Somewhere out beyond the light of the fire, an animal calls, its voice eerie and unidentifiable in the desert night.  Miles away, another answers, the same strange cry, an odd wailing sound, vaguely reminiscent of a crying child.

The two continue their long distance conversation for several minutes, and, somehow, the air itself feels colder still as they discuss vital matters of territory, or companionship, or hunting.

Then they fall silent, as a shooting star burns a brief, fiery line across the sky.

And so the conversation at the fire, more human (though some of the participants are, themselves, no more human than the desert creatures), continues...
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:25, Fri 21 Mar 2008.

Devlin feels better now, refueled by the food and rested.

The man's head turns to the side and he appears t be studying something, though his eyes are slightly glazed as if what he is studying is far away. He still appears to be studying whatever he sees when he says, "We are at Charyk..." his speech broken, as if it is only part of a conversation.

"...It burns yet, nothing lives save rats and vermin feeding on remains of the dead..."

"...Ormvråkar have returned the their nests..."

"...There are none to tend them..."

"...The towers smoke..."

"...nothing, there is nothing..."

There is remorse in his voice when he says the last.


Devlin's gaze returns to the fire. "I had thought to begin my search for the missing brother at Charyk. Maybe I was wrong, it could be millennia since he was there, but it is the only place where I am certain he was, once. If any has a suggestion on how to proceed. But I will not abandon that search yet."

Devlin looks up from the fire at Cyan, she'd said she wanted to find Trista and Chance, and then search for this person that called himself so many names. He agreed and he said so, "I agree with Cyan..." or was she agreeing with Devlin since he had started this search before he'd said anything about it? Did it matter? "...I would like to find this Carl Corey or Ganelon or whoever he really is, and perhaps we could use the help of Trista and Chance or some of the others. I have a good idea of where Trista is, or at least where ämi left her. They should not be far from that place. There was a large lake and talk of a town on the far side."

As Devlin describes the place he also sends an impression it to Berd to be passed on as needed. "I think I could get there quickly enough, but no one can follow the way I go. Perhaps it would be better for another to lead."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:08, Tue 25 Mar 2008.

Cyan glances up from the remains of her meal.  "I concur with Devlin," she says, her tone thoughtful.  "We need to band together, find what Chance and Trista know.  Then I will use James' palanquet to determine their progress.  Once we are fully appraised of the situation, it will be time to seek out this Ganelon."

Her lips tighten and her eyes catch the fire like rubies.  "Time enough for answers.  His answers, of which he should have many."

Berd cocks his head, receiving the information from Devlin.  Cyan sighs, relieved - they have a starting point.  "Does anyone have a swift means to take us there, without resorting to the Underflow?  If possible, Berd wishes to avoid its use - the dangers are great, with so many Archons on the move, and the other assassins - whatever they may be - tracking us."

Dorian gathers his cloak and stands, leaving his mostly-finished meal. Galatea cocks her head his direction, as if listening. "Swiftly," he says, "perhaps, but not as swift as the Underflow, but I can get us there swiftly. It won't be pleasant."

That won't be a surprise to them, he thought.

From within the folds of his cloak, he withdraws the brass compass. It gleams in the firelight. How many years had he carried this thing, never knowing its origin or its true use. Somewhere among the folds of time, it carried a link to his family. When he asked it to take him home, it took him to Amber.

It took him to Amber; how was Amber his home? He had no home now, not Samhain, not Amber. Amber was in his blood, but it was not his home.

He turned his dark eyes on Galatea, who now regarded him with wide, but equally dark, eyes, brimming with curiosity and trust.

Dorian had seen the cost of Amberite blood in his veins. Blood meant nothing, and the compass was a traitor. Amber was not his home. He had carried the compass for a thousand years. It represented hope and answers, but it had never given him anything but questions.

So be it then, he thought. I must leave behind all ties. Let the enemy have no leverage over me, or I cannot win.

The dark eyes then sought out Cyan. All ties? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

The eyes go back to the compass now. The thing had magic. It had his psyche imprinted on it after so many years of use.

He said to the others, "A moment...."

He began to scour it, scrubbing all impression of his aura from the device. His eyes swept over every detail. Then, he left something else in its place. When done, he took a white handkerchief and rubbed it down with great care.

Then he tossed the compass aside, leaving it to lie in the dirt. Amber was not his home. Why have links to it?

"Stay close," he says. "We shall go quickly, but I will try to mask our passage."

This message was last edited by the player at 23:19, Thu 27 Mar 2008.

Staring into the flames, Aaron seems to almost be hypnotised by them, not even reacting to the conversation going on around him.

In reality, though, he is lost in thought.  An idea has been taking shape in his mind.  An idea with interesting implications, for himself and for his companions.  He considers his possible courses of action, in detail.  Every detail.  The conclusion is obvious to him.  So obvious that it is almost amusing that he hadn't seen it before.

Stretching, finally, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his cigarettes.  Lighting one up, he looks around at his friends, as they discuss their next move.  There's no time like the present, I suppose.  A pull on the cigarette, while he chooses his words, and then a shake of his head as he decides that the best way to handle it is the most direct.

"I'm afraid that I won't be coming with you.  There's something I need to do.  Once it's done, I'll rejoin you."

There.  It's been said.

Cyan's eyes sharpen at the sight of the compass, then widen as Dorian finally casts it aside.  Her hand reaches out, a motion aborted by Berd's warning chirp.  She leaves it hanging for a moment, staring after the abandoned tool, then slowly nods with a long, emerald stare at Dorian.

Is this how it will be for all of them?  Casting pieces of themselves aside, losing who they are, bit by bit, until nothing remains but raw purpose?  How can such tools as they will become earn victory?  Where is the worth?

Will they still recognize each other when this is all finished, she wonders, studying Dorian's hatchet-face, his shadowed eyes.  But at his command she nods, turning to gather her gear.

Unfortunately, Aaron's next words freeze her in her tracks.

Berd covers his snout with a wing as Cyan's blunt nails bite into her palms.  She grits her teeth for a long, long moment, before slowly rising to face the scion of Auld Thiriel.  Her eyes glitter in the dim light, like pale, pale topaz.  "You leave us."  Bands of pain tighten around her chest as she breathes in, her smile strained.  "You...Aaron..."  Her eyes flick to Dorian for a heartbeat, then back to Aaron.  "Always you leave us.  You...you say things, important things, then leave us."

Berd rises upon her shoulder, fanning the air with his wings, but Cyan ignores him.


"Thus far you have returned."  A whisper, and for an instant a smile twitches the corners of Cyan's lips.  There and gone, and suddenly the tension fades.  Colour floods back into her eyes, and she turns away.  "Please," the bard whispers, fingers fumbling with her pack, "do so again."

Standing, she turns with the deathiron held, sheathed, in one hand.  Ruby eyes shimmer as she glances from Dorian to Aaron, then into the sky.  "I have walked this path from the beginning.  I have asked for little for myself, in truth.  But we have lost so very, very much.  Now I ask."  She closes her eyes.  "Please return, Aaron."

Devlin begins to move when Dorian says to get ready. He does what little he can to help Cyan gather up and he starts to scrape dirt over the fire.

He doesn't look at Aaron when he makes his announcement, but it does raise an eyebrow. He doesn't look at Cyan either, the tone of her voice tells him what she thinks of it.

Devlin is not about to stop anyone from leaving, if Cyan and Dorian did not want to go with him it would be him that was now heading off on his own now. He'd like to know what Aaron thought was so important, if it had anything to do with anything. But he does not ask.

Instead Devlin keeps scraping dirt into the fire and then continues to help Cyan prepare to leave.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:18, Tue 01 Apr 2008.

"Believe me, my friends, I do have every intention of returning." Aaron replies, grinning.

"There is a thing which has been preying on my mind since I first joined this quest.  Recently, thanks to Berd, I was shown the Underflow.  I was distracted by that for a while, but my thoughts have now gone full circle.  Armed with the knowledge I have found since becoming part of this group, I believe I have the answer I sought."

He laughs quietly then, and looks up at the stars.  "As with far too many things, I was looking for it in the wrong place.  I now believe that I know where I should look, and it isn't in Amber, as I had thought for so long."

His voice drops to a whisper, "Second star on the right, and straight on till morning."

His eyes drop, to lock with Cyan's, "If I have it right, then I believe that when I return I can become more of a thorn in the Archons' side.  Should you need to find me... well, I'll be right behind you."

"We need you, Aaron.  With whatever you bring, even if it only yourself."  A weak smile twitches her lips for a moment, and she closes topaz eyes.  What she feels for him, what she feels for Dorian, Cyan isn't certain - things have progressed altogether too quickly for someone gone so long, her mind still struggling to make sense of the wreckage left by Harbonah's work.  But she knows this: she needs him here.

Abruptly Cyan lurches forward, her customary grace deserting her, and throws her arms around Aaron in a strong hug.  "I hold you to this."  Closing her own eyes, she draws in a long, shuddering breath.  "Trust that I shall call, ere the end, and I will expect you where you say - stepping forward from behind us all."  A final squeeze, and she releases him, leaning back to look him in the eye, brushing her ragged hair from her face.  "So many others have gone, Aaron.  Fallen away, or fallen entirely."

Otandal.  Duncan.  Morgan.  Kendall.  Lexy.  Lazarus.  Ares.  Kalika.  Kia.  Andrej.  Leonardo.  Kaelyn.  Jack.  Serena.

So many lost.

Her fingers fist in the collar of his cloak, and she gives him a mock-shake.  "Disappear, and I shall hunt you down."  Her grin wobbles, but is true.  Then Cyan slowly unclenches her fist, releasing Aaron.

Letting him go.

Aaron nods, "I think that Arianne wouldn't allow me to not come back."

He turns then, seeming to select a section of the horizon, almost at random.

"That direction looks as good as any.  I'll go that way.  What about the rest of you?"

Somehow, even when he has a plan, leaving this group again never seems to get any easier.

"We go to seek Chance and Trista," Cyan replies, stepping back.  "Soon, by means of Dorian's sorcery."  Her lips quirk again.  "Go safely, Aaron of San Anyn, Aaron of Auld Thiriel.  Know that we attend your return."

Lords of the West, let him not become another name upon her list.

"Take care, my friends." Aaron says, and turns to collect his gear.  He frowns as he realises that he doesn't, in fact, currently have much in the way of belongings.  It appears that he'll be travelling light, though he has a feeling that he'll find whatever he needs just beyond that nearest hill.  Or perhaps the next one.

Aaron starts to walk, and doesn't look back until he's gone at least a hundred yards.  That look shows him his friends preparing to make their own departure.

He starts up that first hill, thinking, A horse would be nice.  And some supplies.


Back at the now-extinguished campfire, all are ready to go...

Dorian remains expressionless as Aaron's form shrinks into the distance and then disappears over the hill. He had no doubts that Aaron would return to them when the time was right. That was Aaron's way.

When the man is out of sight, Dorian takes a deep breath and looks around to each of those remaining. They looked ready. With a nod he turned himself to face a direction opposite the one Aaron had taken. It seemed fitting, somehow.

Chance and Trista, that was their destination. He fixed that goal in his mind. His fingers flexed, aching for the cold, hard comfort of the compass, but he reminded himself why it was not in his hand, and why. It was the right thing to do.

He says, "Follow." And begins to walk. He doesn't look back to make sure they all follow. Either they will, or they will not.

Devlin watches, disinterested, as Aaron walks off.

Then Dorian simply says "Follow" and begins walking in the other directions. Devlin waits only a moment to allow Cyan with Berd to start before him and then he takes up the rear as they make their way towards their destination.

As they walk the man is slightly preoccupied with his own thoughts. A different path they were on now. They could fight the Archon forever and never gain ground, they needed another answer. Devlin was glad that at least Cyan understood his take on the situation, though he had no idea what Dorian thought of it. He already knew that Trista agreed, it was good they were heading in their direction, it would be good to see her again. Strange that... he was not attracted to her as he had been to... There was something else, he felt connected to her in some strange way.

Devlin thought momentarily of ämi, thought about calling his little friend back, but did not reach out to do so. Better that it rested until Devlin could figure out what to do.

Going, going....

Gone.

Aaron dwindles to nothingness, swept away by the tidal forces he commands.  Cyan nods once, then jerks as Dorian utters a cold command.  Her gear is prepared.  Berd sits in his place.  Devlin awaits her movement.

One foot after another, she paces the distance after Dorian, slowly catching up.  Once, Cyan glances over her shoulder, a wry look for Devlin in her sapphire eyes.  Then catching up with the ice-edged sorcerer and his daughter, she cocks an eyebrow.  "Must we follow, or is it acceptable to walk beside?"

The girl looks up at Cyan with eyes mixed in wonder and curiosity, tilting her head at the question. "Acceptable?" She half-smiles, bemused. "You are the woman among men; you should lead. That is acceptable. Yet, it seems many things are not the way I was used to them when I last viewed the world with my own eyes. I have been watching; in some places, men lead. It is strange."

Dorian is not happy with the question. He thinks while Galatea speaks, still entangled in the culture of Samhain where men serve and women lead. So many things were new and wondrous to the child. She knew that Samhain was something of a rarity in the infinite shadow, but she still saw the ways of her home as the right way of things. Samhain was her Amber, in a sense.

Follow. How else can he lead them through the Myrian Worlds? Beside? Of course, he can lead just as well with her at his side, and how much better it would be with her there, giving the slightest chance at a random brushing of the hands, or a few glimpses eye to eye. Yet, at its heart, he still leads and they still follow. Else, they would be lost within the worlds, would they not? Perhaps not, he thinks. He knows little of the Broken Pattern. Perhaps he could follow and still lead--a fascinating thought, and one philosophers would cherish, too.

"The only thing that is acceptable, Cyan, is that you choose your own path and walk it. I can only hope that your path and mine go side-by-side as closely as possible. That is the only thing that gives value to this miserable quest."

He knows the question is probably not so literal, though. He is no stranger to diplomacy, and thus the art of conversation. Yet, all conversations are like a duel. Two fencers maneuvering for a goal. This is not her way. For her talk can be talk, and he is pleased by such things. Though they are not so easy for him to grasp at times.

"Forgive me," he says. "I did not mean to give orders. I sometimes find myself too focused on the battle, and forget that you, Devlin, Aaron, Berd and the rest are also friends."

Cyan flashes a smile to Galatea, the girl's openmindedness refreshing.  One would think her too steeped in her culture to easily question it, but Dorian has remarked more than once on her exceptional nature.  "One thing I have learned in my travels through the Myriad Worlds is this: in truth, everything I know may be proven wrong when I step into the next world.  I must therefore carry my own world within me, and see the universe through the lens of my heart."  Reaching up, she rubs Berd's head, and the drake presses it against her palm.  "What is correct in a world remains so, but it may not be correct for me."

But she falls silent at Dorian's harsh words, her ruby eyes flicking a glance toward him.  The hand on Berd steals to her shoulder, touches the curious hilt of the massive blade upon her back.  Not in consideration, but in an unconcious movement, reaching to straighten the ugly weight.  But Dorian continues, and smile reappears from behind thunderclouds.  "Miserable indeed, Dorian.  To be truthful, my paths have been murky for years now."  All to easy for her to forget that for them, only a month has passed, or less.  "I find the storm parting, though.  Perhaps in many ways."

She slants a look at him again, ignoring his apology regarding 'orders'.  That is simply Dorian's way.  "Perhaps we have all forgotten how to relax.  I know you had made great strides."  Reaching out, she touches his forearm.  "But if you forget our friendship, is it not to us to remind you?  If we do not, have we not failed our own duty to you?"

Galatea's expression grows more serious. "But how do you know your lens is correct, if there are so many lenses through which to view the worlds? Can more than one thing be truly correct?"

It's an alien concept to the child, who was raised in strict environment of true and false, right and wrong, all dictated by the will of her parents and an ancient, unyielding culture of unique complexity.

Dorian regards his daughter cooly, as she begins to wrestle with new concepts. It relieved him to see her able to learn and explore on her own. It was another sign of her independence from him, and not just an errant, rogue part of his psyche playing tricks on him.

Then his own expression becomes more serious as his eyes fall back on Cyan. "I am pleased the storm is parting for you, and I can only hope you will be there always to remind me of our friendship when I forget."

He lifts his head then, facing the direction he walks, letting the wind push his hair back and taking in the dry desert odor. He was seeking an ocean breeze, for he knew one must be near. Ships were the fastest travel where he came from. His mind was recalling images of Samhainian longships, low in the water but remarkably stable with their long, shallow keels and pointed, raised fore and aft sections, drakehide sails that could take any amount of pounding.

"Relaxation. I believe at some point someone mentioned we should all take an extended vacation when this is all done." He brings his eyes back to hers, eyes full of deeper meaning. "I fear that many things that should be, will have to wait until this is all over. The stress of this campaign makes such things difficult--seeds struggle to grow in hardened soil. I think I tried to make such things, between you and I, grow too quickly where the soil could not support them."

Except he was the hardened soil. Such things just couldn't grow in him easily.

They move on, for hours, through the cool desert night until, just as dawn colours the horizon to their left, they top a rise which reveals a long steep drop on the other side.  The desert landscape is a plateau, high above a vast lowland.

In the early light, that lowland gleams and glints.  Wetland... a marsh, thousands of channels winding between low, muddy banks, stretching as far as the eye can see.  The air, here on the edge of the desert, stinks of salt and decay... and dead fish.

Near the base of the slope, a small town stands, though "stands" is perhaps not entirely accurate.  The buildings, even in the low light, are obviously decrepit, leaning against each other for support, their roofs sagging.  At the edge of the marsh, there are small boats, pulled up on the muddy shoreline.

Some distance off, a cluster of tangled trees suddenly erupts into a cloud of white.  Some sort of large birds, hundreds of them, rising skyward to greet the dawn, and circling briefly, before flying off in small groups, presumably to find feedinbg grounds for the day.

At one point one of them had said something about a vacation. He'd already had quite a one, they could all go there now and relax for a decade while the rest of the multiverse stood till. He'd said nothing, taking the time to watch how people interacted, not something he was particularly good at when he didn't have something of substance to communicate; one of the penalties of spending most of your time alone.

Devlin was becoming weary of the walk, not physically, but mentally weary. This was turning into the longest he'd ever walked, at least on two feet.

His path would have been more direct, but as yet Devlin was unable to walk that path with anyone but himself. He'd tried it in the past without success. He was just reminiscing about that time and thinking, Maybe if he...

Then they topped a rise and a ramshackle town appeared at the bottom of the steep slope at the edge of a swamp. He had maintained his position, walking at the rear of the group. This was a good as the others could not see him shake his head, not that he'd done it consciously, but the shake when along with a stray thought about being another obstacle.

So be it.

Devlin paused for a moment there, looking down and the old town.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:38, Sat 26 Apr 2008.

Cyan nods her head from side to side for a moment, considering her answer.  "You need to feel its correctness.  That's something that comes with time, and no lens is perfect.  It is so difficult to make the 'correct' decisions, Galatea."  Reaching up, she scratches Berd again, but the little dragon seems subdued.  "We can only do our best," she mumurs, "and hope we do not fall too far off the mark."

Her eyes shine like topazes when she glances back to the girl.  "And when we make a mistake, we can only attempt to correct it and forgive.  Most times the former is easier than the latter."

Her eyes grow far away, and she lays a hand upon Dorian's arm.  "Hardened?  Say, rather, frozen by winter.  This is only spring for me, Dorian; the first green shoots sprout where last year's bounty's lay."  Her eyes darken as she paces beside him for a time.  "Truly, I know not what the frost has left, but the shoots...they are there."

Cyan remembers.  Fragmented, disjointed, sometimes seeming to belong to another person, but she remembers.  And then there is Dorian's gift to her, what pushed her over the edge in Charyk.

Letting her hand fall to his, she laces her fingers with Dorian's and raises their clasped hands.  "Come what may, I hope to be here as well.  In friendship, at the very least."  At the very least, if not more.  But not for always - she cannot say that to this grim man of surprising emotion beneath his obdurate mask.  For Cyan knows she will not be here, not always.

All clocks wind down.  Eventually.

Releasing Dorian's hand, she settles the massive blade on her back.  "I would be glad of a vacation," she murmurs, a small smile on her lips.  "Perhaps to practice farming."

"Of a sort."

Silence, for a time.

Then they crest the ridge, finding the town before them.  "Is this-?" Cyan begins, staring down with a frown upon her features.  Will they find their lost compatriots here?  She glances back to Devlin, trailing after them in silence, and motions for him to move up.  "Devlin...behind us is no place for you.  There is more than enough room for all to stand together."

It doesn't feel right to Cyan, that one of them should walk at the rear, not when there is sufficient room to stand shoulder to shoulder.

The father remains silent, stealing only a inconspicuous sidelong glance at his spectral daughter to gauge her reaction to the conversation. He agrees with Cyan, but he knows its not an easy thing to learn. That she is reaching out for such wisdom impresses him.

But he's also impressed and bewildered that she exists at all. At first, he thought she was merely some fragment of his own psyche, but she exerted her own will and broke free from his mind, find a way to manifest. They remain connected, though, and she remains a projection of his power, even if she has her own will.

"Frozen, then," he agrees to her suggestion. Already, her touch on his arm spread warmth like spring sunshine through his scarecrow body. He wants to say more, especially at her words of frost. What could be said. Enough has been said for now. She knows how he feels about those times.

Her hand slips down to his fingers and it makes his heart skip. Such contact was taboo on Samhain, the stratified and impersonal society that spawned the dark sorcerer. Such a simple gesture shakes his core values, but he doesn't fight it. He doesn't pull away. He embraces it, fingers tightening ever so slightly, reveling in Cyan's own impressive strength that he could never match.

It's a matter of trust that she may not understand, to allow such a touch. He knows, though. He knows the manner of attacks that could be launched from either side through that touch. It is the reason such things were rare on his home world of sorcery and psyche--practical paranoia. To open up to these little touches, which he receives from her more than he gives, takes conscious effort.

Then the touch is gone. He feels his arm relax in the absence.

"Not entirely what I planned," he says. It never is. "My method of travel is not as refined as the Amberites, but it is good I should practice it. Don't worry, it may be difficult, but we will reach Chance and Trista."

Galatea listens to Cyan, eyes alight with sincere curiosity.

The conversation moves back to other topics, and she senses from her father the raw significance of what is said, and not said. Seeing the enfolded hands, she smiles and her eyes glitter in the dark. She drifts off to the side, letting her own thoughts, and hopes, wrap her up.

Her first mother had murdered her, sacrificing her on an altar to power a dark device. No matter what, this one could not be worse. So she felt hope for the first time in centuries.

"Habit, I guess." Replies Devlin to Cyan's comment about walking behind. "Not walking behind so much as walking alone." And with that he moves up equal with the others.

"This town, if that were a lake rather than a swamp, could be the one Chance and Trista were headed for. But ämi left them at the side of a large, clear lake, still."

The man's head tilts back and forth as his thought drift elsewhere momentarily.


Then he is back.

Devlin knows nothing of the way Dorian moves or how he guides them. Chance assures them that they will find what they seek, and strangely, that is good enough.

"If I could, I would shorten our trip. But the only thing I could manage is to get there before you. I think that we should stay together and hopefully they will not go far from where I left them before we arrive."

Dorian says, "We should take to the water from here. Let's check the boat. If it isn't water-worthy, I can provide one for us." He lead the way towards the boat they had spotted.

Perhaps a thaw, though Cyan would be hard-pressed to decide in which of them.  Both, one hopes, though Dorian seemed disturbed by her gesture.  A difficult pill to swallow - memory and heart tell Cyan she was once and still is demonstrative, quick to throw arms about friends.  Or, rather, she once again grows in that direction, drawn to what is real.

"A habit to break," she replies to Devlin, tapping his shoulder with one fist - very lightly - and considering his analysis of the swamp.  "Perhaps this is a reflection?" she hazards.  "We may be close.  Berd?"  The drake chirrups, then warbles quietly to himself, his eyes glittering more quickly.  "Staying together seems the wiser decision...I have seen too many friends split away recently."  Her lips twitch into a grim smile, and her emerald gaze falls upon the boat ahead.  "Hardly a riverboat cruise this time, is it?" she murmurs as Dorian leads them toward the dilapidated town.

Close up, the town looks no better than it had from a distance.  Everything, including the people who live here, is dirty and crawling with assorted vermin.  Even in the narrow street which leads through the centre of the township, the mud is ankle deep, and home to a hideously twisted type of crab, as big as a man's hand.

A group of children, clad in ragged clothes, which seem to be mostly held together by the dirt, are squatting in the muddy thoroughfare.  They form a circle around two of the crabs, which they are encouraging to fight by the simple expedient of using twigs to push them closer together.  The arthropods, it seems, require nothing more in the way of encouragement, and are soon busily attempting to remove various appendages from each other.

Like everybody else, the children pause in their activity to watch the strangers pass, and the distraction results in one of them getting nipped by his chosen combatant.

Considering the conditions in the town, the boats are in surprisingly good shape.  Every one is different in exact form, but there are similarities.  Each is carved from the trunk of a single tree, though, judging by the marks left by adze and axe, "hacked" would probably be a better word than "carved".  They all look very sturdy, and heavy for their size.

There are men near some of the boats, working at repairing nets, but the work stops as the strangers approach, and the men stare at the visitors, their expressions ranging from curiosity, through surliness, to hostility.  One of the fishermen, an older man, whose bare torso is covered with intricate tattoos, sets his net aside, and stands, spreading his hands out to the sides, to show them empty.  He smiles (though it's not altogether convincing), displaying teeth which have been filed to points, and says, "Stranger al'ays good to see here.  What you wants?"

Berd's mouth opens in a wide grin that puts the spokesman's to shame.  Cyan ignores his silliness, instead focusing upon the people and the greeting.  No warning from the little drake...despite their appearance, it may very well be safe here.  She ignores the dirt and filth, save to note she will require a bath after passing through the village - Cyan has travelled through worse, slept in worse, during her time.  Many World Walkers have.

"We seek passage - a boat," she replies politely, with a little half-bow.  "Though we can make our own, if need be."  Doubtful anything they carry will purchase a trip across - what need do these people have for gold?  For items?

Devlin is immediately distrustful of the locals, but why he cannot say. Cyan has stepped forward as the spokesperson so he simply waits to see what type of response her question receives.

Infinite worlds, Dorian thinks, means infinite poverty, among so many other infinite things. He would help these people, given time, but what good would it do. Someone else, somewhere else, would still live among vermin, dirt, and crabs. Helping others has never been his strongest urge, but sometimes it was stronger than others. He understood they might have reasons to live here, but life must hard for them considering the state of the buildings and clothes. He wondered about their history, but reminded himself that larger problems lurked at their heels.

Indeed, what could be done? It was a grim sight, and it darkened his mood to think on it. If only they could quickly pass through and find Chance and Trista. He'd rather not think on this place too much. It could prove even more distracting if he stayed.

The man squints at Cyan, and smiles his unsettling smile, "Aye, you makes selfs boat, right easy, but who knows way through Myras?  We trades then.  I has boat, but what you has?"  He reaches behind him with his right hand, to the small of the back  and when his hand reappears it is holding a knife.

Holding it out, for all to see, the whole thing, hilt and blade, seems to be manufactured from a single length of bone, "You has iron knifes?  Three iron knifes, for cross Myras."

He nods towards Berd then, "That tastes good?  Maybe we makes trade, if you has more like same?"

The air around the boats is alive with biting insects, growing more lively as the morning warms up.  Galatea and Berd seem immune to their attentions, as does Dorian for some reason, but everybody else seems to be the target of an increasing number of attacks...

Berd's eyes dance with amusement as Cyan wipes her hand in the air, scattering bugs to no avail.  The jade-eyed woman grimaces as they seek blood, then sets her feet, resolutely ignoring the little devils.  "Perhaps the knives," she replies.  "The beast is of a terrible flavour, or so I'm told."  Berd snorts, settling in and curling up, disgusted at the insult.  "What of steel knives?  Two, not three?" Cyan continues, falling into the age-old pattern of bargaining.

Her hand reaches back, into her pack, and she fumbles around for a long moment.  Berd chuckles, a chiming peal of musical notes, and the bard comes out with a steel and wood tool, slightly curved, the blade a touch longer than Cyan's hand.

"Steel!"  The man's voice registers some surprise, then he grins, displaying those filed teeth.

"I has heard of this steel.  Like iron, they says, but even stronger.  So they says... "  A short pause, while he thoughtfully plucks one of the bloodsuckers from his cheek and crushes it between thumb and forefinger, and then, "Show me the knifes of steel.  If steel is better than iron, like they says, then we has a agreeing.  If not, then three knifes is still the price."

His eyes go back to Berd, "You sure about the beast?  There's things out there that taste bad," he waves his left hand towards the marshes, the Myras, "an'll kill a body stone dead if they aren't cooked like right.  Maybe it just haves to be cooked right ways."

One of the other men, sitting nearby, laughs, and looks up from the net he is repairing, "Benich, there's things out there as'll kill a body, even if he haves cooked it like right.  Some of them things looks close like to that one, like cousins.  Course, you takes your chances.  If you eats it, and dies, then I gets knifes of this steel.  Law of Kin."

"Don't worry." Dorian smirks darkly. "We have much better uses for that one ... for now. And much better things to eat, as well. We offer steel or nothing."

He didn't want to drag the negotiations on more than they needed, but he couldn't resist taunting the "handbag" for a moment, knowing Berd would understand he meant nothing by it.

Cyan handled herself expertly talking to these men as easily as she might a prince or lord. He admired that. He could perhaps talk, but he knew his judgment would ultimately taint his conversation. Cyan seemed to speak to everyone as equals, so long as they didn't prove to be dishonorable in some way.

The bard tosses a quick grin Dorian's way, as Berd loftily ignores Dorian.  Oddly enough, he does nothing to dispel the flies, and Cyan irritably waves one hand around her head for a moment.  "Ah, Dorian.  You feed his ego, you are aware?"  A jest from the dark man is a welcome occurance.  She dimly recalls a time where such an event might set the group back on their heels in shock...years ago, Cyan realizes.  Way back when-

She colours, shaking her head with another smile for the sorcerer before returning to the 'bidding'.

"My pet has his uses, to be sure."  Reaching up, she pats Berd and, seemingly mollified, he curls up and sticks his head under his wing.  One eye glitters momentarily.  "Part of my family one might say."  Family.  This family.  "We keep the beast and..."  Her hand flicks, snapping the knife around to icepick grip, and she proffers the pommel.  "...you examine the steel."

Berd's head raises, and he turns to stare curiously at the second man who spoke.

[OOC: sorry for my lack of involvement lately.]

Devlin remains quiet throughout the discussion and keeps his eyes alert, watching the men. There is still that nagging feeling, which may just be paranoia, but still.

The bugs he does his best to ignore  and then they don't seem to bother him at all.

The man named as Benich accepts the knife, observed closely by the one who claims he will inherit the blade, should anything happen to Benich.  He juggles the knife end over end, testing the balance and the weight.  He squints along the blade, and presses a thumb against the tip.  Finally he flips it over, to hold it by the blade, and hurls it towards a nearby hut, where it neatly impales a four inch centipede and pins it to the door frame.

"Bloody lucky throw."

"No Korfin, I's that good.  You knows it."  He looks from Cyan, to Dorian, to Devlin, and back again.  "Two knifes of steel and we can goes now."

The second knife follows, end over end into the wood, impaling the head of the writhing bug and instantly removing it from its misery.  The hilts of the knives are so close together they might well be touching.  "Your second," Cyan notes, a sad smile on her face as she studies the limp creature with jade eyes.  She slowly turns back to Benich and nods.  "Now would be best, yes."

Berd, on her shoulder, croons something soothing and chews on her hair.  Cyan absently caresses his eye-ridges.  Her stomach turns, nausea threatening.  Even a bug, now.  All life is precious, she thinks, waiting for the man to collect his blades.  Not to be tormented or snuffed out at whim.

Not so long ago she wanted to do the same to the universe as she did to the bug.  Tear it from its misery.  But the situations are different  There was no saving the centipede from a short, miserable, pain-filled end, not after a massive blade clove its insides.  The universe?  Still able to be saved.  Still worth being saved so long as a single man or woman walks a lonely world.

"Are we ready?" she inquires of her travelling companions, still staring at her boots.

Devlin was in the process of opening his mouth to say something when the blade flew from Cyan's hand to finish the insect. Perhaps something about finding another way across, since he did not trust the men they were looking at. Why did he find it so hard to trust any now.

Instead he shrugged at Cyan's question, "The longer we stand here the longer it will take us to reach our destination." The man says in answer to the woman's question about being ready.

Benich nods, and gestures to one of the boats, "Gi's a hand, and off we goes."

It doesn't take long to wrestle the heavy boat into the murky water, and within ten minutes they are leaving the decrepit township behind.  The boat, more of a canoe, really, is narrow, with a shallow draft, and with the weight of Benich and his passengers, only has a couple of inches showing above the water.  Still, it seems sturdy enough, and makes good progress.

Before long, they are deep in the midst of a maze of waterways, sandbanks, small islands, and dead logs with an interesting tendency to blink golden eyes at the boat as it passes.  The tall reeds conceal any view beyond the small area of, mostly, clear water around the boat.  The only landmarks are the scattered trees, many of which seem to be dying, festooned with moss, and burdened with large, untidy nests.

The passengers are seated in the bottom of the craft, while Benich stands in the stern and drives them through the mosquito-infested marsh using a sort of long spear, with a curved blade, as a pole.  The reason for his choice of implement becomes apparent about thirty minutes into the journey, when a highly accurate swing of the weapon removes the head from a serpent which had reared up to threaten the boat.  The bloodied water around the dead snake seems to boil, and there are brief glimpses of silver-scaled bodies breaking the surface, as the reptile is torn to shreds.  The boatman resumes poling, and remarks, "By the by, don't be dangling nothing o'er the side.  Least not if you wants to keep it."

The heat grows as they travel further into the swamp, as does the stench, and the population of biting insects.  Benich pulls a stoppered metal flask from inside his vest, where it had been hanging on a cord around his neck, and upends it above his head, briefly.  Then he tosses it to Cyan.

"Put two drops on your head then wait a bit.  It'll hold the flies away, once it's got a chance to mix with some sweat."

Sure enough, after a little while, the dense clouds of insects around them thin out considerably.  Once again it becomes possible to breathe without the danger of inhaling some bloodsucking fly, or bloated wasp looking for somewhere to deposit its eggs.

On they travel, for long hours, until a new landmark comes into view.  A spindle of rock, looming above the marsh, and marking the presence of a small, though solid, island.  "Half way.  We stops for rest now.  Eats too, if you's hungry enough, I means."

The marsh journey proves to be fraught with danger, hellishly uncomfortable...and beautiful.  Despite her struggles with the endless attacks of stinging and biting insects (which thankfully trail off after the application of Benich's liquid), Cyan stares about her with wide eyes, taking in the sights.

At the rest stop, she hops out (after careful examination of the rock, and Berd's 'a-ok') and spins to assist the others from the craft.  "The colours," she breathes, staring out over the vast expanse of greens, broken by the occasional water-lilly.  "See there - the vines on that tree, and the moss from which they slake their thirst.  Slight variations of shade..."  With an amber, artist's eye Cyan surveys the land about them, finally moving to crouch before a small, creeping orchid.  She does not touch, though.

A memory of a book, a small, pale blue flower trapped between its pages, a field of such flowers...and a tall piller of stone.  Gone, now.  Destroyed.

The bard bites her lip.  "Kalika would have loved this," she whispers, before standing.  "How much further, Benich?"

"'bout the same again," the boatman replies, as he secures his craft.  He removes the polearm before he steps away from the vessel though, resting it over one shoulder, "I'd not be touch that, were I youse.  Times there's a little green beetle hides in 'em... pretty as anything they is."

"One of they stings you, and it burns like picking up a lit torch at the wrong end.  A week, 'bout, after that, the real pain starts.  Lasts 'bout a moon, if you don't die from it first.  Course, you dies in the end anyhow, with thousands of pretty green beetles chewing their way out through your skin."

He steps carefully past the plant, and points towards the black, basaltic spire,
"There's a little cave there, at the bottom, with fresh water.  Or, if you feels like it, the top gives a good look at the lay of the land.  Not that there'd be much to see.  All looks the same."
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:54, Thu 05 June 2008.

Cyan grins back at Benich, her hands nowhere near the lily.  "Oh, yes.  The first rule - no touching."  She returns her gaze to the lilly, her amber eyes growing faraway.  "I remember the Upper and Lower hells," she whispers, "and Midworld with its own, deadly traps.  The acadi, the silversith...and the dust-motes, so very much like this beetle."  Her eyes darken.  "Or was that where Jack..."  She frowns, struggling to remember.

Berd chimes, and Cyan's face clears.  "Both.  Yes."  She smiles softly to the little dragon, then slowly stands, careful not to brush anything as she does, watching where she places her feet.  Old habits return.  "Better to not stand open on high ground," she muses, recalling the Upper Hell and its denizens.  "I shall wait out our rest.  Food comes later, in safer climes."

As the boat, if it could be called a boat, made its way through the maze, Devlin quietly contemplated. What to do, where to search next, he did not know. But there was no point leaving his friend in the burned out wreckage of the city.


"So many things that kill, it seems that is the way of nature." The man suddenly says aloud, obviously speaking to Cyan as she remembers such things from her past. "It is the way of life. Each creature doing what it must to continue to exist. But at least such creatures as you speak of do not consciously kill when there is no need. They only do so out of instinct. The same can not be said for creatures that are able to reason."
This message was last edited by the player at 10:59, Wed 11 June 2008.

Benich heads for the cave, and its freshwater spring.  The opening itself is difficult to see from any distance, being partly hidden behind a screen of moss-choked bushes.

Inside, the dim light has a greenish cast, filtered, as it is, by the vegetation.  The air is much cooler here, and a rivulet of water trickles from a fissure in the wall, flowing down, to soak into the floor.  The floor itself is of fine black sand, and there is what looks to be the makings of a campfire in there, though the wood, neatly stacked, seems a little rotten.

"Damp wood be best.  Smokes more, and holds back the skeeters and the tick flies." Benich says, as he starts work on setting the fire.

As the flames start to take hold, they cast a little more light around the small cave, revealing more details.  The chamber is no larger than ten feet across, in its longest dimension, with a low ceiling which slopes down a little towards the rear of the cave.

The ceiling, it turns out, probably the most is interesting thing in there.

There are ancient pictures there, primitive in design, faded by time and obscured by soot, but still visible, if you look closely.  Men are shown hunting various animals; horses, some sort of wild cattle, birds.  There are hand prints, and abstract designs of circles and dots.

And an unmistakeable burning hoop...

Cyan turns a steady gaze to Devlin for a long moment, slowly nodding to the wisdom in the man's words.  Berd, on her shoulder, regards the traveller with sleepy eyes.  "So very true, Devlin.  The beetle within yon flowers, the acadi, the burrowing wyrms of Ceceistus IV...all seem to be horrors, but are in truth nothing more than creatures of their nature.  Vicious?  Indeed."  She returns her stare to the flowers.  "So made by the pressures of life in their world."

"Evil?"  She shakes her head.  "No."

Standing, she moves back to the group, offers Devlin a raised eyebrow.  "So very true are your words.  Only when we rise above does the possibility of evil begin."

Which, of course, begs the question.  Is it possible to appeal to the Archons?  Strike a deal?  While their nature is vicious, they choose their path.  Some have not become monstrous in deed.  Some have chosen a route of study and intellectual pursuits.

Might it be possible to halt this without genocide, upon either side of the equation?

Cyan muses upon these thoughts, following their guide into the cave.  There, another surprise awaits them...though it should not be so.  It is not the first time, Cyan considers, staring at the crude paintings, they have met with evidence of Archons in the Myriad Worlds.

"Benich."  She raises a finger to point at the burning hoop, even as Berd exhales a puff of scintillating smoke to further light the cave.  "Can you tell us aught of this picture?"

Dorian might have agreed with most of Devlin’s words, but he was quickly lost in his own thoughts as he gazed up at the crude drawings.

This is where it all started, for him. Centuries ago, he stood in a gaze cut into a craggy Samhainian mountain and studied cave drawings. As he studied, the reality dawned on him. The artists were much more advanced than he could have imagined. From studying those drawings, he had unburied the first inkling of the terrible machine that stole his daughter’s life and drove the final wedge between him and his home world.

The Progon people, possibly the progenitors of Dorian’s people, had been a people of peace, but their knowledge had lead to destructive consequences. How ironic that in the end, both he and Drusilla had found little satisfaction in conquering, yet they could not find peace between themselves.

Sometimes, he mused, one can travel far only to find it’s all been a big circle.

Cyan voices the question on his lips, so he remains silent and waits for the answer. He moves a little close, still looking up at the ceiling. Her presence reminds him how far they’ve all come in their journeys. His gaze now lurks on the burning circle.

It’s no surprise; they’ve all seen evidence of Archon’s on many worlds. He himself had even found a unique side effect of their presence at the site where he and consolidate his split existence. It was through that side effect that he had hid the other body, for whenever he might need a backup.

Cave drawings were stories, first attempts to take oral knowledge to a more permanent level. How did the Archon fit in with the designs and pictures of hunters? Perhaps there was a story here.

Galatea's big eyes gazed up at the ceiling, also aware of parallels to the Progon cave language, but not nearly as distracted by them. Her interest were in things far more present. Furtively, she gives her father and Cyan quick glances when he moves closer.

"We'll never be rid of them," she whispers. "They didn't come from our side, but they are everywhere, just like our kind. They are ... ubiquitous ... like the mosquitoes." She glances at their guide. "You don't get rid of them, you just learn how to deal with them."

Did it matter if these insects spread a different kind of plague? For more deadly, and cunning too, but not much different than mosquitoes.

Benich moves closer, peering at the image indicated by Cyan.  A shake of his head, and then, "Nah, not much.  These be old.  Older than Dionagh, what be an old city, where the Old King lives.  The folk what made these were gone long afore men comed to Myras."

"They left story pictures in lots places round here.  Three winters since, a man comed from Dionagh for to see some pictures.  We showed him, and he wrote in a book what he seed here.  He telled me and Korfin 'bout these old people, I forgets what he named 'em, but he telled us as how they followed strange gods what changed the shape of the world.  Changed it from a good place, to what you sees now."

"All dreg, like most old stories."

"Anyhow, two days later, he got himself bit by a tick fly.  After the sickness took, it were a kindness when we killed him."

He turns away, moving off to throw more damp wood on the fire.  "Got to watch them tick flies."

And the story leads to the obvious question. If the man with the book was dead... "Do you know what became..." Devlin's head nods up at the man as he changes the wording he was about to use. "... what happened to the book the man from Dionagh wrote in?"

Cyan nods her head to Galatea's whispers, dropping into a loose-limbed crouch beside the spirit-girl.  "Hmm...yes," she mumurs.  "Save that these mosquitos can talk.  Reason."  She shoots Dorian's daughter a lop-sided smile.  "And perhaps that might be the key to their 'defeat'.  I no longer believe the answer lies in destruction," she muses, "but in discussion."

"The trick, of course, is beginning the conversation."

Devlin fires off the important question, and Cyan attends Benich's answer with great interest.  Berd, on her shoulder, closes his eyes, but a thin ray of light spears from under one of them.

"The book?" Benich frowns, scratching at his head, and then continues, "I think as Korfin had it.  Don't know as he's till having it though.  It were three winters since, like I sayed, an' it be hard to find aught that be dry in Myras, even in the summer.  Winter time, aught that'll burn easy be worth more'n it's weight in iron."

"Korfin likely used it for tinder, long since."

And then an idea seems to strike him, and he smiles in his friendliest manner, which is to say, showing as few teeth as possible, "If you wants to see it, we can be going back an asking him."

Devlin looks at the strange man with the pointy teeth and then at Cyan.

He shrugs.

The man does not really want to turn back and wants to get to where they are going, but he will not say so, at least not directly. "Is there any point if it was likely burned to keep this Korfin warm?" Devlin says to her.

Then Devlin turns back to Benech, "Unless someone read the book before it was used as firewood? I might be able to pull the information from their minds... if you feel the information is important enough to warrant the return."

Cyan rubs her head.  Balked at every turn.  "Berd?" she murmurs.  The little dragon sighs, and immediately closes his eyes...but not before they begin to dance with light.

She looses a lopsided grin to Devlin.  "No, Devlin.  We shan't be going back for the book - this journey has taken too many twists to date, and all probability states that the book is burned.  Berd may be able to do something, but..."  She shrugs.  "Thank you, Benech, but no - you have been most helpful, but we shall continue."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:23, Wed 02 July 2008.

"Then I'll be taking me some grub then." Benich replies, with a shrug, "Poling Myras is making for hard work.  You's welcome to sharing.  Steamed fish, I gots, and bread."

Dorian moves away and finds a seat by the water. He sits cross-legged and traces idly in the black sand, as if lost in thought. The book, it may have answers. It didn't seem worth the time to track it down if it might be ashes now. It seemed very likely that it would be ashes, too.

"Thank you, Benich," Cyan replies.  "I'm afraid my diet is a trifle particular, though - there are many things I cannot eat.  I shall stick with my own - no offense taken, one hopes!"

Berd lets out a small huff of rainbow mist; it dissipates almost instantly into the air, vanishing with startling alacrity.  He opens one eye for a moment, and it glitters like a distant star.  Then it closes again.  Cyan smiles faintly, opening her pack ostentiably to check for food.

And there, on top, lies the book in question.

"Well done," she whispers.  It may not be exact, but this reflection should be close enough.  Besides which...the Archons move from World to World.  They likely visited the nearby reflection of this one as well.

Benich grins, his filed teeth displayed once more, and shakes his head, "No offences.  You eats own, means more for rest.  Mind, you's not looking like you's eating more'n a bird would."

He eyes the book curiously, then shrugs, and goes back to preparing his snack.  It seems that his passengers won't be needing to go back and talk to Korfin, to see if  he still has the book.  A lost chance for a little extra profit, but no matter...

He mashes a piece of fish on to a slab of dry bread, then picks out a long bone which is exposed by doing so.  Another piece of bread tops it off, and the whole thing is pinned together with the recently extracted bone, before being placed on the sand close to the fire.

Leaning back, Benich looks at the images on the ceiling, before bringing his gaze back down to Cyan, "Where you's getting book?"

Cyan sniffs, amused at Benich's disdain for her food.  She shakes her head, grinning ruefully.  "I've lost weight," the bard mumurs, knowing she certainly has in the last few years.  Pounds she cannot afford to lose.  But eating had become secondary to her purpose, and now she finds certain foods turn her stomach.  I need to determine how to eat properly, she considers.  There must be a way....

The bard cocks her eyebrow at his question, and pats the bag.  "Magic," she replies, the simplest explanation.  "Not the book, in truth, but a reflection.  A twin to it.  Once I knew it was, I could make another that is."  Close enough, with a few obfuscations of the truth.  It irks her, but better that than having Benich think her 'pet' is capable of such feats, and considering absconding with Berd.  Bad for all involved.

Her sapphire eyes rise to study the ceiling, tracking across what is painted there, trying to make some sense of the images.

Dorian had given up. Outwardly, though, his fingers hovered over the dirt, distracted from their absent doodling. His head turned slightly the side. His moment of distraction was stolen by a reflection. No matter, it was merely an experiment, an academic exercise.

After Cyan speak, he tilts his head slightly, looking back at her. He wonders if he really detected a subtle hint of something there. It's always a careful balance in this group, offering to help contrasting with showing off, stepping on the toes of some other power. So many paths could lead to one goal in this group. It was for this reason he had broken off his experiment.

Yet the all knew that a reflection meant possible differences, and those differences could be big or insignificant.

Was it because of a need to show off? Or was it the curiosity of the experiment? Or was it a genuine desire to uncover the truth? He wasn't sure, so he held his tongue. Better, he thought, to test the water, see if major differences exist first.

Besides, it was such a longshot. Why speak up only to see the experiment fail.

"Magic, is it." Benich murmurs, tilting his head to one side, and regarding Cyan with some interest.

His gaze finally follows hers to the ceiling, "Things what they hunted, and things what hunted they.  They can show they's kids and say, 'they's good for eating', or, 'they thinks you's good for eating'.  That thing there, the ring... they doesn't live here, so must be something else.  Not eater or eaten."

He drops his eyes back to Cyan, while by the fire, his meal, forgotten, starts to smoulder, "You's a witch?"

Devlin is interested in the book, even if it is just a reflection on the one that was done here.

He smiles, and almost laughs, when Benich asks Cyan if she is a witch. He imagines that anything any of them did here would appear as magic.

Moving closer to Cyan he says, "Shall we have a look at what it says, then?"

The bard tosses a wink Dorian's way when he glances at her, making a subtle nod of her head to Berd.  "Interesting, Benich.  Things of import to the people who did the drawing, obviously.  Survival is...well, one needs to live, does one not?  Only after can one concern with such things as poetry."

An eyebrow quirks over an emerald eye.  "Your food burns."

Sitting down, Cyan cracks open the book.  "No, Benich - not a witch.  I know some tricks, nothing more, I fear.  Most of them are done with blades."  A small smile at that.  "It has been a long time since I have practiced anything but swordwork," she murmurs.  A long time since Cyan has inked a palanquet, or even sketched for pleasure.

She motions Devlin closer.  "Gather around, then.  Mirror this might be, but the Archons travel from world to world.  They might have travelled to both, and thus the accounts within these pages may truly be first-hand."

He lets a small smile play at Cyan's wink.

"Interestingly," Dorian says, "the scribe put more detail into the rings of flame and blade than actually exist in the cave drawings they were taken from." His eyes have returned to the dirt floor of the cave, having never looked at Cyan's copy so far.

"Not many individuals on this world have read it, and most of the details are now blurred by time."

He glances at Benich, one of the readers of the volume of course. "As you may have guessed, we are not ordinary travelers, but neither are we witches or anything of that kind. We merely have a unique relationship with the world, the results of which may appear as something magical, or witchcraft, to you."

Ironically, being a sorcerer, he was closer to witchcraft than most of the others.

Benich uses a twig to prod at the food near the flames, but he actually moves it a little closer, "Nah.  Has to burn a bit, to be sure of killing the worms as sometimes lives in the fish.  If it don't burn, and you's eating the fish, well then the worms's is maybe eating you."

"So... you's white witches then?" he finshes, with a shrug.

Cyan cracks open the book, as Benich goes back to looking at the ceiling and muttering the names of the various creatures depicted there, or the ones he knows at least.

By sheer luck, it opens to reveal two Archons, one on each half of the two page spread.  On the left, in exquisite detail, a danioti is drawn, the image so well realised that its blades almost seem whistle.  Opposite it, one of the eshurianti practically radiates heat and rage.  The artist has done an excellent job of capturing the very essence of the Archons.  Certainly, the image of the danioti is far more detailed than the crude depiction in the cave.

A person might imagine that the artist had actually met them.

The text is handwritten, suggesting that this world and its neighbours do not possess the technology of printing presses.  It is also a little... biased... in its approach to the subject.

In times long gone, before the Cisarran Empire extended its grasp to the very edge of Myras, and further, there were diverse tribes and clans of primitive halfmen living in Myras itself, where they eked out a pitiable existence.  They are long gone now, of course, proof that they were less than worthy in the eyes of the Demiurge, yet still the crude signs of their existence are to be found in many places in Myras.

Perhaps their unworthiness was tied to their worship of sundry Spirits, and even of Daemons.

The sketches on these two pages are copied from the pictograms left by the halfmen, augmented by information from other sources.  These creatures, called "seraphis" are not truly Daemons, but are spirits of the Upper Air.

They are the root of all the evils in the Empire.  They are the carriers of death, famine, war and pestilence.  And yet the halfmen placed paintings of these seraphis in many places, so that they could be worshipped.  It is said that by gazing upon a painting, one of the foul priests of the halfmen, well versed in the dark arts as they must have been, could speak to the creature represented there.

It was for this crime that the Demiurge wiped the halfmen from the face of the world.

Apparantly Dorian has already examined the work.  Somehow that doesn't surprise Cyan.  For a moment she considers his methodology - Broken Pattern?  Sorcery?  Some other, hitherto unknown arcane discpline?  It might be any of the above.  She lets out a small laugh, and turns to the pages.  "White witches...if by that, you mean we demand no blood sacrifice, that any losses come from ourselves and not from others, I suppose."

She glances to the fish.  "I shall remember that..."  ...should I have occasion to eat the fish.  Berd, on her shoulder, shifts uncomfortably, his brilliant scales taking on a slightly greenish cast.

But her eyes sharpen as she reads, and Cyan abruptly glances up at the paintings upon the roof.  "Foolish," she mutters.  "Arrogant, ourselves.  Benich, be wary of these sigils."  Topaz eyes narrow as she studies the images upon the ceiling.  Crude?  Perhaps.

But the creation of palanqueti requires a different skill than artistic ability.  It is the harmonic one wishes to capture, not a perfect reflection.

Benich waits a few moments longer, and then drags the smouldering food away from the fire.  The bread is blackened, and Benich removes the fish bone, before throwing the top piece of bread back into the fire.  Licking his fingertips, he breaks away a piece of fish, hot to handle, but protected from actual burning by the layers of bread.

Cyan's attention, meanwhile, is drawn towards the image...

"Oh, no."  Cyan slowly stands, moving toward the image that has caught her emerald eyes.  Berd lets out a small chime, his eyes still closed, and she shakes her head.  "Yes, I know."  Reaching up, she hovers her finger over the symbol, her lips thin and tight.  "Who are you?" the bard whispers, opening her mind to the scent of the not-quite palanquet.

"This is real," she murmurs, seeking to taste the resonance without opening herself to it.  "Not the same as palanqueti, but not entirely dissimilar...as with 'trumps'."

Berd cracks an eyelid again, studying the image himself.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:42, Fri 08 Aug 2008.

Curiousity drawing his attention away from the fish, Benich watches as Cyan rises and moves towards the image on the ceiling.  "I's been telled as there's magic in some o' they.  I's not beliefs it, mind."

"Magic indeed," Cyan whispers, abruptly jerking her face away from the picture.  "This one holds a demon."  Berd rises on her shoulder, back arching like a cat's.  His wings extend as Cyan rises, stepping away from the painting and putting out a hand to steady herself upon the cave wall.  The drake's eyes burn like twin suns.

Turning away, Cyan closes her eyes for a long moment.  When they finally open, the colour is washed away, leeched down to the barest hint of ruby.  As she breathes, it slowly returns, bleeding back into her irises.  Berd, however, does not relax, a fire-eyed guard over the painting.

"The...there is a gate," Cyan finally says, glancing up, through the rock of the island to its rounded 'peak'.  "I know not to where, but I would find out.  It lies above us, upon the ridge of this place.  Bide a moment - I will return."

She hurries from the cave, putting the awful painting behind her.

The path to the top of the pinnacle of rock is clear.  It's steep, and tricky, but somehow there are no insects in the way.  No venomous reptiles.  No dangerous mammals.

Three minutes.

That's all it takes, until Cyan stands upon the summit.

There is a circle of damp sand there, surrounded by rough slabs of stone, each about a foot in the largest dimension, and each inscribed with a stylised image of a flame.  None of the surrounding vines, creepers, or shrubs have encroached on the circle and, though the stones are covered with moss and lichen, the carvings themselves are bare of vegetation, standing out clearly, even though they have been badly eroded by the elements.

The carved flames are aligned so that they appear to radiate out from the centre of the circle.

Cyan herself, stands outside the circle.

Archons.  They made this.  Cyan crouches, staring into the circle, wondering if Harabonah himself was responsible for this effort.  Certainly it had been a shock to find him at the 'other end' of the palanquet in the cave.  Her old master.

"So many things they have created, hm?" she inquires of Berd.  "At one time.  Now they destroy."  If only she could 'read' the cave paintings.  Discern the truth of their story.  Were the archons demons?  Or gods?  Berd sniffs the air a few times, apparantly unconcerned.  But his attention - at least a part of it - remains upon the circle.

"And where does it lead?" Cyan muses.  She reaches a hand out, just to the edge of the circle, struggling to feel the vibrations.  Nothing.  The bard sighs.  "Shall I essay an opening?" she wonders quietly.  Standing, she runs fingers through her coppery hair, then narrows amber eyes.  Reaching with her spirit, she touches this remnant.

Very, very lightly.

Cyan had run out of the cave to check on some gate. Devlin was looking at the image that the woman had been staring at, but did not see anything. Her sudden departure takes him off guard and it is several minutes before he realizes what she had said before leaving.

He does not wait longer. Rising the man follows Cyan out of the cave, following the path that she had taken.

She is standing still when he arrives at the circle and he does not say anything for fear of startling her. He simply watches and waits for her to compete her study of the circle.

Dorian smirks, not looking directly at Benich. Perhaps such simple concept as White Witch was the best the man could fathom. That wasn't surprising. Look at this world. Eat or be eaten, the man had said. Here, one was either predator or prey, often both. The black-and-white perspective didn't surprise in that light.

"White witches indeed," he agrees. He reaches out a tendril to probe the food for anything that might still be alive. He would not be eaten, that was certain.

His eyes flick towards Cyan as she first studies the sigil, and then leaves. A gate? he thinks. He doesn't follow. He doesn't need to. Yet, he looks, watching her more than the gate or anything around.

He wonders at the purpose of the gate, having his own suspicions about where it might lead. If Archons made it, they must have had a purpose. They travel between worlds, through the Underflow, quite naturally. This then, must be something more. Could it be like the gate he discovered in the church of that other world, where the real Dorian is buried, waiting activation? Or could it be something entirely different?

Cyan studies the circle upon the highest point of the island.  The air is no cooler up here, above the great marsh, and no less humid.  But there are slightly fewer insects perhaps...

She touches it, her eyes fixed upon the centre, and a cool breeze suddenly seems to spring up, blowing into the heart of the gateway, though there is no other sign that anything has happened.


Below, Dorian still sits in the cave, watched curiously by Benich who eats his snack with obvious relish.  "There's more fish, if you's wantin' some?"

Dorian noded formally to Benich. "Indeed, I think I would like some," he said. "Fish was a staple back home. There was a lot of water there, too."

He helped himself to a small piece of fish. As far as he could discern, it was free of worms.

His mind was partially elsewhere, trying to discern what lay beyond the gate.

Berd glances back at Devlin, humming his approval of the man's tact.  Cyan remains focused upon the empty area within the circle for long heartbeats, then sighs, settling back on her heels, still crouching.  "Too old.  Ancient.  So old either it or its endpoint has degraded and now it leads nowhere.  Into the Underflow - a bleeding gash in this world."  Her amythest eyes flick back to Devlin.  "Berd and I should close it.  Forever.  Milennia from now, some foolish sorcerer might attempt to wrench open what he sees as a gate, shred the opening, and drag the entire world into the abyss."

Berd's eyes glitter as he turns them toward the gateway, studying, analyzing, synthesizing stitching for this injury.

Again, Cyan turns her head to face the dark wanderer.  "Devlin...the image below, upon the ceiling.  The archon.  It is a palanquet."  She swallows.  "The archon is Harbonah - our enemy."  The name nearly chokes her, but the bard gets it out.

Devlin tilts his head to one side as he looks at the circle. "It would be best to seal it then if it leads to the abyss, if it can be done without danger to yourself."

Then Cyan speaks of the image in the cave and it seems with difficulty. The man's head tilts the other way. He only partially understood these palanquet or trump, but he did understand that they could be used to communicate, and even watch those on the other end...

"And that image of Harbonah still works?" He asks, but doesn't wait for a response. "I think we should remove it if we can without damaging it. Perhaps it may be of some use.

"Horbonah could not use it to... no, that isn't how they work. Am I right in thinking that someone skilled in there use could use such an item to... to get an impression of... to see what the palanquet's subject is doing? Is there any way that we could use such an item to our advantage? Could we draw Harbonah through it against its will?

"At any rate, we should remove it or destroy it, but we should not leave it for others to discover."

Devlin looks down at the ground, picturing the cave below them and thinking about how he might remove the rock the image is on without destroying the image.

As Cyan breaks contact, the breeze dies, and stillness enfolds the circle of stones, with their ancient markings.

Berd turns his attention back to the gate.

"Yes," Cyan whispers, distracted.  Berd's eyes burn, then fade, and the little drake curls up on her shoulder, belching a small wisp of golden smoke.  It floats into the middle of the ring of stones, then slowly disperses.  "Shut forever," the bard whispers, a pang in her heart at the thought.  Poor, lonely palanquet, struggling to keep to your purpose...broken by time's hammer.

A mercy, I suppose.  Something she has ever resisted.

Standing, Cyan dusts off her hands, focusing her ruby eyes upon Devlin.  "Indeed it does," she says.  "Palanqueti are made to last, as the saying goes.  It is possible the subject of this one -" a flick of the wrist to the circle "- was destroyed."  She ponders.  "I believe we should remove it, yes.  Hold it, shielded, for a time.  Berd can destroy it, or we can place it where it can do no harm."  Her lips curl into a frown.  "Using it is another matter.  Any who open themselves to it, even for the purpose of 'spying', run the risk of attracting Harbonah's attention.  His might is...considerable."  She paces in a small circle, rubbing her biceps as if to warm herself.  "He is the leader of the Seraphim, and does not stand so by electoral approval.  He holds his position through guile and raw power."

Another glance at Devlin.  "It may be possible to use the palanquet as you suggest.  It is merely that there are potential dangers.  We should certainly keep it with us - we are far past the point where the potential of disaster should dissuade us from an attempt."  Her finger taps her lips.  "Indeed, we are far into the range of 'desperate measures only', I suspect."

Dorian withdraws from the gate as it closes, noting it bore similarity to the gate he discovered in the Church.

Devlin watches the woman as she speaks and remembers that is has still only been days since she was freed from its grasp. "I would not ask it of you, but you are right; the time for caution is long past. I'm sure that some of those we call friends would insist on the palanquet's immediate destruction. I'm afraid I have never, and perhaps I never will, see eye to eye with most of them."

The dark man looks Cyan in the eyes, her beautiful, at the moment ruby eyes, and rests a hand lightly on her shoulder that is not occupied by Berd. "You have always been different. Given thought to my words. Even when you do not agree, you have never dismissed my ideas out of hand. Which is one of the reasons that I trust you, and I can count on one hand the number of people that I truly trust, or should I say, the number of beings."

Devlin's hand moves slightly, almost in the act of embracing the woman, but then the motion ends as quickly as it had begun and instead he simple gives Cyan's shoulder a squeeze and releases her. His eyes linger on hers for just a moment more, "Shall we see to removing it in one piece. I can carry it safely so that you are not burdened with it."

As the man turns to head back toward the cave and the image that he wishes to remove he adds, "I wonder where ämi is. Hopefully closer to finding Trista than ourselves..." Suddenly he is in thought, flinging those thoughts out into the worlds where he knows ämi is to see how the little bird fairs. Still alternating flying and hiding, but growing closer to the place where it left the girl.

Turning back to Cyan he then says, "ämi grows close, soon I will be able to tell her that we are seeking her. Soon she will have additional protection." Devlin turns back to the path, "Did I tell you of ämi? She is much more than just another on of the birds you've seen me create; much, much more. She has all of my thoughts and knowledge and skils. She can even change her size and shape as I can, she can be whatever she chooses... I wonder what she'll choose...."

There is nothing now, atop the islet, but a circle of oddly inscribed stones.  Perhaps, in the future, some visitor will gaze upon them, only to decide that they mark nothing more than the location of a beacon fire, or the like...

Below, Benich regards his lunch guest with interest.  "Is the fish being right?"

Dorian nods. He is only half finished with the fish. "I believe it is the best fish I've had in a while. Thank you."

Cyan slowly shakes her head, responding to Dorian's silent message, verbally and within her mind.  "Expect, no doubt.  Harbonah will most certainly notice if we use the palanquet.  The strength, skill of his mind..."  She shakes her head.  "And he is no fool.  He sees traps everywhere.  We shall need to take care with its use, Dorian...but it seems we three are in agreement.  Use it or lose it."  Words from the World of her musical toy, and her lips quirk as she repeats them.

She slowly straightens, turning her amethyst eyes on Devlin.  When the man puts his hand on her shoulder, she covers it with her own, offering him a smile.  "Devlin," she begins, then stops, uncertain what to say.  Then she nods.  "You have been ever at odds with our path, ever questing for something different.  And yet, you have never been as others have - Kaelyn, Leo-"  Her voice catches on the name, but she breathes out and continues.  "Leonardo.  Jack.  You have always supported, always assisted, in your silent way."  One of her eyebrows rises for an instant, and she rolls her eyes when the man chooses the safer path.  Men.  Irked, Cyan throws her arms around Devlin's shoulders, giving him a quick squeeze before releasing him.  "Wise, clever friend."

Shapeshifter...a silent, watchful coyote this one is.  Aunt Nancy in her web, Raven who steals the sun.

"I shall take you up on that, Devlin.  Berd and I shall carve it free - you shall carry it."

Berd cracks open an eyelid, belches out a small cloud of smoke, and gives Devlin a conspicuous wink before returning to slumber.

"I have heard naught of ämi, in truth," she continues, beginning to pick her way down.  "But I would hear more.  From the sound of it, she might be a fair match for Berd."  The drake's eyes pop open comically for an instant, before narrowing suspiciously, thinning...back to sleep.  Perhaps.  One slides open, just a crack.  "I would gain Trista and Chance's company soon, myself - hear their story, join forces, and perhaps use what we have found for the betterment of all."  A glance to Devlin, then to Berd.  "Your ämi...she has knowledge of her own, skills of her own, can make choices of her own?  She is no dumb construct?"

Cyan's lips twitch slightly, thinning, as the partly cracked eye of Berd's snaps fully open - watchful, concerned.  "Your pardon, Devlin, for the question is impertinent.  You have shown no designs in the past to hold your creations close, barring them from their lives.  But - is she free?"

The embrace catches Devlin by surprise and then they are on their way down the slope.

"I forget, you were not... I created ämi just after you joined us at the hut and I sent her straight to Trista."

Devlin turns a smile at Cyan, "We are connected, but the connection is..." Devlin's head turns to the side and his brow furrows as he chooses the right word.

"... a choice? ämi helps me because I ask, though she is free to do so or not and may break the connection when it is time. But to be honest, she must still learn. While I imparted abilities to the creature and the importance of what we do as well as some of my own memories of our quest, I did not give her all that I am. She has much to learn is free to grow as she will.

"The question is not impertinent. I would say that she will be free when she is ready to be so, but she is free now to make choices... though... it is complicated, but then I expect that children always are."

They continue walking down toward the cave.

"But a match for Berd, I doubt that. I cannot impart any abilities to my creatures that I myself do not possess."