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.