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.