James reaches into the air in front of him, colours flowing and surging around his hand.  Then he pulls back, and another hand appears, gripping his own, followed by a forearm, an elbow, a shoulder...

The room is filled with sudden birdsong, and the scent of flowers and wet grass...

Cyan steps out of the rainbow, accompanied by Chance, Dorian, Trista and Devlin.  All of them are resting a hand on her shoulder, or gripping an arm, or simply holding her sleeve.

Devlin has a small bird perched on his free hand, the source of the music, though not of the garden aroma which heralded their arrival.  There is a ghostly figure, hard to see in the shifting light, holding onto Dorian's hand.

The room is suddenly much more crowded.

"Welcome to Amber, friends.  I am Random, ruler here, and I am pleased to, at last, meet those who have been making such great efforts on behalf of my kingdom."

"James!"  The bard exuberantly throws her arms around the man holding her hand, his clasp like that of a very precise and careful vicegrip.  Topaz eyes glitter as she leans back to study him critically.  "You look well," she whispers.  "If tired."

Turning from him, she studies the group one after another in turn.  Tahirah of Charyk and Roman of Chaos - she offers them solemn bows, though her eyes dance with pleasure.  But...no Morgan?  And where is the curious shapeshifter, Banglen-Yp?  Her gaze jumps to the odd archon, with its out-of-place movements and jaunty presence - certainly not the norm in her experience, and not under guard.  Something in the 'body language' of the Archon reminds her...and is that Aaron, standing at the back with his descendant of all people?

She shifts to face the others.  Fiona, of course, the one who dispatched her upon this mission.  Others, including a sharp-eyed man whose ruined palanquet she carries, given to her by Beldrin - Caine.  But it is the smaller man who commands the room, seizes her attention, first with his greeting.

Amber.  Years of Berd's obfuscations kept her from this land.  More time spent upon the Quest, then...two years best forgotten, though that is impossible.  After so much time, is it possible she stands within its halls?  Given those standing near Fiona as peers, some of whom she recognizes, it would seem so.  But one rises above them, for all his corporeal height.  This man, Random, is the king of a mighty empire and ordained guardian of one of the two poles of reality - her oaths pass through Fiona and Julian to him.

Years spent in Menengroth have forged and honed certain social reflexes, and without hesitation Cyan pulls away from James and steps forward.  She drops to one knee, bowing her head.  "Your majesty."
This message was last edited by the player at 12:34, Thu 21 May 2009.

 

♦♦ Hello again ♦♦

The voice was more metallic but no doubt the more perceptive will still pick out Banglen-Yp in there, at least in the voice, that first statement aimed at all the new arrivals.

♦♦ Your assistance is desired to perfect this form ♦ please ♦♦

That one was seemingly aimed at Cyan as the hovering wheel of metal appeared to "look" at her.

 

Tahirah begins moving towards the edge of the room as the rainbow intensifies.  She takes a few carefully measured steps back, stopping just before bumping into the wall, and then goes into her `silent waiting' stance.  It's a small shock to see Cyan again, and her arms fold into their opposite sleeves as she draws back just another inch, the hood of her cowl seeming deeper than a moment ago.  She returns a small bow when greeted, but stays silent.

The bird takes flight from Devlin's hand as soon as the group is all arrived into the new location. It circles once around the room, chirping noisily, then lands on the sill of a window. [OOC: if there is a high window, that is the place the bird would choose.]

Devlin nods slightly at the greeting from Random; his face familiar, not perfectly that of the images he studied as a boy, but still recognizable. Obviously the man is not concerned about the spinning blades in the room, so neither is Devlin concerned. He's beginning to become accustomed to the things hanging about.

Then he looks around the room at each of the other faces, pausing a moment on each. His head cocks to one side. No sense in waiting, and true to form, Devlin gets right to the point. "The one we should speak to is not here. Where might we find Benedict?"

The sorcerer's head tilts as the presence of the Archon snaps into focus. An enemy? Here? It mattered little that he had just come from the presence of a friendly Archon, or that he had walked among the rebels of their kind; they were all enemies. Possibilities flip through Dorian's mind like a Rolodex. A hidden alliance between Amber and Harbonah, at last revealed? Mind Control, manipulating the princes of Amber like puppets? Blackmail?

His body is still, but coal black eyes flit across the room seeking the hidden dangers, the connections, the twists. Where will the attack come from? Behind? The window? The doors? He finds nothing.

Just because it hasn't been sprung, does not mean it does not exist.

Though, he is certain, the biggest threats are before him, the men and women of Amber. He recognizes only Fiona.

Then the Archon speaks. It seeks help perfecting its form. A shapeshifter? The shapeshifter known as Banglen-Yp--possibly. Or is that what they want him to think while that one really rots in a dungeon somewhere? He appreciated the subtlety of such a ruse then.

"You cannot learn perfection from imperfect perceptions; seek a real specimen if that is your goal."

Galatea tilts her head in a fashion similar to her father. Curious eyes watch Cyan kneel. After a quick glance at her father, she steps forward and curtsies with child-like grace--though her feet remain inches from the ground.

She does not kneel; not in her father's presence. To her, he is still the Emporer of Samhain, and she his daughter. He is the only one before whom she would kneel.

She stands again. Her eyes glitter with pleasure. She is home again, not in Amber, but among dignitaries. She is once again the perfectly honed princess Galatea.

<backpost>
James was still not certain that the Trumps were safe, so when the connection re-opened he acted quickly and perhaps a little more forcefully than was really necessary.  Still, he was very precise with the application of his strength.

The warmth of Cyan's welcome surprises James, but it's a welcome surprise.  He manages to squeeze out a "Hi, Cyan." before she turns to greet the others.

In truth, James is pleased to see all of his companions.  James was glad to see them well, and from a more pragmatic point of view he knew that all their talents would be needed.
</backpost>

James makes the introductions.  He hasn't been formally introduced to all of the Princes and Princesses but it's easy enough to guess their names from Bleys' description of each.

He finishes by introducing the pseudo-Archon, "And that's Banglen-Yp, in case you hadn't guessed."

"We'll be seeking out the real thing soon enough Dorian.  The point of this exercise is to get her form as close as possible, we only need to fool the Archon's subordinates at this stage.  I think Banglen-Yp's doing marvellously, she's certainly surprised me."

That said, James addresses Devlin's question, "I'm not sure where Benedict is just now, but I'm pretty sure he's close by."

A flood of unexpected emotions roll over Trista as she enters the chamber.

Alarm at the sight of an Archon! As far as Trista knows, Amber does not consort with the creatures. Her body tenses, a hand straying to the impotent blade strapped to her thigh. But the others seem at ease.

Confusion for their nonchalance. Is this another as Trgiaob? One who found its way to an alliance? Or is there something more insidious at work? It speaks with a request for help perfecting its form. Trista's brows tuck together, honing in on another possibility.

Relief when she realizes the shape-shifter is not in the room. And that Cyan seems perfectly at ease with the thing. Does Banglen-Yp rotate before them? Trista's body relaxes a touch, though she's still on guard, finally looking more carefully at the mixture of familiar and unfamiliar faces before them. Tahirah retreats into her robes. James and Roman seem well. What of the other? She cannot remember his name, but the one with the magnificent cats.

Then the faces of the Amberites bring a new and unbidden emotion. Or a complex web of them. Anger. Hope. Panic.

Vengeance.

She stands in the midst of Amber, the place she had been searching for all those years ago, but had forsaken and simply wandered for information. But this place, this place could provide answers.

Don't do this, Trista.

Her eyes flit to Chance for comfort. Then to Devlin for... what? How much had she revealed to him? Not enough; he does not know. Berd. If only Berd were among their company to provide counsel. The woman grinds her teeth before quietly blowing out her held breath, calming herself.

This is not about you; this is about the Worlds. Don't let it go there.

With great control, Trista partially releases her personal needs. For now. The pseudo archon gives her focus and she addresses what she assumes is the shape-shifter. James finishes the introductions, cementing who this archon is. “You're Banglen-Yp? To fool subordinates - if they are archons, they will see your true form.”

She remembers traveling within Trgiaob and seeing Devlin for who he was instead of the monstrous shape he had adopted. As well the little girl at Dorian's side.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:42, Mon 25 May 2009.

"Quite true," Dorian says to James with a small but sincere smile. His attitude towards the man had changed. "But I believe it would be better if she perfect her form before that encounter. We just left the presence of an Archon that seems to be friendly towards our cause. It aided us against Harbonah's scouts. Perhaps it would likely be willing to assist her in her pursuit."

He lifts a hand to his stubbly chin, examining the spinning creature. It looked true enough to his eyes. "Not only that, but Archons will know about shapeshifters. They could try to attack your form, force you to revert if they suspected your nature. You should practice resisting such methods. I could demonstrate."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:11, Mon 25 May 2009.

Chance blinks. The world changed so suddenly from the gritty, visceral world of a humble village to the gaudy opulence that reminded him so much of his childhood in Azoth, but without the technology, gadgets and magic.

He watches the others for their reactions. Cyan kneels, but few of the others do so. He's never been a humble man, but these are not just princes but princes of the universe--in a sense. He could kneel, but he senses something in Trista's mood--perhaps just confusion at the Archon's presence--and moves close. As he draws near, he offers a simple touch on her shoulder to let he know he's there.

The Archon? He wonders, but so many seem at ease with it's presence, so he does nothing but watch and wait.

 

♦♦ Yes ♦ I am the one you call Banglen♦Yp ♦ although I have no true form to be discerned ♦ apart from what I am at the moment ♦ which then will be my true form ♦ at that time ♦♦ However ♦ each form takes some study and time to perfect ♦ hence my request for assistance to help speed up the process ♦ as studying an Archon up close may not be possible at this time ♦♦

The Archon shifted position in the air, constantly changing to further improve on its appearance.

♦♦ Their mentallity I do not know so I will allow my mind to default to its natural state ♦ what you would call a block ♦♦ It is not really a block as such but the way it is ♦ actually ♦♦ But I digress ♦ any assistance to help perfect this form ♦ which is quite intriguing ♦ is most welcome ♦♦ Oh ♦ including how they speak and form sentences ♦ another area in I am lacking in too ♦♦

 

One corner of Dorian's mouth turns up for a moment. "As you wish, though Trgiaob may help you fathom how they speak and think. It is merely a suggestion."

He draws in a deep breath. His left hand emerges from beneath the battered and well-worn black cloak that drapes heavily from his shoulders. The fingers form an odd, hooked gesture, twists and lifts upward. Then, his right hand shoots out and makes another gesture instantly after. This one flat: one finger bent, the hand thrusting outward towards the Archon as if to push at some unseen object before him....
This message was last edited by the player at 16:04, Tue 26 May 2009.

Remaining on one knee, Cyan lets the conversation wash around her, listening to the others discuss while she awaits the King's attention.  Or perhaps that of Princess Fiona - one never knows.

Not surprisingly, Devlin leaps directly into a request to move along; the wandering man has no king but himself.  A free man, he holds respect for people, not position.  Dorian, royalty in his own right, eschews any gestures, though his daughter does them the politeness of a greeting.  Instead, the dark man critiques the shapeshifted Banglen-Yp, her identity confirmed by James, who introduces the Amber family.  Cyan studies faces, triggering mnemonics to assist her in memorizing the names.

Chance, however, draws close to Trista, and Cyan's skill jangles a warning.  The woman is tense, hostility fairly bleeding off her skin.  She knows not why, but Trista fights a battle, a battle she wins before turning her gaze to the shifter.

"Your motion and speech require work," the bard finally concludes, keeping watch on Trista from the corner of her eye - concerned, not prepared.  "As for your aura, your presence...if you block it, you will reveal yourself.  An archon's senses rely as much on their spirits as it does upon gathering physical vibrations, if not more.  Their language, the same.  I do not know if you can disguise this.  I can call upon tutors," she notes diffidently.  "But that is not for me to decide."

This is Amber - she will not simply summon Left and Right without permission.

Dorian makes sense, but would seem Banglen-Yp does not buy into either Trista's or Dorian's concerns. Obviously, she believes she will fool them. No innate form? How is that possible even if it's just an awareness, that is some kind of form.

But it is to Chance's nearness, Trista turns her attention. She turns to gather him in at his shoulder touch. That one simple gesture serves to notch her tension further down. For a fleeting moment, all she wants to do is get out of this place; take Chance and a bottle of Jack and find someplace far removed from archons, royalty, and fathers. It can't happen, of course.

She's chosen her path, for good or ill.

The woman softens further, not quite smiling, but thanking Chance in her stormy eyes nevertheless. Then she turns her attention back to the group at large. Cyan offers help of another sort, though similar to Trgiaob Trista suspects. Dorian seems to be up to something with his gesturing. Something to test Banglen-Yp?

Devlin nods as each of the members of the Royal Family are introduced. He knows most of the faces, even without being introduced.

Much is going on, while he hates to add to the confusion, still, he has his self imposed mission. So replying to James' comment about Benedict, he answers, "We are, or at least I am, looking for a member of this, family?"

The emphasis definitely makes "Family" sound like a question, as if he does not think that term really applies, but has no other word to use.

"We have a description. As the eldest, I thought Benedict would be my best chance at identifying the person."

Random studies Cyan for a moment, considering his reponse, perhaps.  Then, "Please stand, you'll need to answer some questions regarding our enemy, once the confusion here has died down, and talking to you down there will likely give me a stiff neck."

He grins at the bard, before adding, "Besides, I think your people have probably done enough for us that we can be on less formal terms, at least here, out of the public eye."

James makes the introductions, on both sides, and Random answers his comment regarding Benedict, "I believe he's gone directly to Arden, to assist Julian in formulating a strategy.  I'll send a rider out to tell them what we've discovered about the enemy's goal."


Then Devlin speaks up, drawing Random's attention, "How good a description?  If you saw the person, do you think you would recognise them?  What about a portrait of them?"

"Certainly, your majesty," Cyan replies, levering herself to her feet.  "I am at your disposal."  Less formal?  That might be difficult for her.  Content to let James do the talking, and for King Random to answer Devlin's excellent suggestion, she steps slightly to the side, moving out of the center stage.

This is a discussion between royalty, now.

Instead, with sapphire eyes she studies the faux-Archon in their midst.  Banglen-Yp has done a fine job mimicking the form of a danioti, but she lacks knowledge of their patterns of motion.  Of their mode of speaking - her alien imitation isn't completely off, but requires coaching.

But most of all, the shapeshifter is missing the aura, that looming sense of barely-leashed rage and violence that hangs about the bladed soldiers.  Therein is the most difficult - could Banglen-Yp summon up the necessary razored feelings, could she project them properly?

Two years ago, Cyan herself lacked such a capability.  Now?  Perhaps.

 

♦♦ Any assistance is gladly accepted ♦ Cyan ♦♦ I will attempt to be one in mind too if possible ♦♦

The Archon then hovered away from the others a little.

♦♦ As I said ♦ I have no so called True Form ♦ but you are welcome to assist as well ♦♦ I think it best I keep a bit of distance though ♦ in case ♦♦

 

Devlin does not miss Cyan stepping out of the center of attention, and he does not mind stepping into that center for now. He is more sure now than ever that the correct tide to follow does not include trying to defeat the Archon themselves. Everything has pointed in the same direction, and that direction is...

"We've only heard of him, and about him." Devlin answers. "We've not actually seen him. But the descriptions are always roughly the same.

"The man likes to call himself either Carl Corey or Ganelon, maybe one or two others. The Archon call him Finder.

"He's said to be a large man, powerfully built. Dark grey hair, dark grey beard, both shot through with red, his eyes are grey with flecks of silver."

Devlin looks around the room to see if there are any reactions to his description, that is, if anyone is actually paying attention. While the man expects that this group can control their reactions, one never knows.

Then, looking back at Random he continues, "This man is the one that released these creatures from their prison and set them on their course. I believe he has the key to ending this. You'll not win against them in battle, but maybe the one that released them knows how to put them back."

As usual, Devlin has jumped to a few conclusions, but they are educated leaps, at least he hopes they are.

Interesting Roman muses, considering what he knows of the Amberite princes.  With renewed interest he watches the assembled Amberite roytalty to observe how they react.

Random considers Devlin's description, "I believe I know the man you describe, and he is not Ganelon... "

"Nor Carl Corey." interjects the blonde woman that some members of the group had seen arguing with Fiona when they had first arrived.  "Carl Corey was a name sometimes used by Corwin, and the description doesn't fit him."

"Florimel has it right, the description certainly doesn't fit Corwin." Random continues, "It does, however, fit Finndo, one of my older half-brothers, and full brother to Benedict.  But as far as I was aware, he and Osric, Benedict's other brother, have been dead for years."

Fiona, her eyes fixed on Dorian and a frown on her features, adds her own thoughts on that, "Death would not preclude them.  This could be a scheme that one, or both, of them set in motion long ago, which continues under its own momentum."

"Yes.  And they may have felt they had reason to seek some sort of vengeance, according to what I heard once from Dad."

"If the source of our trouble is dead," Tahirah offers quietly, "Then he is probably not keeping protections against scrying."

"The man is not dead." Devlin says immediately. "Cyan related the story of how some of us retrieved one of those cubes." [OOC: Part 61a - Aftermath - the Blue Rose: msg #31]

Here he turns to the woman, "You remember, don't you Cyan. The cubes that Berd destroyed." Then turns back to the rest of those assembled. "This Carl Corey told that Rokt fellow, hard to forget your description of that one, how to find that cube."

"That was days ago, maybe weeks at most, not years. The man is most Certainly not dead. If it is not this Finndo fellow, then it is a shape shifter that wishes us to believe it is him and he has gone to great lengths over the course of centuries to keep the same appearance each time he appears. No my bet is on Finndo."

"What does this Osric look like? Why would Finndo, or Osric, hate Amber so much that they'd see all destroyed?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:22, Fri 29 May 2009.

James watches and listens, being this close to so many of the Family has him feeling edgy and there's suddenly an awful lot going on.  Cyan and Banglen-Yp discuss the details of being an Archon; Chance and Trista, well there's something going on there, but James doesn't know what it is or whether it's any of his business; and Devlin, he dives straight in at the deep end.

Was it really that simple?  Since James had started on the quest he had spent so much time around shapeshifters like Roman and Banglen-Yp and others who could disguise themselves in other ways, even to the point of altering a witnesses' perceptions directly, that he had placed little faith in the descriptions they had received.  Now it seemed that the principal actor in this grand tragedy was his uncle Finndo.  No disguise, no secret agents, just an ages-old hatred.

"At least now you can see why I was concerned about a traitor in the family."  James mutters quietly.

ämi, having calmed down and gotten used to the large number of the huge creatures, wings down from his perch to land on Trista's shoulder. Twisting his little head to the side to look into one of her eyes with one of his own the bird chips a little song.

(NPC'd)

With Banglen-Yp's permission to continue with his attempt to force her into her true form, Dorian announces, "Everybody should stand back.  I'm about to try something here, which may have unforseen results."

He gives it a few seconds, for people to get clear, and then he makes a gesture...

 

When Dorian made the gesture the Archon sneezed, sending its metal fragments flying in all directions - for the fraction of a second, then the fragments slammed together, mid-air, to form the naked form of a blonde human female.

A split second later not only golden locks but also arms and legs fell towards the floor, never to reach it as such, but as a fine dust that slowly continued downwards, as in the stead of the blonde was now a small dog.

Fur, ears and legs exploded away and fell as in the next moment a little bird hovered where the canine had been.

Then the still falling dust from the blonde and the furs and parts from the dog was sucked up into an old fashioned lamppost whose light flickered faintly.

A sudden gust then sucked material from the rug on the floor beneath the lamppost and from parts of the doors as a large gray elephant now hovered in the place of the lamppost.

Next the elephant looked as if it had walked into the House of Mirrors as it twisted and bent into the shape of an ancient oak.

A fraction of a second later more material was sucked into the swelling oak, from both doors and floor, almost threatening to suck but the strongest towards the vortex of the swelling oak - an oak that now was a large whale.

The whale exploded into a sphere of water that began to spread outwards while in the middle a cute looking dolphin was suspended mid-air, or mid-water as it was.

Then most of the exploding water halted and turned back in the wink of an eye before smashing into what looked like a twister, a tornado, although some of the water managed to cover the whole room with a fine mist of moist.

Just as things began to feel the effect of the tornado there was none, only and old man with a cane flailing about with his cane while a fine dust from the former wind began to settle.

In a poof, the old man was gone, adding to the slowly settling dust, while the cane turned into a little kitten.

The kitten shed bits and pieces and was replaced by a wasp.

All the dust exploded inwards in a sudden gust, revealing a small cottage.

Next the dust seemed to continue into the cottage that was transformed into the type of cloud that promises good weather, if you enjoy sunshine.

Half a wink of an eye later the cloud condensed into a motorcycle, Harley Davidson style to those in the know.

Then everything disintegrated, apart from the lid of the gas tank which was no lid any more, but a single leaf.

The next nanosecond the dust imploded again, forming a blonde - not the same as before - clad in red leather and with guns instead of her lower arms.

Red leather faded and more dust was sucked in, leaving a rather mean looking Great White shark in mid-air.

The grey shark seemed to grow limbs and darken, having been replaced the next instant by a still meaner looking black creature with a long, spiked tail that seemed escaped from someone's nightmare.

Suddenly the chitin-clad monster exploded in black dust and left a cheerful-looking teapot in its place.

Next the teapot burst into flames, parts of the dust being drawn in again to enlarge it further still.

The fire appeared to grow thicker and darker until the flames draped downwards and, with another sudden gust, nearly all the dust was sucked into the shape of a large, hairy Mammoth.

An instance later the Mammoth's trunk stretched out, its legs folded up and it turned military grey, displaying itself as an impressive military tank, complete with tracks and all.

Without warning the tank exploded into parts that turned into dust, slowly revealing a white, soft looking pillow in what used to be the turret of the tank.

The pillow shifted into what looked like the head of a gigantic crab-man while part of the dust somehow shaped up into a muscular body underneath it and a mean-looking cannon on the shoulder.

Then the crab-man exploded, sending dust and both soft and hard material hurtling all over the room leaving only the cannon that now was a beautiful butterfly.

Some of the dust began to solidify in the air around the butterfly, turning into pieces of metal, metal that hurtled towards the butterfly until it was obscured in the spinning mess.

The Archon was back, a few seconds after it had sneezed, while the dust slow, slow settled, drifted towards the others and still danced in the air after the various contradicting winds and debris that had played havoc with the air in the room.

♦♦ Oops ♦♦

The Archon gave the impression of looking around as it turned a full circle, around its vertical axis, as if taking in the pit in the floor and the now half-gone double doors to the room, that used to open outwards but now were open, and hanging loose, inwards with most of the room partly sprinkled with both solid and soft pieces of... stuff.

♦♦ Normally I control this ♦ but I assume whatever you did ♦ Dorian ♦ made me lose control temporarily ♦♦ At least none of you were damaged ♦ right ♦♦

The dust nearest the spinning Archon danced about in the air, stirred around by the metal blades.

♦♦ It tickled a bit ♦♦

A simple statement, but an honest one.

 
This message was last edited by the player at 12:37, Fri 29 May 2009.

The clouds of dust and water droplets in the air gradually settle.  The damage seems minimal, save for a shallow depression in the floor, a missing section of rug, and a perfectly circular hole in the doors, where some of the material had been absorbed to add mass to some of Banglen-Yp's transformations.

Fortunately most of the ejecta had been in the form of fine particles, splinters, mist, and various small, unidentifiable items, many of them soft, red, and wet.  Luckly, the majority of the latter became dust or water shortly after being separated from the strange shapeshifter.

Still, the room is now considerably messier than it had been.

As the dust clears, Chrissie grins at the Archon.  "Cool!"  Next to her, Aaron appears to be checking if he's missing anything.

The other Amberites, from where they stand, close to the walls, look less pleased.

Random, stooping to stand his chair up, looks at Dorian, then at Banglen-Yp.  "Right.  Let's not do that again, shall we?"

As Devlin takes control of the discussion, Trista nods at his description. Though she could not have pulled the details out of her memories as he did, she remembers their conversation as he speaks.

While the discussion ensues, Trista studies the royalty of Amber. Her experiences with Kings and Queens in the Worlds have left her little use for them, as a whole. Perhaps these are different; her father certainly thought so. Father...

Trista snaps her mind and eyes away from that path and instead seeks out ämi, chattering away as he flutters among the windows.


Dorian gives a warning and Trista reflexively tenses, ever so slightly stepping to overlap Chance with her shoulder. Although, the man really needs no help from her, not with his gifts.

Concentrating on Dorian, the normally solid woman gives a start as the faux archon sneezes herself into oblivion and back again to an ever changing myriad of shapes, sizes, and textures. Debris flies about the room, wind lapping hair and clothing. Feeling even more protective, Trista's hand reaches back for Chance as her mind reaches out for the little black bird.


She watches a show unlike any she's seen before, worried for the safety of everyone in the room, but also for the creature known as Banglen-Yp, that enigma to them all. “What in the hell is going on?” she muttered before the host of forms coalesced once again into the archon. Trista blinks, about to ask after her safety, but the enigma brushes it off as if it were a game.

The woman searches for the bird, measuring his safety and then turns to lift an eyebrow toward Chance, “Crazy life.” At least, the display served to take Trista out of the dark waters she had been treading. Looking about, she gages the reactions of all, before Random takes it all with ease.

About to answer Devlin, Cyan glances Dorian's way as he attempts...something.  Then the world goes mad, as Banglen-Yp erupts into shape after shape.  Cyan shifts back, her hands empty and shielding her eyes; after a moment, she looks away, her finite mind having difficulty keeping up with shift after shift.  Covering one ear with a palm, she observes with her peripheral vision, eyes shading paler and paler as the changes show no sign of stopping.

And yet, the storm finally blows itself out.

The bard breathes deeply as the 'archon' speaks, nodding slowly as her eyes deeping toward ruby-red.  About to speak, she glances to the king and settles on a nod, hoping their welcome has not been worn out by this sudden display.  The royals look unimpressed.  Very much so.

"Devlin," she begins, then coughs once, glancing nervously toward where Banglen-Yp and Dorian conduct their experiments.  "Devlin is correct.  This man is very unlikely to be dead, even considering how time shifts through the Myriad Worlds."

Yes, please, not again.

The bird takes flight again at Trista's warning and just as he does the whirling creature explodes. ämi squawks and flaps quickly, keeping himself in place just behind the woman's shoulder chirping and whistling loudly at the strange display.

In her quiet spot near the corner, Tahirah stands, her arms folded and her hood low.  She seems to almost project calm throughout the calamity, and somehow the chaos seems to pass her by.

Devlin does not miss Dorian's warning, but he doesn't give it much heed as his attention is on other matters that have been weighing on his mind for some time.

But one other does give it some attention, somehow alerted to the possible danger. And instant before the pseudo Archon sneezes and flies to bits, Nightbrand flows from Devlin's wrist to form the familiar, at least to some, protective coating over the man's body.

Turning his head, Devlin watches the display through black slits in the protective shell; a slight shaking of his head can be seen.

When it is done he simply turns his attention back to Random and the others, ready to continue the discussion of Finndo and waiting for any response to his last questions.

The thin black armor flows back, returning to its previous state of the black gauntlet that covers the man's arm from wrist to elbow.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:53, Sat 30 May 2009.

Roman reacts to the threat by moving to a less unsafe position and shifting to demon form - his exoskeleton having the same protective qualities as the plate armour it appears to be.

When the event ceases his first thought is to resolve never. ever. to seek similar help from Dorian.

With the confusion dying down, Fiona looks around the room, with its broken doors, damaged rug, newly excavated floor, and fresh coatings of dust, mud, and water on almost every surface.

With a crooked smile, she comments, "It looks like I'll get my way after all.  I've thought this room needed redecorating for some time, but others disagreed with me."

She tries to ignore the disturbing presence of an armoured demon in their midst, and indicates Tahirah, "You make an interesting point, which I was about to respond to when I was... interrupted.  It is known here, among the family, that the easiest way to check if a long absent relative is alive or dead is to touch a Trump bearing their image.  If the card grows cool, then a connection has been made, and they must, therefore, live."

"Perhaps the fact that somebody has taken steps to... discourage... Trump usage in Amber has something to do with preventing us from finding out that a supposedly dead family member is still alive?  I had thought of this before, but the most likely suspect I had for an attack on the family is also most likely dead, having been shot with several arrows, and fallen into the Abyss.  In front of witnesses."

She shrugs, "Now we are presented with a new suspect, and the idea of a deliberate effort to hide the fact that they can be contacted with a Trump becomes viable again."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:28, Mon 01 June 2009.

"Fascinating," Dorian says. "You should learn to resist such effects. I believe once you've suffered such an attack, it is easier to resist. Later."

 

♦♦ If you believe it possible to resist ♦ although it felt not like an attack ♦ other than causing me to lose control for a moment ♦ and thereby causing damage for which I apologise ♦♦

♦♦ I still learn things ♦ remember things ♦ and yet I am far less now than what I was before I became which is less than what I was when I was more than what I am and will be for some time ♦ also I am not quite myself as I used to be before I began ♦ even if I was less then too as what I am is nothing less than what I am ♦ that much I can feel right now ♦♦ Unless I am the only one ♦ it is hard to tell ♦♦

♦♦ But does that mean you wish to do this later again ♦♦

 

"If you wish my assistance, I will gladly help. Attack may not be the most precise word, but if you wish to use your ability as a disguise, losing control would be a rather obvious clue that you are not an authentic Archon. If they could cause you to lose control like that, the plan would fail. That is why I offered assistance."

 

♦♦ True ♦ thought the plan is not to infiltrate the Archons ♦ but to fool a non-Archon ♦ even though it is of course a long shot in the dark ♦ so to speak ♦ to even get that far ♦♦ My default mental state might be enough to hide my imperfection ♦ as it makes me undetectable by anyone ♦♦

The Archon continued to hover where it was, above the pit and away from the others, apart from making a sort of motion towards Fiona at the last part of its statement.

 

Cyan ponders the princess' reply, keeping a close eye on Dorian and Banglan-Yp's conversation.  The level of devastation from their test is startling, and yet the Royals and several of the others seem to take it in stride.  Roman's new form garners a quick glance as she continues to think, but by this point Cyan has seen similar shifts from others, including Devlin and Banglan-Yp herself, and has begun to adjust to people who alter their for based on circumstance.

From a tactical and strategic standpoint, disabling the amberite 'Trumps' makes perfect sense - it destroys their methods of communication and swift travel.  But another reason, the real reason may lie beneath: to conceal the identity of the traitor.

Having discerned the obvious reason, people might tend to look no further.

"A sensible precaution," she murmurs.  "Your highness, might this effect be keyed specifically to those of Amberite blood, or connected directly to Amber in some way?  I have some skill with...a similar art, and as of yet, my palanqueti have not suffered the same depridations as your Trump."  She snaps out a card, obviously not in her style, with a hole burned through the middle.  If one looks closely enough, one might recognize the savaged image as that of Caine - possibly from the daggers.  "This was used by Beldrin in my presence, yet my own cards remain whole.  If you have an image, perhaps I can utilize it...?"

She should find out how Beldrin is...but right now, the situation is too important.

James heeds Dorian's warning and takes a large step back from Banglen-Yp.  He is almost immediately glad to have done so as several of the ominously lethal shards of metal shrapnel become dust uncomfortably close to his face.

James stands stoically throughout the remainder of the flurry of transformations, apparently content that he is outside the immediate danger zone.  He does his best to take the whole process in, hoping for some insight that will help him understand the enigmatic shifter.  Towards the end, though, he is forced to turn away blinking tears out of his eyes.

Once the process is finished he does his best to wipe the grit from his eyes.  He then brushes off his clothes.  "Bloody dust."

The conversation continues.  For a moment James is bewildered, slightly alarmed that Dorian is counselling Fiona of all people to better resist Trump attacks.  Then he realises that Dorian is still talking to Banglen-Yp and he relaxes.

Interested in the Trump discussion, Trista focuses her attention there while keeping an ear open to Dorian and Banglen-Yp. Just in case another display ensues. Just in case the worlds turns upside down again.

Now where was that whiskey again?
This message was last edited by the player at 14:37, Tue 02 June 2009.

"As far as anybody can tell, the Trump disruption works like a disease." Fiona explains, "We don't know how it started, but we suspect a deliberately infected Trump was planted in a deck.  Anybody using an infected Trump gets infected, and any Trump that person tries to use afterwards becomes infected."

"A Trump can become infected if the person it depicts is carrying the disease, and the Trump is used to contact them.  An infected person eventually starts to suffer severe headaches during Trump contact, whether they are the contactor or the contactee, but until that happens, they may not even realise that anything is wrong, and by then, any Trump they have used, or which has been used on them, has become tainted, and will burn out in the end."

"I suspect that you remain uninfected, because you have neither used an infected card, nor had Trump contact with an infected person."

Random sighs, and interrupts, "We have some decks in the castle which we're fairly certain were not infected before we realised the nature of the threat and stopped using Trumps.  I can arrange for somebody to take you to one of those decks.  However, I should warn you that we can't be certain if they are... clean.  And nobody wants to test them, because anybody who is uninfected would become infected if the cards aren't safe, and anybody who is infected would be risking contaminating what might be one of the few healthy decks we have left."

"I understand little of Trump power, but it sounds like a sort of psychic disease, as it were. I'm assuming you've looked for ways to remove it, though. Is there any way to detect infected cards or persons? Or is it guesswork? I am  skilled working on minds, if there were an known infected person, I could see what could be found--though someone with knowledge of Trump power would likely be more help on the matter."

ämi settles back down onto Trista's shoulder, whistling as usual.  It turns its small head as if he to is listening to the conversation.

For a moment, Devlin had been watching the small bird fly around Trista's shoulder, concentrating on the creature.

"You say that all one of the family must do is touch a card and it will turn cool if the one it represents is alive." Devlin repeats what was said earlier.

"I have never actually used them, so I should not be infected with this... disease. And, frankly, I'm willing to take the chance one an infected set if it can lead us to this Finndo. If we don't stop him then it won't really matter, and if we do, well we can worry about it that then."

Turning to Fiona he then asks, "If one concentrates on one of these Trump, can they get a feeling for where the other is? Without making contact? Does the person know that someone is using their card in such a way?"

Random nods at Dorian, "Many of us are infected, as far as we can tell.  There is no real way to spot an infected Trump, or person, until they are part of a Trump contact.  Fiona has tried... "

"And nobody currently alive knows more about the cards than I do." Fiona interjects.

"No, that's true.  Unless Dworkin still lives, wandering about the dungeons somewhere.  But nobody's seen him in some time.  Common wisdom has it that he's dead."

There is short burst of laughter from one of the Amberites, a huge man, dark haired and massively muscled, "That's what they say every time he disappears for a few months or years.  He always turns up again, large as life and twice as crazy."

Random smiles, and shakes his head, "One day they will be right though.  It might be today."

Devlin's suggestion catches the king's attention, "That's a good idea, and a generous offer.  So... we have our volunteer.  Excellent."

This Trump "disease" is interesting.  And worth noting.  And why upset the Amberites by mentioning that Trumps were invented in the Courts ?  Devlin deserves a warning though.

"The one responsible for this plague is likely to be somewhat of an expert in the cards, too.  The plague may be only the first line of defence.  I would advise you to take care not to open up to full contact with the subject of the card."

"Not more," Tahirah accepts the claim easily, "But it is clear somebody has learned a different thing."  She pauses for a moment, and then turns to face - if `facing' can be said of someone whose face is almost completely hidden - Cyan.  "Do you know what makes your cards different?" she asks.

At first she nods along with Dorian.  But then concern touches Cyan's features, and she struggles with the thought of interruption when Devlin makes his offer.  Dorian is correct - it might be better for one with knowledge of palanqueti to make the attempt.  But she trusts the wanderer, knowing him to be a man of strong belief in himself without the burden of a great ego; if he feels himself capable...well, as Jonnee Kay would say, it is his show.

Apparantly the Princess Fiona is the current mastery of the art of the 'Trump'; Cyan waits, listening, while she and Random discuss with Dorian and Devlin.  There are interjections - one from a prince, another, a wise one, from Roman - then unexpectedly, the hooded Tahirah turns toward the bard with a question.

Cyan blinks.  She hasn't ever considered the answer to that question, not being the sort to worry about the underpinnings of tools.  "I..."  The bard frowns, then snaps out one of her palanqueti for study.  "The cards are forged by myself, usually with the assistance of Berd.  Without him, it is a far more difficult process, though I draw upon the same energies he summons."  A grimace twists her lips.  "Hardly surprising, given our connection."

One finger taps the card; it rings like a tiny, crystal bell.  "I am uncertain if the Trumps of Amber and Chaos use the same system for their communication and travel; Berd has explained, to the best of his ability, the exact methodology by which the palanqueti function - the aspecting of the cards to the unique psychic signature of an individual that they might focus the mental frequencies of the user, the propagation of their vibrations, the medium through which they flow, their capture at the receiver.  The potential for the unaligned, unaspected energies of the medium to be focused to defense against other powers."  Again, the curious shift of her vocabulary; then Cyan sighs.  "And so forth.  It is long, dry hearing, mostly regarding the Underflow."

She cocks her head to the side, studying the seer.  "What do you know of Trumps, Tahirah?"

Knowing nothing of Trump (though that's not completely true, come to think of it), Trista leaves herself out of the conversation. She still stands with Chance, her eyes glancing between the various people in the room as they speak.

The little bird lands on her shoulder and Trista's gaze pulls around to it, inspecting her feathered friend for wear and tear from the shapeshifter's evolutions.


Her eyes turn to Devlin as he makes his offer and the responses. It's a solid idea; someone has to try them out. Cyan's talk goes a touch over Trista's head, and her thoughts turn inward again.

To family.

To her father. And the people he spoke of, time after time. Trista had thought them stories. These people in this very room. Random, Fiona... she had forgotten the names, but they're here, now. In front of her. What else from her father's tales will prove to be fact and not fiction.

Her mind skitters and her heart skips a beat.

The Pattern?

That mythological maze that brought power. And proved bloodlines. Not that Trista could be related to royalty. But she's of Amber, through her father. Just as she's of Chaos, through her mother. Yet, she's powerless standing amongst gods.

The Pattern...

Her eyes flick about the room, taking measure of Amber's royalty. Perhaps one of them...

As is her nature, Tahirah contemplates the question quietly for a moment before answering. 

"Less than she," Tahirah indicates, with a small bow of her head towards Fiona.  "I have heard that the purpose of Art is to hold a mirror to nature," she replies.  "But even the purest mirror presents a flawed, reversed, offering.  Trump, as I have been taught, is the art of perfection.  With great care and attention, a depiction can be perfect enough to become a piece of the fate of that which it portrays.  As all things are connected above and below, this piece of fate may then be used, by Wish and by Will, to bridge such lesser differences as distance - that where it is, may become where they are, and so in return."  No strange changes in speech patterns for her.

Since it seems his last question would not be answered by the first person he asked, or perhaps she's just thinking over her answer, Devlin turns to Cyan. "Cyan, it would help for me to have some small understanding of these Trump, not how they work, but what can be done."

It is obvious the the man is thinking out his words carefully, "We...", he continues, the word is stressed in a odd way, and with that word there is a slight wrinkling of his brow, "...need more than to simply know if this man is alive. We, need to find him and to somehow... get the information we need."

Here Devlin shakes his head, looking at the floor, "You may know more about these Trump, and you may not be infected with this disease any more than I, but..." Then he looks up into Cyan's eyes, "...correct me if I'm wrong, it is likely that he knows who you are, and that he knows who many of our friends are."

He looks around the room gesturing with a nod at each of those he is acquainted with; Dorian, or is it Dorian's clone, and does it matter; then his eyes pass over the Archon that is Banlen-Yp, just a mysterious as ever, but it seems not unlike himself in some ways; Chance, James, Tahirah, Roman, Arron near the back of the room, and Trista, a slight tilt of his head and an odd smile when he looks at Trista. Some he knows better than others, some barely at all.

"That is, with the exception of one or two of us, and I believe I am one of those. I can even alter my own mind in ways what would prevent anyone, even one that knows me, from detecting it is me by touching my mind. Perhaps, if he detects my contact, his curiosity about who I am might make him hesitate, even for a second."

Devlin takes a deep breath and sighs it out, "So, what I really need to know, before I touch this Trump, is what I might get from that touch beyond confirming if the man is alive or dead. Would I be able to get any impression of him, where he is, anything at all, without alerting him? If I do alert him, what can I do to defend myself? Can anyone else help me if they chose to risk themselves, or am I on my own?"

Now the man looks around the room for any reaction to his words, then turns his attention back to Cyan. Once called "The General" by the enemy, she is the one he defers to, the one he trusts beyond the others. Why, he cannot say.

Repeating words similar to those he's heard the woman say and he has said himself, "It is past time for bold, possibly dangerous actions." then he falls silent and waits for answers.

Cyan ponders Tahirah's curious description.  It seems like something out of a story, or a legend - the shoe, apparently, is on the other foot.  But it holds a kernal of truth when held against Berd's explanation of palanqueti.  "An interesting explanation, Tahirah," she finally begins, "and it may indicate that the arts of Trump and palanqueti are of similar, if not identical origin.  I have met two artists of 'Trump', and examined their creations."

Kendell.  Mysteriously vanished, possibly by use of his own cards.

Leonardo, the artist.  Bloody glasses, washed clean by the surf.  Even now it hurts to remember.

"I found little difference between theirs and mine."

She narrows her eyes at Devlin's curious stressing, wondering if he speaks of Nightbrand and himself.  Most likely.  Meeting his dark eyes with her topaz gaze, Cyan nods for him to continue, pondering his words.  In truth, he makes a valid point.  Their adversary would likely know of some of them, possibly many of them.  Definitely herself, given her time among the Archons.

She bites her lip, then releases a small snort of laughter when he echoes her own thoughts back.  "Indeed."  Count upon Devlin to strike to the heart of what must be done, to cut through the discussion and begin.  Best she do the same.

"Without skill with palanqueti, one may only come into contact with the person depicted upon the card.  Light contact, as has been noted, will demonstrate if they still live, and are in a place where the Underflow can reach them."  A glance to Fiona.  "There are places within the Myriad Worlds where this is not possible."

"With practice, it is said one can touch gently enough to gain impressions - places, perhaps even the surface thoughts of the person contacted.  But this does require experience which, sadly, you apparently do not possess."  She chews her lip thoughtfully.  "Any further contact, and you will alert them to your presence, allow them to open discourse with you.  If their mind is stronger, you will have a tiger by the tail.  You can break the contact at any time by releasing the card, but if they are truly formidable you might find yourself incapable of so doing."

She taps her fingertip on her lips.  "But there is hope.  Others may join you, lending their strength.  They may either use another card in proximity to you, or touch the card you hold.  Or you.  Were Berd here..."  She shrugs.  He isn't.  "If all else fails, I have a razor to cut the cord."

Be it a palanquet, a barrier of pure magic forces, tendrils of Chaos, or steel, to Gurthang all things existed to be cloven.

Aaron listened intently. As Cyan explained the plan in more detail, Aaron nodded and took a step forwards, past his grand-daughter.

"I'll volunteer to keep an eye on the Trump contact, Cyan." If anything, his look was resigned. "I'm familiar with your palanquet enough to understand the workings of Trump. As long as I can differentiate between Devlin's psyche and that of our contactee, I think I can act as a buffer between Devlin and our target if it comes to it."

He glanced at Devlin, raising his head a bit. "If you're okay with that."

Others in the group, he knew, were probably better choices for this than he was. But Aaron knew himself pretty well. When it came to taking and absorbing damage, psychic or otherwise, he had it down. Aaron was nothing if not a glutton for potential punishment.

 

Quietly, apart from a faint whistle, the Archon hovered in the background, seemingly lost in thought.

Then a single metal sheet extended out from the spinning form and touched the pit in the floor.  Nothing seemed to happen but then, in an near indiscernible manner, the dust began to ever so slowly move, as if a gentle wind nudged it.  Unless someone observed the dust carefully or had otherwise enhanced ability to spot minute changes, it would not be any noticeable changes.

 

Though personal demons linger in the background, Trista keeps her attention on the conversation. The fact that Devlin might get attacked through the card puts her priorities in order. Quickly.

Though her words don't come before Aaron's. She really didn't think she'd have to verbalize her plan, but in this group, she probably does. Leaving Chance's side with just a touch of her hand, Trista steps to Devlin's right and states the facts, “I'll stand with Devlin.” She's a formidable woman as some have seen, and her psyche is just as strong. She can guard over him and if all else fails, physically knock the damn card out of his hand if need be.

Of course, she doesn't mind Aaron being there, too. Three's not exactly a crowd in this situation.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:44, Wed 10 June 2009.

"My strength is observation," Tahirah states, softly.  "I would not be the best to join in the struggle...but if it is agreeable, I will watch, and see what I can learn."

"Two shields," Aaron stated, "and another pair of eyes. Not bad."

He nodded, looking to Cyan and Devlin, then. Aaron absently wondered if Fiona herself would have volunteered, had not this Trump 'disease' already affected her.

"Anyone else care to join in on this party?"
This message was last edited by the player at 23:31, Wed 10 June 2009.

Devlin listens to Cyan, and it is obvious that what he intends is not without risk. But she also offers assistance. Then Arron steps beside him and offers himself, somewhat reluctantly at first. Devlin nods his appreciation of the offer.

Then another, Trista. For some reason Devlin had expected her decision and he smiles openly as the woman steps to his side. The first real smile any have likely seen since his return.

Then he offers one other choice, likely just as dangerous, "There is one other option that I hesitate to take. I could attempt to alter the mind of someone more adept at the use of these Trump; making them seem someone else entirely, but there are dangers in this as well. I can alter my own mind with ease; forcing these changes on another might have unforeseen side effects."

Looking around again, he may not call all of them friend, but he is glad that they are there to stand by him. "No matter though. I feel I'll be in good company if something should go wrong."

 

♦♦ If I can be of assistance ♦ uncertain as that is ♦ I am willing to help ♦♦

A simple statement from the spinning cheese grinder that still held a part of itself in the pit.

 

To Cyan's relief, both Aaron and Trista step forward to offer their support.  Aaron, she knows, is no weak-kneed beginner to the battle of the mind - his own, scarred past attests to war after war fought on that field, and he holds the power of the pattern within himself.  While Berd has kept Trista's secrets, her eyes speak of a great weight endured; Cyan knows the strength that can bring.

Devlin could do worse.  Much, much worse.

But then the shapeshifter comes up with a solution to the problem of her own involvement.  Simple, elegant, and utterly horrifying.  Cyan turns away, nausea rolling her stomach, and closes her eyes.  She barely hears Banglan-Yp's own offer of assistance.  Change...my mind?  Memories surface, memories of words hurled like spears at her father.  "Would I even BE the same person, now, if you had left me alone to make my choices?"  And worse.  Fire blooms in the void.  The crimson-gold light flickers on spinning, glistening metal.

Tahirah will watch.  The others will be joined by Banglan-Yp.  Surely that is enough?

And if they need someone untouched by this plague, someone who knows the palanqueti?  What then, Cyan?  Bold, possibly dangerous actions indeed.  But to hand herself over to another, to have her mind altered once more?  Would you add their names to your list?  Banglan-Yp?  Trista?  Devlin?  Aaron?

Opening crystal eyes only tinted with emerald green, she turns to face Devlin, standing with Trista.  "You may require one who knows these things.  I will make the attempt."

James listens with interest to the discussion of Trumps and palenqueti.  It's not a subject that he knows much about.  Bleys was fond of them and almost always had a pack close at hand, but that had been before this plague had arrived, or perhaps just before it had become apparent, it was hard to be sure.

He does know that Fiona is the most knowledgeable of the Amberites and he instinctively trusts Cyan's knowledge of her art.  Given the available information, Devlin's suggestion was sound and he will be well supported by Aaron, Trista and Tahirah.  James is curious, but he is also keen to catch up with Kallum.  The guardsman will be useful in planning the operation at Tir.

Then, to James' alarm, Cyan volunteers.  "What?  No.  The risks of the trump contact I can understand, but altering your mind, surely that's unnecessary."  The implication is obvious; unaltered Cyan's psyche is the most likely to be recognised, ruling her out as a candidate.

Her eyes like aquamarines, paler than the sky on a clear winter's day, Cyan fights taking the lifeline James has tossed her.  "But...what if they need someone who knows palenqueti, James?"  Her gaze roves about the room before finally settling on her hands, the fingers knotting together at her belt.  With some exasperation, she pulls them apart.  "This...person, should they reach him, is no doubt knowledgeable in the Art.  And my own aura may warn him, if he has sufficient experience to sense even the lightest touch."

Unable to keep still, she paces in a cirle.  "Is there an alternative?  I see none."  She can hope - perhaps James has seen something she has not.  It certainly wouldn't be the first time.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:22, Thu 11 June 2009.

Tahirah listens patiently, but as Cyan pushes herself into what quickly passes beyond a state of agitation and into what seems to be more of a panic, the quiet woman steps forward and extends an arm, the hand held up, calling for attention.  Another contrast, for those who enjoy such things - once she has placed herself forward, she goes very still, her robes settling quickly around her feet.

"That is not," she says, her tone almost flat, and surprisingly strong.  "You could be entangled, there.  Better as you said at the first; that you stand to the side, prepared to sever, if dangers threaten to overwhelm.  That is a power I do not offer.  I will not be far, and I know the Art well enough to see what those who do not may miss."

Her arm withdraws, hands folding again into opposite sleeves, and her voice softens almost to a breath.  "You bear a heavy guilt."  It fades to silence, only for a moment, and then rises again.  "Your salvation lies in your striving to undo what has been wrought, to avert what may come; not in tormenting yourself, nor allowing others to do so.  The most painful path is not always correct.  The weight of the Worlds lies not upon your shoulders alone."

Trista answers Devlin's smile with an easy one of her own. Surprisingly to her, considering her inner workings. There's a solidarity between the two, but she's not sure from where it's born. Perhaps from the long night in the rain.

Cyan steps next to Trista, pushing through some dark place. Concern clouds Trista's eyes, snippets of conversations with Berd come to the forefront. The woman has been through too much, but always bears the burdens of their journey. Of her journey. James and Tahirah both assert their strong thoughts on the matter, the latter sounding much like a psychologist, though looking as a seer.

A single nod punctuates Tahirah's words as Trista lifts a strong hand to gently land on Cyan's own, cupping around her fingers. “Cyan, listen to them,” her voice comes softly pitched low, “Your strength and courage will bolster us in whatever is about to happen. Devlin will be well cared for.” Her hand softly squeeze about Cyan's hand, “But thank you for your example.”

Aaron placed a hand on Cyan's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, mimicing Trista's action from the opposite side. He gave her a stern look, but it was clearly tinged with the utmost concern and understanding. He could sense her conflict.

"No," he stated flatly. "They're right, Cyan. Our enemies know you. If they identify even the smallest inkling of your involvement, we must assume that they will take advantage of it." His grip on her shoulder became just a bit tighter, but not tight enough to hurt. "We won't risk fighting them through you."

He said 'we', but he imparted 'I'. Aaron would not risk it. James had come to, and spoken aloud, Aaron's own instant conclusion. If their enemies identified Cyan and truly dedicated themselves to an offensive... well, Aaron knew much too well what could occur if someone fiddled with your mind.

In that place where he kept his silent secrets, Aaron remembered her. The warrior from beyond time. The slayer in jet and gold. His sword hand, the hand holding Cyan's shoulder, tingled... and twitched for the briefest second at the memory.

James' reaction has already knocked a chink in her decision - James has a talent of doing so, with words or steel.  Tahirah's offer and empathy undermines her footing, while Trista's quiet strength gently pushes the door closed.  Then firmly, decisively, Aaron turns the key in the lock.

Cyan closes her eyes.  "Thank you."  When she opens them, they have darkened to a deep amythest, and she looks at each in turn, studying them, memorizing their faces.  Someday, she will paint them, together.  "For care -" James "- for wisdom and grace -" Tahirah "- for compassion -" Trista "- and..."  A small laugh, and she reaches out to rap Aaron lightly upon the forehead.  "...for brick-wall obduracy."  She squeezes Trista's fingers, reaches up to lay a hand on Aaron's - oh, she felt the twitch, Cyan rarely misses such things.  Nor does she miss inflection and stress upon words, not with her training and experience.

Finally, the bard lets her shoulders relax.  "I will do as you say.  Watch and wait, to see if the card must be sealed."  Sealed with the cursed sword she turned against James, against Dorian, against Aaron.  I must rid myself of this thing.  It is far too eager to taste the blood of those I hold dear.

Aaron snorted, laughed and rubbed his forehead. The friendship in Cyan's blow was certain, and welcome. Yet he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, his eyes hardening with the onset of responsiblity.

"So be it," Aaron intoned gravely, dropping his hand. "Now, we need our Card."

Aaron looked then to all involved. "Prepare yourselves," he said. "All of us have experienced the cunning and resources of our enemy. Some of us have seen, and felt, what happens when the Archons take you here." Aaron poked the side of his head. "Watch your asses."

Aaron looked at Devlin. "You're our probe, Dev. Let the others watch and help you into the proper course." He frowned. "I'll be the blocker if our target tries to push back. If they try anything other than a cautious, questioning response, I'll make sure they regret it long enough to keep the rest of us safe."

"I think I can do enough," he said finally, unable to keep doubt from his voice. "No hero stuff, though. If things get too hot, we bail out." He looked at Trista, Cyan, James... everyone else. All of this, just for one little Trump contact.

"Any other ideas for application of talent in this little sortie?"

Fiona regards Devlin with some interest, as she listens to the discussion surrounding the attempt to determine if Finndo still lives.  Occasionally she interrupts to clarify various points...

"There is little danger from merely touching the card.  Making contact through the card requires concentration.  Touching the card is not really concentration, it simply... opens... the card to accept contact."

She notes that Random appears to be distracted, his attention elsewhere in the room, and she follows his gaze.  The false Archon is doing... something.

"However, we simply don't know what Finndo has become capable of by now." the princess of Amber continues, "If it does turn out that he is capable of launching an attack without true contact, then having others with you who are capable of contributing to your defence would be useful.  As would observers, especially those familiar wirh Trump, or variations of it.  Familiarity will make it easier to spot problems."

"If your defenders can contribute other forms of power, all the better.  Finndo might, for example, be able to turn his own Trump against you, but might be less able when confronted with a person skilled in using the Pattern to drive a defence.  The more different abilities you can bring to bear, the more likely it is that you'll have one which is an effective barrier."

Another pause, as the discussion turns to tactics and personnel, then, "We have several choices in which deck to try..."

Random pulls his attention away from whatever the bladed wheel is doing, and interrupts Fiona, "Brand.  Brand always liked messing about with Trumps.  I bet there's at least one full deck hidden in his quarters.  Nobody's been in there for a while, as far as I'm aware, so that would probably be your best chance of finding an uninfected card to use."

The large man who had spoken earlier shakes his head, and chuckles, "Yes, you'll only have to worry about whatever booby-traps Brand might have placed."

Fiona shoots him an angry glare, "I agree with Random on this, Gerard - our main concern is diseased Trump.  Brand's quarters represent our best chance of not having to deal with that."

"Not all powers are...compatible"  Roman points out.  "For the Trump exercise we should deploy the best combination we can, possibly with others held in reserve"

When it is suggested that the Trumps be obtained from Brand's room he has further thoughts.  "Prince Brand..." the traitorous wretch "is unlikely to have anticipated all the powers that could be brought to bear.  Searching his room may not be as dangerous for us, as it would be for those he did expect."

Tahirah steps back a little as others step forward to support Cyan, but nods an acknowledgment of the thanks given.  As the conversation again swirls to other angles, she moves closer to the King.

Her attention seems momentarily diverted as Fiona's was, following his distracted gaze, and then returns.  "Forgive me for interrupting," she begins, "But if I may be shown first to the room where we will be acting, while the Deck is chosen, I might begin my own preparations," she requests.

Devlin sees plainly how his idea of him messing around in her mind horrifies Cyan, and he understands the reaction. He is about to say something, to tell her that it was only a suggestion, that he's more than willing to do this himself, when the others step in and convince here she should not do it. He simply nods his agreement, and resolve to do this thing.

It seems Aaron is confortable taking the lead on this, along with Devlin - given that her role will be support, Cyan finds it perfectly acceptable, watching and waiting while the others come to a conclusion regarding the deck, the room, the positioning....

She grimaces as Aaron notes the dangers, then stifles a nervous laugh at his ill-timed words.  Do not prod your head while speaking of asses, Aaron...  But she lets it pass.  Now isn't the time for interjections of taproom humor.  Instead, she joins the King in a brief study of Banglen-Yp's activities.  The shapeshifter is up to something, but what?


Tearing her gaze from where the bladed wheel spins, she glances to the one who interrupted Princess Fiona - Gerard, another name to add to faces - then back to Fiona.  "I might be of some assistance searching the Prince's quarters," she hazards, "though I suspect others have better means of ferretting out threats."

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind seeing how the other half sleeps," Chance pipes up. He doesn't think he has any special talent ferreting out secrets, but it would give him something to do beside watching the others play with cards. Luke had told him about Amber and the family in passing, and even mentioned that Chances songs seemed similar to this Trump power they talked about. Somehow, Chance had the impression that there might be a connection between him and Amber if only a possibility, but now that he has here it all seemed a little overwhelming--even if he had been born a prince himself. This was a different scale.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:37, Thu 18 June 2009.

Playing with Trump, a power in which Dorian never felt any interest. He pondered volunteering his mind to act as a shield, but as long as Cyan wasn't involved, he similarly felt no interest in protecting the others. They volunteered knowing the risks, so his conscious was clean in that regard.

The Banglen-Yp-Archon, up to something. Again, he had little interest there. He had volunteered his assistance, rendered it (with surprising results). After that, he considered himself done.

The princes' chambers seemed as if they would be filling up quickly. No need to lift a finger there since the goal was related to Trump.

Findo--not a familiar name, but he liked having a tentative name to the enemy that started all this. Surely, if he still lived, he knew about the threat. That meant this Findo would either be dead, or still the enemy.

His eyes flicked to James for the briefest moment.

Only one item of business remained, but there was no opportunity among these events. He doubted he would ever have that moment, too. The mystery would remain, the hole of unknowing unfilled.

The ghost-girl sighed. Her eyes watered up with white light. The answer her father desired most among all other answers might be in this room, but he could not ask because of more important matters brewing. She agreed with her father's thought that this wasn't the time, but she vowed the opportunity wouldn't slip away.

Fiona seems to take charge of the situation, and Random sits back in his chair, still watching Banglen-Yp.

Fiona explains, "I agree that Brand could probably not have anticipated such a diverse group.  He would, first of all, have dealt with the most likely threats."

"Still, it's probably best that you not do the test in Brand's quarters.  He may have traps set to prevent Trump use, into or out of the area.  You will need to find the cards, and bring them out of the room.  We can take them to one of the guest suites, an unused one, and do the test there."

That gets Random's attention for a moment, "Take Tahirah to the room where you plan to do the test first.  She has preparations she wants to make."

"Very well." Fiona replies, with a nod to Tahirah.  Then, "Is there anything else any of you needs for this test?"

James is glad that Cyan could be dissuaded.  The plan Devlin, Aaron and Fiona had arrived at is a good one and Cyan's offer, though well-intentioned, was needlessly dangerous.  There would still be risks but with the combined talents of the assembled group they should be able to counter any threat.

The thought of rifling through Brand's belongings is rather distasteful to James, but he can see the advantages of a fresh deck.  In any event the chance of catching up with Kallum was now remote.  He would have to send word.

"I don't need anything for the test but I'd arranged to meet an acquaintance of mine later.  I met him at the gate on the way in.  I'll have to get one of the servants to let him know I can't make it, since this looks like it might take a while."

With the Princess in charge, making the decisions, and her own place in the situation settled, Cyan knows to take a step back.  Too many voices, and things grow overly complicated - better to wait for her proper time to step in.  Instead, she listens to the flow of the conversation while focusing a touch of her attention on the floor under the false Archon.

Is Banglen-Yp somehow consuming the rug to add substance to the hole in the floor?

"I can deal with that for you, James.  What's the name of this friend?" Random speaks up, tearing his attention away from Banglen-Yp's activity.  He thinks he knows what she's up to... but her behaviour can, as far as he has seen since her arrival at the meeting, best be described as "bizarre", so it could be that she's simply eating the rug.

Fiona, meanwhile, looks around the faces of the group, except Banglen-Yp of course, who currently has no face, and Tahirah, whose face is, as always, mostly concealed within her voluminous hood.  Nobody seems to have anything further to add so, as soon as James has given the name of his friend to Random, the princess of Amber says, "This way, then." and heads out of the room.

There follows a short walk through the castle, culminating in a modest suite of rooms.  "This is where we'll do the test.  We're reasonably close to Brand's old quarters, but far enough away that I'm confident that the test will not trigger anything in there."

The suite is not large, consisting of a bedroom and dining room, comfortably (if unimaginatively) furnished, with a single narrow, mullioned window, looking over the city.  If a viewer were to open that window, lean perilously far out, and crane his neck to the left, he would actually have a partial view of small portion of the harbour too.  There is a fireplace in the dining room, but no sign that it has been used recently.

"So then, who wants to visit my brother's former chambers?" Fiona asks, once everybody has had a chance to study the room.

"I'll go," Chance says. "No special skills to offer, but I'll do what I can."

That wasn't entirely true, of course, it was just that his special skill wouldn't help find what they were looking for. At least, that was his presumption. One never knew how one might end up helping; he had learned that lesson recently.

 

♦♦ Somewhere over the rainbow ♦♦
♦♦ Way up high ♦♦
♦♦ There's a land that I heard of ♦♦
♦♦ Once in a lullaby ♦♦

♦♦ Somewhere over the rainbow ♦♦
♦♦ Skies are blue ♦♦
♦♦ And the dreams that you dare to dream ♦♦
♦♦ Really do come true ♦♦

Still poking the pit with an overly extended piece of metal the Archon begins to hum on a song, remaining where it is and doing whatever it is doing.  The song do come across a bit strange, with a metal-against-metal kind of voice, but then again, no stranger than what is happening already.

 

Roman looks at Banglen-Yp's activity with a shake of his head.  Still, so long as the Amberites don't object - not that they're in a good position to - she may as well just get on with whatever weirdness she's up to,

The rooms for the test seem adequate enough.

"I'll also go to see your late brother's chambers, princess.  And on the way, perhaps you can inform us of his taste in traps."  Because, let's face it, there's a reason why the rooms have been left more-or-less untouched.

Devlin had been quite for a moment as the others prepared to find these Trump. He looks once at the little bird sitting on Trista's shoulder, its head cocked to one side so that it is looking at him with one eye. He wonders for a moment (not even a moment, the thought is almost there when he shrugs is off) if what he was planning was a good idea.

With a shrug he looks around the room and says, "I'm ready whenever we locate this Trump. Though a secure location and... " He looks around the room again, only now noticing how many people are actually in the room "... perhaps less of an audience would be nice as well."

_{Even better if only those I trust are there, and these princes and princesses are not among them he thinks quietly to himself.}

Cyan obediently follows Fiona, having offered her assistance in ferretting out the 'trumps'.  Given what she has seen, it seems likely she can detect them at a distance...which, of course, this Prince Brand would know.  Best to tread carefully.

Stopping at the door of the room, the bard peers inside (without sticking her head past the lintel), taking in as much of the area as she possibly can.  Frowining, Cyan backs off to consider.  Any traps will likely be outside her realm of expertise, being magical (though some may be based upon the energies of the 'Trump').

"I could make an attempt to locate the 'Trumps'," she murmurs, moving back to the doorway.  "I can also use palanquet to shield myself to some extent from assaults by the Powers."  Her topaz eyes flick from face to face, studying the others.  "I am certain the powers you possess hold similar capacity for defense."

Returning her gaze to the room, she concentrates, seeking the curious shimmer in reality palanqueti give off.  Most people cannot see it, but to those trained in her art or 'Trump', the vibration is easily sensed.

"I would like to see Brand's room." James says simply.

If the stories James had from Bleys were correct, and assuming that Argus was telling the truth, then Brand had killed James' mother.  This was something of an abstract thought for James.  Having never met Deidre, James felt little more than vague disappointment at the idea of her death, but he was still curious to see what clues Brand's room might hold as to the nature and personality of its former occupant.

James is not sure what he can offer in terms of searching the room or disarming the traps that it is thought to contain.  He doubts whether it is wise to call up the Pattern in his mind as a defence, as he might otherwise do.  Brand would probably assume that any family member that came snooping would rely on such a tactic and plan accordingly.

So he stands outside the room, a little curious, a little nervous - and waits for someone else to lead the way.

Trista remains mute, having no actual curiosity to see this Brand's room, but having already set her mind to following where Devlin needs to be. Chance's volunteerism, however, does get a thoughtful appraisal.

Fiona unlocks the door, and steps back, "If my brother was worried about anybody finding his secrets, it would be his siblings.  There may be traps keyed to specific family members, so it's probably best if I don't come in."


Back in the conference chamber, the meeting seems to be breaking up.  The lords and ladies of Amber are dispersing to continue with their business, leaving Random alone (unless you count the guards, which nobody ever does) watching Banglen-Yp working on the floor.  The hole is growing noticeably shallower, and the damaged rug is almost completely gone now.


The rooms are luxuriously furnished, clearly Brand liked his comfort, but a thick layer of dust lays on most surfaces clearly revealing the items which have been touched since he left.  Which is none of them.

Brand's suite looks... not a bit like the lair of a megalomaniac genius.  There is no huge portrait of Brand himself.  Larger than life statues of the man, grinding worlds beneath his heels are noticeably lacking, and a quick survey reveals that none of the books on the shelves are entitled, "My Triumphs, My Mistakes" and penned by Brand.  There is a desk, but there are no plans for vast devices capable of destroying entire worlds laying upon it.

Perhaps Brand was not quite as dark as his brothers and sisters would see him painted...

Or, perhaps, he was just far more subtle than the average evil mastermind.

The subtlety seems to extend to any traps present.  There doesn't seem to be anything as gross as a simple mechanical device, which makes a kind of sense.  Brand would want to be able to stumble to bed at night, drunk, without maiming himself.  He would not want to return home to find the servant charged with sweeping the rooms dead on the floor because she had stepped too close to the desk...

Fiona may be right.  Traps created to react to certain individuals are more likely.

In any case, a careful search is started...

Cyan surveys the room for a long moment, a half-frown of concentration tugging down one corner of her mouth.  That look quickly becomes one of weary despair.  "Of course," she murmurs, lowering her gaze and running fingers through her hair.  "Given his purported skill..."  Mouth a flat line, she glances up at the others with her emerald eyes and shrugs.  "I fear I will be of little use here - Brand has either soaked his entire room with the energies of palanquet, or has created a palanquet of the room itself.  In the end, it makes little difference to my senses."

Straightening, she sighs, rolling her shoulders.  "To me, the entire room holds an aura - a balanced, even aura.  Perhaps were I within the room, examing everything in particular, I might discern something of import...but from here?  Nothing."

Back in the suite, Aaron took a few moments to get a feel for the room as it was. If what he had sensed of the City itself was true, perhaps Amber as a Castle was tied much further to the Pattern than initially assumed. Fiona had mentioned application of specific abilities during this contact, and Aaron fully intended to take advantage of every talent.

...not to mention taking some out of the equation.

Aaron entered the bedroom. There, he removed his scaled armor and then Ilsefranvir, placing both in a corner of the bedroom that was farthest from the parlor, where they would eventually have their encounter. This was for good reason. Both Herzkrieg and Ilsefranvir were specifically designed to house living power, composed of both the living energy of a spirit or soul and the psychic, controlling intent of a directed mind.

Aaron had every intention of focusing his full powers on defending Devlin and the rest of the group. He could not afford to risk having either Ilsefranvir or Herzkrieg suddenly posessed of a psychic intellect far greater than his own, both capable of killing anyone in the room. So far, their enemies had not hinted on his sword being a sort of 'empty shell', ready for inhabitance by the closest psychic power. Though the idea of someone or something 'renting out' Ilsefranvir was a risk he had already prepared for, he would have found it more embarrassing than actually alarming, should such a thing occur. Jack had taught him that much, long ago.

With Ilse and the armor hopefully far enough away from the contact point to avoid detection, Aaron returned to the meeting room. There, he stood in place and began to prepare his defenses.

Being this close to the Pattern would make it tougher to adjust reality if that was his intent, but getting a good sense of the Pattern itself was actually rather easy. He used this sense to 'cement' his mind in place, reinforcing his position as a bulwark by using the Pattern as its base. With that in effect, he then resorted to building up malleable, shape-shifting barriers of psychic intent, which would change with varying degress of severity depending on the force of the resulting probe or attack. Behind those were much more solid, structured walls of psychic defense, which Aaron prepared in case of psychic backlash, or a truly formidable offense. He sensed that he had kept enough energy in reserve to adapt to a changing situation.

Regardless, if anything untoward occured, Aaron would make damn sure that their target would regret it.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:33, Sun 05 July 2009.

Because it couldn't be that easy

"This form is more durable" Roman announces, stepping into the room.  Hopefully, whatever traps there are, are not prepared for demon-formed Chaos Lords.

Once inside the room, the intent is to invoke Logrus-sight to see what may be seen.  A largely passive ability may be safe.  And there may be more of interest here than mere Trumps.

James slips into the room behind Roman.  He doesn't have some of the Chaos lord's natural advantages, but he's probably had as much experience at spotting traps as anyone else present.

The floor itself probably isn't trapped.  This is Brand's bedroom after all, he would need to move around without stopping to disarm traps every few steps.  The desk, on the other hand, was both the most likely place to find the Trumps and almost certain to be trapped.

James moves cautiously across to the desk and then begins to examine it.  He doesn't touch anything.  At this stage he's getting a feel for it's construction and keeping an eye out for anything obviously out of place.

As people enter the room and start examining things in detail, something odd starts to happen...

The light shifts in colour, becoming rainbow hued.  The colours seem to bleed out of everything, flowing into the air, and swirling around the intruders.

And, suddenly, Roman is gone.

And, a moment later, he is back again.

Staying back, as promised, Tahirah moves slowly around the suite where the Trump will ultimately be performed, apparently examining the rooms from different angles.  Aaron is certainly included in this, but she doesn't spend any particular time on him.  Soon enough, she picks a spot in the bedroom, bringing three chairs together and setting them in a close triangle.  Then she steps back slightly, regards their placement, and then turns one slightly to the side, creating a slightly larger gap between one pair of chairs.

From the door, next to the others who have waited, Cyan watches carefully as people move into and through the room.  Her brows knit together as Roman and James, the latter more photogenic than Roman's twisted form, enter the room.  The soldier moves to the desk, examining it without touching - a prudent thought, in her mind.

Then...

"Palanquet!"  The fingers of her left hand tighten around a cool card while those of her right curl about Gurthang's hilt.  But Roman, snatched away, returns in an instant.

But is it still Roman?  And is he unharmed?

"Roman!" she calls out anxiously.  "Are you well?  What transpired?"

The helmed head turns towards the doorway.  "Naught of significance occurred.  It is as you said.  A Trump."

Hope it wasn't "infected"

As the light shifts James whirls on the spot, searching for the source of the change.  His hand twitches towards the hilt of his sword, but he rapidly abandons that notion.  The room is a little too small for effective swordplay.  If there's a physical attack James has a better chance bare-handed.

As Roman flickers out and back again, James watches warily, "Do you have it?"

THe voice echoes from the helm again.  "It is all around you."

Fiona considers the departure of Roman, his subsequent reappearance, and his explanation.  Then, "So, you're saying that Brand has made the whole room into a Trump.  Interesting."

"It makes sense of course, to do something like that.  A Trump is a representation of a person, a thing, or a place, and it gives a connection to the subject.  As far as I know, there is nothing which says that representation has to be on a card.  It doesn't even have to be a good likeness... an abstract design will work."

"Where did you go?" she asks, "Did you recognise the place?"


Banglen-Yp backs away from her work, and studies it with a critical... whatever passes for eyes in her current form.  It isn't perfect.  The colour doesn't match exactly, but that doesn't matter, because the King will, presumably, cover it with a new rug.  What does matter is that the hole is gone, allowing that new rug to lay flat.

Nearby, the last few shreds of the old rug look a little forlorn.


Tahirah is also studying her work critically.  In this sort of endeavour, as in real estate, location is vital.  With the chairs in place, carefully positioned in relation to each other, the room, the people in the room, and the angle of the light from the window, she suspects that she will be making minor adjustments right up until the Trump contact is attempted.

As if to confirm this, a fly suddenly buzzes across the pattern she has created, weaving its own design in the air above and around the chairs...  In response she adjusts the position of one of the chairs by the thickness of a fly's wing.

 

♦♦ There ♦♦ I hope that helps repair a bit of the damage I accidentally caused ♦ I took the liberty of assuming that the rug was no longer of any consequence ♦♦

The Archon's extra-long metal that had touched the floor moves over to touch the remanent of the rug which quickly vanishes into the Archon.

 

Roman just shrugs his armoured shoulders.  "A room.  Without doors."

A room without doors.  And yet, Cyan considers, it must be somewhere.  Lead somewhere.  If only Berd were here.

She reaches a hand into the room, frowning, and begins to concentrate.  Carefully.

"One may know the world without going out of doors," Chance says. "One may see the Way of Heaven without looking through the windows."

He watches Cyan make her way into the room. Brave girl.

"But a room without doors; that doesn't speak to me of enlightenment or humanitarian endeavors. No windows either, I suppose. I wonder what the ol' boy planned with all that. Nothing good, I'm betting."

Reaching into the room, Cyan's arm is enfolded by a shimmering luminescence, and her eyes begin to reflect the rainbow glow... 


Random gives Banglen-Yp a puzzled smile, and a nod, "Thank you.  I have a question for you though, before you rejoin your companions.  What, exactly, are you?"


Tahirah studies her layout for a while longer, while those in the room with her - Aaron, Trista and Devlin - can only wonder exactly what criteria are guiding her work...

"Chance is right.  It sounds like a trap to me.  Come into the room, try to access Trump or whatever and you get whisked away for Brand to come check on you at his leisure."

"But if that's the case, I wouldn't have expected Roman to make it back so easily.  No offence, Roman."

James watches carefully as Cyan reaches into the room.  "If this place is doing that to you, I'm not so sure I want to be in here anymore."

Trista watches Tahirah's curious ministrations. She hadn't expected to be seated at all for Devlin's Trump attempt, but it seems the cloaked woman has other plans. Glancing at Devlin and Aaron, she sees no reason not to ask – mysterious isn't always the best state.

“Tahirah, what exactly are you accomplishing by arranging the chairs so minutely?” No sarcasm laces her voice, only genuine interest.

"Set your heart at ease, James," Cyan replies, her voice as distant as her eyes, staring into - though - space.  "The room itself is a pal...a trump," she corrects.  "I only peer into it rather than step through, as any might if they treated it as a card through which they wished to see, rather than one for travel."  Her eyes narrow, mirroring the shimmering luminescence.  "And not to a cell, 'less Prince Brand was in the habit of treating his guests royally.  A study of his own, perhaps."

"Amazing."  It's hard not to appreciate an artist's skill, even that of the infamous Prince Brand.

With an effort of will, she holds herself here, where the others stand, rather than moving there, where her gaze falls.  Only experience with the forces of palanquet allow her to make the differentiation.  "Perhaps a trifle more difficult than I explained," Cyan murmurs, then her voice rises to almost a chant.  "A room in a high place, many-windowed for both light and view; distant mountains stand near level, the land below only a rumor to the eyes; books surround me upon every wall, and a well-appointed sideboard awaits guests."

One eyebrow cocks.  "Seven moons arc above, one striped in bands black and white.  Seven moons; is this Munnopur?  No, 'Seven rings has Raggadorr, from indigo to deepest black'..."  Shaking her head, she blinks several times.  "I could forge a palanquet of this world, now.  Perhaps the cards lie within this room."

Her colour-blurring eyes sharpen.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:33, Fri 24 July 2009.

 

♦♦ Banglen♦Yp ♦♦

An almost cheekily cheerful reply that explains everything and nothing, followed by a few moments of pause where the faceless Archon possibly - or not - wondered if the King of Amber wanted a slightly more verbose explanation.

♦♦ I could do the floor again ♦ and make it match better ♦ as practice indeed makes perfect ♦♦

An offered, utterly and completely unrelated to the recent inquiry regarding her, its, nature.

♦♦ I am alone ♦♦ But am I the only one ♦♦ I do not know ♦ therefore I seek those like me ♦ if there are any to be found ♦♦ My time here has been short ♦ my apparent matter borrowed ♦ yet ♦ before was more still that is still  beyond my reach ♦ for now ♦ but with the illusionary passage of time I learn ♦♦ I learn ♦♦

The Archon tilted from one side to another and bobbed up and down across the newly patched floor, as if inspecting it.

♦♦ Who can tell what we are when we do not know it ♦ who can say what we will be when we not yet are what we will become ♦ who can see what has been when it is lost ♦ and yet ♦ yet we must try ♦ for is not learning also being alive ♦♦

 

"So... " Random responds, his espression reflecting growing confusion, "... you're trying to tell me that you don't know what you are?"  He studies the whirling wheel of blades critically, for a while, then raises a gem suspended around his neck and peers through it at Banglen-Yp, "Not of the Courts, at least, despite the mutability of your form.  And you did something which scared the Hell out of Fiona.  Which is more than I can do."

The king of Amber chuckles, "Interesting."

In the room which will be used to test the Trump of Finndo, Tahirah finally finshes her preparations.  Again.  With luck, nothing will happen to disturb her arrangements this time.  Now all that's needed is the card.

Cyan continues to study the room, carefully probing with her mind.  From over her shoulder, Fiona says, quietly, to those inside the room, "Given that Brand didn't trust the rest of us - and with good reason, since we didn't really trust him - it does make sense that he would have prepared a sanctuary.  I suspect that, had I tried to activate this, the results would have been more... harmful."

 

♦♦ Yup ♦♦ Well ♦ I know I am what passes for my name ♦ Banglen♦Yp ♦ but not what that means ♦♦ Then again ♦ I am still discovering what I am capable of ♦ only recently did Fiona notify me off my utterly nullified mental presence ♦ but I am certain I can learn to change that as I do with my physical form ♦♦ At least while maintaining a pocket of reasoning ♦ while speech is easily emulated in countless ways ♦♦

The Archon hovered over the floor it had fixed moments before as if inspecting its work, every now and then extending that extra long piece of metal or whatever to touch small imperfections.

♦♦ I hope she is not too upset with me ♦ as it was something I was unaware about ♦♦ In the future I will strive to feel like what I am ♦ be it an Archon or a blanket ♦ even if few people would perhaps sense something mentally off with a blanket compared to an Archon ♦♦

Then came something similar to a laughter, although it was hard to tell with the metallic voice and all.

♦♦ No ♦ not the Courts ♦♦ I barely know what it is ♦ but I am certain I have never been to either before ♦♦ No♦ it feels more like ♦ well ♦ outside of it all yet part of everything ♦♦ Perhaps the world itself are made out of my people ♦ perhaps I am the only one ♦♦ But I feel alone so I hope I am not one of a kind ♦♦

♦♦ Or perhaps I will one day remain in one shape ♦ never to change again ♦♦ I do not know ♦♦

 

James listens carefully to Cyan's description.  "Ordinarily I would take you up on that suggestion.  I'd rather use your door than one of Brand's making."

"But I'm not sure we have the time.  The others are waiting for us to return with the cards.  I think we might have to bite the bullet and step through."

Tahirah rises, standing at the apex of the triangle she's created, looking in to the center.  She stands for a moment in silence, and then walks down a line towards the next chair.  "Orientation," she replies to Trista, as she walks.  She pauses for a moment at the chair, tilting her head slightly as she looks at it, and then, evidently satisfied, continues towards the third.  "Comfort," she says, almost exactly halfway between the two chairs.  She pauses again at the third point, turns her head towards Trista and seems to regard her for a moment, and then returns to the first chair.  "Fate," she says, finally, just before reaching it.

"You, and Aaron," she gestures towards him briefly, "Must touch Devlin," she rests a hand on the back of the chair she's standing behind, "To join his effort.  If it is a long effort, you will still be comfortable, at these distances.  There is a gap," she indicates the larger space between the other two chairs, directly across from her, "For Cyan to cut through, if needed; room enough for her to step in without joining the contact until her blade breaks it, and the Card will be faced away from her.  The Focus draws here, where I will stand, to watch; the Card faced towards me, so that I can see.  Excuse me," she finishes, crouching down again, and reaches under the chair, where she begins tracing an odd shape into the carpet with her finger, and then begins retracing her path along to the other chair, now tracing curling lines into the carpet.

For someone generally so dignified, she seems entirely unconcerned with how it looks as she crawls along the floor, although it is true that her robes seem somehow not to catch or trip her up at all.  Trista and Aaron may also note that in all the time since she placed her first chair, she's moved around the triangle counter-clockwise, every time, even when moving to adjust something that would have been closer going the other way.

"If Brand were the master his reputation indicates," Cyan muses absently, still studying the gateway with her mind's eye, "t'would be simplicity to attune things to the auras of his family, to forge a trap for his greatest enemies."  She pauses for a quick glance back at the Princess.  "I would agree, your highness - it would be best if you kept your distance."

"I sense...ah, 'Trump' through the gateway," she continues, amber eyes sharpening.  "Though that could be the gateway itself...I am no expert, not like Berd nor even Kendall.  But given Roman's ability to return, there is obviously an egress.  This room might very well hold what we seek, and more besides."

The bard raises an eyebrow at James' vote of confidence.  "I could fashion a sketch within minutes, but the others do attend us...I agree, James, we should all step through save the Princess.  Once there, we shall face whatever awaits then proceed to ransacking."  A shrug follows, with a rueful smile.  "I've beome accustomed to such activities since I began this quest."

Though he watches Tahirah with a good amount of interest, not to mention curiosity, he maintains his initial mental preparations. Beneath him, around him, the Pattern hums, its significant defense ready if needed - or so he hoped.

"There is strength," he stated quietly, "in the application of preparation."

He takes a measured look at her, then at the area she has so painstakingly prepared. "I myself can see that your preparations, Tahira, are quite solid. It reminds me of a foundation of sorts." He gave her a slow smile. "It's not often we have the chance, the time, to actually prepare. You've done a good job with what's been provided."

"There is a Trump back" Roman announces. "It hangs on the wall".

They may as well know about it.  It might even be the only Trump there.

The message sent, Roman activates the Trump again, taking care to let go of the Logrus sight before the other Trump sends him back - again.

She had done this before, touched another as they looked into the trump. Why did they need to sit? Or to be perfectly angled? What if someone accidentally nudged a chair a fraction in taking a seat? The wood would easily move along the floor.

Orientation. Comfort. Fate.

Trista truly had no idea what path Tahirah's particular talents (despite the cards) took, and her words baffled her all the more. And the way she walked around the chairs, never taking the shortest route. Was there magic at play here?

Aaron chimes in with words Trista understands: preparation. Though for looking into a card, Trista had no preparations. Hers was strength of mind, body, and spirit. Nothing else. If this were a military operation, she might be drawing plans, figuring out supply lines, sharpening weapons. But here, Trista didn't belong. Save for being at Devlin's side.

An eyebrow arched toward the dark man, wondering of his thoughts. Then she turned an inquisitive eye toward the robed woman, “And the walking in a counter-clockwise circle? Never wavering? Do you weave a spell?”

There is a flare of coloured light, and Roman is gone once more.  Followed, mere instants later, by the others.  Fiona waits patiently, just outside the door...


Tahirah is crawling about on the floor in the room where the test will be made, and suddenly stops for a moment... and the invisible design she is tracing on the floor seems to flicker for a moment, with an odd blue light which fades almost as soon as it appears... 


Random ponders Banglen-Yp's words.  "Strange indeed."

"I think you startled Fiona, more than anything.  To be honest, with the resources and agents we have available, it takes a lot to surprise one of us." the king says, then adds, with a grin, "And when something does, it's usually a relative."

"If you ever do find out what you are, I'd be interested in hearing about it.  For now though, it might be best if you rejoined your companions.  I can arrange for a servant to lead you to them."


Discontinuity...

There is a room without doors, very much larger than the one they just left, with a high, vaulted ceiling.  Large windows set in one wall let sunlight stream in.  There is a broad plain far below, and a range of distant mountains, and seven small moons arrayed across the sky like beads on a wire.  A god's abacus.

Inside the room, the furnishings are luxurious.  It seems to be a combination bedchamber, study, and dining room, with all the furnishings appropriate to such chambers.  There are shelves along one wall, holding thousands of books, and numerous works of art upon the walls which are not monopolised by windows or bookshelves.

The fireplace, opposite the windows, stands cold and empty, flanked by two large leather armchairs.  Above the mantle hangs a painting, depicting the room that the visitors had just come from.

"Stand wary," Cyan notes quietly.  "I sense the vibrations of 'trump'."  She points, first to the painting which Roman obviously used to bring himself back to the palace.  "There."  She swivels like a tank turret, arm outstretched, finger coming to bear on one of the drawers of the desk.  "There."  Another turn, aiming for a small night-table beside the bed.  "And there."

Gurthang comes free, its edges sparkling into ghostly flame the instant they clear the scabbard.  Holding it before her, grip reversed with point down, Cyan slips clever fingers into her pouch, snapping out a card by feel.  Herself.  Ruby eyes turn faraway for a long moment, then focus.  Palanquet in one hand, Deathiron in the other, she slowly cuts the distance to the night-table, her strides measured and careful.

Her eyes flick to the window for an instant, and her concentration wavers at the beautiful vista.  Whatever else people might say of Prince Brand, it comes as no surprise that he had an artist's eye.

Cyan's thinking is good - it is possible that Brand might have a demon bound to guard his property, so Roman draws Wormwood  His blade is not the equal of Gurthang, but still far more than an ordinary sword.

Careful not to get too close - having a healthy respect for a blade capable of severing Logrus-tendrils, he moves to guard Cyan's back.  Brand had a reputation for being devious- and nasty.

Cyan's warning, though well-intentioned, strikes James as somewhat unnecessary.  It was hard to imagine any of those present being more cautious or alert than they already were, as shown by the fact that Gurthang and Wormwood had already been drawn.

Neither was James surprised by the location of the trumps, although James hadn't thought to find two packs.  James thinks that any family trumps are most likely to be in the night-stand so Cyan and Roman's objective makes good sense.  Still, he hangs back.  No point everyone crowding together.  Instead, he casts his eyes about the room, on guard for any threat.

It also gives James the opportunity to admire the striking beauty of his surroundings.  I wonder how long it took him to find this place? James thinks, followed shortly after by Gods, I'm getting cynical.

Cyan, backed bt Roman, reaches the nightstand and studies it for a moment.  There are only two things there, a thick, leather-bound book, and an empty goblet.  Both of them, and the nightstand itself, bear a film of dust.  None of them have been disturbed for a little while. 

In the other room, Tahirah and the others are joined by Banglen-Yp, still in her Archon guise, having been escorted through the private areas of the castle.  The servant who had led her here had been carefully selected for his discretion - he will not reveal the presence of the bladed wheel in the castle.

 

♦♦ Are we going to play a game ♦ I think I know this one ♦ with less chairs than people ♦♦

If possible the Archon would no doubt have been displaying a grin at that statement, but now all that show are plenty of sharp blades.

 

"There."  Cyan, possibly unnecessarily, points out the book to Roman.  "Definitely the source."  The energies seethe around the leatherbound volume to her eyes, and she concentrates further on aspecting the flow through her own palanquet to defense.  "I shall attempt to remove it from the desk, after first sweeping for unseen defenses."  At a time like this, it's good to go over exactly what one plans, so as not to surprise one's backup.

They need to know.

Assuming Roman doesn't object, she steps closer.  Gurthang rises, its flickering edge cutting the air gently above the book, then to either side, Cyan wielding the hand-and-a-half blade deftly with her right arm, the other hand still sporting her own palanquet.  Should nothing occur, she gently slides the blade beneath the book, careful not to actually cut it.

Trump, spell, titanium-carbondium alloy - the Death-Iron cleaves all with the same remorseless ease.

Balancing the book upon the blade of her sword, she slowly pivots to slide it onto the bed-cover.

Cyan's plan carries a risk of triggering Brand's traps - but so does every other option. But then, only the truly paranoid would be likely to take the risk of trapping something so close to where they sleep.

Hoping that Cyan has guessed correctly, he nods in response and braces himself to prepare for any consequences.

The book doesn't seem to be what they are looking for, though.  But it might be interesting or even useful.  Is there a way to get it out without the Amberites knowing ?

James keeps half an eye on Cyan and Roman.  Most of his attention is directed at the desk since James considers it to be the most likely source of danger (other than the book that Cyan is handling).

I must look a right fool, keeping guard over a piece of furniture - Prince Brand and the Desk of Doom, what a lark.

"Widdershins," Tahirah suggests, her tone agreeing with Trista's observation more than correcting her choice of words.  "For obfuscation.  I do not know how powerful I can make it, but I hope to cast a...fog, about the edges of the triangle, that may not be pierced by one looking out from within."  She keeps tracing her odd designs into the carpet as she responds, but the conversation doesn't seem to distract her overmuch, but some evidence of her need to concentrate may be found in her failure to react to Banglen-Yp's arrival at all.

Cyan slides the book onto the bed and... nothing happens.  Except that a small fragment of the quilt falls away, having been severed as Gurthang had brushed against a tiny ruffle in the fabric.

The book itself simply lays there, doing nothing extraordinary.  Looking, for all the world, like an inanimate object. 

The desk, guarded by James, is clearly too frightened of the man's own blade, Fangmir, to make any dangerous moves...


Tahirah finishes her preparations of the room where the test will be performed, and then continues adding a further layer to the defenses.  Just to be certain.

"It's light," Cyan whispers.  "More than I thought it might be.  Perhaps it's not a book after all."  Could be the old standby of the book-that-isn't, with pages glued together to form a box, and hollow on the inside.

But sitting out on a table?

Either way, it seemed time to take a bit of a chance.  Sheathing gurthang, Cyan reaches out with her hand this time and, still focusing upon her palanquet, flips open the book to a random page.

The sound of grating blades precedes BY's approach, bringing Trista's gaze to the shapeshifter as she enters. She may look like an archon, but her bizarre voice still carries the words of the sometimes-ditsy blonde. An ironic smile touches the dark woman's lips.

“It's not a game, not exactly. Tahirah is warding the chairs for the planned experiment. Now we wait for the others.” It's already been a long wait. A normal human would be seeking one of the non-essential chairs to rest her feet, but Trista doesn't feel the weariness. Instead, she walks to a window and lets her gaze peer out.

Cyan flips open the book, but the page is not quite so random as she might have imagined.  The book is, indeed, the old standby.  Sometimes, even for a Prince of Amber it seems, the old methods are the best.  Perhaps Brand felt that his siblings were too sophisticated to suspect such a simple trick.

The pages are, in fact, glued together and hollowed out to form a box.  Inside the box are just two items... a deck of cards, bound together with a green cord, and a small cube, perhaps three quarters of an inch on each side.

The cube is difficult to see clearly, but it appears to have tiny pictures on the faces.


Trista moves to look out of the small window.  The view is not spectacular, mostly consisting of the wall of the next building and a small strip of sky.  By leaning close to the glass and craning her neck, though, she is able to see a small section of garden, and part of the castle's outer fortifications.

Ami flies to her shoulder and sits there gazing out of the window.

Tahirah seems to be about finished with her preparations.  Now all that there is left to do for those in the test chamber, is wait.

The bard exhales a gust of relief.  "Well," she begins cheerily.  "That was a bit of..."  Her voice trails off and the blood slowly drains from her face as she stares at what awaits them in the book.  "A cube," Cyan whispers.  Gurthang's tip trembles above the artifact, a heartbeat from dipping down to destroy.  "Lords of the West, a cube."

The sword slides back into its sheath - carefully, as always.  Once it is seated properly, Cyan moves forward to gaze down at the open space.  "You see, Roman?" she asks, a slight quaver in her voice.  "The spoor of the enemy.  Brand's?  Or planted here to incriminate?  Who can say?"  Her voice rises as she reaches into the 'box' and removes the cube, holding it up for view.  "James, I may have found something important.  Is this familiar?"  The irony is thick in her tone as Cyan studies her find with hard, emerald eyes.  "And a pack of 'trump'," she finishes.

Roman approaches and looks down.  "The infection ?"  A question with several meanings.

"Possibly," Cyan admits.  "We only know one of its functions, but perhaps there are others."  That one had not occurred to her.  She begins to slowly count the faces of the cube - not the sides, but noting which images exist as she slowly turns the small bauble.  It isn't large, not yet, so perhaps there are six or less.  "A creation of the Enemy.  It...absorbs the signature of the worlds it visits, creating a new image each time that can be used exactly like a palanquet or trump.  The resonance is identical."

"The Seraphim give this to their agents," she continues, attention still fixed on the shimmering object.  "Their agents use it to visit other worlds - possibly to prepare the worlds for annexation, or to plant other devices the Seraphim create - the orbs, for example, that drain the life from a World -" the capitalization is quite evident in her emphasis "- utterly destroying it while stealing the energy to grant to the Seraphim.  For what purpose, I never discovered."

For a moment her hand trembles as a memory surfaces - a dying world, its sun and sky nothing more than weak pastel shades, the land devoid of life.  Grey, listless...and a prison, as the gateway to freedom closes upon her, leaving her to the servents of the Archons.

I died there.

Wincing, Cyan closes her eyes.  "Wheels within wheels, like the archons themselves," the General breathes. "They certainly didn't tell me everything.  Perhaps Left and Right..."

The eyes snap open, fading from onyx to dark amythest.  "I might inquire of them," Cyan finishes.

James turns at Cyan's query.  His eyes flick to the cube that she holds and he grimaces in distaste.  "That is a cube, isn't it?"  With no threat readily apparent, James moves closer to examine the find. "At least it's a small one."

The thought of Left and Right making an appearance isn't particularly appealing.  "Are you sure that's a good idea?  The Family won't know what to make of us if more Archons start popping up, though I s'pose I shouldn't count Banglen-Yp."

Another possibility suggests itself, "Can you call them here?"

Roman muses a while, before announcing.  "These Trumps are not safe.  We need knowledge".  It is likely that the enemy already know of this place.

"Indeed," Cyan replies to James.  "Apparently Brand had little chance to take it to other worlds."  A thought occurs.  "Or he removed it from someone who had not gone far.  Or it was planted here."  All possibilities.

He makes a good point with regards to the archons in Amber.  Cyan's brows draw together.  "I feel the energies of palanquet here.  It should be possible to call them to me, given a short time.  And we still need to examine the cards."  Tucking the cube in her belt-pouch, a familiar feeling, Cyan sits down on the bed.  "I might commence the summoning now, if you desire."

She slants an emerald glance at Roman, appraising him.  "Dangerous.  In what way, Roman?"  One finger taps the pack of cards beside her.  "Should we not examine them?"

"We came for Trumps, untouched. Not infected." Roman answers.  "Trumps the enemy has never seen.  Known to be safe."

"They were wrong.  The enemy's mark is here.  No safety."

The cube, carefully mapped, has only five faces... at least there are only five images upon it, and no blank sixth face.  Studying it makes the eyes water, even when not staring hard enough to trigger any of the images.

The scenes depicted are tiny, and rendered in minute detail - a small house perched on a clifftop with seven moons in the sky (clearly a representation of this place), a village of small domes in a forest clearing, a city of gleaming glass towers by an ocean, an open plain filled with herds of animals, and a fortress balanced on the rim of a long-dead volcano.

None of the images seem to be of Amber...

Back at the test room, Fiona appears at the door.  "It seems my brother's reputation for cunning was well deserved.  Your friends have passed through a Trump portal to a place which may have been a retreat of some kind - a room which is probably blocked to family members.  Certainly I could not even detect the portal.  Hopefully they will come back soon with some Trumps."

"Is all ready here?"

Aaron, turning to face Fiona, nodded. "Yes, Princess. At least, my preparations are complete. Tahirah here may wish to make a few adjustments just before we begin, but everything seems to be ready."

Though Aaron knew little of Brand - his understanding of the family of Amber was made up of little more than hearsay and stories - he did not doubt Fiona's word regarding his talents. "Do you believe our comrades to be... safe?"

It was question he broached simply for the sake of time, though he was concerned. Regardless, though Aaron knew Cyan, James and Roman were more than capable, it was the rest of the Universe that Aaron didn't trust.

"Roman has a point.  But I don't see that we've got a lot of choice.  Even if there's another pack in the desk we have the same problem."  James considers the options but can't come up with a practical alternative - any of the Trumps carry a risk of contamination.

 

♦♦ I believe it might be ready ♦ but I am uncertain who will play the music ♦♦

The Archon was happy to supply an answers to the inquiry, even though the answer may not have made much sense to anyone but it.

♦♦ I could always try to become a music box or such if need be ♦♦

A sincere offer, although perhaps no more helpful than the answer given a moment before.

 

Sitting on the bed, Cyan states the options, as she sees them, "We could take the cards back, untested, and continue with the original plan -- give Devlin what protection we can while he makes an attempt to seek Finndo.  Or we can test them first, which has the advantage of probably not endangering anybody else, but the disadvantage that Brand might well have some trickery prepared to wreak havoc on any who attempt such a thing here."

Fiona gives Banglen-Yp a puzzled look (something a lot of people seem to do when around the sometimes blonde), then turns her attention to Aaron, "I... I believe that there is little that their blend of abilities could not handle, with some degree of success."

"I know of James, and know that he is considered to be quite formidable in a crisis.  Likewise, I have met the bard before, and her efforts and results on this mission have far exceeded the family's expectations.  The only one I don't know anything about is the Chaosite, and he has the advantage that Brand could not have seriously expected somebody from the Courts to be wandering around Amber, free to use their own powers."

She gives a single, quick nod, "On the whole, I have a feeling that they will succeed."

Aaron managed something of a small smile, a rare sight recently. He nodded, agreeing with Fiona.

"There is little I have seen that my comrades have not been able to surmount. Individually, each of them is formidable. Together, our abilities have been known to accomplish... much."

Even despite this praise, Aaron emitted a small sigh. Much was true. However, all of them had faced great doubts throughout this journey. With such cunning adversaries as they had faced, 'trial' was the weakest word he could choose when describing their efforts.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:46, Mon 14 Sept 2009.

“I am grateful for your company, little one,” Trista quietly says to the black bird. While Devlin  is in the room, he seems wrapped in his own thoughts and Trista hesitates to barge in on them. Instead, she guards at the window with Ami.

Her eyes shoot to the doorway as footsteps approach, recognizing the called Fiona when she appears. This one seems to have powers of discernment and Trista keeps her thoughts from wandering to her father, tempted as she might be with one of Amber's royalty in the room. Aaron answers the woman's questions and while Trista keeps track of the conversation, she does not intrude.

Though Trista had said they would not be playing a game, BY hangs on to that thread of thought. The creature confuses Trista, but so have many things in her lifetime. So she keeps her tongue still. Turning around, the dark-haired woman lets her gaze linger on each in the room a few moments before leaning against the window, forcing ami to turn around if he still wishes to gaze outside. Trista folds her arms across her chest and waits.

Again.

"I'm glad that my assessment is confirmed by one who has a little more experience of their abilities."  Fiona actually does seem pleased that Aaron's opinion coincides with her own.  "It's always good to hear that optimism is well-founded."

In the other place, a partial decision is reached - the plan had been to let Devlin examine any Trumps anyway, and there doesn't seem to be any reason not to continue with that plan.

The cube, though, presents a problem.  Taking it back with them could have unforeseen consequences.  Perhaps it would be wiser to leave that here, for later retrieval, after the current crisis in Amber is over.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:52, Tue 22 Sept 2009.

Devlin had been looking out a window and quietly contemplating what he was thinking to do. It could be dangerous, but no matter. They needed information and they weren't getting any. What's the worst that could happen, the trump is infected with this disease, whatever it was, an he'd be unable to use the trump some time in the future. He didn't use them anyway, didn't much care for them. He was just thinking that he should have gone with Cyan and the others to look for the thing when Fiona comes in with her news. The man quietly listens, he is concerned, but tries not to let it show. Fiona seems not to be worried... but still... Devlin's instincts urge him to go find out what is happening personally, but he calms those urges and turns to look out the window again.

"Let's not start second-guessing ourselves or we'll be here forever.  Brand must have known that someone would come looking for him so he trapped his Trumps, but he would have known that we know that he would know that, so he'll set the trap somewhere else.  But he would know that we would know that he would know...you get the idea."

"Let's take the Trumps but leave the cube here until one of us can destroy it." James doesn't bother saying it, but Berd's really the most likely candidate for that task.  "Do you want to see if there's another deck in the desk?"

OOC: Thank you Princess Bride.

Cyan bites her lip.  Roman and James both make good points (though James' does set her head to spinning).  Roman's logic is, in fact, a brutally painful blow to consider.  And yet...

Nodding, she makes her choice.  "I believe James has the right of it.  If ever was the time for taking chances, we stand there now.  These -"  She sweeps up the 'trumps' "- may be our only means to shorten the lead the Archons have over us.  I say take the plunge, risk be hanged."  Realizing her words might be interpreted as criticism - far from that as they might be! - she turns to Roman.  "Apologies, Sir Roman.  Risk 'be taken into accounting on your advice' would be a better way of phrasing things."

Her blasted tongue keeps getting ahead of her head.

"The cube remains, for destruction at a later date.  As for the desk...."  She studies it again, staring at the drawer indicated earlier.  "It may be guarded by magic, but if not there is an easy means to seek an answer.  And if the drawer be locked beyond my meager ability to pick, all three of us carry keys."  She pointedly stares at Fangmir, then Wormwood.  "I sense no palanquet beyond what lies in the drawer itself - what of the pair of you?"  For the two men possess command over powers greater than her own.

Roman shrug with a clatter of armour - he is not the one who will be taking the risk of using an infected Trump.

The desk does deserve inspection, though.  Simply stating "I will look", e turns to face it - being careful to look nowhere near the Trump painting - he calls up his Logrus-sight.

The desk displays no signs of being dangerous, and closer inspection reveals that they are not even locked.  One of them, in addition to what appears to be a diary or journal of sorts (though it contains no entries) contains a dark green velvet bag.  Handling the bag reveals that it contains something about the size and shape of the other Trump deck.  It is also the source of the Trump energies detected in that part of the room.

More importantly, handling the bag does not cause anything awful to happen...


Fiona addresses Devlin, her expression grim, "Before you perform the test, you should know that there is no way, that I know of, to detect a diseased Trump in time to do anything about it.  By the time you know that it is infected, so are you."

"If the others locate a Trump of Finndo, you'll just need to hold it and concentrate on it.  If you feel it grow cold, then Finndo is alive somewhere, and the most likely suspect in all of this.  If the card does get cold, just drop it immediately and try to think about something else for a little while.  Dropping it should be enough to break the contact, but it can't do any harm to let your mind wander too."


With two Trump decks and no sign of any further sources of Trump energies, other than the painting, it's time to return.  The cube is left behind, as the explorers focus their attention on the image of the room in...

(discontinuity)

... Amber, which they find is now deserted.  With no other logical option, they head for the test chamber.

Raising his head, Aaron glances behind him at the doorway at his back. His eyes narrow in distant anticipation, the preparations for their ordeal it would seem were now complete.

"They're back."

 

♦♦ Do they know that ♦♦

Doubtlessly a question and despite the lack of thereof one can actually see the Archon look around for the ones that are back but not there.

 

"Indeed we do!" Cyan cheerfully notes, marching back into the room.  "And with prizes - two decks of 'trumps', it would seem."  She waves her own.  "One hidden -" then points to Roman "- and one not."  With some care, she moves to the nearest table.  "I wonder if they contain the same cards, or if we shall find different ones within them..."

With consummate ease, Cyan snaps open the case and slides out the cards; for an instant they fan the air between her hands, a prestidigitator's trick, then she slaps the deck upon the table.  Her hand inscribes an arc, leaving a pasteboard trail behind of Trumps, all staring up at the observers.  "Shall we examine them?"

The grin fades, the sapphire eyes growing less lively, and Cyan turns a concerned gaze upon Aaron.  "We found a cube, mind.  With the Trumps - five 'sides' only, none with which I have familiarity.  Roman expresses concern that the Trumps have been exposed to the Enemy's power - a valid concern we must consider."

At the mention of the cube, Aaron's dark eyes narrowed and hardened. "A cube."

He moved to one side of the room, fingers upon his chin, mulling over this new information. "It is a dangerous risk... the odds that the deck you have discovered being tainted are far greater now with this news. Yet..."

He turns, looking at the remainder of the group. "I believe that we must continue on, regardless. We have spent too much time preparing to simply leave our plans as-is. This endeavour was already a risky one. How much more dangerous now?" Aaron shook his head. " The enemy will not disuade me. Yet I value the rest of your thoughts, also. I will not resist if our consesus prefers an alternative."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:25, Thu 01 Oct 2009.

It's good to hear the approaching party and Trista turns to watch as they enter the room in various states of somberness. Except Cyan who seems quite cheerful, putting Trista's heart at ease. At last they return. The woman stretches her back and neck as the others speak.

Trista rummages through her memory for any hints as to what the Cube represented. She finds a mention of it from Berd. Not good news. Yet, it does not in anyway deter her from their chosen path. The woman pushes away from the window and moves to Devlin's side. "We've hemmed and hawed long enough. It's time to push forward."

The corner of her mouth lifts into a grin toward Devlin, "Shall we?"

James, who enters the room behind Cyan, simply nods.  "That's the same conclusion that we reached. Let's get on with this."

James approaches the table, then pauses as he notices the positioning of the chairs.  He looks about until he spots Tahirah, "Where should I be standing?"

Fiona explains exactly what they should be looking for, "The Trump of Finndo will show the image of a stern-faced man, with red hair and beard both streaked with dark grey.  His eyes are also grey.  Physically, he looks strong... powerfully built.  Not quite as big as Gerard, but definitely powerful."

"He is clad in red and grey, and bears a heavy sword."  A brief pause, as she glances at the cards from a safe distance, "And there it is, I believe.  About five or six cards in from the left hand end of the deck."

The mention of the cube does seem to concern her though, "We've been warned of these cubes.  If Brand had one, then there may be more.  I'll order a thorough search of the castle and grounds, probably just as soon as the invaders are dealt with, and we can pull more troops back here."

"They have other decks" Roman contributes.  Those who risk infection deserve to be allowed their choice of dangers.

"Indeed...the cubes dog our footsteps wherever we turn."  Offering Aaron a wry smile, Cyan sweeps the room with her amber eyes, seeking out other opinions.  Aaron, ready as ever to dive in.  The pot calling the kettle black, she well knows.  Trista makes her choice, and Cyan's smile grows as James reaffirms his own views on the matter.  "Well, then!"  Rubbing her hands together, the bard steps back to allow those involved a crack at the cards on the table.

Fiona points out the card in question, and Cyan eyes it thoughtfully.  "A moment, your highness," she interjects.  "Are there other cards you see there that may be noteworthy?  Not the norm, so to speak?  As for the cubes, to those with the senses to note the presence of palanequeti - and Trumps, it would seem - they shine in a similar manner.  As they can be quite small -" her fingers indicate something the size of a 'beginning' cube "- it might be best for those with the ability to sniff out their presence to make the search."

Like as not, many of the nobility of Amber holds this capacity.

Roman notes the presence of a second deck, and Cyan waves him to the table.  Perhaps its cards might hide something of import as well....

OOC - I'm assuming that Roman snagged the second deck in its little bag (should be safe in there).  If not, Cyan would be happy to carry both (logical, since she has already touched one), and would have fanned both out on the table.
 

Devlin seems to come to life as the others enter the room. He'd only nodded when Fiona had given him more instruction on Trump. He's watched as the others had used them.

His mind was set on his course. Infected or not, they needed information and he felt there was only one way to get it, that is, if this Finndo person was the one behind the trouble. One way or another they should know soon.

As he turns once again from the window there is a smile on his face and he does not appear worried in the least about what he's about to do... perhaps even a little too calm about it. Then a nod as he looks at Trista, "Yes, we shall." and he steps over to the rest of the group. ämi on Trista's shoulder brings another smile to Devlin's face. man and bird both tilt their heads to the side as they look at each other.

"I take it we're doing this here?" as he hold his hand out for the card in question, not even a moment of hesitation.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:03, Thu 08 Oct 2009.

Trista whispers to Devlin, "I believe Tahirah would like us to sit in the chairs. She's gone to great lengths to do - something with them." Frankly, she's still not sure what exactly Tahirah did, but she knows the woman put up some sort of warding around them.

Nevertheless, Trista will not sit unless Devlin does. She lifts a hand to rest on the man's shoulder. She glances at Aaron and then back to the card in question, waiting for it to find Devlin's fingers at last.

Fiona eyes the two decks of cards, "Benedict's other brother, Osric is there, three cards to the right of Finndo, in the first deck.  There are three faces in that deck that I don't recognise, two women and a man, all young, and some of the places depicted are unfamiliar."

She cranes her neck to see more clearly, still without setting foot any closer to the cards.

"The people and places I don't know seem to be done in a different style to the rest of the deck.  Brand, or whoever he got the deck from, has obviously added their own cards.  Not an uncommon practice."

"The second deck seems to be standard.  Although... yes, Random's card is missing.  Brand's too.  Osric and Finndo are there though."

Devlin looks at the the arrangement of the chairs, he hadn't noticed them, or much else for that matter with his mind on other matters and decisions. Looking up at the woman that did the arranging he asks, "Which should I take?"

Tahirah has drifted quietly to a corner, her hands folding into her sleeves, as the room filled up, but she is clearly listening, as she gives a small nod of thanks to Trista, and then steps forward even as Devlin addresses her directly.  She draws her arms apart, and gestures towards the chair at the apex of what is not quite an equilateral triangle.  "For the Seeker," she says.  Then she touches the back of the chair to the left, and looks to Trista.  "For the Defender."  Then her hand lifts to indicate the farther seat, to the right of the Seeker's seat, and then on to Aaron.  "For the Guardian."

She steps then to stand just outside the `bottom' line of the triangle, between Aaron and Trista's seats.  She looks at Cyan, and then takes a half-step back.  "Severance," she states, still looking at Cyan, and then continues her circle - counterclockwise - until she has reached the `top', standing behind Devlin's assigned seat.  "Observation," she finishes, settling in to her place. 

"I have attempted a fog about the line, that one sensing out from within it cannot see those gathered around.  I can't guarantee it against one skilled enough to cast a plague, and it is a fog, not a wall.  Brighter presences," she doesn't look at Fiona, because she doesn't have to, "May be harder to mask."

Perhaps there are other considerations, but the chairs are all set so that the three can sit quite comfortably.  Aaron and Trista could easily reach over to Devlin, to rest a hand on his knees, without having to worry about losing circulation, even if they didn't have supernatural physique.

It seems Devlin and Trista have fully committed themselves to the task; pleased and worried simultaneously, Cyan moves aside slightly for the Princess and hearkens to her explanation.  Osric.  Three more faces.  She studies the second deck as well, frowning - it's plainly obviou which cards are additions, given their crude, exaggerated style.  They certainly don't carry the stamp of a master artist, though whomever forged them knew enough about palanquet to do a proper job...

Trump, she reminds herself.

Her amythest eyes flick to Tahirah as the seer begins to indicate the places for the ritual, and the people to whom those places belong.  A small smile twitches her lips as the woman takes a carefully measured half-step backward; Cyan notes by eye that she calculated the range perfectly.

"A fog may be enough, if a strong man battles against several," she notes quietly.  "Optimism, of course.  Hope for the best, plan for the worst."  As she takes her place the deathiron comes free, held lightly in both hands, oiled obsidian edges flickering and shimmering.  Point down for the nonce, it waits for the call.  "I stand ready to break the chain - I pray you all, do not twitch when I swing."

She grimaces, studying her hand for a moment, then flicking her gaze to Aaron.  Two of those in the room have some experience with that sort of 'accident'.

Aaron caught Cyan's glance, and the inferrence to old memories best left buried. Regardless, he allowed her a slight half-grin, followed by shrug and a high-voiced "Oops?"

Then he inhaled sharply, getting both his bearings and his settings straight. For a second he closed his eyes in preparation, then opened them and at Tahirah's direction, took his own seat.

First, Aaron looked to Cyan. "I will not hate you for any harm that may come to me. If the worst occurs, do not hesitate for want of saving me. This is not a deathwish. I simply don't know the full capabilities of our enemy, and cannot guess at what may occur should I be overwhelmed. I will not risk the rest of you simply for my own sake."

Knowing that Cyan would most likely still try to spare him, Aaron then glanced up at Devlin and Trista. "Know this. I am trusting both of you to be completely ready for any eventuality, as I am. Sit now, and take hands. Once we begin, I am your sword."

Then, as he awaited his companions, he closed his eyes again and prepared the strongest of his armarments.

"'Oops' indeed, Aaron of Auld Thiriel," Cyan murmurs, unable to resist a small chuckle despite the gravity of the situation.  She grows more serious at Aaron's direct address, frowning slightly and nodding to his command.  For a long moment, the bard bites her lower lip, considering Aaron's words.  Then her amber eyes darken, their golden colour deeping to sunset shades, then twilight.

"I wouldn't worry so much."  The General laughs, sharply amused.  "If you're overwhelmed Aaron, the card goes first." She shifts her grip on gurthang, still point down but now ready. "This clips all connections.  But James can conk you on the head after that, if you want."

Her hand comes up, rubs the side of her head, and Cyan wavers for a moment, lost in memory as her eyes clear.  "He has a heavy hand, that one," she whispers, lips quirked in a rueful half-smile.

Devlin moves to and then takes the indicated seat as he listens to the others. They seem in good spirits, which is a bonus. The question is, how will all of this end up interfering rather than helping. He understands that they want to protect him, and that helps to warm his soul, but...

The man takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out as he stretches and cranes his neck, releasing some tension.

Eyes still closed, Aaron smiled just a bit. "James has a heavy hand, to be sure. Yet his ire is just as weighty. I can attest to it." He snorted. "I'd almost prefer to be hit by Gurthang!"

"And yes," he sighed, remembering. "The card goes first."

 

From a horizontally spinning wheel of dense metallic fragments the would-be Archon began to raise above the others at the same time as it tilted and expanded until it finally hovered above the group, wide enough to encompass them all.  Then it began to spread out the distance between the fragments, downwards, until it formed a wall of rapidly spinning death.

Kind of a really low-tech force field.

Or an advanced meat-grinder, depending on any interpretation made by an observer of the blurry wall of twisted metal.

♦♦ Oh ♦ that tickles ♦♦ I think I must sneeze ♦♦

The metallic voice, if one could stretch it to that, appeared to bounce of every piece of metal in the lethal vortex.

♦♦ Just kidding ♦ but please refrain from petting the blur ♦ thank you ♦♦

A statement sounding down to the very last bit like a air hostess, void of any kind of metallic noise even.  Whatever generated the voice it was independent of the appearance, evidently, although potentially somewhat odd, in all honesty.

 

The preparations finalised and explained, people take their assigned positions, per Tahirah's instructions.  Banglen-Yp finally becomes a barrier protecting all involved from any external physical interference, in the same way that Tahirah's work defends against threats of a more cerebral or mystical nature.

Fiona, meanwhile, is beyond both barriers, outside the room.

Devlin reaches for the card...


OOC: Anybody specifically involved (Devlin, Cyan, Aaron, Trista, James, Tahirah) is inside the circle of blades.  Fiona is outside the room.  Dorian, Chance, Galatea, and Roman are currently inside or outside the defences, depending on personal preferences.

She waits.  There seems little else Cyan can do at the moment.  Her part in this will hopefully prove unnecessary, but if things turn for the worst, the bard stands ready.  Narrowing her ruby eyes, she studies the card on which the others focus, concentrating her senses to pick up the flow of energy she knows as palanquet.

"One hopes you can drop your protection on the instant, Banglen-Yp," Cyan murmurs.  "If a force strikes those in the circle, it might send us tumbling."

The myriad preparations seem humorous in context with touching what amounts to a playing card. Interesting. But then again, these painted cards have little to do with entertaining games.

Trista quietly takes her seat, her hand never leaving Devlin. The spinning blades scattering above her gives her pause as she imagines them all suddenly falling to imbed themselves in those under their canopy. Hopefully the strange woman knows what she's doing.

And hopefully, all this posturing and protecting proves for naught.

Clearing her mind and sharpening her focus, Trista seeks to join with Devlin and Aaron as the dark man takes hold of the magical card.

Devlin looks around him as he takes the Trump, and almost laughs aloud... almost. The thought of all this preparation suddenly strikes him as funny for some odd reason. A smile does escape, but nothing more.

The man is almost painfully aware of Trista’s hand and also thinking of what will happen... then he looks at the card and says "Ready or not..." like a child calling out after counting to one hundred and off to seek the hiders.

The dark man looks closely at the card and the man depicted on it with the read hair and beard and grey eyes, the man that he'd... they'd been seeking for what seems forever and was actually only a matter of days. Now he concentrates on the card willing it to give him the answers that they need.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:22, Thu 15 Oct 2009.

James stands within the dome of whirling blades.  Tahirah had not precisely answered his question, but by positioning the others his own options are clear.  He would have preferred to stand behind Devlin, where he could more easily counter a threat, or at the 'baseline', where he could watch Devlin's face for any reaction.  Both those spots are taken and James understands the reasons involved so he moves to a side of the triangle so that he is opposite Trista and behind and between Aaron and Devlin.

As James moves behind Aaron to his station he says quietly "Exactly how unconscious would you like to be?" Anyone watching would see just the faintest hint of a smile on James' face.

Once is position, James looks around briefly before concentrating on Devlin and the card.  He considers the movements necessary to take him quickly to any point within the dome.  It's good enough.

Fiona scowls.  The blurring wall of blades is actually interfering with her view of the proceedings.

Still, she is not without resources which may assist her in this situation.  Though she'll have to be careful, of course...

She raises one hand in front of her face, and gazes at her fingertips.  Beyond them, in the room, Devlin is staring at a card and saying something she can't quite make out above the sound of moving metal. 

A few moments later, a small brownish moth perches on the tip of one of Fiona's fingernails.  It stretches out its wings, and takes to the air...

Tahirah stands calmly in her chosen spot, waiting.  If the preparations seem extreme to her, there's certainly no sign of it.  Of course, many of them are her preparations, so she may be biased.

Standing outside the defences seems likely to be safest.  Even if the view of the proceedings is likely to be obscured by the spinning wheel of knives.  But then the Amberites might be worth watching - after all, the target of this exercise is one of their own.

Standing outside the perimeter would be preferable to Dorian, but with Cyan inside there was no way he would allow it. He wasn't certain about the others, but for himself, he expected no real threat in this test ... at least not to anyone he cared for. His eyes moved to Devlin and the cards. Bold action was needed in this conflict, and he appreciated Devlin for that. They all acknowledge that they are behind and that this was not the time for talk.

With a subtle shift, his eyes slide to Cyan, studying her from beneath the hood of his cloak. Whether she catches it or not, he gives a small nod, a gesture of reassurance. It wasn't necessary, he knew. She was the General; she needed no more protection than he did ... though they did offer different forms of protections, and there was a certain synergy in that fact. He had never been one to dismiss martial prowess, nor to pretend he could hold his own against a true warrior--especially not one that could match her. His mind fills with memories of her in action, full of both grace and power. A tiny smile, then his gaze moves back to Devil, waiting.

The ghostgirl tilts her head, floating a few inches higher, as brilliant eyes watch the moth take flight. The rotates in the air, watching its path, to see where it will go. Her hair moves around her, as if weightless, disturbed only by some seeming breeze that only appears to affect her.

Where others might be stiff with the tension of expectation, Chance leans back in the chair. Dogeared cowboy boots crossed over each other, arms folded similarly. Sunglasses remained firmly in place, which kept anyone from noticing just how much his attention was on Trista. The only indication of the song he calls to mind is the soft tap of one finger against the opposite arm.

With a snort, though still maintaining his concentration, Aaron chuckles at James' retort. "Not now, dear," he answers smartly. "I have a headache."

Keeping his eyes closed, Aaron psychically monitors the subtle interactions of the bridging between themselves and Devlin's connection with the Trump before him. This was quite the elaborate scenario just for a Trump contact, but as he'd figured earlier, they knew little of their opponent. It was better to be prepared.

 

♦♦ Instantaneously ♦♦

 

As Banglen-YP offers that reassurance regarding her ability to drop the barrier in time to avoid injuring any of her companions, Devlin continues to focus his attention on the card.  Either the card is dead, along with the person it represents, or Devlin is just not used to doing this.

The moth makes it part way across the ceiling and stops.  Still outside the spinning torus of slashing metal it, nonetheless, has a good angle for seeing over the faux Archon.

Beyond the room, Fiona wears a satisfied smile.  Her eyes are closed.

"Outstanding," the General whispers, waiting and watching.  She blinks, eyes shading toward sapphire, and studies the card in Devlin's hand.  "Give it time," Cyan urges.  "I see energies beginning to grow about the card.  Something transpires, but I am uncertain what. I will warn you if it becomes dangerous."

Devlin hears Cyan in the periphery and knows the others are there, but he continues to concentrate on the card.

Devlin focusses his attention on the card, observed by his companions and a small moth.  For an instant the man seems to flicker, as if something passes between him and the observer, but then he is as solid as ever...

"There," Cyan breathes.  "The card appears quiscient, but the link is established - you have touched him, Devlin, and he is there."  Her lips thin and her sapphire eyes narrow with concern.  "Even now it grows stronger.  He may be preparing something whilst keeping up a facade of no contact between you."

Cyan seems quite intent on the process, somehow--but not surprisingly--turned in to what Devlin is doing and able to guide him. He nods with subtle turn of the lips to indicate satisfaction and relaxes outwardly, though mentally he remains alert enough to render whatever aid may turn out to be needed.

Chance's head come up an inch, turning towards Cyan. Above the rim of his sunglasses, his brow furrows.

"Perhaps he should sever contact before whatever attack being prepared arrives?"

Tahirah stands quietly.

She sees nothing unusual as Cyan begins her narration of events unfolding. Then the flicker as if a wave of heat clouds Trista's vision of the man. Still the sentinal, she wishes Berd were here to somehow unfold what Cyan witnesses.

"That is up to Devlin," Cyan replies to Chance, biting her lip.  "But..."  She blinks, eyes darkening from ruby to black.  "If we keep backing down every time there's risk, we're never going to get anywhere."  Gurthang shifts slightly and the bard's eyes brighten.  "He has guardians," Cyan whispers, almost as if convincing herself.  "We must roll the dice and see."

"Right," Chance says, eyes sliding back to Devlin. "It's a bug's life--never get across the highway if you try to avoid every windshield."

It was the same old argument. Don't think about the situation, just say we can't back down from every risk--even though Chance hadn't said that at all. In fact, in his memory, they had done less backing down and more taking risks because of that tired old argument.

He lowers his head once again and waits for the consequences.

What happened was unexpected, did they have it all wrong? Was this not the man that started it? Devlin suspected many things simultaneously, including trickery.

For a instant he thought of speaking to those that watched and waited, to tell them what had occured, but only for an instant. Instead when he spoke aloud it was to sound as if he was speaking the man on the other end of the connection.

"Rumor was that you were dead, but I never listen to rumors. Help you to escape? What does Corwin have to do with it? Is it he that holds you there? No, he did not put me up to this, I act only for my own reasons and none other. How can I help you to escape?"

Broken, and rather confusing on the surface, but Devlin hoped that his companions would understand.

The air within the defensive barriers seems to crackle with tension, until even those who are unaware of the Trump can feel something, like a thousand ants swarming across their skin...

James stands watch, not that there's much to see.  James would not know that anything was happening were it not for Cyan's observations.

James' initially agreed with Chance's suggestion.  They had established that Finndo still lived, was continued contact worth the risk of retaliation?  On the other hand, Devlin's snippets of conversation hinted at some intriguing possibilities so James is prepared to take the chance.

Dorian's defenses were ready, not entirely raised. He knew Devlin had enough defense already, so his focus was on simply hiding his psyche. To a psychic observer, he would just not be there. Dorian had proven particularly adept at hiding his psyche, and it had carried him more than a few battles--Charyk being an example.

He considers reminding Devlin that it might be a trap, but realizes such words would be useless. Devlin must already be considering that possibility, and as Cyan had essentially summarized--even a trap would be somewhat welcome at this point. It would be progress.

Of course, that would also mean the enemy would be aware that a trap would expose himself, and would consider that too. Surely, this Finndo must understand that this contact did not come lightly or by happenstance.

Such was the game of guessing who knew what details in a strategy and trying to unravel them. How many moves ahead had your opponent looked? How accurate was their assessment?

Dorian had done well always assuming the enemy knew everything and had looked ahead sufficiently to know your plans with great accuracy. Hoping the enemy was blind or stupid never worked well.

Cyan waits, her lips thinned, her focus on the card and Devlin.  Barest seconds have passed, but now the wanderer speaks, in open converse with the man depicted on the card.  And he names Corwin in his words.  Our traitor?  Or another force in this war?

At present, there remains nothing she can do save pray Devlin's gambit bears fruit.

Devlin is unsure what to do at this point, he suspects a trap... but what if the man is telling the truth? What if is was a miscalculation as he called it, if so then he might help. On the other hand... he still needed to be careful.

“So, I was correct then, you did release them.”

That was for those gathered around him, and using I rather than We, still no point in him knowing that there was a gathering on this end.

“What can I do to free you from your prison?”

Roman can hear only half the conversation, but the implications are fascinating.  Treachery and confusion - the legacy of Amber.

Tahirah remains still, arms folded before her.

Trista waits, much as all the others do.

Fiona frowns.  She can see that something is going on, but it seems to be taking longer than a simple check to see if the card is still "live".  Her eyes open, and she starts considering ways to deal with potential problems.

Within the circle of whirling blades, the air begins to sparkle, as if from a thousand tiny lightnings.  There is sudden sound, like the crack of a whip, and a ball of Saint Elmo's fire appears above Devlin's head, hurtles upwards, and outwards, to explode with a loud pop against Banglen-Yp, leaving only a smell of ozone.

Another ball appears, and starts to whirl about inside the barriers, like a trapped animal seeking a way out of the cage.

Within the cage of blades, Cyan's shoulders relax the instant the first ball of energy appears.  It harmlessly - hopefully - strikes their protection, and another one emerges.  Gurthang light in her grasp, she calls out over the whine of blades.

"Steady!"

Devlin's contact continues to thicken.  He and the others know what they are doing - it is her job to protect them, naught more.  Her topaz gaze follows the bouncing, sparkling ball.  She has no knowledge as to what it might be - aspect of a spirit?  energy being?  magical attack? - but for the moment, it seeks only an escape.

Her fingers shift slightly on the deathiron's hilt; trapped animals often becomes dangerous.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:09, Sat 21 Nov 2009.

James tenses as the ball of light appears above Devlin's head.  However, he acknowledges Cyan's order (even if the bard probably doesn't recognise it as such) and doesn't react immediately.

He considers the options quickly, which is difficult given that he knows nothing at all about the new arrival.  Still, if the first ball has enough physical presence to be disrupted by Banglen-Yp then maybe the second can be captured.

James shrugs out of his shirt (and briefly regrets not taking up the local habit of wearing cloaks).  He waits for the ball to move within arms reach then attempts to net it.

Dorian's head lifts. His eyes dart, tracking the second ball as it tries to escape. No other movement is necessary. The frenetic movement appears to have intelligence behind it, so he reaches out with his mind trying to learn something of its nature--of if it has hostile intentions--without disturbing it.

It appears contained, and the others are more than capable of containing a physical threat.

A slow smile creeps over Galatea's features. Her eyes brighten as she follows the object's course.

"Pretty."

 

A sound, somehow and kind of articulated, bounced around the spinning walls a moment after the ball popped.

♦♦ Tee hee hee ♦♦

The wall had not moved, however, completely unfazed by the collision.

Then another two word, these ones spoken from, well, all directions as if in a audio-kaleidoscope.

♦♦ Yes ♦ pretty ♦♦

Then silence, apart from the low whistle of the wall one would be wise not to lean up against.

 

With so many much more capable than she, Trista let's go of the sudden alarm tingling her flesh as the orbs burst forth and circle around. Extremely well disciplined, the woman remains at task in support of Devlin as her strong mind pushes and blends.

Tahirah shifts, bending very slightly at the waist.

The ball of energy whirls about within the defended area, until James manages to snare it with his shirt...

... at which point there is a loud *snap*, and James is almost thrown backwards into the rotating blades.  True to her word, Banglen-YP distorts the orbits of those jagged shards of metal just enough to avoid the chance that an outstretched arm (or anything else) will touch her.  Leaving James standing in one piece, holding the scorched and smouldering remnants of his shirt.

Two more, smaller, balls of lightning appear, collide, and are annihilated in a shower of sparks.

Devlin had given plenty of warning, in a cryptic sort of way, and no one had spoken up to stop him, or tell him it was a bad idea. Finndo would soon find himself in another prison surrounded by the cage create of Banglen-Yp. That and those gathered around him mad him feel a bit more confident.

Devlin reaches out with his hand free hand. "Take my hand then and I will free you from that place."

Cyan cocks an eyebrow as James doffs his shirt - a good plan, she considers, better than letting the energy orbs roam freely within the confines of the bladed prison.  Unfortunately, cotton proves insufficient for the task, and Cyan's eyebrow ratchets a notch further as a smoking James considers the remnants of his shirt.

But for the gravity of the situation, it would be most amusing.

Then Devlin reaches forward; half-expecting such a move after the dark man's earlier words, Cyan shifts her stance, away from threatening the 'trump' and into a position where she can defend those at the table without appearing threatening.  Much.

It's hard to look innocent when hefting a flame-touched, obsidian blade.

Tahirah shifts back almost imperceptibly.

Devlin reaches, and an aura of rainbow light coalesces around his outstretched hand.  In one instant that hand is empty, and in the next it grasps another hand.

A pull, and Devlin's chair collapses under him as a much larger man suddenly falls out of the air and into his lap.  This man is... approximately twice as naked as James, and definitely bears a close resemblance to the man depicted on the card.  He rolls off Devlin, and catches sight of Banglen-Yp.  Scowling at the man who brought him here, he snarls, "You bastard!  You're working for them!"

The details of his surroundings start to sink in, "All working for them?  Well, this time I'm prepared."

The air starts to shimmer and waver around him...

 

♦♦ Who is them ♦♦

The voice bounced around, curious and not very Archon-ish in nature.

♦♦ Oh ♦ more pretty things ♦ yes ♦♦

Hopeful echoes bounced about joyfully.

 

"Stop!" Cyan snaps, gurthang sweeping up to bear on the man, trailing flickers of flame.  Staring down the silently flaming blade, she studies him with eyes of icy sapphire, growing clearer by the moment.  "Please.  We oppose the Seraphim," she clarifies.  "Banglen-Yp, please resume your humanoid form."

This, then, is Finndo.  Lords of the West, she has no desire to harm the man, evidently kept in a prison - Cyan knows well how that might pass - but she will not see her friends harmed by him over a misunderstanding.

 

But a moment after Cyan made her plea the wall of spinning metal seemingly struck against an invisible obstacle.  Each piece of metal that collided with the ones already stopped helped form an odd statue in the shape of a curvaceous woman, filling visibly with skin and bone and sinewy even as the mould was still being filled.  As did the cloth in the parts that it covered.

Once the process neared the halfway point, barely a second after the first collision, blond hair began to sway on one side from the wind created by the previously rapidly hurtling metal fragments that unrelentingly slammed into the other side along with half a smile.

In an ever-changing and bizarre puzzle the blonde woman emerged and finally was completed mere seconds later.

•• As you wish • Cyan ••

The voice had been restored to that of the blonde that they had been knowing for some time and she tilted her head as she gave the man in front of her a once-over.

•• You forgot the clothes ••

A friendly and helpful statement to make certain the fellow was aware of this, knowing she had problem with those details at first.

 

Not surprised by the arrival, but about having his seat collapse beneath him, Devlin picks himself off the floor. Then the accusation about working for "Them" causes a moment of confusion.

Cyan clarifies, for both Finndo and Devlin, and his mouth opens in an "Ahh" without saying anything. "Cyan is correct, we appose the Archon. You said you had freed them, that you were then imprisoned by them, tricked. I had hoped you could tell us how to lock them beck up. They mean to destroy everything and there is really nothing we can to to stop them. Our only real hope is to put them back into their cage. At least that's the way it seems to me."

Devlin does not draw sword or take a defensive posture, instead he extends a hand. "Will you help us or are you or do you now side with the Archon? Do we join forces or do we kill each other? Your choice."

Roman watches, torn between disappointment that he will likely not see what Finndo had in mind, and relief that a battle is unlikely.  Finndo has knowledge that is sorely needed.

James stares fixedly at the remnants of his shirt for a moment, but he doesn't have long to try to work out what happened.  Finndo appears on Devlin's lap and things begin to run out of control.  Despite the risks involved in the situation it's the humour that sticks in James' mind.

He casts aside the smoking rags in his hand and steps forward, right hand outstretched to take Finndo's hand.  "Thanks, you shouldn't have!  I thought I was under-dressed, but you didn't have to go that far."  James gesture is genuine, but it also places himself closer to the new arrival and James can reach for a grapple as easily as shake hands.

Finndo, confused now, at sword's point, and clearly surrounded, stops when Cyan tells him to.  The roiling smokiness in the air around him does not disperse though.  It just doesn't grow any more distinct.

There is a crash of metal somewhere behind him, and he half turns to see the metallic components of the Archon merging into something distinctly non-metallic.  And she says something about clothes, as if he has any choice in the matter of how he is dressed.

The man who saved him from that place gives part of an explanation, and another offers his empty hand in a gesture of friendship.  Finndo doesn't respond, beyond simply glancing at the hand for a moment, knowing full well that a physical touch can be a prelude to psychic attack.

Then comes a half-familiar voice, "Welcome to Amber, Finndo.  I recommend that you don't continue with your first response, or things may go badly for you.  You really are in no immediate danger, unless you choose to bring it upon yourself."

He turns, and finds himself looking at Fiona.  A rueful smile plays across his lips, "Fiona, isn't it?"  A glance at Devlin then, "Is it too late to ask you to put me back where you found me?"

A quick look around at the audience in the room, and then, "Alright, I'll answer what questions I can, if somebody will get me some bloody britches."

If the man doesn't want to be with his kin - and with their reputation the attitude is quite understandable - there are alternatives.

"Amber and the Courts work together on this" Roman informs Finndo.  "If you have friends in Chaos who would speak for you..."

James is not surprised when Finndo declines his hand.  He wasn't sure that he would either, in the circumstances.  However, the immediate danger seems to have passed so at least the various efforts at diplomacy weren't in vain.

"I'll second that.  Fiona, is there some way to summon a servant?"

James fervently hoped that Roman had not complicated matters further by mentioning the Courts but a lengthy debrief was probably required anyway.

With others chiming in to explain and greet, there is no need for Cyan to muddy the waters further.  And with Finndo agreeing to talk first, possibly resume hostilities later, threats will only disrupt the peaceful discussion.  Gurthang slides back into its sheath and she steps back out of reach.

She keeps the weapon in hand, though.

A naked man falling into Devlin's lap certainly wasn't what Trista expected. Too bad she's too focused to laugh - this deserves a laugh. A hearty one. Even James hooks on the humor, prompting a corner of Trista's mouth to rise.

Trista is standing, having automatically reacted to the humorous invasion. Her blade shines in her hand, but it was never branded, only readied. Diplomacy seems to be the order of the day now that the inky smoke has stop its spread (though has not vaporized as of yet.) Trista helps Devlin up and then breaks the circle by walking back toward Chance, a playful grin threatening to break free. Once there, she whispers, "So much preparation for a nude man. Interesting."

For now, Trista retains the machete in hand as she turns to face the inner circle. Finndo may be cooperating, but if they all let their guard down, he may yet do something utterly stupid.

Tahirah folds her arms, and withdraws quietly to stand in the corner.

 

So confusing.

Reaction differed wildly from when she appeared without clothing, in the form she currently reside in.

With a shrug she produced, from somewhere, a little white ktiten and began to cuddle it, seemingly oblivious to anything else.

 

Fiona moves to one corner of the room, clearly struggling to keep her expression serious.  There is a bell cord there.  She pulls it, and a few minutes later a servant appears.  He runs off, and returns a few minutes later with a robe of blue and grey velvet.

It's a little on the large side, but Finndo pulls it on anyway.  The shirt which is handed to James is equally large, but looks even bigger on his frame.  "Gerard's chambers are the closest occupied ones, so I'm afraid you got some of his clothes." Fiona explains.

Finndo shakes his head, and raises one hand in a placatory gesture, "No need to apologise.  I'm just glad that yours was not the closest suite."  It might be a joke, but his face displays no amusement.  "I suppose you want to know how I became involved in this mess?"

"I, for one, would be fascinated to hear your tale."

Finndo nods, "Very well."  He sits in one of the remaining chairs, which creaks slightly beneath him, "You, there, servant, fetch me a flagon of ale.  No... two of them.  I've a thirst on me that could make a brewery rich."

As the servant hurries off to bring the request ale, Finndo leans back, gazing at the ceiling for a little while, before he starts to speak...

"I don't know how long ago it was, time can be a bit odd out there, and I'm not entirely sure it even exists properly where I've been.  It's more like a sort of gentlemens' agreement - the Archons, in their prison wouldn't try to do everything at once, too often, and time would stay out of the picture for the most part.  Hard to explain, but that's the best I can come up with."

"One day, I found this crack in a world, not too far from the Courts.  Minute it was, little more than a pinhole, but anything you pushed into it fitted. In fact, as soon as I touched it with anything, there was no force that could stop that object falling in to the hole."

"I studied it for a while, and eventually came to realise that it was a sort of imperfect Abyss.  There are broken Patterns, and immutable Logruses located close to their true forms, growing more distorted as you move further away.  This was a flawed copy of the Abyss.  Instead of being a yawning, bottomless chasm, with no way to escape, it was a yawning, bottomless pinprick, with no way to escape."

Finndo looks around, observing his audience for signs of disbelief, before proceeding.

James puts on the shirt that he is offered and rolls up the sleeves so they don't get in the way.  There's not much he can do for the moment about the way it hangs over his shoulders and chest; there's enough fabric in the shirt for a good-sized sail.

That done, James finds an out of the way spot where he can watch Finndo and listen to his story.  He keeps his face carefully neutral.  Finndo might be giving them valuable information or he might be selling them a lie.

Cyan struggles to stiffle laughter at the sight of Finndo and James slipping into Gerard's clothing; it comes out as a muffled giggle.  She sobers, though, when their new 'guest' begins relating his tale.

Someone, she decides, should tell the King of this.  "Berd," Cyan begins in a quiet whisper, then closes her eyes in frustration.  They snap open an instant later, a lambent emerald, and she hurries from the room to catch a servant heading by in the hallway.

"Pardon me," she whispers, glancing back through the doorway to verify that talking continues and not, for example, Finndo leaping from his chair to break Fiona's neck.  "Would you locate his majesty, King Random, and inform him that the experiment has born fruit?  And where we are, at present?"  One hand indicates the door to the room.

Once she receives verification, Cyan ducks back in, struggling to pick up the threads of the discussion.  She's not as much help with determining the veracity of his tale - despite her knowledge of people, she knows very well that a skilled liar is more than capable of putting one past her.

She trusts too much, too easily.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:29, Mon 14 Dec 2009.

"I didn't have a lot else to do, so I studied the thing, for quite some time.  And one day it occurred to me: what if I wasn't the only person who'd been shoving things down the rabbit hole?  There could be all manner of things in there."

"I set out to see if there was any way to find out."

The requested ale arrives at this point, and there is a lengthy interval, while Finndo drains both goblets, without pausing to draw breath.

"Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Eventually I found a group who called themselves the Fishers.  They live on the edge of the Abyss, and had created a device, of sorts, which could pluck things out of the it.  Most things were thrown straight back in, because they had been damaged by untold time spent in the Abyss, but they had a theory that eventually everything ends up in the Abyss, so dredging the Abyss is the best way to learn about everything.  Interesting people, though with some odd ideas about the world... "

"Anyway... I studied their device, and, with their help, constructed a simpler version for myself.  I used that to investigate the flawed Abyss, and was surprised to discover that it was full of what I later found to be called Archons."

"And that's when it all started to go wrong."

The man pauses then, thinking, and his expression becomes grim.  "The device allowed me to make a mental connection with one of them, and they told me that they were travellers from a distant place who had grown curious about the hole in the world, and had become trapped."

"It was only after I rescued them that I found that they lived in there.  They called it the First Place, and it was their home, and their prison.  A whole universe, consisting of hundreds of worlds, and the whole thing no bigger than a flea, at least on the outside.  Inside, it was the exact size it needed to be to contain everything that was in it."

"Anyway, the treacherous bastards forced me into the hole.  Into the bottle, as it were.  And every so often, just for fun, they'd use my device to gloat about what they were up to."

"Your story reeks of too much convenience," Dorian says. "I get the distinct impression there is more you aren't saying here. Considering how many of the myriad worlds have been destroyed, and how many are about to be destroyed, I suggest that the more information we in this group have the better."

The dark sorcerer understood that Findo knew none of them, though. He would withhold information just as quickly in the same circumstance. He knew of no other way to convince the man of the situation, so he just had to hope Findo saaw reason.

"If they return to gloat," Tahirah says softly, "Then time is limited.  They will know he is gone."

Cyan continues to observe, glancing toward Dorian as the dark sorcerer passes judgement.  She nods, uncertain of whether or not Finndo conceals knowledge, but agreeing with his point regarding the desperate circumstances.  They must know everything, every detail.

"I agree with Dorian.  I have sent for the king," she quietly states.  "Given the severity of the situation, I am reasonably certain he would grant amnesty for any missteps if we received useful information.  Assuming there is a need for such," she temporizes, not willing to appear accusatory.

It's one thing to suggest someone might be concealing knowledge, another to obliquely accuse of a crime.

She looks sidelong to Tahirah, sapphire eyes darkening toward obsidian for a long moment.  "Harbonah does love his gloating," the General admits, one corner of her mouth quirking sardonically.  "Twice after breakfast, and again before bed."  The bard blinks her eyes clear.  "He would certainly not pass up on the opportunity when the memory of a prisoner strikes."

A part of the story niggles at her thoughts, coming back again and again.  Fishers.  Cyan bites her lip, recalling Jonnee Kay and his own adventures prior to their meeting.  The memories hold a painful resonance, for they also recall others - Kallika, in particular.

James is not as suspicious as Dorian, although he is willing to concede that there are grounds for scepticism.

Moreover, Finndo's tale gave them a point of origin for the Archons, which was handy in an 'I'm glad I know that.' way, but not immediately critical strategic information.

He waits to see how Finndo will respond.

"Convenience?" Finndo fixes Dorian with a glare, "Convenience, you say?"

"I'll tell you now, there was damned little convenience about it, at least from my viewpoint, trapped in that bloody hole of theirs."

"There were hundreds of worlds in there, but they were layered, like the pages of a book, and the whole thing no bigger than me.  I could feel the layers passing through me, so the first joint of my index finger was in one world, the second in another, the third in yet another, and so on.  Strange sensation.  Blinding sun in one eye, and starry night in the other, layers of heat and cold...  Not very pleasant."

He shakes his head, "And no, not convenient.  I couldn't move a muscle, and though I never got short of breath, as if I was only there for a few seconds, it felt like I hadn't eaten for days, and hadn't had anything to drink for weeks."

"Now, if you need a way to fight them... then I'll gladly help.  For a start, I can show you where the hole is.  Consider this... if they could trap me in there, it might be possible to do the same to them.  I can show you how to destroy my device too, so that nobody else will release them."

"But your friends, there, are right.  I have no way of knowing how often they checked up on me, because time didn't seem to exist there.  So I also have no way of knowing how long it will be before my absence is discovered."

"Clever," Dorian smirks. "But you should know the culture of Amber well enough to know that your attempt to change the meaning of my words and garner sympathy will have little effect here. It is the elements of the story that are convenient for you--the supposed innocent but curious bystander--not the circumstances that you claim; however, I suppose we should take your words as a refusal to add any more information, then. Consider this: if they could trap you in there, then you could trap us as well. We are not so desperate for information that we'll follow you so blindly."

The dark sorcerer leans back in his carefully-placed chair. "Yet, we obviously have no other choice but to cooperate with you to some degree, since he likely don't have the time or luxury of long and detailed torture right now. The archons are spread out among the myriad worlds, quite ubiquitously I might add. How might we trap them back inside then?"

Finndo's story leaves Cyan nauseated - as it was meant to, she supposes, though not perhaps for the reasons Dorian points out.  It's good having a skeptic in the area; certainly she would be no help discerning fact from fiction.  Torture, however...with that, Cyan has all-too-much familiarity.  Still keeping one jade eye on Finndo, she moves to the sideboard and pours herself a cup of wine.

Unwilling to interrupt, she motions with the bottle to the room, eyebrow cocked, and pours Finndo a glass at the least.  Should others desire, she does the same for them.  Finndo's glass goes on the table near him; she doesn't quite come within arm's reach of him, having taken his measure as best she can.

It wouldn't bode well to put gurthang in his hands, she feels, should he mean them harm.

Moving back, the bard sips lightly at her wine - too dry, too refined for her palate, used as it is to the sweet, young wines of taverns - and awaits Finndo's reply.

"Take me up on the offer of assistance, or don't.  It's entirely up to you.  I'm sure you have a vast plethora of other options at your disposal." Finndo says with a shrug.

"Yes, I released these things, but there was nothing of malice about it.  They led me to believe I was doing a good deed - rescuing somebody who was trapped through no fault of their own.  Some of them can be very convincing when they put their mind to it."

"Torture would be... interesting.  After what felt like an eternity trapped in that place, I'm not sure how good a subject I'd be though."

He glances at Fiona, then back to Dorian, "Or you could use her, I suppose, to ensure that I am speaking the truth."

He leans back, gazing at the ceiling, for a long moment.  Then his eyes snap back down to study his rescuers, "Trapping them would be fairly easy.  When they caught me, it was by the simple expedient of surrounding me, and forcing me to move into physical contact with the hole, so the device is probably still attuned to them, and could be used to cast them back through the opening.  I'll need to check that they haven't tampered with it though.  No... the really tricky part will be getting them in range."

"It's like fishing - you need the right bait."

"Your capacity for stating the obvious and the already-stated is no less than remarkable," Dorian says to the man's first comment. "I am confident that if Fiona doubted your words, she would say so. She'll likely have whatever you've left unspoken easy enough as well, which is why I haven't retrieved what I want myself, yet."

"What is the range of the device?"

He was confident that Cyan, no--the general--could think of ways to get Harbonah and the bulk of the Archons within range once they were ready. His eyes shift to her for a moment. His expression softens, wrinkles and craggy features smooth out. Then he returns to the man before him and the features harden again, waiting for answers.

James scowls darkly, his distaste for torture is hardly a secret.  On the other hand, they did need information and if Dorian believed that torture would help them, James doubted that his personal reservations would count for much.  Fortunately, perhaps, Fiona's reputation largely precluded the need for such crude methods.

The show remains Dorian's and Devlin's - Cyan holds to her peace.  It seems likely that Finndo will assist, for the man has been forthright to this point.  If he does not, there is likely little they might do to compell him...though Fiona presents an interesting possibility.

But the talk has turned to imprisoning the Archons where they had been trapped in the past.  Lips thin, she turns away, moving to study a painting on the wall, stomach rolling at the thought.  Torture is out of the question here - both for Finndo and the Archons - and she does not feel Dorian seriously contemplates it; while he remains the same in many ways, the dark sorcerer is no longer the man he once ways (literally, in fact).  But the thought of stuffing the Archons back in the space their guest describes sickens her.

There must be another way.

"The device can reach out, at most, a little more than seventy leagues.  Once set in motion, it will instantly seize anything it is attuned to that strays within that limit.  Unfortunately, it's not really portable." Finndo says, calmly ignoring Dorian's threats, "In fact, it's bloody huge.  Size of a decent country house, including the stables.  And the hole is at its heart."

"The trick is, of course, to get the damned Archons close enough to it.  They might be leery of the device itself, and of going near the hole.  So you need something that they are prepared to risk anything to get at.  Sadly, the only things I know about them are that there are four kinds, most of them crave dominion over others, and they hated being in that hole.  So I can't really give you any ideas on the bait."

"Sorry."

Cyan shakes her head, first slowly but with growing strength.  "No.  No, no, no.  Pydora's chest has been opened; we cannot simply stuff the evils back within it.  Imprison the Archons again?  To what end, when they will break free once more?  And they will, further enraged by the torment they have suffered.  Small wonder their spirits are so hateful, understandable their mad desire to expand, to grow, to take over the Myriad Worlds and make them into their space."

She paces in a circle, unconciously demarking a specific zone that doesn't seem to fit this particular room.  "They are mad.  How long have they been within that prison?  Before the Myriad Worlds themselves, when nothing existed save the wildness about Chaos?"

Stopping, Cyan seeks the eyes of everyone in the room, studying them with her ruby gaze.  "I have known Archons who learned.  Who grew beyond their hateful desires.  Who sought out truths, and interests past the demands of the ego.  The nephillim - a large group indeed.  The Metatron.  Right.  Left."  Pursing her lips, she draws in a deep breath, lets it out.

"The torment Finndo endured is not the answer for the Archons.  They have suffered enough - I will seek another way."

 

•• Perhaps these nephilim can offer an alternate solution • yes ••

The blonde spoke up, having been silently watching and listening to the others talk of things she did not understand, apart from imprisonment and torture.

 

"I agree with Cyan, and," Dorian says. "I'm not convinced it would be a final solution anyway. In an infinite cosmos, the odds are good they would be released again at some point, no matter how we tried to safeguard the hole. In fact, the more one tries to protect a thing like that, the more the curious will try to discover it. The difference would be that next time they will have experience enough to do even better."

He knew all along that the device wouldn't be their solution, and not just because others would oppose the thought.

"Yet, I am interested in knowing all of our options, so I would like to hear more of this device. What else can it do? What powers it?"

James doubts that sending the Archons back to their prison is any kind of practical solution.  There are so many Archons that luring all of them, even all the Seraphim, to a place they know to be dangerous seems all but impossible.

Unfortunately, he didn't have many alternatives to suggest, so he stands silent as the discussion continues.

Finndo sighs, and glances at Fiona, "They are your champions, Sister.  Perhaps you can make them understand that, against a terrible enemy, your counterstroke must be equally terrible.  The Archons, Harbonah himself, will see anything less than full, swift, unmerciful retribution as a sign of weakness."

"And to them, any weakness means that you are not worthy to exist."

He reaches for the flagon on the table, looks into it, then puts it down again with a loud bang, "Is there no more ale?"

Fiona, meanwhile, considers his words, silently.  Finally, she shakes her head, "No.  These people are, as you say, our champions.  Some of them were sent out on a mission, others joined them along the way, and the original goal has expanded to take account of new information that they have discovered.  Without, I might add, being tricked into releasing an unstoppable enemy on the Universe."

"They are the closest thing we have to experts on the Archons, and Amber would be foolish to ignore their advice.  They have faced Archons in battle, and won.  They have spoken to Archons, and allied with them, and they have raised armies and protected entire worlds."

She turns her back, as if to leave, and then looks over her shoulder at Finndo.  "They have my support and, I have no doubt, the king's, in any scheme they come up with to handle the situation."

"For the moment though, the main goal is to help to defend Amber.  If you have so little confidence in their ability to do that effectively, brother... " that word spoken with a sneer, "... then I suggest you leave the city at your first opportunity."

 

Banglen-Yp listened and watched to Fiona's speech and then made a demure clawing motion at the air and at the same time spoke in a similar fashion, looking quite mischievous.

•• Mee•ow •• A saucer of milk for Fiona's table • please ••

Then she giggled.

 

Cyan cocks an brow over an emerald eye at Finndo's assessment.  "And so it goes," she whispers, "the circle turning around and around."  Fiona, however, answers for her, and while she does not speak in defense of the reasoning, she speaks in solid support of the Questors.  That, for the bard, is enough, and she ducks her head, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

The smile fades at Fiona's final words, Cyan growing thoughtful again.

Banglen-Yp has her own thoughts on the matter; Cyan privately agrees that there seems to be no lost love between the siblings, but then...hardly surprising, given what little she knows of Amber's family.  And the situation, mind - Fiona has a right to some irritation.  "Harbonah we know," she says quietly, "and may have to destroy."  Though an edge enters her tone, there is no hate - only the knowledge that her former master will likely never be turned aside.  "Certainly we are at war and there will be casualties."

"But I will find another way."  She glances around the room at the Questors, and hope stirs - with what they have accomplished, surely there remains a chance?  "With this new information in hand, perhaps it is again time to speak with the Nephillim."

"As for ale, perhaps it will arrive when the King does."

"I'm here, but without ale, I'm afraid." Random says, appearing just outside the door.  Immediately behind, and looming over him, stands Gerard whose eyes are fixed on Finndo.  The large Amberite his smiling, but it doesn't seem to be because he is pleased to see his long-lost half brother.

There also appear to be several guards out there, meaning that the corridor is crowded, and numbers are hard to judge.

"Finndo was just telling us how he, rather stupidly, released the Archons." explains Fiona, "He was also criticising the way our people, and by extension ourselves, have been dealing with them."

Finndo stands, and bows to Random.  "Your Majesty, I... "

"Let's not stand on ceremony, Finndo, we are family, after all.  Just shut up, and get out of the city by midnight.  Though I'm not altogether sure where you might go, since Amber is under siege just now.  But I'm sure somebody as resourceful as you can get through." Random states, flatly.  He looks around the room, then folds his arms and leans against the door frame, "Unless, of course, you think you have something more useful to offer, that would make it worth my while to let you stay?  Constructive advice, or a decent plan, for example."

Finndo, spreads his hands, bowing his head.  "I could, I suppose, attempt to find a solution which meets with the approval of your... ah... underlings." he says, though with a certain amount of poor grace.

Random looks around the others in the room who are not members of his immediate family, the people who have had the most experience of dealing with this threat, "Do you think you could work with Finndo, or should I just exile him?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:22, Sun 24 Jan 2010.

"How many worlds might die," Tahirah asks quietly, "Because we do not like the look of all who might help us?"

Cyan bows as Random enters, noting the lack of love between the family members.  Finndo, it seems, isn't on anyone's Christmas card list.  Her own eyebrow cranks up a notch at Finndo's grudging offer and veiled dismissal of the Questors, and in Berd's absence, it's up to her to show teeth with her grin.

She does, though they are not nearly as sharp nor as plentiful as her father's.

"It is a matter of trust, I think," Cyan replies to Tahirah, staring hard at Finndo with hard, emerald eyes.  "And we know naught of Finndo's past in Amber."  The king might very well have good reason to want him gone, past the whole 'Finndo makes vast errors'.  She, herself, has been guilty of such in the past.  "But I would tend to agree...in this case, any help would be welcome.  His Highness' ideas might or might not prove suitable, but at least they would spark discussion."

She bows.  "After the crisis is over, of course, His Majesty still possesses the option of exiling."  Assisting in fixing the problem he created certainly does not absolve Finndo of past crimes in Cyan's eyes, and with his escape from perpetual torture, one would think the lost prince happy to simply walk the Myriad Worlds once again, the wind on his face.

Finndo heaves a massive sigh, and shakes his head, "And people wonder why I stay as far away from Amber as possible."

"Very well... since I seem to have a choice between plague and cholera, I'll settle for the plague."  He pushes himself up, out of the chair, and stands with his arms folded across his chest, "What do you need help with?  My knowledge and experience are at your disposal."

"At least until one of these snotty-nosed brats throws another tantrum and forces me to leave after I've taught them some manners."

Looking at Finndo, as well as the rest of the Amberites, Dorian experienced a rare moment of mental vertigo--this must be how others saw him, obstinate, arrogant and even somewhat childish at times. Was it possible? Was he so much more like his progenitors than he had ever realized, despite having never been here in his long centuries?

He shook it off, refocusing on the moment at hand. It was best if he didn't think about it too hard, and he suddenly felt a reduction in his desire to learn more of his mother here.

Again, his eyes focused on Cyan for a moment. Best to look ahead, not behind, he thinks to himself. His gaze returns to Finndo.

"Very well, then," he says, clasping hands before him. "Let's move ahead shall we?"

Roman refrains from pointing out that the man is talking about his own kin. Or the family likeness.  There may still be items of information that can be extracted from the man.  The aliases and their significance.   The workings of the weapons at Charyk.  And what he told the Archons of Amber.  But those can be saved for later and for fewer ears.

"Indeed," Cyan says in agreement with Dorian.  Better to move on - they have much to do, little time with which to accomplish it, and...well, honestly, at present, she doesn't see too many pathways to follow.

"Your Majesty, Finndo has explained to us that the Archons were released from a...sub-abyss, or something of the sort."  She shakes her head.  "I fear I barely understood that part of the discussion.  A fragment of the Abyss?"  She shrugs.  "In any case, they had been trapped within it, tormented and crammed together, for a seeming eternity.  From Finndo's own experiences within that terrible place, it was torture."

The bard grimaces, her sapphire eyes downcast.  "On can only imagine what it has done for the Archons' mood.  It explains much about their savagery, their sadism, their childish desires and lack of foresight.  But..."  She looks up, eyes brightening.  "It also means we may be capable of changing the tide of this war from another direction."

The bard begins to pace again, back and forth, the same exact distance as before.  "The Nephillim, even the warrior danioti, demonstrate care and compassion for all living things.  The Archons, plainly, are not naturally and automatically genocidal.  Perhaps the majority of the race have simply not recovered from their imprisonment.  Perhaps they are insane.  But it means it would be possible to win on a spiritual level, where strength of arms may fail - we are already far behind the Archons in strategy and might."

Random nods thoughtfully, ignoring Finndo for the moment, "Find a way to appeal to their better nature?  I did think of that myself, at first, but then I started getting reports which indicated that they don't have one."

"At least the ones that are at the root of the problem don't appear to."

Finndo interrupts, "A few may be more friendly, but the only ones I had much contact with were... he struggles to find a word, and finally settles for, "monstrous.  They delight in inflicting pain and anguish on all, including their own kind."

"Which is why we need any, and all, assistance that you can offer."

"The only thing a Seraphim cares about is itself.  The only thing it cares about, more than itself, is nothing.  If there is a means to appeal to them, I don't know what it is, and we don't have a real Archon handy, that we could ask."

"Perhaps, though, we could try to bluff them... make them think that we have the means to force them back into their prison, no matter where they are located in Shadow.  That might make them more cautious.  Slow them down, so that we have a chance to find a permanent solution."

"I suspect that it won't be that easy." Fiona adds her own opinion on the matter, "I think that our main chance is to make them convince themselves that they have nothing to gain from their current course of action."

"I don't believe we can do anything that will scare them.  Our best option might be to show them that winning will simply take so much effort that it just won't be worthwhile."

"Both suggestions have merit."  James interjects, tactfully, "But both are flawed.  The worst of the Seraphim, those that drive the current war, are completely psychotic.  They have highly atypical psychology."

"Most of the Seraphim would not believe a bluff that we could force them to return to their prison.  If they were in our place and had such capability they would use it immediately and without hesitation.  Those that do believe us will insist upon an all-out strike.  With respect, I have yet to see anything in Amber's defences that could hold against such an attack."

"And that is also the difficulty with Fiona's suggestion.  The concept of too much effort is alien to them.  They spend captured, enslaved and allied resources without heed for any cost.  Some of the more powerful Archons may have clone 'back-ups'.  And they are driven, obsessively."

"What will happen,” Tahira asks, softly, “if the Archons win? If they succeed in their goal of...dissolution?”

"As I understand it," Fiona replies, "if they win, then they will be the only things able to survive in their new world."

Finndo shakes his head, "Not exactly.  Shapeshifters could live in it, but I suspect that the bastards will hunt them down, until there are only Archons left."

"Same result."

"So it seems that there is nothing which will scare them into giving up, or make them decide to end this themselves." Random muses, "Which brings us back to finding a means of destroying or imprisoning them.  Unless we can find a way to drive them off, permanently.  Banish them from the whole of Shadow, somehow, and shut them out."

 

•• What we need is an Archon magnet • kind of like sucking all the Archons to one spot in whatever universe •• Like • some of you would work a a magnet • if they knew where you were •• Question is then what to do next • once they are all there • I suppose ••

The blonde woman glanced around the group and nodded at Cyan especially before turning back to playing with the cat, that being an important issue as well, at least to Banglen-Yp.

 

"Is it possible," Tahirah asks, "That the Destruction of Everything, may leave behind...nothing?  A timeless void, with no boundaries?  I do not claim to understand the deep mysteries upon which the worlds rest, but I doubt very much that every Archon knows them better.  And even if that is not possible, it sounds to me very plausible."

"What I have heard from those who know better, is that the Archons are selfish.  Those who will not stop their attacks for the sake of others, might still for themselves.  If the belief can be spread that their current course will end in the recreation of their prison, but now with no worlds beyond and no hope of relief, surely many would turn from the path?"

Cyan keeps her mouth shut, letting the others talk.  She doesn't agree with the royalty, but one doesn't argue with kings in their own beseiged kingdoms.  But two points are proposed - one, a practical theory by Banglan-Yp, another a more philosophical one by Tahirah.

Neither is contradictory - both have serious merit.

The bard begins to pace again, working out her thoughts.  Draw the Archons - as many as possible - to one place.  Perhaps the assistance of the nephillim...perhaps another thing.  Confront them with the truth of the issue.  "They can change," she mutters.  "I have seen it for myself.  Children, who have not yet come into their maturity."

As it stands, Tahirah's solution would be a temporary one - no doubt many of the Seraphim would conclude it better to then enslave the worlds to endlessly torment and experiment with them.  Better that than utter destruction; slaves can rise, slaves can revolt, slaves can fight a war against those who would enslave them.  With the Myriad World shattered, nothing would remain.

"Left and Right began to understand the more they observed without killing.  They grew."  When did the great changes happen?  She struggles with her fragmented memories.  "Exposed to other beings, other beings feelings, they began to show curiousity.  Understanding begat empathy."  For Right, the turning point came when he felt the truth of Dorian's message to her, the realization that the destruction of a world meant the same regardless of which species stood upon it or whose children were consumed.

"Some archons have come to understand other races, and have grown into a more peaceful maturity."  But how to show them?

She glances at Dorian, remembering his message to her.  Recalls its impact upon Right.  There is a way, then, and she knows how it might be expanded to include a vast number of the Archons.  "Not all of them would change," she murmurs.  "But some would.  Perhaps enough for the nephillim to take control of their race's destiny."  It would involve both Tahirah's thoughts and Banglen-Yp's idea.  And more.

She shudders, then squares her shoulders.  "There is a way to reach many of them at once," Cyan finally admits to the room.  "As for a magnet...we have three.  The General.  The Worldkiller.  The Despised One."

Herself.  Dorian.  Berd.

Dorian exhales a long, slow breath. He settles into his chair, as if preparing for a long stay. Fingertips touch fingertips, fingers arching before him.

"Would that be enough?" he asks. "Would that bring all of them?"

No, they don't need all of them, perhaps just most of them. There is one in particular he is worried about, though. "Would it bring Harbonah?"

The question seemed to hang in the air still: what to do with them. Outright destruction seemed out of the question, as was trapping them endlessly in their old prison. Converting them seemed a happy solution, but impossible.

"I think we can agree that those who do not convert should be removed as a threat." He didn't bother to specify what that meant. They could iron out the details later. "I have an idea, but I would need time to ponder it. As most of you know, I'd oppose anything that seemed like coercion. I no longer have the stomach for forcing beings to act one way or another. Yet, I wonder if perhaps there might be a way we could reveal things to them, not to force any decision, but to give them an opportunity, a moment to experience this change that you speak of. I've done it before, at Charyk." He glances at Cyan for emphasis. She would understand; she was the recipient in that case. Perhaps he could do something like it again, but on a much (much) larger scale.

"Perhaps, given the right tools--some sort of amplifier--I could saturate the world, much as I did the sketchbook, with memories and emotions that show them ... a different way of thinking. Some would reject it. Others might accept it. We could, perhaps, separate the wheat from the chaff and then deal with the chaff."

He notes his own uncertainty in his voice. It isn't like him to speak without assurance, but the conflict before them was so enormous that it could hardly bare any certainty.

And he the bait, along with Berd and Cyan. It seemed so fitting. He ponders: he could use a clone, of course, but no ... the real answer is obvious. Not a clone, but the real Dorian. I am still just a clone. The real Dorian should be there, for it was the real Dorian ... the original .. that had committed the crime. Would stand for the crime he had committed. It made sense, but he would not force the original to do it. The original Dorian must choose to do it.