Her father's face remains cowled, obscured by cloth and shadows. He offers no movement or acknowledgment at Cyan's glance.

"My father agrees with Trista. Trgiaob, we admire your willingness to help and follow our lead, but this conflict is too big. We need you to do as you think best, not as we say."

Her dark eyes shift from the Archon to Cyan, and she offers a small, hopeful smile.

Dorian does not move.

"Our concern lies within the nature of the Archons, though. Please, take no offense at this Trgiaob, but if Archons naturally ally themselves under the strongest leaders, they will continue to act as a single entity--roughly speaking. Within most other intelligent species, there is a check and balance offered by interpersonal conflict and differences. A human will often rise up against a stronger oppressor, even when there is no hope, simply because they believe in a cause or would rather die than remain a slave. On every world where humans are found, these stories are found. Unless the Archons learn to do the same, they will remain a fierce enemy. The powerful will seek more power, and the weak will follow them rather than oppose. The cycle will continue even after Harbonah fails."

She drifts forward, carried by invisible winds that only she acknowledges. Her unfearing face draws within inches from the whirling blades that cut air, but cannot cut her--for she doesn't entirely exist.

"It must begin somewhere. The message of individualism and independence ... let it start with you, if it can. But it must start somewhere."

Chance smiles casually and scratches at the stubble on his face. It's been a while since he could shave. "I never thought," he says. "After all this talk of battle and war, that it all might be won by a change of heart instead of devastating weapons."

"I feel like I should have been thinking that way all along."

Devlin looks around at the group as each speaks, or does not speak. On this topic though, he also has little to say. He's already made his plans clear. Nothing he has heard has changed that yet. It will take more than this little hope to divert him.

What he says is, "No, we cannot protect them all. We cannot really protect any of them. Diverting Harbonah seems the best choice. It would gain us time to find the tide that leads to an ending we can live with."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:01, Sat 21 Mar 2009.

Cyan rubs her forehead while the others talk, but takes a break from that to shoot a somewhat strained smile to Galatea in response.  When the flow of opinions ends with Devlin's grim assessment, as it often does, she straightens.  "It is good to see us thinking along similar lines."  Turning to the great wheel of blades, the child's spectre before it, she considers the danioti for a moment, then nods.  "As Trista suggests, I can most certainly forge a palanquet of Trgiaob - it will be more difficult without Berd's assistance, but not impossible."

One eyebrow cocks over a ruby eye.  "What say you to this, Trgiaob of the danioti?"

The discussion of plans seems to interest Trgiaob not at all, as it darts away to study a snail, but after a few moments, it starts asking questions and offering comments which make it clear that at least one part of it has been paying careful attention.

+ WE WOULD GLADLY SEEK OTHERS WHO HAVE TURNED AGAINST HARBONAH, AND PERSUADE THEM TO THIS CAUSE.  WE KNOW OF A PLACE WHERE WE MIGHT GAIN INFORMATION CONCERNING SUCH REBELS AND TRAITORS.  WE WOULD TAKE YOU THERE, BUT CONDITIONS THERE ARE HAZARDOUS, EVEN FOR ARCHONS.  BEFORE, IT WAS NOT WORTH GOING THERE, SINCE WE BELIEVED THERE WERE NO OTHER DESERTERS.  NOW THAT WE KNOW THAT THERE ARE OTHERS, THE RISK IS... ACCEPTABLE. +


Then there is a question, a brief explanations, a couple more questions, and subsequent answers, and finally the Archon understands exactly what is meant by a palanquet.  + IT SEEMS NOT UNLIKE THE WAY WE COMMUNICATE AMONG OUR OWN KIND SOMETIMES.  IT WOULD BE ACCEPTABLE TO US TO BE CONTACTED IN THIS MANNER. +

The Archon considers further, + I CAN ADOPT WHICHEVER FORM WOULD BE EASIER FOR YOU TO REPRODUCE IN TWO DIMENSIONS. +

Out of instinct, Chance finds himself humming a tune, a meandering process of seeking out the right notes to fit whatever image fills his mind. Soon, as he steps back from the others a bit, his fingers do the same on his well-used guitar.

Cyan smiles, a quirky, lopsided affair.  "Your present form is sufficient, Trgiaob.  More than handsome enough."  After more than two years surrounded by Archons, she can more easily distinguish between them than might be expected.  For the danioti, there is blade shape, comfortable speed, style of motion, and more, all wrapped up in a single, lethal package.

And color, of course, in some cases.

"If I may touch your spirit, Trgiaob?  I require a greater sense of your self in order to create a palanquet."

Perhaps, she hopes, at some point she might be able to use the palanquet still dangling from her fingers.

The little girl who had been a ghostly thing seen through the belly of the archon intrigues Trista as she speaks for Dorian. Something to learn, there.

As Cyan and Trgiaob discuss trump-making and Chance drifts away, strumming his guitar, Trista steps a few feet away. She's nothing to do here, not having gifts such as her companions. The pack on her back slips off and she makes a seat of it on the ground.

Trgiaob moves a little, finding a good spot in the garden, and then, simply, freezes... in so far as an Archon can ever be truly said to stop moving.  The constant rotation continues, of course, but the restless moving about to study insects and other small creatures ceases entirely...

Encouraged by the fact that the "demon" is now stationary, the crowd, still swelling in numbers, edges a little closer.  A murmur rises from them, as the godspeaker appears in the doorway of his house, looks about briefly, and crosses to Trista.  He gives her a shallow bow, and says, quietly, "The Lady is awake, and would speak with you.  I must caution you, though, that she is still weary."

Trista had almost forgotten the 'crowd' though it seems impossible to do so. These poor people. Well, they'll have stories to tell for years to come. If they have years to come.

The Godspeaker's motions capture her interest and she rises before he gets to her. “Yes, of course,” in response. With Cyan and Chance otherwise occupied, Dorian aloof, the little girl strangely odd, Trista stops next to Devlin, “I'll be back in a few minutes.” Hitching her pack over her shoulder, she follows the leader of this town into the church where this Lexy lies.

As Trista heads inside, the godspeaker looks about, a little puzzled.  It's his garden, and yet it is suddenly full of strangers, and monsters.  Many of them seem to be busy with various tasks which he has no understanding of, and the demon ssems to be under control for the moment.

The man is at a loss for what to do with himself.  Then, an idea strikes him.  He approaches one of the strangers, it happens to be Devlin, though the godspeaker doesn't know that himself.  "Would you like something to eat, young man?  Or some tea?"

Chance, meanwhile, has become the centre of a small crowd of children, who appear to have grown tired of the fact that the Archon isn't doing anything particularly exciting.  They have, instead taken an interest in the music.  Two or three are attempting to dance to the incomplete, and not entirely suitable piece which Chance is composing.  Finally, one of them, a red-haired boy of about seven or eight years old, asks, "Here Mister, can you play The Farmer an' His Horse?  Or The Goat Who Went To Chapel?"

Trista makes her way inside, and to the room were Lexy is currently resting.  The goddess of this world looks ill and tired, her face deathly pale.  Still, she manages a weak smile as Trista enters.  She beckons the woman closer, and starts to speak quietly, "I take it that the battle is over?  I assume we won.  Is anybody else hurt?"

delays... delays... Devlin was thinking to himself when Trista went off inside. Cyan was busy, Dorian and Chance in there own worlds. When the old man asked him if he's like something to eat, at first Devlin looked at him with his eyebrows pinched, but then a smile spread across his face.

"I'm sure some food and drink would be good for all of them, that is if you and your townspeople can spare it."

Chance halted his seemingly random strumming as the children surrounded him. With a wan glance back towards Cyan, he decided his own portrait of the Archon would have to wait ... or be forgotten.

He looks out over the lake for a moment. He and his group were going to head out soon, he knew. These kids would have to stay. Here. In this world. And just maybe, deal with a sky full of buzzing Archons, like insects ... terrifying, flesh and bone rending insects.

The Archon's song seemed less important now.

"No," he says. "I don't know those tunes, but they sure sound fun. I bet if you sing a few notes I can figure it out though."

He wanders off through the town, children in tow, as if he were some kind of piper that could cast a spell over them. Truth be told, he could. And considering the horrifying future these children might face, the Death Singer was a little less cautious than he might have been ... because, soon, there really was a goat in the chapel, and a farmer and his horse, and all sorts of other fantastic things ... he could only hope the children would be around to tell their grandkids someday down the road. If not, well, he could ease their burdens before their world ended in flames and screams.

Entering where Lexy lies awake, Trista cautiously makes her way to the obviously weak woman. She may be a goddess to these people, and definitely a hero, but here and now, she looks as weak and frail as any mere mortal. Appearances can be so deceiving.

Trista puts on a wan smile, “It's good to see you have regained some strength.” Very quickly. One of the immortals, to be sure.

The smile slips away as Trista sits on the edge of the woman's bed. “We will leave you to your people; I believe they'll care for you better than any other, even if the methods are archaic.” With the last, an eyebrow rises and an amused smile tugs her lips.

“Yes, we won. Thanks to you. You with the aid of the friendly archon. I have little skill against these creatures, but you handled them brilliantly and nobody else was injured.”

Her eyes leave the woman to wander around the room, resting on some spot not physically here. “The battle is over, but the war has not yet begun, I fear. Your people are safe. For now.” Those dark eyes regain their focus and find Lexy once again, “We'll do everything we can to keep it that way.”

Concern infuses Trista's eyes, “Is there anything I can do for you before we depart? We're going to meet up with others in our group and try to get this war well underway. If it's all right with you, I'll keep the little painting of you and check in from time to time. But I do have a few minutes to spare if you need something...”

Lexy manages a smile of her own.  "It's good that nobody was hurt.  And that the Archon proved to be a friend.  The aid it gave likely turned the whole battle."

"Physically, I have a little strength, yes.  Spiritually though... I can not feel the world at the moment.  Or the people.  That will return too, I believe, but for now it is a lonely feeling.  Aaron... Aaron once said that it was only the voices in his head that kept him sane.  I'm sure he was joking, but today, I think I'd have to agree with him."


Outside, Cyan still sketches, while a small knot of children gather around Chance, two or three of them attempting to hum, whistle and sing the songs they had requested of the man.

The godspeaker nods to Devlin, "I believe we can spare it, yes.  I'll ask my flock to provide a little something each, to spread the contributions as much as possible."  Then, with a smile, "And if they all have to go and prepare a meal for you, it stops them standing about staring."

A short time later, Chance returns, ambling towards Cyan. He brushes the hair at his temple back as he does so. "So, this is a question I'd normally ask Berd or maybe Luke, but I just noticed a peculiarity." He juts his chin towards the children.

 "One of the songs the children know, the words are new, but the melody ... Well, I wrote it a few years ago. It's nothing much, just a little ditty, but I know I've never been to this world and it's a perfect match--note for note. How does that happen?"

"Ah!  Rauko!"  Raising her hand, Cyan squints at a small line of red, then carefully licks the wound once, clearing away the blood.  A curious place for a paper-cut, to be sure...she eyes the nearly completed sketch with some amusement, then nods to Trgiaob.  "Thank you, Trgiaob.  That should be sufficient."  It can be frustrating for a danioti to hold itself in one place for a time.

The wound certainly stings like a papercut, but Cyan knows it to be far, far more precise and thin.

Unimportant - the blood already ceases to flow, her strong metabolism sealing the wound as Chance moves into her field of vision.  Glancing up, Cyan brushes back a lock of hair and raises an eyebrow, a shadow crossing her face at the mention of Luke's name.  It clears, though, when Chance continues, and she nods along with his question, giving it serious consideration.

When he finishes, she fishes in her pouch.  "I have often wondered similarly, Chance.  As is often the case in life, I feel there are many answers.  Some of mine have come from Berd, others from observation.  I'm certain you have your own, as well."  A small smile, and she brandishes her MP4 player.  "This device holds hundreds of songs.  More.  I have listened to many, all from the same world.  Most of them are completely unfamiliar to myself, and yet...some contain the echoes of other songs, too strongly to be coincidental."

Rubbing her jawline, she stares at the device with narrowed, emerald eyes.  "Echoes.  A new theory I have considered involves the Underflow.  Connected to all things, it responds to thoughts, to intent.  It is possible that songs, like thoughts, can echo through its vastness."  A small smile.  "But this, it seems to me, is too complex a thought.  There are more likely possibilities."

She looks up into the Deathsinger's eyes.  "Worldwalkers carry their music.  Mirroring occurs between close worlds, and sometimes odd aspects of one world can carry through thousands.  Gates open between worlds, and if things fall through, so might concepts.  Coincidence plays a factor - postulate infinity, and all things are possible, including a song spontaneously arising on two worlds.  Or a melody.  All of these things may have some truth to them, depending upon the situation.  And more."

The smile fades, and she stares up into the sky, at the vastness above this universe - a bubble of infinity, only one in an immesurable sea.  "And then there are truths.  Some are universal.  Some may cross boundaries with neither rhyme, nor reason.  They simply do."  Her gaze focuses again.  "Wherever I have found myself, there has always been music."

Then her face lights up in a full-fledged grin.  "Perhaps your song was one of those truths, Chance?  Or passed from you to another, who came here.  Perhaps another Chance wandered through this land, in bygone times.  Who can say?"

Out of her element – listening to Lexy speak of what she considers 'spiritual' things. Trista has had little do with that particular realm. She's curious about Aaron's voices. Is it the same with the Aaron who fought at Charyk? Voices?

She shakes the thoughts from her mind and lays a hand on top of Lexy's, “I don't know how long it will take, but I have hope all things will be restored to you.” Whatever those things may be. “These people need you as much as you need them. Maybe you'll connect with them on a whole new level.” Something to consider.

Glancing back to the entrance, Trista sighs, “I should go. They may be ready and we shouldn't delay any longer than necessary.” The stormy-eyed woman turns back to Lexy, “I'll check in on you, hopefully with good news. But I don't know how time passes here, so it may be awhile. A long while.”

Chance looks away, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah," he says. "I suppose it could be just that."

His hand falls to his guitar, and his fingers lightly run over them. After a few moments, he tugs gently at one causing a random note to break the silence.

"I'll be back soon."

He turns and his heel and wanders away from the group, away from the town.

Chance wanders off, and the children follow him for a short distance before turning back.  Their distraction gone, they return to their more normal childish pastimes: odd games involving small pebbles, and simple rhymes, or fast-moving contests of pursuit and evasion, with rules which seem to change with every moment.

Trgiaob, no longer required to function as an artist's model, goes back to following small examples of local fauna about, and occasionally abducting them if they seem particularly interesting.

After a brief discussion with the godspeaker, most of the crowd disperse to fetch food and drink for the visitors, leaving the area much quieter.
"I understand.  I've seen my share of time differences over the years.  Thank you for your help, Trista." Lexy smiles, and for a brief instant, the room brightens, as a shaft of sunlight suddenly pierces the clouds beyond the window.  "My thanks to all of you, in fact."

"Be careful where you walk.  Monsters are not always the worst enemies."

"Chance?"  Frowning, Cyan glances up from her work, so nearly-completed, but the Death-singer has already moved away.  Perplexed, she gazes after him, wondering which words had not been to his liking.  Certainly something has concerned the uncharacteristically somber musician.

But what?

"For what you are," she mutters with some irritation, "you have a blessedly poor ability to read people, Cyan."

'I suppose it could be just that.'  Curious choice of words.  Perhaps he had searched for a specific answer.  One that lay heavily upon his own mind.  Unable to guess what that might be, or even if it is the case, Cyan begins packing away her equipment, keeping an eye on the palanquet of the tired soldier, still held separate from the others.

Trista comes back out of the house after only a few minutes, and notices that Chance is missing.

A short while later, some of the villagers return with food - bread, fruits and vegetables mostly, and pitchers of water, which they set down on the grass just inside the garden gate.  With a quick glance at Trgiaob, currently taking one leaf from each type of plant in the garden, one of the men explains, "'fraid it's not bein' much, but dinner won't be ready for a while, an' lunch is long finished.  Also, we don't rightly know what your demon eats."

He starts backing towards the gate, bowing awkwardly every couple of steps.

Cyan isn't 100% certain people are prepared.  Chance has wandered off.  Dorian and his daughter remain silent, waiting (or so she assumes).  Trista has returned, and Devlin is a mirror to Dorian.

But there's no sense in dallying.

"Thank you, sir," she replies to the villager, rising to bow.  How long has it been since she simply sat down and talked with one of the people of the worlds through which she passes?  Two years.  Perhaps more.  Another life, that seems, one without uncertain memories and the panicked press of necessity at their backs.  "I am certain he is well enough."

A nod to Trista as the woman approaches.  "I believe I will bespeak James - even if we do not leave immediately, it would be wise to open discourse."

The card, caught between two fingers, snaps around to face her, and she studies the weary soldier emblazoned upon it.

With Lexy's sage advice echoing in her mind, Trista makes her way back out to the group. Minus one, she notices immediately. Squinting eyes look about, but she doesn't see Chance. Concern sets her brow.

Otherwise, things seem ready. Cyan has put away her artwork, the archon once again collects. But snag keeps them from heading forward – the townsfolk have brought them food. Do they expect them to stay? Not good timing.

As Cyan approaches, Trista soothes the worried irritation from her visage, and focuses on the readhead. “Good. It feels high time we get in touch with him and the others.”

An eyebrow lifts as the man who brought the food backs away. They've left an impression, it would seem. Or at least Trgioab has. Sighing, she picks out an apple and shines it against her t-shirt, “Get what you can, we should be going soon. Hopefully, Chance will get back here.”

Her attention now splits between the apple and Cyan with her card of power.

Devlin, having been waiting, now sees that Cyan has completed her work. Trista has also returned from inside. "So," he says, Is... Lexy, okay?"

He takes some of the food. It doesn't matter what it is, nor does he really pay attention other than to chew and swallow. "Where did Chance run off to? We should get moving" But Cyan is contemplating the image of James and not likely to hear him.

Turning to Trista, "Have you noticed that we tend to get side tracked easily? Never really gaining anything useful. If we stop to help every world, in the end we'll save none of them."