided it was time for risks to be taken. Given their Palanquet-like nature, I'll defer to your expertise in such matters, though."

He didn't comment on the shape changing. He doubted that any Archon able to see them through his cloak would be fooled such a change for even a moment. He had seen through an Archon's eyes, they didn't see the same way other beings did.

"Time is short, Amber will need us soon. If we are to do anything but research here, we should do it quickly."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:32, Thu 27 Dec 2007.

Harbonah continues to watch the scenes playing out before him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that those he has set his hounds to hunt across all the Myriad Worlds are currently lurking inside his own home, concealed within the shadows of his throne.

A fine irony, perhaps, but one that Harbonah might not be capable of appreciating.

A twitch, and Dorian scowls. He lifts on finger to the others. "Wait."

His next movement is subtle, but recognizable to those who know him best. He head tilts just slightly, causing a lock of black hair to fall forward. His brow creases just a bit, eyes narrowing.

Concentration.

After a moment, he says, "There are ... things ... within the very 'walls', the structure, of the fortress. Beings, I should say, but lacking a corporeal form, hundreds of them. Cyan, do know anything of them?"

His features slacken and pale a bit, and he adds, "They bear a strikingly similar nature to--"

"Me." Galatea's form seems to solidify slightly more, and she turns in place, hovering as she revolves in a full circle. Her eyes sparkle with opal brilliance as she peers around her, searching.

"What are they?" she whispers. Her searching eyes land on her father.

Fascinated, Cyan watches as Nightbrand slips from her arm to Devlin's.  A curious weapon, that...and much more, perhaps as much as Ilsefravnier had been.  And it keeps her eyes from what Harbonah observes - the creature's clinical study of destruction sickens her.  "If you can mimic them completely," she whispers, "all the way to their spirit's aura, then do so."

A sidelong, ruby glance to Dorian, then, and she nods.  "Yes.  Risks must be taken.  I would leave an insect - a bug, if we could forge one that would stand the test of stealth against their senses."  Berd, upon her shoulder, rises up slightly, and Cyan frowns, but then the drake freezes where he sits, eyes aglitter.  Waiting.

Dorian's explanation comes.  Cyan's wide eyes flick to the walls, and she weighs his revelation and Galatea's clarification, seeking, probing with her own senses, not truly expecting to discover anything.  "Like Galatea," the bard whispers.  She is too weak in this way.  Berd, on the other hand, rises higher upon her shoulder, his head snaking around.

The tiny, gem-like eyes begin to burn as he turns them upon the walls.

Finally, it seems, Harbonah tires of the observation of his schemes.  As suddenly as he arrived, he simply disappears... fading and expanding with no more commotion than a smoke ring.

"Be on your guard," Cyan whispers.  "Harbonah may have noticed something.  He may have left in order to summon reinforcements."  It's not impossible - the Archon is a cunning, dangerous foe, rather than an unthinking brute, perfectly capable of setting a baresark rage aside to better reach his goals.

Especially if those goals involve his enemies.

Berd's eyes burn as he observes the walls.  The little drake crouches low on Cyan's shoulder, and a vicious hiss splits the air.  Cyan's face pales at the sound, accentuating her sapphire eyes, and she stares at the drake in shock for a moment.  "You are certain?" she whispers.  Then she nods.  "There are spirits within the walls.  The spirts of the dead, perhaps.  The fortress holds them, and their imprisonment is torture."  She swallows.  "For what reason might Harbonah hold such spirits?  Is it even his doing?"

"And how might we free them?"

"Very carefully," Dorian says. If any humor was meant, it is evicted from his expression and tone. "If the walls bind them, then anything that affects the walls will likey affect them, too. We may not have the time for such experimentation, and yet ... I do not wish to leave them in such a state."

With Harbonah departed, there should be less to worry about.  But still, the group are interlopers in a fortress of alien design, where the physical laws they know of no longer apply in the same manner they are accustmed to...  Further, the fortress is home to a race of beings, and one of that race, in particular, which has declared them enemies...

Somehow, nobody seems to feel like relaxing.

Cyan again pauses, waiting.  Not long - the tranfer of information between her and Berd occurs in a unique way, on a different channel than regular psychic communication, and many times quicker.  She nods once, with a ruby glance to Dorian.  "We will not.  Berd has puzzled out a methodology to unravel the reality of the walls, at potential weak points where the spirits cluster.  Unbinding them, as it were."  She raises an eyebrow at the little drake.  "We shall have to begin calling you Kalkin."

Berd snorts.

"That was one of your...?  Never mind."  A helpless shrug, and Cyan returns her attention to their small group.  "I am uncertain how much time remains.  Dorian believes our window closes.  I am of a like mind.  But perhaps there is more we might accomplish here, in that small time.  Are there any ideas?"  Her lips thin.  "I have considered seeking out other prisoners - beyond the mercy of release from Harbonah's clutches, they might hold information of value."

She blinks once, and her face hardens.  Then a rueful smile twists her lips.  "Yes," the bard whispers to Berd, reaching up a hand to scratch his head.  Berd, for his part, looks not at all comfortable with the attention, closing his brilliant eyes.

Dorian glances at Berd. "How long will it take? And will it alert the Archons to our presence?"

He decides it best to make certain preparations for the worst on his own.

Devlin had been quietly concentrating, his form seemed to blur once or twice as he tried to do what Cyan had asked of him. He was managing to hide his fatigue, but not well. The attempts to change were not going well, but he did not let the others see any of the pain it caused. Finally he gave up, it seemed he was of no use in this place and could only hope they were not discovered.

He remained quiet and listened as the others planned.

Aaron couldn't help but snort, for Dorian stated his own question exactly.

"Sorry, Cyan, but Dorian's got the gist of it. If we're running out of time, then we need to make our secondary actions quick and decisive."

He looked to the walls, leaving his blade unsheathed for the moment, though he through of replacing Ilse behind him.

"I can't imagine what it's like, being chained to a place like this."

"A rather short time," Cyan replies to Dorian's question, apparantly listening to Berd.  "And yes, I suspect it will draw Harbonah like a flame to a moth, so to speak."  She pauses, her amber eyes glazed as the information flow continues.  "No other prisoners that Berd can detect."  Her lips thin, her eyes harden.  "Apparantly I was an only child," the General concludes.

A glance to Devlin - the man holds his confidence for the moment, but looks prepared to act should something untoward occur.  She nods grimly at Aaron's words.  "Indeed...and you both have the right of it.  How much more shall we search, here?  Have we found something of sufficient interest?  Have you made sense of any of this?"  Her arm arcs to indicate the chamber.  "We must remember Harbonah's words, what we have seen here, today.  And the others...they must be warned."

The hounds are close.

Aaron's final words ring within her, and she stares at the wall.  Through it, to a nearby place as worlds go, a room within this structure and her memory.  "I can," she whispers.

Then her onyx eyes blink and the Warrior rouses herself.  "Do we have other business, here?"

The shifting light of the fortress sends shadows sliding about the chamber.  Many times those shadows have no visible source.

Berd raises his head, looking about him.

Galatea moves a little closer to Dorian.

With a voice mingling fear and interest, Galatea says, "Something is coming, and it moves quickly. We've been discovered."

"Our time has expired," Dorian says. "Finish now, and retreat. And be wary of trackers."

He bends his own mind to finishing up his own work here, subtle work none will discover until it is too late.

"Gather around, everyone - decide to where we must flee."  Cyan's eyes brighten, now a misty topaz, catching the light with odd, rainbow glitters.  Her body tenses, and a small smile twitches at the corner of her mouth.  Berd, on her shoulder, nods once to Dorian and Galatea and turns his attention upon the walls.

"If you have any ideas, now would be the time.  Else Berd shall free the prisoners, and we will make our escape."  Her smile vanishes for a moment, and Cyan shakes her head, vexed.  "No information, in truth.  Only more questions.  But at least we can do something for tormented spirits."

Dorian stands near Cyan. "This was not in vain," he says. "Prisoners will be freed. And further good may come of this mission, even yet. Our escape must be good, though. Harbonah will not take this lightly. And ... other good will come of this in the future."

He nods to Berd, a tiny smile playing across his lips. Deep inside, he wished Harbonah himself would show up. Oh, to have it all over with in one final confrontation. No, he didn't imagine they would win so easily. It was the release from this cursed mission that he savored.

"I am ready to leave. My works here are complete, as well."

Berd reaches out with his will, his eyes burning bright and hot as twin suns, and shards of darkness scatter around him, umbral butterflies fluttering along erratic courses...  Random-seeming paths which, nevertheless, appear to mesh into orderly patterns...

"Some good," Cyan whispers.  A small light in the darkness, and is there any other way to win this war?  "Yes."  Sapphire eyes brighten, and she holds out her hands.  "Take hold, everyone.  Something comes with purpose, now."  Her small smile twists into a grin.  "I suspect our escape will attract further attention."

Berd takes a moment to reflect upon the light within his own eyes.  Ironic, as usual.  Then he reaches out his spirit, and his voice echoes in the latticework of this place.  It will echo far after they leave, another gauntlet thrown at Harbonah's feet.  The gates shatter, the walls crumble.  Take your freedom, prisoners, and pass through.

As they prepare to leave, a small smirk crosses Dorian's face. Done. The visit here, while risky, may prove to have further gains in the future, still.

Indeed. Aaron thought to himself, agreeing with Dorian's statement.

Reaching out, he took hold of Cyan's shoulder, feeling all the better to soon be well away from a place such as this.

There is sound, sensed in the diaphragm rather than the ear, followed by a silence so intense that it registers as pain for the brief moment it endures... and then the air is filled with the laughter of released spirits, and the splintering of crystal.

The pillar with the view of Hosk starts to topple, and the image itself scatters into a million shards, bleeding out onto what passes for a floor in this place.  A second pillar starts to tilt, and now the ghosts can be seen, gathered around it, pushing at it with insubstantial limbs, which somehow manage to cast it down.

A third pillar starts to lean.

The intruders start to fade out as Harbonah's fortress is attacked by those who had once been bound into the very walls.  In the last instant before they drop into the Underflow, a shape comes into the chamber of the pillars... a thousand multi-jointed legs of metal, bone, and chiten, supporting a bloated, distorted body.  A head which sweeps back and forth, seeming to blindly search for its quarry, seeking a scent.  Burning ichor oozes from flesh which constantly decays and regenerates.

The creature seems to detect its prey, and emits a sound... a sound which drives needles of pain into the minds of those who hear it.

It is perhaps fortunate that the Underflow swallows the questors and carries them away from the fortress.  As they drop into the deep places between universes, they spawn a hundred echoes, ripples and reflections which scatter in every possible direction (and a few which are not altogether possible).

"Holy God..." Aaron thought. "If he didn't know he had visitors, Harry'll certainly get the inkling by now."

It was a statement made out of tension. Aaron felt that, even in the Underflow, they were not safe. He felt considerably open, even this deep in the stuff of the universe.

Indeed, comes Cyan's reply to Aaron's thought - here, the voices of the mind ring loudly, and they all hold contact.  Her own mind brims with amazed horror at the release 'behind' them.  We know that shape, do we not?  The Archons fought a war countless eons ago...and won, only barely.  And they bound the spirits of their fallen foes.

The Vhuul.

What have they released?  And with its vengeance complete, will it go quietly?

The questors spiral through the blinding light of the Underflow, through the eddies and currents of power, ignored by distant, brobdingnagian shapes.  Ripples of Berd spin off from them, forming decoys to confound any pursuit.

A new trick, Cyan notes.

The drake grins, needle-teeth bright.

To where do we flee?  Seek out the other questors?  If so, which group?  I suspect dropping into Amber through the Underflow might prove difficult...and dangerous.

Berd's smile vanishes.

...and Berd will not risk such a journey.  The enemy may be clustered about the poles and his decoys only function if they do not know our destination.  Additionally, he remains wary of Amber's nobility.

Galatea's small brow is furrowed. "It is not safe," she says, glancing at her father. "Not yet. I think we are still pursued ... by something else. We should use caution." It is perhaps, the most she has yet said to anyone but her father since manifesting.

Her eyes flick to Berd and then Cyan. "As a suggestion."

They are away, and Devlin is glad to be away from that place; even with what he could do and what he had learned to do, he was useless in that place.

He notices, but does not comment on the creatures unleashed. It was not long ago the he himself was condemned by these very people... No, that does not matter.

Cyan asks where they should go. He'd like to see one of the others again, but where they should go should not be chosen by his personal feelings. To seek out some of the others, from what he knew some were on there way toward Amber and others were seeking out a path that he'd set. He had not communicated with ämi since they had started for the place thy only just left. He would not again until he knew they were away. Devlin did not know if such communication could be sensed, but he didn't want to take the chance. The man decides that he'll leave this decision up to the others. Right now he is tired and just wants to rest. In this place, between worlds, he gets whatever rest he can get.

Aaron shook his head.

"No, not Amber." The flaming image of that reality still blazed like a sun in his mind's eye. "They would expect that, perhaps have already set a myriad of traps for us, if the City itself is under seige. I surely hope it's not, for the sake of our comrades."

He sped along with them amidst the Underflow, focusing mostly on the next task at hand. He had only been to Amber for a very short while, and hadn't noticed anything overtly negative - though certainly, there had been an air of tension. Something not often felt in that place.

"I have no destination in mind, though I can think of hundreds, and take us by means other than the Underflow, if you wish, Berd."

Aaron was actually hoping Berd would let him continue their journey. Since his own, swift trip to Amber and its Pattern had instilled in him a desire for practice in its esoteric power. The Pattern, for Aaron, was not a thing oft-used, and he tended to apply it more out of a sense of feeling rather than thought-out manipulation. He figured he'd remedy that, at some point.

"Any ideas?"

"It doesn't matter where we go," Dorian says, "but I agree it should not be Amber or Cadiginart. Perhaps someplace new where we can see if we're followed for a time, before we move on."

Berd's...ah, decoys should confound pursuit.  But it would be best to remove ourselves from the Underflow.  After answering Galatea's little ghost-form, Cyan glances toward Aaron.  Not Amber, indeed.  Perhaps it would be best if you were to lead us through the Myriad Worlds, Aaron?  Ilsefravnir's bearer holds within him a mighty key to the doors between worlds, and Aaron's ability to use said key seems to have increased over the two years Cyan had been away.

Many changes have transpired over that time.

She casts a worried glance at Devlin, silent and tired after his exertion in Harbonah's sanctuary.  She considers their destiation.  Dorian appears to have no ideas at present, and so...

Perhaps it would be best to rendezvous with Chance and Trista.  We could attempt communication with James and the others, to discover any news, discern if they require assistance?  It might even be quicker for Aaron to find Trista and Chance, given that they might well be warded from Berd's 'vision'.

And if Amber indeed be under seige, they would be better off preparing at a 'staging area'.

We follow your suggestion, Dorian.  Ruby eyes glitter in the light of the Underflow, and Berd raises his head.  A new place - untouched, as yet, by the Archons.  Out of the blinding light they rise, toward the glittering galaxy of worlds above, toward a small cluster of lights, then one in particular....

"I'm at your service, friends," Aaron simply intoned. He placed himself in a state of preparation, something he had begun considering since his last progression through the Pattern. He felt it had become... necessary, for his particular talent.

Yet his preparations were twofold. Mentally, he was bringing the Pattern into consideration, but not actual contact - doing so amidst the Underflow might cause others to recognize its specfici signature, and bring wrath down upon them. Physically, he loosened Ilse's blade from the scabbard at his back, but kept the weapon sheathed.

"I agree that we should reconnect with Chance and Trista. Though it was good of us to seperate, so as to cover many fronts, I can't help but feel open to attack from so many different areas." He snorted. "Maybe I'm just paranoid. Again."

There is a rippling in the Underflow, and vast shapes move aside, as something immeasurably more vast swims among them, and then it turns aside, not even seing the group of travellers, who are far beneath its notice...

The travellers themselves fall, and swarms of stars dance about and among them, transforming into sparks which fly upwards from the campfire.

Overhead the stars are stationary now, brilliant and steady in the cold, clear air.  Beneath their feet, sand crunches.

All around them, the desert night is silent.

Paranoia is only so if there is noone hunting you, Aaron," Cyan replies, slowly turning in place to stare into the darkness.  She reaches up a hand, absently scratching Berd's eye ridges.  The drake slowly sags into a ragdoll shape on her shoulder.

Turning to face the others, Cyan hits them with a smile - a wide grin for Devlin and Galatea, a somewhat uncertain smile for both Aaron and Dorian.  She drops her eyes and slowly sits, shrugging out of her pack and swinging it around before her.  "As always, I would be more than pleased to work on something to eat.  Devlin, you appear exhausted by your efforts."  She grimaces.  "The Archons' world is no place for the use of Powers...for any of us."  Dorian's magic would have invited attention, as would Aaron's Pattern.  Her own palanquet proved utterly useless where Archons gather, and Devlin's shifting could not cope with the environment.  Berd had even exhausted himself - it had proved all he could manage to free the spirits and guard the group from discovery.

"A dangerous trap, that world," she muses, amber eyes flashing golden in the firelight as she brings out her food.  "I agree again, Aaron.  Separation has its purposes, but only when concentrated can we bring our strength to bear.  Besides," she finishes, an edge of concern in her tone, "I fear for our friends."

Worry still marks Galatea's face as she looks about, seeming to search the desert for signs of life.

Dorian gather his cloak around him and sits crosslegged before the fire. "Food would be welcome," he says. "May I offer any help? After such an adventure, working with my hands would be welcome."

He glances sidelong at Galatea. A flicker of sternness passes over his features for a moment.

Galatea, though not looking at him, suddenly turns to face her father. She nods and quickly kneels beside him--floating inches above the coarse sand that was painted yellow by the campfire light.

Looking back to the others, Dorian announces, "It is improbable that we are still followed. I'm sure Berd has done an excellent job of masking our withdrawal."

Devlin drops to a seat on the sand, still weary the man looks around at the desert sands. "Food would be welcome, and help me regain my strength. But I fear I would find little game in this place."

The shifter's eyes, and concentration also seem as if they see something further away than the desert.


Then his attention returns to the others, and he appears to be regaining his strength as he sits there. Perhaps it is being away from that place where his newfound gift was so useless. The man looks around the desert again, "On second thought, if more meat is required I'm sure that D'Ombra could locate something. That is if you are not picky about the type of meat." He knows that even in a place like this, there is life. Small rodents live in the desert.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:23, Mon 25 Feb 2008.

As if to prove Devlin a liar, there is a sudden sound carried on the night air, the call of an owl, by the sound of it, though where it lives in such a barren land is hard to imagine.  Still, if there is life nearby, there must be food and water to support it.

"If you wish," Cyan states diffidently, her tone belied by the sidelong grin she tosses at Dorian.  "Here."  She passes him a 'cloth' bowl, already part-full with something that looks like flour.  "Put water in and mix it until it gets sticky."  She absently wonders if Dorian has ever had to cook for himself.  Likely he summons meals, Cyan considers with some amusement.  Aaron, most certainly has, given his time wandering dusty roads.  And Devlin?  Probably never - his eating habits don't require such trivial tasks as 'cooking'.

Her sapphire eyes dart curiously toward Galatea for an instant.  A problem, there?  Had she questioned Berd's protections?  Not a problem, really - the little dragon, half-concious on her should, has been wrong before.

Her face darkens for an instant before she sighs, letting out a long breath and returning to her pack, which produces an astounding amount of spices, oatmeal, dried fruit, some wilting vegetables, and nuts.  Vexed, Cyan taps the drake on his snout; Berd jerks awake, snorting a puff of indigo smoke.  "Small wonder it felt so heavy," she notes before turning to Devlin.

No doubt he can find game - there are creatures here, and the dark man has proven himself more than capable.  "Should you wish, I have the makings of a stew. Best to use these before they go bad."  A wave to the vegetables."  A twisted smile flickers on her face.  "I will...stick to the porrige, I fear.  My taste for such things vanished some time past."  She swallows, looks away.

It's hard to bring cooked meat to the mouth when one has spent time in darkness with the scent of one's own seared flesh in the air.

"Aaron, should you so desire you may rest...or mix the porrige," Cyan continues, already grinding spices in a small, agate mortar.  She pauses to shake her canteen - not much water left.  "Or seek water," the bard finishes ruefully.

Dorian nods his understanding of the instructions and accepts the bowl from Cyan. His careful regard of the bowl is less confident as he ponders how much water he should add and exactly how it should be mixed without getting all over his hands.

Yes, he could simply conjure up some food. He's done so for them several times already, but when he offered to help, he intended to do it her way, and remains dedicated to that intent.

It's just a matter of understanding how.

Devlin leans back n his elbows in the sand, his legs stretched out and crossed. He feels quite relaxed, watching the comedy before him as Cyan hands the bowl to Dorian and th man, plainly unused to labor of the sort, tries to figure out what to do with it.

He smiles, "If you think the food must be eaten, Cyan, then I can forgo meat for a meal to help finish it up."

Then the man lays back on the sand with his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. He doesn't sleep, instead he thinks, and plans. He wants to know who... that still has not left his mind... but he lets it go for the moment, ämi was almost to Charyk, then he would know what was there. If he knew what Trista and Chance had encountered, he would have recalled his little friend. But he didn't... He needed to know, just as he needed to know who the man with the gray and red hair was.

Devlin's thoughts raced through his head as he rested and waited.

Cyan purses her lips with amusement as Dorian puzzles his way through the work.  She says nothing, though, knowing how prickly the man can be while working on something unfamiliar.  Afterward - now there's the time for needling.  "Better we eat it, Devlin.  It comes from somewhere, if that where is only Berd's imagination, and it would be a waste of effort to throw it away."  She laughs quietly as a memory stirs, a buried, shattered fragment slowly fitting itself back into its proper place, cracks and all.  "I should tell you of the first time he attempted to summon foodstuffs.  Filled my pack, and no matter how much I removed, there still remained more, with no room for my gear!"

Berd snorts once, his head rising.  "No, no," Cyan whispers, brushing at his eye-ridges.  "Rest, you - I only jest.  The bread was quite tasty that day, and you gorged yourself on bass."  Her smile softens.  "I remember that."

Ruby eyes harden.  "But.  We still require a course of action.  I believe that contacting the other should be at the top of the list.  Do we have other thoughts?"

Devlin takes Cyan's question as an opportunity to go over some things that he has been thinking about. As he speaks he looks up at the sky as if studying the stars.

"I have been giving that some thought. I am very interested in a few things. One of these is the missing brother. When we were in Charyk, before the trouble started, we learned that the Archon may have been servants of the brothers. Maybe this is not true, but I think it warrants further investigation. Trista told me of what happened in New Charyk after I left. It seems that no one knows what happened to the other brother, the one with the sword. I would like to know what happened to him, if he yet exists? It seems that if he is out there... somewhere... that he would have some very useful information. ämi currently seeks out old Charyk to discover what became of the place..."

This is the first time he has spoken of his friend openly, a bird that is in reality so much more than a mere bird and quite unlike any creature that Devlin has ever created.

The man says nothing further on that an seems to change subjects as quickly as one might change thoughts.

"And then there is the sword, the one taken by a man that called himself Carl Corey, a name even my teacher knew. The huge man with the gray hair with red highlights and gray eyes. The same description was given of the man that gave the sword and staff to the brothers to begin with. That one called himself Ganelon, another well known name. I find it all very interesting, a sword and a staff given, both of which the giver knew would destroy the wielder if used against the other... and then, as if planned, the staff wielding brother was provoked into attacking the sword bearer... Quite possibly setting into motion the events that brought us to this place."

Devlin's thoughts spill out of his mouth as he thinks them, in a rambling sort of way.

"... I would very much like to find this man with the gray and red hair. I find it an odd coincidence..."

And yet another thought entirely...

"Berd, I have been meaning to ask you something, and it has to do with the way I move from place to place. If you would, I will send you an image, an impression."

As suddenly as he had started, the man stops speaking and continues to stare up at the stars. The stars remind him of the trips Berd has taken him on in that great void he called The Underflow.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:28, Sat 15 Mar 2008.

"These are just a few of the questions we've left in our wake," Dorian said. "And not without effort answer them, I should add. I know several of us made attempts to locate the sword, Carl Corey/Ganelon, and even the other brother at the various times, all with no success. Yet, I cannot but help this man is at the heart of things and could give us many answers. I do not believe it is any coincidence. I don't think any of us do."

His eyes flick to Galatea and then back to the fire. The daughter turns away from his glance and doesn't acknowledge him.

"There is one resource that I didn't employ, though I am loathe to do so. Galatea's mother may now have the ability to search deeper into the infinite worlds than any of us. Perhaps I should ask. Ancient wars and bloodshed, while very serious, should not be the downfall of the worlds. Have we any other course to seek them out? I know we believed Amber might hold some answers, and that might still hold true." His voice holds little commitment to the last sentence.

"Amber, indeed, that place might well hold some answers..." Devlin continues to think out loud. He'd thought, at one time to keep this all to himself. for short moment he still considers it."... though I would rather not go there just yet. At one time I thought that was where I wanted to go, but now... I'd rather no one there new of me just yet."

The dark man is quite for several moments, A shooting star streaks across the sky.

"I've given some thought to who this man, Carl Corey, or Beldrin, or whatever his true name is, might be. It seems that he would be an Amberite, as this group has said before. One with some great hatred of that place. Yet I do not know of one with the description we have been given. He would either need to be completely unknown or perhaps thought to no longer be significant"

For the first time since the conversation started Devlin looks away from the stars and the night sky. He glances quickly around at the other four. Then his attention returns to the heavens as he continues. "There are two Amberites, that I know little of, not even a description could my teacher give me. Other than their names and some little history about how they were banished from their home, and how they were said to have been killed in some war. Who could hate that place more.

"Maybe they are dead, but perhaps one of their descendent's... Or maybe one of them is still out there and the rumors of his death exaggerated for some reason. It would be nice to get a description of them, if nothing else it would remove them from the list of suspects if the description does not match; Benedict would be the one to ask."

Devlin closes his eys, there is a quirk at the corner of his mouth, "Many questions indeed. Many questions and few answers. It seems that we need to get some of them answered. Make a listing of all of our questions and then figure out which might be answerable and then seek out those answers."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:04, Mon 17 Mar 2008.

Cyan listens in silence for a long moment.  Then she slowly nods.  "I am in agreement.  The Archons are the foe we see.  But we can do little to them, in reality.  We need to find the one who hides - the orchestrator.  The one who has pulled the strings for milennia, it would seem."

She examines the food.  It seems close to ready.  Taking the dough from Dorian (and noting the gulf between himself and his daughter), she forms biscuits, prepares them by the fire as she speaks.

"We must find this Carl Corey, this...Ganelon."

Her sapphire eyes thoughtful, she glances first to Dorian then to Devlin.  "Amber, we have people there.  We must trust James and the others to find all they can.  It would seem neither of you have any great faith in Amber, as well."  A small smile touches her lips for a moment.  "Perhaps Devlin is correct, and this Ganelon is one of the 'lost' Princes of Amber?"

She turns the biscuits on their hot rocks.

"In any case, Ganelon is the first place we should search.  Perhaps..."  Her lips thin, and she glances to Dorian.  "Perhaps we need to seek all the help we can find, Dorian.  Though I would not wish to press you in this."  A look to the silent Aaron.  "Might the Pattern itself hold the key to finding Ganelon?"

Cyan sighs.  "Questions.  Too many.  But yes, I believe we need to concentrate upon Ganelon.  Find Trista and Chance.  See what they have discovered.  Then move together to seek this Carl Corey.  Swiftly."

Berd lies silent, considering.  Cyan's words echo in his thoughts.  His skills are too specific to seek out this Ganelon.  He cannot cast himself, willy-nilly, into the Myriad Worlds with the command to 'find Carl Corey'.  In this circumstance, he has no use.