Limbo pages all: Well, let's see, how to start this. Um, you're in the Umbra. :} Advance warning that my imaging of the Umbra may not jibe with other people's imaging. And all that.
Sepdet is on her hands and knees with her head down at the foot of a sleeping fir, sniffing intently at its roots.
Dylan comes and crouches down at Sepdet's side, curious to see what she has found.
Shows-the-Way moves through the wider forest, prowling for strange scents between the spirits.
A point of light moves in the distance, then it looks like a ribbon, then a point again.
Sepdet sits up and brushes her scraggly braids out of her eyes. ~I can never tell whether the soil has walked here from somewhere else, or this tree-spirit has. It feels more like the shallow-rooted ones that climb on the mountains east of here. Heya, packmate.~
~Heya,~ Dylan says, considering the roots. ~I do not have your sense of location, I fear. I can only tell that it seems content here.~
Shows-the-Way lets out a smothered yelp, carrying more on the breeze than across the double handfull of feet. ~ribbonlight?~
Sepdet blinks in consternation at the yip, but pushes herself to her feet with the (somewhat chewed) walking stick and casts about with eyes, ears, and nose, squinting in the third of a moon's trickier light. ~Enh? What's up?~
A glimmer is all that catches the eye at first, a shimmering light in the distance. It closes at a brisk walking pace, this slow-spinning, silvered pearl lit from within by flickering light.
Dylan, too, stands up, casting around until he sees the dollop of light. ~Fascinating,~ he murmurs.
Sepdet takes several seconds to spot what Paul's noticed, but when she does, she starts striding to intercept--not too hurriedly, and not too agressively, just aiming to set her body generally between it and the direction of the caern. ~Luna's dropping seeds?~ she muses doubtfully.
Shows-the-Way closes with the pack unerringly, the lion's share of his attention on the approaching nacreous spirit (seed?).
As it passes a flittering bird spirit, the sparrow squawks, startled, and is pulled toward the sphere, shrinking and distorting cartoonishly. It vanishes against the side. The rotation brings into view a gaping wound in the side, edges pulsating and oozing wan chartreuse light and a thin keening. The hole itself reveals a pure, clean, golden light from within.
Shows-the-Way skids almost comically to a stop. ~Ware!~
Sepdet's eyes widen, but she doesn't change course. ~Aiya.~ Without too much hope of getting a response, she barks a quick staccato series of variations on "Stop!" in spirit-tongue.
Dylan glances back once at Shows-the-Way, but continues with Sepdet, eyes wide and startled by the hole in the darkness.
Tiny sparks of varicolored lights dart in and out of the wall of the sphere, passing through without problem. A few, like the sparrow-spirit, are caught by the moaning gash in the side.
As the sphere approaches, a sense of its possession of immense size and timelessness grows. It has a mass that is beyond the perspective of this particular realm, a finite infinity caught in a shape that appears to be but three or four feet in diameter.
Shows-the-Way sidles closer, eyes on the approaching split infinity.
Dylan takes a breath and lets it out in silent awe.
Sepdet curses softly and precisely, glancing sidelong at her packmates. ~Anchorhead ripped loose...probably not alive? But let's see.~ With a grimace at the keening noise, she tries to imitate the sound as close as she can, watching the glowing bubble-thing for any sign of a response. Her own wonder is rather more tempered by anxiety.
Shows-the-Way lets his jaw drop a little. THAT is an Anchorhead?
Wayfinder joins the rear of the group, ears pricked forward, in complete curiosity.
The rotating sphere continues to move forward without reaction to Sepdet or its surroundings, though the gaping laceration affords a glimpse of a single, distant, slender spire topped with the source of light, a steady warmth that lights all space around it, except for a peculiar shadow low down along the tower.
~That,~ Dylan says softly, ~Is not like any part of the Deep Umbra I have heard about. Unless what we see from outside and what we would find inside differ a great deal.~ He does not say so, but there is a faint yearning in his voice. It is quite clear that he would like to get a closer - much closer - look.
Shows-the-Way shifts his feet a little. This one HAS had the urge to travel of late. But also thinks this gateway is flawed. Or did the sparrow get sucked through?
Sepdet shakes her head uncertainly at Paul's question. ~Not sure. Only visted a few. It's a gate, though...look!~ She points with her staff. Then she looks from the end of her stick, back to the swirling surface. ~I can't tell, Paul, but I don't want it "vacuuming" the caern.~ Choking up on her staff and balancing it in her cupped hand, she starts edging the tip towards the sphere, very stlowly.
Shows-the-Way shifts, flowing past the warform to one very near his birthform, and squats to pick up a rock.
The rotating sphere continues to move forward without reaction to Sepdet or its surroundings, though the gaping laceration affords a glimpse of a single, distant, slender spire topped with the source of light, a steady warmth that lights all space around it, except for a peculiar shadow low down along the tower.
You paged Wayfinder with 'No wyrm'.
Dylan nods to Seshemw. ~Hope, let him try something thrown, first.~
Wayfinder focuses her attention on the phenomenon, remaining silent for the moment.
Paul bounces the rock in his palm and says, "Someone see if they can pitch something through the open side, or what."
The staff tip is seized as if by a powerful magnet and is pulled toward the gap with an impatient, persuasive tugging.
Dylan catches Sepdet's shoulder instinctively, though Dylan must know she will let go.
Sepdet was, indeed, letting the stick rest on her open hand for precisely that reason, so she wouldn't get pulled in. At the first tug it will fall out of her loose grip.
The staff slithers from her hand like a live thing and, shrinking impossibly, it pops through the hole in the side of the sphere.
Dylan gazes at the sphere. *Hello?* he whispers.
You paged Wayfinder with 'There is a sense with your SW that this is something extraordinarily pristine, recently invaded by something less than pristine, but that point of ick hasn't yet contaminated the whole.'.
Sepdet stares into the glowing depths half-mesmerized, although she retreats to keep her distance. ~I don't want to hurt it, if I can help it,~ she whispers. ~The bird seemed to tear it somehow.~
Paul says, ~Else, the bird merely fell through the hole already there. Aren't you supposed to have to DO something to pass an Anchor safely?~
Dylan says, ~Or maybe it was already torn, and that is why it took the bird? Perhaps...it needs healing, to stop it from...vacuuming.~
Paul tries lobbing the first rock to NOT match the opening, watching carefully.
Wayfinder trots up next to Dylan, and notes that this thing is pure, but it grows less pure. Something invades it...She tilts her head, examining it closely with her limited wolf vision.
The rock bounces off the outside like off a rubber ball.
Sepdet gives a startled cry as the rock flies from Paul's hand, instinctively bracing.
Sepdet's bracing backfires, and her leg folds, throwing her balance off. In compensating, she totters toward the approaching sphere and, like her staff before her, shrinks, stretches, and vanishes through the hole.
Paul barks, "God DAMN it!"
Dylan lunges forward without a second's hesitation.
Wayfinder bounds forwards, leaping after Sepdet.
You paged Sepdet with 'By the way, this whole process causes no damage or pain, particuarly, but is an extraordinarily odd sensation.'.
Paul waits, eyeing the sphere, and the opening, for signs of his vanished friends. Even as he scratches quickmade glyphs in the ground. And Marks them so no one will miss the warning.
Dylan and Wayfinder both disappear similarly.
Dylan pages to Paul, Limbo, Sepdet, and Wayfinder: I'm so glad you're in the pack, Paul.
There is no pain, no harm, simply a streeeeeeeetching sensation and then Sepdet, Wayfinder, and Dylan are falling through blue, star-studded skies toward the previously-glimpsed spire.
Paul eyes the sphere a moment longer, then takes a few steps along its ongoing course. Sighting and using his Gift for places and directions to 'feel' if anything Important is due to be run over.
Nothing important is apparently in the path, which is slowly angling in the direction of open country.
Wayfinder pages: We are in the air?
Long distance to Wayfinder: Limbo nods. For right now.
Paul takes a deep breath, turns to face the sphere, and time the turn. "What's the worst that will happen? A bounce or two." Deep breath. Two. Three. Leap!
And Paul experiences the same strange alteration of perceptions.
Wayfinder crunches into a little ball, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, and looses a very unwolf-like wail, as she falls.
As you approach, you can see clearly that the spire is bisected, the lower half terminating in a diamond point that glitters in the ambient light. The divider is a broad, shining, octagonal plane that rotates slowly with the outlying sphere of the world. Nearer still, the plane breaks up from its mirror-like appearance into a land of verdant fields and emerald forests, red rock mountains and azure lakes. At the center rises a slim tower that supports the brilliant sun.
Well, that is, the people who have their eyes open.
Paul falls, falls falls. Arms and legs out-stretched, eyes watching what's falling up at him to squash him like a grape.
Paul grumbles, wind snatching the words from his lips, "No one's ever told me if falling from orbit can be healed from."
Dylan's hands reach toward the tower. ~If we live,~ he promises Paul, and he doesn't sound disturbed by having it in qustion.
Sepdet spreads herself out as best she can, reflecting on owl's borrowed gift and her lack of wings on this particular night. She takes it all in wide-eyed, just riding the air and pretending it's a wind she knows.
Your path is nudged from edge to edge, momentum destroyed or at least reduced, with roars that shake your bones, shudder your lungs, and nearly split your eardrums from inside your heads. You move against the rotation of the land until at last, you meet an edge where you hear no roar, and you fall toward it. You land ungently in a thatch of tall, soft grass.
WHO
Player Name On For Idle Doing
Luc 00:04 51s
Tim Carnie 00:05 5m Had they but courage equal to desire
Lysander 00:14 1m
Nemo 00:14 58s
Kid 00:16 5m
Megan 00:18 1m Schadenfreude
Piotr 00:20 0s
Rusty 00:23 1m
Limbo 00:24 0s
Jackson 00:26 5m
Cassandra 00:31 54s Shin:ADeviceForFindingFurnitureInTheDark
Salem 00:34 15s The Duke of Dominoes.
Sally MacKay 00:37 45s
Wayfinder 00:50 3m Per me si va tra la Perduta Gente
Nicodemus 01:15 7m If us shadows have offended....
Guest-of-Stag 01:24 2m Was Diana. Hope to be again soon. :)
Hank 01:27 12s
Paul 01:28 1m
Seeker 01:39 4m
Eamon 01:43 1s Karma Police, arrest this man
Adele 01:47 5m Fixing programming. Grrr.
Sepdet 01:52 2m They do not so much fly as plummet!
John 01:54 6m Probably idle. page_OK
Merria 01:55 19s
Wakshaani 01:55 7s
Dylan 02:00 1m Chary of my goats.
Casper 02:15 3m
Dana 02:22 5m Gotta find my corner of the sky
Keith 02:48 8m What If I Stumble? What If I Fall?
Dillan 03:42 14m An idle mind is the Devil's monkeybars.
Erik 04:25 55s NeedAGoodDefenseCuzImFeelinLikeACriminal
Velia 04:59 20s
Elan 05:00 1m Dog Commando!
Collin 05:33 2m
34 Players logged in.
Paul lands hard, bouncing then rolling to the side until the grass finally holds him still.
Dylan manages to tuck a little, and hits the ground with what would have been a kiai if he hadn't simultaneously had all the air knocked out of him by the impact itself. He lies on the grass on his back, gaping.
Wayfinder does a lupine somersault as she lands, rolling end over end to finish sprawled with limbs akimbo. She keeps her eyes shut, just concentrating on breathing for the moment, and assessing if most parts of her body are still intact.
Sepdet crashes ungracefully, the sound disorienting her so that when she strikes she lies flopped and dazed with unkempt gray cloak around her like a tuft of stray milkweed fetched up against a bank. After a moment she makes a soft querying noise in the back of her throat.
Paul rolls onto his back, letting things settle and move on their own until he THINKS he's whole again. Testing voice and ears he tries weakly, "Anyone catch the name of the dragon that bellowed in my ear?"
Behind the new arrivals, a small voice calls out, "Halt in the name of the Empire!" The tiny figure has, ludicrously, a large white bucket on its head, but is training a disturbingly real-looking weapon on the group.
Kid
Skinny limbs, a wild mop of black hair, and large, dark eyes are the only details that catch the eye on this bundle of energy masquerading as an immature human being. Narrow brown hands and feet emerge from a tangle of robes that appear to have been sewn out of Star Wars-themed bedsheets. A belt made from a knotted jump rope (with oddly, a flashlight dangling from it) and the remains of a green piece of twine in the exuberant cloud of hair complete the ensemble. This child moves like a hummingbird, all interest and distraction, and almost a quietly, except when asking questions.
Paul sits up creakily, looking quite a bit smaller and less threatening somehow. "I don't think we're going anywhere."
+scan
Listeners present:
Name Sex Form Doing
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Kid - -
Wayfinder F Lupus -
Dylan M Glabro Probably watching you.
Sepdet F Glabro -
Paul M Homid Allbetter now, honest
Limbo F -
Dylan lifts his head and no more as he sees the incongruous threa. Mildly,perhaps little punch-drunk, he responds. "I think," he says, "We're halted."
Limbo pages all: And that's the last shifting out of any of you. ;)
Wayfinder pops her head up above the grass, looking wild-eyed. In the middle of grumbling about little Striders and silver rivers and wolves are not meant to /fly/, for Gaia's sake, she catches sight of the figure, and trains her attention on it, falling silent.
You paged Paul with 'You notice that it's almost painful to tear yourself down to homid, and once there, you're stuck.'.
Paul pages: Ah, bloody hell. So much for healing. :)
Limbo pages all: Limbo points out that she means that it's actually physically impossible to shift now. :}
Paul pages all: NOW he finds out.
Kid pushes the bucket back and scratches its forehead with the laser gun. "No, no," (in an aggrieved tone), "You're supposed to say, 'Aren't you a little short for a Storm Trooper?'"
Sepdet decides she's not hallucinating, but that doesn't mean what she's hearing will make any more sense. In spite of the directive, she ventures--slowly--to stir, moving to roll up onto her elbows at least. "What's a Storm Trooper?" she asks seriously, hoping the question may distract.
Wayfinder pages all: Egad, I'm stuck in /wolf/ form?
Long distance to Wayfinder: Limbo nodsnods. :)
Paul says, "Well, hm. Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?" He looks around, befuzzled, at his 'prison'? Although his expression SHOUTS confusion, his friend's will notice a wee bit of panic in there too.
From afar, Wayfinder senses Wyrm, again.
You paged Wayfinder with 'There has been something definitively Wyrmy here in the not too distant past, but this kid isn't it.'.
Kid drops the gun, staring at Sepdet. "You don't /know?/" Complete bafflement readiates from the young voice. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter, I'm not really a Storm Trooper anyway. I'm a Jedi. What are you?"
Paul says, "We're certainly not Imperials."
Wayfinder scrunches back down into the grass, inching forward on her belly towards the Kid.
Paul mutters to himself, "We'd better not be, anyway. They lose hard."
Dylan gazes at the kid, then at Paul, who seems to understand, and suddenly looks struck with memory. He sits up slowly. ~Movie,~ he says, remembering. ~Star...with Darth Vader.~ He nods to Sepdet. ~The one you sounded like, in combat.~
Sepdet sits up very gingerly. "Bruised," she growls. "We didn't mean to drop in."
Sepdet blinks, this seeming to register at least vaguely.
Paul nods to Dylan, gnawing his lip as he looks around with still too-bright eyes.
From afar, Wayfinder is trying to asses the Kid to see what it is, etc. By smell, mostly.
Kid nods eagerly at Dylan. "The /best/ movie. And I know you're not Imperials. They're the ones who killed our dragon." A dark note enters the child's voice and teeth worry at a lower lip. It holds a hand out to Wayfinder, seemingly completely unafraid. (For anyone who is looking, the gun which was dropped to the grass has vanished completely.)
You paged Wayfinder with 'Seems like a normal, healthy, human kid.'.
Paul doesn't seem to be looking. Or noticing. Of all the places the Pack's been, this one actually seems to have him worried.
~I'm...sorry...to hear it.~ Dylan says slowly. ~Where are your friends?~
Wayfinder sits upright, just short of the Kid. Although her expression is dubious, even mistrustful, she hesitantly extends her muzzle towards the offered hand. Dragon? It wasn't a white one, this one hopes...
Kid pages: was it a white drago?
You paged Kid with 'No, the dragons are actually kind of rainbow-colored and translucent. The body isn't far away.'.
Sepdet turns a hopeful glance towards Paul, considering him the most human, and perhaps most conversant, in a world where modern human myths seem to hold sway. She blinks at his expression and moves towards him. "Heya, did you knock your head?"
Kid shakes its head at Wayfinder. "No, it was one of the Guardians, they're rainbow-colored." A glance back up at Dylan; disturbing intelligence in the bright dark eyes, half-hidden by hair. "Oh, they're everywhere here. Are you the... the grown-ups? The Queens said they would be coming. The grown-ups wouldn't be human, she said, so that's okay."
Dylan's gaze moves from the child to his packmates. ~I think...that we are in-between. I do not know if we are grown-ups or not.~ He pauses, then switches languages as he returns his gaze to the small role-player. *Do you understand everything we say?*
Paul takes a deep breath and looses a little of the wildness in his eyes. "No, didn't hit my head. Feeling pretty damned human, though." He manages a small smile and says to Kid, "She did, did she? How close are the Imperial armies?"
Wayfinder snorts, startled....Understands wolf speech? She backs away, up against Dylan's knees, ears lying flat with confusion. No grown-ups?
Sepdet shakes some of the grass out of her cloak, relieved at Dylan's small discovery, since her English these days is passable, but uncomfortable. ~I wonder if the dragon's death is connected with the wound we saw,~ she hazards thoughtfully.
Kid grins at Dylan, obviously proud. "Everything." The gaze shifts to Paul, and it says soberly, "Too close. Much too close." The last words trail off into a whisper, and the tiny figure stands quite still for an instant. Then the child shakes all over like a wet puppy, and says "I have to take you in, you'd get lost otherwise. Come on. You want to see the dragon first?"
Paul nods soberly.
Dylan glances at Sepdet in surprised appreciation, but doesn't comment. Instead he gets to his feet, unintentionally looming over the small native guide. ~Yes. Please. Were you...close to it?~
Kid ignores Dylan for the moment, looking sharply at Sepdet. "You'd better come see. All of you." The "native guide" leads you only a short distance away, to a green slope dotted with dandelions. The sky seems to meet the grass like a glass wall at the top of the slope, and the dragon lies there.
Wayfinder sticks close to Dylan's side, grumbling softly, body posture radiating confused irritation. Dragons...squish people...
Kid looks at Wayfinder, outraged. "No they don't! They /protect/ people!"
Sepdet follows quietly. ~We come from another place,~ she explains, voice very hushed as the evidence before her eyes makes this explicit. She climbs the hill hesitantly, nostrils flaring at familiar and unfamiliar scenes. ~There are stories of other kinds of dragons there.~
The shape is enormous, at least one hundred feet in length, a smooth, translucent beast somewhere halfway between a western dragon and an oriental dragon. Its scales are surprisingly small and fine, thinning to hairlike in a mane just behind the head and lining the top of the sinuous neck. Though the shine is dimming in death, the rainbow gleam of its hide remains, hinting at the glory of brilliance it must have been while alive. Gem-cut eyes have lost their life, darkening to dull, smoked glass. The creature's lower jaw has been brutally snapped and nearly torn off, and its throat torn out as if by something reaching down the throat. The head cradles in a crusting pool of dark blood.
Dylan looks long and soberly at the dead dragon. ~Children?~ he asks. ~They protect children?~
Kid nods, looking tearlessly at the body of its friend, the tiny lithe body tense and still.
Wayfinder huffs. This one was squished by a dragon, but one survived, she notes, somewhat smugly. She approaches the corpse. Although it wasn't this kind of dragon. She sniffs hesitantly at it, paws braced.
Paul says, "And storys of those that protect the innocent too." He looks over the dragon and sighs softly, then asks the Kid, "The Imperials did this? And then went where?"
From afar, Wayfinder sense Wyrm /again/. Braced for Wyrmscent...
Sepdet comes to a sudden halt. ~Kshema,~ she reminds Wayfinder soberly, thinking of another creature less substantial but not unlike this great sad beast. She kneels stiffly, looking the beast over with the weariness of one who has seen many other wounds far beyond her hands' skill to alter.
You paged Wayfinder with 'The dragon itself is not wyrmy. There is a lingering scent, though, that's stronger here. Probably whatever killed the beast.'.
Paul keeps his eyes on the surroundings, watching for something a bit taller than Kid, and capable of ripping a dragon's jaw off.
Kid says stiffly, "I'm not s'posed to talk about it, they say, not to you. Bad dreams. The Queens will tell you. C'mon." It starts walking back down the slope, leading you away from the dragon's body. Then, suddenly, the child explodes in a whirl of movement, running back up the slope and pulling the flashlight off of the rope belt. With a *wooomph,* a blade of light erupts from the lightsaber and the child stands by the dragon, holding it up towards the sky and screaming in high-pitched rage.
Paul follows the child's line of sight, then dances away as a REAL lightsaber startles him. "A Jedi is calm."
Wayfinder lays her ears back, lip lifting a little bit in distaste. Something of the Wyrm killed it...but one suspects you all know that. Her head comes up, instant attention on the child.
Sepdet stares at the kid's hand in disbelief, several things occurring to her simultaneously. One is to stand up and brace, since she was only just going to follow him downhill. The other is to hold out her left hand and hope.
Kid whirls around, pointing that blade at Paul.
Sepdet pages: . o O (Perhaps I can have a moon knife or other weapon of some sort? Since I have no claws?)
Sepdet pages: Just testing the physics of this place. :)
Paul crouches at that, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Fear, anger, power, a Jedi craves not these things." A moment later he adds, "And I really, really hate the thought of being carved like a roast."
You paged Sepdet with 'Nope, the physics don't seem to be working for you. :}'.
Sepdet pages: Well, 'twas a thought. :)
Dylan takes a slow step forward. ~It is terrible, to lose a friend and feel powerless.~
You paged Sepdet with 'Good thought, though. :)'.
Sepdet lets a hand fall and stares upwards towards the sky, trying to see whatever the child was screaming at.
Wayfinder just bristles, teeth bared at the..thing aimed at her packmate.
Kid eyes Paul with disfavor. "/You/ aren't five hundred years old." But the lightsaber is clicked off and rehung on the belt, whereupon it returns to looking like a battered flashlight. "C'mon." The child starts trudging towards the spires.
Paul growls out, "What, so that makes me /wrong/?" Rolling his shoulders stiffly, he follows after, but his mood's on a downhill slide again.
Sepdet keeps squinting for a moment in puzzlement, having retreated to a sort of patient silence while she tries to understand the currents of the place. Then she shakes her head and paces after, humming a melencholy tune. She steals one further glance at the dead dragon as we depart.
Dylan follows the child, still a little stiff from the adrenaline the child's scream gave rise to. He glances at Paul, neither understanding the reference to age nor expecting to, until he says, in surprised recollection, "Yoda."
Wayfinder lopes after the kid, flanking him, and placing herself between he and Paul. Despite her utter confusion, she seems to be adjusting quickly.
Paul says "Small, green, cryptic, and altogether fun to have around."
Sepdet pages all: <LAUGH> I just realized, I set my @doing when we logged on, long before I knew we would be dropping somewhere. :) "Does not so much fly as plummet."
~I shall keep it in mind,~ Dylan says gravely.
The countryside, if it can be called uniform, is uniformly rich and verdant. Fields full of wildflowers and soft grasses ripple in the wind. Forests reach skyward, dappling the light that falls. Occasionally, a peal of childish laughter, usually followed by more giggles and distant conversation, rings through the sussurrus of the breeze. A few tousled heads peer down from tree forts or out of hedge hideaways at the strangers passing through, but none approach, nor even call out. There is even a glimmer of fear in some faces. Some beings aren't human at all, or are only partly human, and they seem to be playing with their human counterparts easily and happily.
Limbo pages all: Limbo giggles at Sepdet and curses whatever has disconned Dylan and Kid.
Paul grumbles, "So where's Aslan?"
Wayfinder flicks a glance at Paul. That one is a lion, one knows.
Sepdet holds up a hand in a subdued wave as we pass by this face or that pair of eyes watching from a distance, face and stride relaxed, although her eyes are still melencholy. To Wayfinder and Paul she hums softly, remembering halfway through that the child can quite possibly understand even wind-music. Go gently. Remember we are supposed to be grown-ups, and he just a-- he has lost his dragon, and so he is angry.
You paged Kid with 'I think that maybe the wind music might elude Kid.'.
Kid stumps on towards the tower at the center of things. "You are wrong. You're all wrong. We're allowed to be angry, we're allowed to have things here. I think the Queens have gone off the deep end, saying they needed you. I want to deal with the Imperial troops. I could do it." The child shuts off the flow of talk abruptly and goes on in silence, the narrow feet making no sound at all in the grass.
Wayfinder looks somewhat glum, as she paces along. One thinks being grow-up here is likely to...hurt.
Dylan stops abruptly - only for a heartbeat, but there is something in his expression at the child's words that suggests that he might be a shade pale bneath his black dusting of fur. "No," he says. "No, it is the children who have been hurt. Elsewhere."
Paul says, "You could. Or you could have..." he cuts himself off and tries a different tack, "Don't you think going with more than one, and some planning, might hurt them worse?"
The grasslands and forests fade into a stretch of white-sanded beach, the grains nearly as fine as sugar. The beach borders a lapis lazuli lake which runs gentle tides against the sand. Beyond the lake rises gleaming towers. At the center is the great sun-spire.
Kid shrugs, passing beneath the first arch of the tower's gates. "I'm not the only one. But it doesn't matter. The Queens won't let us kill anything, not even the... the..." the child swallows strongly, whether it is fear or anger it is hard to tell. "The one who killed our dragon. That's your job."
Paul's eyes narrow. "Our JOB, is it?"
Dylan takes a long step forward and puts his hand on Paul's shoulder, just resting it there.
Sepdet exchanges a wan nod with Dylan, things slowly falling into place. ~The cubs aren't allowed to kill. Paul, please.~
~If it is our job, it is our job.,~ Dylan says bleakly.
Wayfinder eyes the water with considerably more pleasure than the disconcerted wolf has shown so far. She looks around with interest, chuffing soft agreement with Sepdet. We came to help.
Wayfinder butts Paul gently with her head. And it is in the Litany. It /is/ our job.
Sepdet gives Dylan a strange tight smile, then turns her gaze back to the tower, eyes drifting up and up to the gleaming brilliance above the tower. ~The Sun is held in honor,~ she observes softly.
Paul unstiffens by increments. "Fine, fine. I try to keep my killing voluntary, and against the Foe, but no one's said it won't be both."
Paul says down to Wayfinder, "You're leaping to conclusions, Wayfinder, but I'll hope you're right.
Wayfinder smelled the enemy, brother. It killed the dragon.
The gates are massive arcs of precious stones: the first aquamarine, the second sapphire, the third amethyst, the fourth ruby, the fifth emerald. The emerald gate is the only one that is shut, and as you approach, it slowly swings ajar.
Kid climbs the wide set of stairs into the tower, waving at several other children who peek around doors. Halfway up, the child seems to get tired and sits on the bannister instead, and glides quickly up to the top.
Sepdet shies in the middle of the fourth gate, shielding her eyes with her hands. She quickly moves forward to the green space, laying a hand against the inner surface of rock before moving on.
Paul says quietly, "From the red, to the green."
Kid runs through the last gate, shoving it wide open, and dashes through the large room beyond, the slaps of its footfalls echoing through the room. "I brought them. I don't like them, that's okay, isn't it?"
Wayfinder eyes the bannister as they climb, obviously wanting to give the sliding trick a try, but unable to in her current form. Senses alert, she pads steps behind the small Strider, into the room behind the emerald doors.
The hall, bright with the the light that comes through the faceted walls, comes alive with the motion of the Metal Queen on her thrones as you step through the great emerald doors. At the center of the arc of thrones resides the Iron Queen, hematite eyes glittering coldly as she studies those brought into her presence. To her right hand sits the Argent Queen, one hand resting easily on a low stand that holds several large tomes. To her left hand sits the Copper Queen, hands coming to motion on her mahogany loom. To the right of the Argent Queen is the Lead Queen, who sits motionless, though her eyes follow each motion in the room. Completing the arc of five at the Copper Queen's left is the Amalgam Queen, her body a mixture of colors and textures -- all metallic, but strange and patchwork of appearance. She appears to be in a sort of trance.
The Argent Queen smiles down at the Kid softly. "Of course," she says in a voice warm as a clear June day. "We thank you."
Paul stays quiet, having caused more than enough trouble for one trip to the Twilight Zone.
Kid nods. "Y'welcome lots." And with no more formality than that the child runs behind the nearest throne and is gone.
Wayfinder pages: SW? (Sorry to be such a pain--Wayf's paranoid)
You paged Wayfinder with 'Nope. :)'.
The Iron Queen inclines her head to the group. "Welcome to that which we name Ishikor, the Mirror, the Land of Sleepless Dreams. We are unaccustomed to strangers here. Under normal circumstances, you would never have perceived our realm, much less entered."
Paul stirs a little, subsiding respectfully.
Sepdet strides to the middle of the hall with fear gone, having made up her mind about this place. She eyes the silvered facets of the Argent Queen with a rueful smile and inclines her head instead with a slight nod. "Pardon if we do not shake hands...or whatever is the custom here. But greetings, Lady. We perceived the wound. What must be done?"
Wayfinder's fur bristles again, although less with hostility than with awe and perturbation, as she takes in the sights of the hall. She paces to just behind Sepdet, and one pace to the side, claws clicking on the floor.
Dylan comes forward a little more slowly to stand beside Wayfinder, one long hand resting lightly on her ruff. He listens.
Paul stays at the rear of the group. Attentive rearguard, at effective parade rest with his hands behind him.
Paul pages all: Near his gun. Shyeah. Like it matters at all, here or outside. :)
The Argent Queen sighs, the smile still lingering on her lips. The knocking of the Copper Queen's loom beats a steady rhythm. The Iron Queen focuses her dark gaze upon Sepdet. "One has come here that violates the Law of Returning. He has slain one of our Guardians. This place is a haven, you understand, not a place where the children -- and even the occasional adults who still come to us -- learn to kill."
The silver one speaks: "A group of children are questing now for the means to return Hiri to life. We know not if it will come to them, or if forever more one of the edges of the Eight-Sided Mirror shall be unguarded."
The loom clacks steadily, but the Copper Queen says, "Our need is great."
And the Lead Queen says, "We need you to slay or otherwise remove the Enemy."
Paul's expression darkens another touch to grim. But he continues to respectfully hold silence.
Dylan's face tightens and his eyes are bleak, but he inclines his head a fraction of an inch, still listeing.
Sepdet pages: Odd question. Have we seen any birds since we came here?
Long distance to Sepdet: Limbo nods. There's wildlife all through the woods, birds, squirrels, the whole deal. Mostly nigh-tame, too.
From afar, Sepdet thinks in weird ways. :)
Sepdet speaks hesitantly, confused at her own thoughts. ~Another thing fell into your world. A bird. It is not of your world, but is of magic, of spirit. Perhaps the children can find that life, to help the dragon's life, as we have fallen down here to kill, for the sake of a killing.~
The Queen nods at the suggestion.
Dylan looks respectfully at Sepdet.
Wayfinder keeps silent, steady gaze upon whomever is speaking.
Sepdet turns back to her pack. ~I feel like a cub here,~ she confesses. ~And I have not fought anything since I was hurt. But there is wyrm--Wayfinder smelled it. And there are children here who are kept from learning how to kill. And the air feels right, although things are seldom exactly what they look like. Wayfinder, Paul, do you agree we must do this?~
Paul shrugs his shoudlers slightly. "The fight finds us if we don't find it. I'm not going to stand by and watch a haven be destroyed, children become me that don't have to. But I want it clear we do this because it is to be DONE, not because we have been asked, summoned, or compelled. If this Enemy is not THE enemy, I will not promise to kill."
Dylan says, ~Or otherwise remove.~
Dylan echoes the Queen's words, a reminder.
Sepdet smiles sadly. ~Well that is agreed. Then the wind's all blowing the same way. All right, Ladies. Tell us two things. First, we cannot take our...fighting-shape...here. Is there a way we may fight by the laws of your world? And second, do you know how we may find and know these "Imperials" the cub spoke of?~
The Iron Queen leans forward in her seat, eyes intense. "We have a guide that will help to lead you to this Lawbreaker-Heartslayer. We do not know his power nor his guise nor his exact intent, but by violence he came and by violence he must go."
The Argent Queen speaks again, this time hesitantly. "If... you find that you cannot or do not wish to slay him... there is a place to remove him to, but it would require a quest." She exchanges a glance with the Copper Queen. "You may prefer to simply end the matter."
Dylan looks up, the strain in his face easing for a moment. ~A quest?~
Wayfinder lifts her chin, jaw dropping in a wry half-grin at Sepdet. This one will fight it, if it is of the Wyrm...or perhaps we can find a ~jar~ to stick it in? She tilts her head towards the Queen, brightening. Quest?
The Lead Queen intones, "We can fashion weapons at need."
The Amalgam Queen speaks for the first time, her voice a legion of many. "There is a dark side to the Mirror, a realm of hatred and anger, a place where even creatures of Rage such as yourselves may quail at the rage you see. An Underworld, a Land of Sleepless Nightmares and Daydreams. There is a Queen there too who can judge him and hold him, prevent him from other violence, from ever returning to Ishikor."
Paul asks, "Who can, or who will?"
[Second night of play begins]
The Argent Queen smiles coldly at Paul. "An excellent question." She draws forth a tome of red brocade and silver trim, and strokes her hand lovingly along a silken thread of deepest indigo, and the vast book falls open to the page marked. "'And it shall be,'" she reads from the illuminated text, "'that there shall be a dark side of the mirror, where the Golden Queen, terrible and bright, shall rule from a throne of skulls, and she shall hold those that shall violate the Bright Realm, the Land of Sleepless Dreams, the Mirror of the World, the Haven, and they shall suffer at the hands of the children.'" She urges the book closed. "She shall keep him, if he so deserves in her topaz eyes."
Sepdet trembles once and quietly, like a horse shivering at the brief brush of something against its flank.
The Iron Queen holds out her hand to one side. "Come forward, Guide."
Gray approaches, padding gravely across the floor of the Throne Room - a delicate little cat, with fur the plush steel gray of a Russian Blue. She sits in front of the Garou and lifts a tiny paw to her face, which she proceeds to thoroughly clean. I am here.
Gray
Although you were quite sure of what this creature looked like a second ago, as soon as you look directly at it, you become uncertain again. Nothing as definite as blurred edges or a shadow is involved; the being is more like something seen in a dream, a symbol, an idea, an intelligence made visible and shifting moment by moment.
Dylan looks at the cat, bemused, and from the cat to the Thrones, and back again. ~Hello.~
Paul's displeasure and grimness lightens appreciably.
The Copper Queen asks the guide, "You know your duties and restrictions?"
Wayfinder eyes the cat primly, trying to look non-threatening as much as possible, given her lupine form.
Gray proceeds to bite the nails of the paw she is washing, assiduously cleaning between every toe. Her gray eyes flick over the visitors and a single ear turns back to the Copper Queen. I know.
Sepdet glances sidelong at her packmates, her unconscious immersion into the currents of this world apparently shaken somewhat by the alternative mentioned. But she holds back the slight doubt and turns again to face the cat, smiling with teeth covered.
The steely majestrix leans back in her throne. "Then I pray you, proceed. And may the Light of the Mirror bring you success and hope... for all of us."
Paul seems about equally uncomfortable with either 'alternative', but at least appreciates having a cat for a guide. He bows to the Queens, and then again a little less low, to the feline. "May we expect active or passive guidance, noble one?"
The Lead Queen rumbles, "Do you require weapons, or will you make shift?"
Sepdet guesses, ~She may lead us, but is not to fight. Outsiders must deal with Outsiders.~ She crosses her arms. ~There is one final thing. You spoke of fashioning weapons. Whether we slay or bind, we will need tools, and our own hands and paws may not suffice.~
The massive one shifts in her seat. "Of what nature?"
Paul asks, "What nature best answers the nature of your Enemy?"
Gray puts her paws firmly on the floor and looks at the Garou. Her tail curls neatly around her toes for a moment as she regards her charges, and it is now visible that her (ill-named) canine teeth drop below her lip a little, just enough to show like small white thorns through her closed mouth. I lead. You follow. You may also ask questions of me.
The patchwork regent speaks in her harmonies, "He slew the dragon with his bare hands. He posts guard against you that may or may not do battle with force. It is your choice, we can provide."
Dylan takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He will let his packmates speak on this subject.
Paul says, after a moment of thought, "Each to their own, then, so long as the choice has the potential to keep him, and minions, beyond the reach of his hands."
Sepdet considers the wounds we saw on the late dragon with a grim twitch of the mouth. ~Snares to tangle that can be cast from the hands. A knife for myself--~ she gestures, describing a curved arc about a foot long, ~since I know how to use one.~ She looks down at Wayfinder thoughtfully. ~A lure or ruse...four legs ought to be used, since you have them, Wayfinder. We'll see.~
Wayfinder chuffs. There are not many ~tools~ that one can use in this form, that is true. She looks unperturbed by this.
Dylan looks disturbed. Finally, though, he says, ~Those swords of light. Might I have a shorter one?~
Paul says "Where it's all I get to play with. For myself, a staff this high," he raises a hand over his head. "Of any material that's suitable, that he won't like, preferably. Assuming I'm not going to hate it just as much. Blades on either or both end, at your whim." He grins at Dylan. Then adds, "Ammunition for my gun, if you have it. More effective against It and Its than me and mine, again, if possible. Materials for snares, pitfalls, some simple tools.""
Gray listens to all these preparations, half-amused, half-approving. She crouches down, not-quite tucking her paws out of sight, and remarks that she hopes it is quite obvious that she won't be /carrying/ anything.
A slow, ponderous rise of the arm, and then the Lead Queen brings her hand down in a slash that ends in a dull clang on the stony throne. "A net of silk spun by the giant spiders of the Diamond Mountains. Rope of the immortal vines of the Scarlet Jungle. A moon knife forged of a fallen star from the constellation of the Great Horse. A staff of wood from the Tree of Iron in the courtyard of the Shining City. And a sword made from a ray of the Great Light caught in a Sunbarrel Tree." The things appear as she names them, shining and new, tough and beautiful, fit to your specifications, but more importantly, crafted to fit your hands perfectly.
Paul looks momentarily taken aback at the results of the requests, or the method of fulfilling them. He bows deeply, greatfully and more importantly, respectful.
Gray gets to her feet and streeeeeeeeetches, reaching out her front paws in front and arching her back. She drifts towards the door the visitors came in by.
Sepdet smiles wistfully as the familiar yet more magical shape of sickle-moon meshes with her hand again, balancing it carefully in her hand and eying its blank gleaming surface. ~Perfect.~ She makes sure one of the pack with hands has gathered up the binding-weapons and then moves to follow the cat, after touching her priestess' lock to the Queens in a silent salute.
Dylan receives his sword with as much pleasure as any weapon is likely to give him, examining the handle gravely and the blade of light. He touches the guard with one long black forefinger, and discovers he can diminish the blade to a more familiar knife-length. He nods quietly, looks up and dips his head in sober thanks to the Queens, and turns to follow Sepdet like an outsized shadow.
Sepdet
This tiny brown slip of a Strider moves with a halting grace, often supporting herself with an unadorned staff of gray polished wood. Arms, hands, and bare calloused brown feet are lean and bony, showing traces of old scars. Her face is no longer quite a child's, but grown wilder with age: African features slightly distorted by a thrust-forward lower jaw which, however, has a deer's delicacy; full lips; angular cheekbones; and slightly weathered mahogany skin dusted all over with a fine black down of fur.
She wears an enveloping dark wool kaftan or cloak smelling of herbs, now so ripped and travel-stained that its form and color are impossible to determine. Gifts of friends living and dead cluster on a leather cord around her neck: a carved wooden fish, ankh, cartouche, and a small beaded medicine wheel.
Carrying:
TarotDeck
Paul takes the staff reverently, as well as the net and vines, and says, "If we get the chance, you can distract him into this stuff."
Paul
This man looks to be in his late teens to early twenties. His once clean-shaven face (now 'graced' with a short beard) is an amalgam of many races, making him the image of a perfect "American". He looks to be primarily caucasian, although he's currently a bit dusky from a good tan. His body is a well maintained 5'10", but looks more built for speed and endurance than brute strength. Piercing green eyes look out on the world attentively, his glance usually taking in most of what goes on around him. His black hair has grown out considerably, and looks like he no longer wants to appear quite so military. While not amazingly long, it has passed his shoulders now. Braidable, but currently just curling a bit at the ends and hanging wherever it likes.
He is currently wearing military camouflage trousers and the normal camo jacket (shirt) and field jacket (coat) of a US army soldier. The nametag happens to be removed, and the fatigues are looking like they've seen a lot of travel and woodlands. Scuffed combat boots are on his feet, and a chain around his neck disappears under his shirt.
Expectancy in his eyes, caution in his stance. Watchwords of the day.
Dylan
There is a strange, whipcord grace to this tall, black-dusted not-man which is at odds with the heavy set of his shoulders. Lean, almost sinuous, everything about him seems a little too long - arms too long for his body, fingers too long for his hands, height too much for his width. Even his face is much too long, like a painting in smoke which has begun to disperse. His clothes are human clothes - baggy, smoke-gray pants and tunic - but the steady calm of his wide gray eyes is not a human patience. The long black hair on his head with its few blue glass beads blends with the black down that covers the rest of his body, giving him a blurred outline from which his gray eyes shine like moons. Four narrow tracks of furless scar twist along his right forearm.
His narrow black feet are bare and callusced. His scent is almost entirely of the woods.
Dylan pages: Does it turn off nd on like a light saber, or would that be bad imagery? :)
You paged Dylan with 'It doesn't turn off, no. However, it doesn't burn you at all. In fact, you can run your hand through the blade and all it does is tingle and refresh the muscles.'.
Dylan pages: Cool. Or my clothes? I was thinking about tucking it my waistband while I braided my hair back, see, but that could get embarassing. :)
You paged Dylan with 'or your clothes. where it hits your clothes, any dirt just sort of... drops off.'.
Dylan pages: Keen. I'll make sure to brush everyone down with it, before we go home. :)
Long distance to Dylan: Limbo snickers.
The Metal Queen watches the trickling departure of the pack and its guide with glittery, hopeful eyes.
WHO
Player Name On For Idle Doing
Al Harsin 00:01 58s
Laura Mason 00:02 2s
Mike Cooper 00:32 32m Taking care of Alex.
Sparrow 00:35 34s Expecting a miracle or two
Bailey 00:35 1m Sweet Surrender Is All I Have To Give
Jose Figueroa 00:37 8m
Gray 00:51 10m
Limbo 01:03 0s
Wayfinder 01:10 4m Per me si va tra la Perduta Gente
John 01:13 52s Probably idle. page_OK
Tailkinker 01:13 30s
Sepdet 01:18 1m Hope is a river...
Slick 01:22 9m
Wakshaani 01:23 11s
Sparrowhawk 01:30 18m Kinda foggy this winter, isn't it?
Mouse 01:46 1m
Touch Deer 01:51 1m Only the wilderness is Pure Truth
Gwyneth 02:01 9m
Micaela 02:06 52s
Casper 02:11 1s
Nicodemus 02:19 1m
Paul 02:21 3m
Derrick 02:25 1m PleaseTellMeYoureHereWithSevereChestPain
Yuri 02:27 3s
Roberto Montoya 02:30 18s
Marcus 02:53 24s
Mirumoto Hitomi 02:53 19s
Scott 02:53 4m
Lenny 03:02 46m
Arlen 03:03 11m
Mark-Of-Thorns 03:04 33m Shin:ADeviceForFindingFurnitureInTheDark
Blaze 03:36 57s
Dillan 03:41 36s An idle mind is the Devil's monkeybars.
Brightspot 03:56 19s
Hank 04:08 3m
Iceheart 04:25 6m
Elan 04:27 2m Dog Commando!
Erik 04:42 10m NeedAGoodDefenseCuzImFeelinLikeACriminal
Salem 04:42 41s The Duke of Dominoes.
Sally MacKay 04:54 1m
Merria 05:18 2m
Dylan 05:44 1m Chary of my goats.
Caomhin 05:53 2m A little Leprechaun in need of a drink
Collin 05:58 1m
Esther 06:07 1m Contents: 1/2 Uktena, 1/2 Fianna
Laughs 06:09 2m I've got to teach the world to HOWL
Andrea 06:12 1m
Kathryn 07:09 2m Thought you were dead? I get that a lot.
48 Players logged in.
Dylan touches the blade lightly with one finger, eyes widening in surprise as he is unhurt. He then passes his hand thrugh the blade. Bemusement growing, he touches it to the sleeve of his still fairly new tunic, watching with fascination as pine needles andgrass stains fall away. He tucks the blade into the waistband of his baggy pants to free his hand as he walks.
Paul loops an end of the vines around the coil, as well as his belt (an economy length rope, or whip?). Then with gingerly held ethereal net in one hand, the dark wood of the staff in his right, he steps back to his packmates and falls in line behind the Guide.
From afar, Sepdet snerks as we work out in packchat who gets the toys (I did a handwaving pose back there to get us moving.) Wayf immediately brightly suggested she wear the rope around her neck. We discouraged her.
The exit from the castle is a long, slick slide of marble... or metal... or something else, it's hard to be sure. All you know is that there are children squealing and sliding from the topmost level of the castle all the way to the bottom, and then seeking whatever means they might to return to the broad top landing... where you are... to repeat their ride.
Gray is sitting calmly near the end of the slide, washing a paw again. When she sees the packmates emerge, she fades quietly outside, letting them follow as they will.
Sepdet decides to throw off the Grup reputation just a little, whether or no the kids need reassurance--she hops and slides down on her belly, picking herself up at the end with dignity and proceeding at a comfortable trot.
Dylan, too, takes the slide as it's intended, when he's sure he will not interfere with a child's progress.
Wayfinder's goofy grin is all that is needs to tell her reaction to the slide, as she whips down it on her rump with air streaming through her fur. She rolls at the bottom, and looks longingly back up it, before turning to her packmates and the cat.
Paul gathers the net close, tucks it in the same hand as the staff, and with a kiai charges the slope. Tumbling and sliding down looking like he's enjoying the hell out of it, human egg somehow looking wildly out of control and perfectly safe all the same. All rolled round his staff and managing, due to luck or the place itself, not to crunch anyone in passing. Proof that Aikido, and endless hours of falling, can be turned to absolute fun.
Gray squeezes her eyes at the packmates and leaves through the jeweled gates.
The hills beyond the castle are rounded and soft and covered with emerald velvet.
Paul brushes himself down, checks to make sure he didn't shed anything useful, and sets out in Gray's wake. "How far, how wide, how long, and how visible, Wise Guide?"
Off in the distance you can see Kid, easily recognizable by the printed-sheet robes, standing on the top of a grassy knoll and apparently thoroughly engaged in a fencing lesson. Kid's fencing master is a Mouse three feet high with a gold circlet tilted over one ear and a dashing red feather stuck in it, who uses a fencing rapier against the lightsaber, turning the burning bar of light easily aside. When not demonstrating thrusts and parries, the Mouse gestures tumultuously with the sword and its free paw, obviously recounting heroic escapades of some sort.
From afar, to Paul, Limbo, Sepdet, Gray, and Dylan, Wayfinder worships Reep from afar. =}
Sepdet pages all: I will now solidly resist the urge to run over and scoop up the Mouse, this being OOC (not to mention an affront to you-know-who's dignity.) Thank you, Jude. :
Limbo pages all: Not mine, not mine at all, blame the cat. :)
Outside, Gray looks less like a cat for a moment, but resolidifies and turns to look over her shoulder, her white teeth catching the sunlight. Too close. How visible, you will see.
Dylan brushes his hair back out of his eyes, and then begins to braid it back, the few remaining beads clicking gently against each other as he walks.
Gray eventually seems to run out of the cat form, becoming something more leggy, like a tiny antelope, but still retaining the predator's head. She moves easily over the curvaceous hills, although you cannot see anything resembling a path. She seems to retain her natural feline reticence even in this form, however.
Sepdet keeps testing and tasting the air with mouth slightly open, listening and smelling as much as keeping watch. She drops back a little to walk between the two young men, probably a foot shorter than either of them.
Sepdet whispers haltingly, evidently a translation of something not originally in Mother's Tongue, ~Now I am come to a strange country, and I will cross over, finding no roads but the tug of the land. Luck find my footsteps, and wonder mine eyes.~
Wayfinder follows behind the group, a wary rearguard.
Dylan finishes braiding his hair, taking it down to such a thin tip of braid that it needs no tie. Then he lets his hands fall to his sides, and he pads along behind the enigmatic guide, tasting the land with his footsteps.
Paul says quietly bemused, "Wonder fills my eyes whenever my friends are at my side, it seems."
Gray reshapes hereslf again, rising on ash-colored wings as the hill slopes steeply upwards. There is a ragged gash torn in the side of the hill, an ugly scar reminiscent of strip-mining, except that it is obviously fresh and the lower end of it plunges directly into the heart of the hill itseslf, like a knife wound.
Paul asks forward, "You can't help with the struggle. But can you teach us how to fly I wonder?"
Gray circles back to the Garou and settles at Paul's feet, melting back into her prim catshape. You are too big to carry. And what is in /there/ - she indicates it with a flattening of her ears and a whisker-gesture - will not wait on the learning.
Inside the cave mouth, only the faintest of ambient light from the sky filters through the shadows. It exhales a cold, sour breath as you stand there, and only the rays of the Great Light warm your flesh from that bone-spearing chill. But the Light does nothing for the moan that rides the edge of human hearing in the lowest registers, which vibrates the hearts of the glabros and rattles the teeth of the lupus.
Paul adds in a near silent mutter, "Because flying out's almost always easier than walking, but. That makes sense." He shivers and shakes the net out a little. "Dylan? Want to have a swing with this before using the Light you carry?"
Sepdet's eyes start to lift at the upward movement, but the sight of the gaping hill catches her glance like a fishhook, and she halts for a breath or two to scent for the stain of the enemy which she almost doesn't need to check. ~Let us bring it out here,~ she murmurs with a sigh, jaw clenching at the blasphemy of sound.
Limbo pages all: For those of you with Sense Wyrm, it's in there. It's deep down in there.
Paul says quietly, "Snares here, and bait to draw? Or just announce ourselves and let him haul on out to meet us?"
~Pity,~ Dylan murmurs at the guide's response, but his attention is on the cave itself, and his bare feet seem to hesitate at its brink. He draws the knife of light from his waistband and steps forward with it held up, just one step to bring the light into the cave's shadow. Whatever passing humor, however whimsical, prompted his last comment flees at the scent of the cave itself. His face is set, now, and not happy.
The walls are freshly gouged from the earth, and the walls ooze a thick ochre fluid, like sap, like blood, like tears. There is a coppery sting to the nose here, as the tunnel slants down steeply.
Dylan nods, belatedly, to Paul, and accepts the net in silence.
Wayfinder bares her teeth at the cave, then tilts her head at Sepdet, then the others. Do we go to poke the bear, and have it charge out?
Sepdet glances questioningly at the other three. ~If it has guards waiting for us, the element of surprise down below is more likely to work against us...you think? If we call it, three together, pitching our own music against its grating, we _may_ draw it up from the depths and into our net. We will also alert him. Wayfinder, I have used myself as fourlegged bait long ago to draw dragons from dens, but I had a gift of speed.~
Dylan nods to Sepdet.
Wayfinder glances sidewise at Paul, tongue lolling for a moment. Well, at least we will not be dropping rocks on each other's heads this time.
Paul murmurs, "Then let's see what the vines like, snare wise. And give it a serenade."
Gray flicks an ear from where she is sitting, well to one side. It is tone-deaf, and deep.
Paul chuckles, dark humor. "Well. One more time having a Singer in the pack would be handy."
~In, then,~ Dylan says.
The smell and sight of the bleeding earth are making Sepdet skittish, and she keeps shifting from one foot to the other. At the cat's declaration, her face droops a little. ~Right. Wayfinder, you have the best nose and ears right now, so scout, but beware. We will be on your heels.~ Again she pauses with a look at the others, making sure there are no better ideas to be said, before pacing reluctantly towards the rent earth.
Wayfinder pads back and forth at the entrance area, anxiously, then delves inward without further comment.
Paul shrugs and says, "V behind Wayfinder. I'll take point since I've got the longer pokeybit. Y'all keep the walls from eating us. Guide. Is there a way to It that passes fewer of its minions or ambushes?"
Gray looks up at Paul. One tunnel. But the minions... I will warn.
Paul nods. "Alrighty. Wayfinder on point, but don't get out of sight of us. Dylan's Light will be our sun, if the darkness comes."
Dylan moves silently to stand behind Paul and to his left, the knife held up, half in preparation, half for the light.
The darkness closes in, grasping futilely at Dylan's Light. The twists and turns are few and slight, the tunnel only travels downward with any violence before it opens out into something resembling a natural cavern. Although the reek is less here, the cold is deeper, more biting. Along the walls, small shiny things glitter -- whether stones or eyes, no one can be quite sure. Thrust down through the left side of the cavern stands a massive taproot, torn and weeping, its more delicate branches and hairs clinging desperately to ragged clumps of soil to shield its nakedness. To the right side of the cavern, a gaping darkness that marks further tunnel. At the center is a jagged, frost-covered rock, standing amidst a pile of sharp gravel, the shattered remains of a once rounded stone.
Wayfinder pauses just inside the cave mouth, awaiting the others.
Gray screeches, all her fur puffed out and her tail bushed like a raccoon's. She leaps to the top of the broken stone, then leaps away, dissolving out of her cat form in her haste.
:~That,~ Dylan says seriously, ~is a warning.~
Sepdet starts to move towards the bare lacerted root, drawn by old instinct to heal or tend. She has only moved out of position, however, by a single stride, when the cat erupts in panic. She twists back towards the darker side of the hall in a sharp pivot, one foot slipping almost out from under her.
A few moments after the cat's reaction, long enough for the company to turn to the stone, a woman is suddenly sitting there.
From afar, Wayfinder has ears and nose on all-alert, btw. Per 4, with an emphasis on empathy.
You paged Wayfinder with 'You don't detect anything except this woman, and the distant moaning of the cave mouth. The woman seems to be mostly at ease, although there's a certain tension that's less battle-readiness than fear.'.
Dylan pages: Particular wyrm smell on the woman?
You paged Dylan with 'There is Wyrm scent on her, yes, but fainter than you'd expect, perhaps, from a guard of free will.'.
From afar, Dylan nods.
Sphinx perches forward on her spiky stone. "Welllllll," she drawls, stroking back her fantastic mane of tawny-gold hair. "I am your first guard to passsss."
Paul stands ready, looking a little pensive but alert.
Paul asks nicely, "Step aside so we can, then?"
Sphinx rocks forward on her furry hands. "Shall you answer my riddles? Shall you avoid slaying me? Shall I avoid slaying you? Shall you play the game, by the rules of this world, children's games?"
Dylan gazes at the Sphinx, and then tips his head, intrigued, as though she has already posed him one riddle.
From afar, Paul activates his earring.
You paged Paul with 'Earring? (GM blinks, feeling foolish)'.
Paul pages: Fetish of persuasion for spirits only. Might have no effect.
You paged Paul with 'Okie.'.
Sepdet shifts her stance slightly as if bracing for something, crouching slightly with heels coming off the floor. She holds the knife in her left hand cocked back almost to her shoulder. ~You belong elsewhere,~ she observes neutrally. ~But you probably play the same game. Ask, then, and get on with it.~
Wayfinder flares her nostrils, scenting in the woman's direction. She grumbles softly. Would be too much to ask for there to be only one guard...she picks up her ears as the woman speaks.
From afar, Sepdet burns a gnosis and kicks in speed of thought _now_, as it may be needed later on this journey. Doubles my speed. Such as my speed is, these days.;)
Sphinx rocks back, her long, sinuous tail flipping wildly, and applauds. "Excellent. Riddle the first, then, for there are four, and you'd best get three of them right. Hard, yet soft. Waves, yet not wet."
Dylan's glance at his packmates cautiously, his hum barely audible.
Sepdet shakes her head slightly at Dylan, making a gentle sound in return. She nods slightly at Paul, roughly gesturing something that looks like their tribe-glyph.
Paul whistles an interrogative, hand waggling.
Wayfinder looks entirely distant for a long moment, then huffs softly at the others.
Sphinx pages all: SphinxGM vastly appreciates the fact that y'all's packchat is at least poseable! :)
From afar, to Paul, Sphinx, Sepdet, Gray, and Wayfinder, Dylan grins. Hell, we drive folks /nuts/ posing our packchat. :)
Dylan looks uncertain, listening, with low whisper of melody, more of a coutnerpoint than a comment.
From afar, to Sphinx, Sepdet, Gray, Wayfinder, and Dylan, Paul laughs. We drive people nuts posing something that's NOT our packchat, but is merely a truly bizarre kind of language. :)
Sphinx pages all: Well, it's a helluva lot better than dead air. :)
Sepdet growls softly in a faint negative to Dylan. ~But sound cannot be hard and soft at the same time, without difficulty. She comes from my tribe's country. Paul's answer is plentiful there.~
Sphinx watches all the movement, listens to all the sounds, with the keenest, most penetrating interest imaginable.
Sepdet straightens and meets the Sphinx's eyes unblinkingly. ~It is rock, and yet falls soft through the fingers. It is of the desert, and flows in rivers. Sand.~
Sphinx applauds in the fast, delighted manner of a child. "Correct! Riddle the second: 'Song with no throat/Touches without feeling/Lifts without hands/Sends scent reeling.'"
Sepdet chuckles at that, humming a question to the others.
Sphinx
She is a tawny woman, slender and wiry, covered with fur one second and honeyed skin the next. Her eyes glitter yellow and bright. She stands proudly naked, twitching her long tail lazily and hypnotically.
Dylan gives a little trill of laughter at Sepdet's question.
Sepdet dips her eyes at Dylan in the equivalent of a nod, although she glances first to the others for confirmation.
Paul's hands pitterpatter across his body, whistle almost laughing in descant through smiling lips.
Wayfinder lolls her tongue, ears flickering while she squints at the woman. Her eyes glint with mirth.
Dylan smiles at the Sphinx. ~Wind, whose children we are.~
Sphinx applauds again, beaming pointily. "Well done, well done. Riddle the third, and if you get this answer, you needn't try to achieve the fourth: 'Always violence/Harm and sound without blows/You can never hide in the dark from me.'"
Paul hums a somewhat dismal noise, scuffing his feet.
Sepdet nods thoughtfully to Paul, holding up four fingers.
Dylan hesitates, then sings three long soft notes to Paul, stopping with a click. Then he sings a rising note, an afterthought, a question.
Paul's tones rise, swerving a bit chaotically in freedom.
Dylan nods to Paul.
Sepdet's only response is a quiet smile of approval. She turns her eyes back towards the sphinx hopefully, lowering her guard a little.
Paul speaks, "Fire, that consumes. Tell us, riddler, would you like the answer to your last all unasked? We might assay that, if you would offer us a bonus. Perhaps your assistance in our task?"
Wayfinder dances on her paws, obviously following her packmates' conversation, but unwilling to break her surveillance of the guard.
Sphinx smiles and nods in response to the answer, but her face clouds at the request. She considers for a moment, her tail lashing from side to side. She seems to be in a considerable internal struggle. At last, she says, "If you answer the fourth, you may ask me one question in return, which I will answer truthfully. Is that acceptable?"
Paul looks to Wayfinder, for she is the Fourth.
Sepdet ventures a cautionary, melencholy pattering of notes to the others.
Dylan nods to Sepdet, adding a final note to hers.
Wayfinder's attention is on the guard, and she does not notice Paul's scrutiny.
Paul replies, "For the fourth riddle, if answered, not only passage but a question to you, yes."
Paul says "We already have our passage, but riddles and sharing are fun in and of themselves."
Sphinx nods, her joyous manner somewhat subdued now. "Riddle the fourth, then: 'Many of me can blind/Alone, I prophecy danger/yet children welcome me.'"
Paul looks up, then whistles shifting tones.
Dylan sings high and sure, relieved.
Sepdet's brows and tone are quizzical, the flavor of this answer not being quite as sure, the answer being somewhat out of her ken.
Paul chuckles quietly.
Paul pages to Sphinx, Sepdet, Gray, Wayfinder, and Dylan: Had to be a schoolkid, I guess. Poor sepdet. :)
Wayfinder grumbles at the strange woman. That would be snowflakes, born of water. Her earlier light mood seems to have dropped off to a dour expression, and she makes no effort to couch her answer in a clever answer.
Sphinx nods gravely. "Your answer is correct. Your question now?"
Paul guestures to Sepdet.
Wayfinder does not seem inclined to ask, but flips her ears back towards her packmates, listening.
Sepdet gives Paul owl-eyes, a long slow blink, and then addresses the Sphinx gravely. ~Unsubtle, but serving our present purpose: what single thing will most serve us in defeating the foe we now seek?~
Sepdet pages: We voted to use a sledgehammer and let the GM wiggle as she will. ;)
Sphinx blinks slowly, her tail falling limply against the rock like a dead thing. "Blindness," she replies, and vanishes.
Paul uhs. "Anyone have Perseus' shield handy? That sounds like a medusa sort of answer."
Dylan catches his breath, startled by the answer even more than the disappearance. ~I hope,~ he says softly, falling out of music once the questioner is gone, ~that we will have a chance to ask again, before we find out that we do not understand.~
Sepdet takes a step backwards. ~We are walking in blindly,~ she notes bemusedly. ~Perhaps it would be better to close our eyes. I shall not jump in the river quite yet, however.~
Dylan points out, very quietly, ~She did not say /whose/.~
Sepdet nods firmly at Dylan's caution, this not having escaped her.
Paul says, "Well, lets go onward. Hope they're all as talkative."
Gray drifts down the tunnel ahead of you, her soft gray fur glimmering rather than vanishing in the shadow.
Wayfinder follows after the cat, with a half-hearted warning grumble at Sepdet.
Sepdet makes a contrite <mrrpph> sort of a noise in the back of her throat at Wayfinder and follows after.
Paul falls into place, looking a bit bemused.
Dylan takes his place at Paul's left shoulder once again.
The tunnel snakes around in a broad widdershins spiral that tightens rapidly, but it's nearly impossible to tell where the last curve will be. The ceilings drip earthsblood at occasion, and the floor is slick with more slime than the fallen ooze can account for.
Paul uses his staff to steady his (only!) two legged footing, cursing the lack of coordination from warform or four legs under his breath.
Gray drifts ahead of the pack, always just within sight, until you come upon the incongrous tiny fanged cat sitting bolt upright in front of a tunnel turn.
Sepdet walks somewhat cringingly, perhaps regretting her choice to shuck footwear in the last year or so. Again, she braces, muttering something about snakes and labrynths as we come to the next crossroads. The knife's back in ready-mode again.
Wayfinder regards the cat curiously, ears and nose searching beyond her for some sign of the next guardian.
Dylan walks slowly, bent-kneed and careful, until Gray blocks the way. ~Is it this turning?~ he asks the small beast.
You paged Wayfinder with 'Your handy lupus nose picks up the stench of someone dying, as well as the reek of the cave itself.'.
You paged Wayfinder with 'The death is one of starvation, you're sure.'.
Gray answers not in words - well, not in what passes for words with her - but by sinking down into a low hunting crouch. Ears pricked, shoulders low, tail lashing, she creeps around the last turn.
Wayfinder backs up a step or two, wrinkling her nose. There is something that dies ahead. It has not enough to eat, one thinks. Then she follows the cat.
~Ah,~ says Dylan, understanding.
The curve flattens and opens. In the darkness, a pair of huge, dark eyes stare out of a corpse-gray face. From the ceiling, roots dangle, limp and lifeless, torn apart by some force that ripped open the earth above. Fresher air, by no means the clean stuff you were breathing in the hills, blows down coldly from above.
Sepdet hisses a long, tense, almost buzzing sort of warning, tinged with a few low notes.
Paul breathes shallowly, staff held loosely as he searches and watches.
Paul pages: Wyrmtaint?
Dylan pages: Wyrm here? Sorry to be tiresome.
Long distance to Paul: Limbo nods.
Long distance to Dylan: Limbo nods.
Paul whistles low, and adds some noises from deeper in his throat. Sounds like a worried R2D2 for a second there.
A single, ivory hand stretches out from the dank shadow, and it draws the rest of the pathetic body after it.
Hollow
Emaciated. Starving. Skeletal. Her skull shows through the papery skin of her face, her fingers are fluttering spiders, weightless, airy things. The fabric -- something resembling burlap, yet somehow heavier, coarser -- hangs on her frame, dangles, flaps, drags. She looks like she'll fall over at any second.
Sepdet holds up her knife and shows it like a lion showing its teeth, standing a little behind Wayfinder in the shadowy darkness. ~Our business is not with you, only the one who forces you to guard. Let us pass, lonely one.~
Hollow hisses, but the voice clarifies from that hiss. "Feed me. Feed me, each of you, and you may pass. It has been a long, long time since I ate." She cocks her head, eyes huge for the shriveled face. "I've been good. I haven't eaten. I've lost weight. Doesn't it look good on me?"
Dylan shivers once. ~What do you require? For no, starvation does not become you.~
Paul licks his lips. "Privation for no good reason is never pretty."
Sepdet replies frankly, ~No. Lack, self-made, makes one lacking. I will give you a vision of something with words, if you like.~
Hollow shakes her head. "Visions do not quell the ache here." She gestures to her belly, which lays so tightly against her organs that their outlines are clear. "I require food, and there is nothing living here to hunt. " She looks at Wayfinder. "Something from each of you, something on your bodies, something edible that carries some warmth, for it is cold here, bitter cold, I could freeze to death in it."
Paul unbuttons his jacket and says, "Here's something to help you stay warm."
Hollow shakes her head. "Feed me," she insists again.
Wayfinder bristles, deeply buried Rage coming to the surface, but she keeps it under control. One could feed you blood, as the ~leeches~ drink, for that is warm. And there are no other parts that one wishes to spare. Her disgust at even this suggestion is apparent.
Paul sighs and says, "And should we give you that warm part of ourselves that is mercy, and release you from torment?"
Hollow half-lids her staring, dark eyes. "Such mercy you show, oh, man, as might be shown by the man who waits above."
Gray hisses with impatience, and dashes forwards. She does a complicated, curling twist, that cats seem to do so often, but when she is done something small and dripping is in her mouth. She drops it at Hollow's feet, where it becomes a neat anonymous lump, and a warm smell, like baking, fills the cavern. As the little cat backs away, you can see that her chest cavity has been split open; strangely, there is no blood.
Hollow falls upon the morsel and consumes it, even to the point of licking the floor where it fell.
Sepdet Pages all: Oh dear. I have an answer but it's spammy (and seeing Cat, it may well not suffice.) Brace for impact. :)
Dylan's expression opens as he watches the little guide. ~So simple,~ he says painfully, ~except I do not know how.~ he seems about to say more, when Sepdet speaks and he subsides.
Sepdet stands straighter, trying to concentrate and muster up a different world than this stinking, cold, dying, constricting tunnel with its inhabitants wound deeper and deeper into decay. Being a keeper of memories treasured, and of visions, she offers one that calls to her of a home she doesn't have. ~The canyons are of stone, but the stone is soft enough to dance to the trembling winds. The rocks are all of gold, like a lion's strength, but at sun's dying, at sun's brave struggle to rise, they turn red and burn with fire and wrath. Lizards dart, scorpions skitter, and you may taste but one sweet plant's leaf on the whole of the side of a hill. Between dry hills is a different place, a space of green, where bright green reeds shiver and tremble beneath a canopy of ducks' wings, and echo like flutes the calls of the great hawk that flies down to feast upon them. The water darts with fish and its carpet is of sleek black mud, a millenia's life-harvest couched in dirt. The sky is painted blue glass, like one great eye of truth looking down upon you from the blazing sun. Do you feel his truth? Do you feel _his_ heat, cold one? He sears the sky white with his passing, where he stands, yet gently leaves no scar behind. And at his glance, the desert glows and bakes and shimmers At his glance, the black earth yields a forest of plants, lush water-lilies to bloom, grains for food, the reeds for writing, clothes, and mats, palms for shade and persea for their sweet, wild spicy scent that paints the wind. And at his glance, the clear waters shine like the sun, in adoration for Him. Under his eye, there is no word for cold, and a thousand for heat.~
Gray nods approvingly. That came from the heart. Complete the gesture. She licks her chest fur gently as the hole begins to close. Or did you not think that symbols are meaning here?
Hollow looks up, wide-eyed again, from her scrabbling at the floor, and stares at the Strider, mouth agape and drooling.
Sepdet sighs and slices into a finger-tip with the knife, holding it out unhappily, trying to think of the feeding of spirits, not the feeding of that which she despises.
~One can give one's heart away a hundred times and never lose it,~ Dylan says. ~And I have known hunger.~ He lifts the knife of light and cuts his own chest carefully down the middle, eyes wide but hand quite steady.
Hollow reaches up and licks delicately at the finger, still staring up at Sepdet's face.
From afar, Sepdet pages, "And couched a little in that touch is Mother's Touch, for that feels safer to her than just giving blood alone."
From afar, Dylan hopes, rather wistfully, tht he does not expire on the spot? Also that the blade of light will consent to cut him, this time?
Paul holds up his left hand, ties a bit of the vine at his belt around the base of his left pinkie finger. Drawing his knife, he sets it against the base of that finger, just above tie, at the joint.
Sepdet holds quite still, almost paralyzed. Maybe her word-picture was as much an anchor for her own nerves as a gift to the empty creature, although meant for the latter. She waits several heartbeats, then drops her hand again, clenching it.
You paged Dylan with 'Dylan does *not* expire on the spot, and the blade cuts cleanly with little blood.'.
Hollow crawls backward from Sepdet, but staying within the circle of light cast by Dylan's knife.
Dylan pages: Okay. Can he, in fact, reach inside his chest and pull out his heart? or should we stop with a little blood? He'll do it if it seems to be having symbolic rather than, er, literal repurcussions.
Dylan pages: IE, if it seems like he'll survive. :)
You paged Dylan with 'It does, in fact, seem like he'll survive quite nicely.'.
Dylan's breathing slows, his eyes are wide and dream-like. He reaches into his chest and pulls out his heart. He kneels down and offers it to Hollow, cupped in both hands, the knife now safely back at his waist. There is very little blood.
Wayfinder backs away from the /thing/ as it licks Sepdet's finger, teeth bared, and bristling over her entire body. Her entire body also quivers with two conflicting signals, that she seems to barely control. Run or attack. Flee or fight.
Dylan says softly, ~Not a bloodprice. Love.~
Paul stands shocked still, staring at Dylan, and at Hollow.
Hollow reaches out, her bony hands trembling, her mouth working on amazement, and lets her spidery fingers wrap around Dylan's still-beating heart.
To the pack, Sepdet sings something steadying, anchoring, and simple: the old lullabye that is her password to healing. Her eyes are very wide and round though, as she sees how Dylan demonstrates more concretely what she was trying to do in so many words.
Dylan sets his hands palm flat to the ground and waits with his head bowed.
Paul's knife hand shakes, then drops to his side. Still holding the knife, he raises it towards his own chest, then stops, breathing hard. "I... Can't..."
Wayfinder bumps up against Sepdet, seeking an anchor for her irrationality. Sister, you will have to help one, one does not have ~hands~. She looks up to Sepdet's face, fixedly, doing her best to stuff her Rage down again.
Paul's shaking gets worse, moment by moment.
Sepdet swallows and turns back to her tribesmate. ~We are in a world of stories, and we must follow its rules, or we are just as bad as the one who broke them. She is sick, hurt, and alone. Gifts are healing. Gifts are a connection. That is what she needs.~ Her voice shakes a little. ~A pure gift of kindness is not sullied. She is of hurt and sickness; she is not of corruption.~
From afar, Paul hopes I can't frenzy?
You paged Paul with 'Nope. :)'.
Dylan pages: On an off chance, does she smell any less of the wyrm now that she's had some gifts?
Hollow takes the heart gingerly and stares for a long moment at it, the light of greed gone from her eyes. She clasps it to her shriveled breast like a lover, and the air shivers around her body. She looks at Dylan, at Sepdet, at Grey, at Wayfinder, even at the trembling Paul, eyes swimming, and croaks, "No one... the cat... you... the others... I..." Her forms shimmers, begins to dissolve. Her voice is a thin echo on the air: /No one has ever done this for me before./
Dylan lifts his head. The light from his knife shows tears on his cheeks. He stands up, very slowly.
Hollow is gone, leaving Dylan's chest intact, heart where it belongs.
Sepdet kneels slowly and puts her hands behind Wayfinder's shoulders, murmuring softly, ~It was the intent that was necessary. But well done, Burns-bright still. You put our fears to shame.~
Paul sighs quietly, then says between measured breaths, "Left, sinister, heartside." He steps forward, hands over the Hollow one, knife back at the fingertip. Then dropping his hands yet again as the apparition vanishes, shaking even more violently.
The scream of rage from above is legendary.
Wayfinder sighs with relief, still shaking herself. She looks to Dylan with undisguised wonder. Thank you, she says very very quietly. Then her head whips upwards, at the scream.
Dylan hesitates for a moment. Then he looks up. ~I am glad,~ he says quietly, ~that it seemed to me I could do it and live. Otherwise, I could not have tried until after the fighting, and it would have...been harder.~
The ground trembles.
Paul stands quite still, shuddering. The scream cuts him back into alertness and he sheaths the knife even as the ground trembles.
Sepdet bares her teeth and hisses, nearly throwing herself upon the wolf in raw instinct at the sound. She uncurls a second later and grins coldly, although she does not look in that direction. ~So, mocker of children's dreams, you live up to your own tale, and know no room for mercy.~
Dylan moves back to take his place behind Paul and to the left, heartside, sinister. ~We should go. We have our surprise, I think.~
Sepdet nods to Dylan and starts moving. ~I wonder if it will be possible to shake him from his role.~ Her voice, itself, is still shaken. Perhaps the last test will have been the worst.
The ground shifts, rends, rocks, and presses upward, the earth above shredding apart, screaming.
Wayfinder shies away from Sepdet, teeth clicking as she barely restrains snapping. She moves forward, quickly, seeming eager to shed her Rage on something, at least.
Paul still looks pale and shaken, but he waves the group forward. "Guide? Lead us, quickly!"
The floor below lifts the group through the opened roof.
The ancient grove looks like it once drew down green light to the forest floor, a verdant gold that might attract those seeking silence and solace. Here and there are scattered signs of children at play: a tiny heap of rocks arranged in a manner strongly suggestive of an altar, the flat central stone stained with berry pulp; several long, strong sticks, varying from twisting wands to admirable swords to towering staves, leaned in the nook of a sheltering ash; the low, broad branches of a beech worn smooth and bare of branchlets with possibly hundreds of little feet; the front half of a war-torn and yellowed copy of _Little Women_ nestled in a hollowed-out space under a thick sprawl of forsythia.
But now the grove is darkened, filled with a thick gloom that stifles and stupefies, an aura of threat that presses directly on the solar plexus, dread that turns the spine cold. The trees wring their branches together in anguished, unnatural posture, closing out the bright light from the top of the Tower. Shadows huddle in a darkness deeper than they've ever known. The sounds of animals which so populate the rest of the forest are absent here, and the silence is devoid of peace; instead, it is pricked with baleful wariness.
A cold, blue glow lights the nave of the tree cathedral, and a figure glowers there.
Murphy
This man's face is broad, cleanshaven, and open, with high cheekbones and a sharply sculptured jaw. Eyes blue as fall skies peer from under thick, friendly, brown eyebrows, and an errant lock of his wavy brown hair curls across his forehead. Broad shoulders and powerful arms strain the fabric of his shirt, except where the lower sleeves spread fuller before gathering at his brawny, dark-haired wrists. His narrow waist and hips are clearly muscled as robustly as his tree-trunk thighs under the tight Spandex of his pants, and knee-high riding boots encase equally burly calves.
His stance, his every gesture and expression, convey confident might, fierce protectiveness, and a certain potence that suggests not only indisputable virility but also an inevitable, yet gentle, sovereignity over all he surveys.
Gray says, fur puffed out, irony tinging her tone, Up.
Paul nods towards Grey, and starts to follow the directive. "Shall we ask him forth? If everything else can be released and redeemed, maybe he can too?" But he's really not sounding confident at all.
Wayfinder bounds towards the figure, as soon as her footing settles beneath her.
Sepdet looks utterly baffled, gaze darting all around the area and all but ignoring the man, in spite of the fact that he must almost surely be our goal. She seems to be searching for something. Thoughts, however, are jettisoned as Wayfinder dives first.
The man strides toward the emerging (and dirt-covered) pack, the blue lights buzzing like tightly controlled fireflies around him. "You have taken my wife from me," he says in a surprisingly soft, resonant voice. "I don't forgive that." He watches tehe wolf approach, booted feet spread in preparation.
Sepdet pages: I'm especially good at expeeeeeeeectoration! (Gascon)
Paul says, "Laughter, let fly!" and steps up behind Wayfinder as backup. "Hope, Seek the answer!"
Sepdet snaps, ~If you never thought to give her your heart, she's not your mate anyway!~
Sepdet does not try to stop Wayfinder, although she makes an abortive step after. Speed is no longer surety for her. Or perhaps it is only the Strider letting others leap into their own rivers.
"
He laughs at Sepdet. "You have no idea what I've given her, dog-girl."
Dylan flinches, almost imperceptibly, at the word 'wife.' Light blade held in one hand with the blade unobtrusive along his wrist, he flings the light net up and out, attempting to trap the burlesqued man of action beneath its web.
Wayfinder charges as close to the man as she dare, skidding to a stop. Glaring at him, fully challenging: Wife, she snarls. Slave, more likely. She boldly continues to glare at the man, lips lifted from her teeth.
Murphy steps forward to backhand Wayfinder with a broad, tanned hand.
From afar, Wayfinder is going to dodge, if'n it be possible.
Paul swings over the wolf's back, staff darting in to strike at the 'man's' hand. Force and skill and wood of iron and legend.
The big man's hand lashes out in a broad arc. Wayfinder performs a stiff-legged leap backwards to dodge, and manages to avoid all but a graze, which is still hard enough to roll her head over tail about ten feet away, though the roll keeps her from being more than bruised. However, Paul's staff connects hard and full, and the shattering bones are fully audible to everyone in the grove, even above the ringing note of the wood of the staff. Murphy staggers back, blinking at his broken arm.
The net, at last, settles over him like a delicate filigree.
Paul grounds the end of his staff. "Now! Will you submit!?"
From afar, to Murphy, Sepdet, Gray, Wayfinder, and Dylan, Paul heeeees! "The question comes RIGHT after the capture. Timing."
Despite the net's settling, Dylan does not look remotely relieved.
From afar, to Murphy, Sepdet, Gray, Wayfinder, and Dylan, Paul DOES look glad that staves are easy to get moving again if you're not QUITE done with them.
Sepdet has not budged, although usually no shrinker from any fray. Her brow is knotted in concentration, so much she is almost not monitoring packmates' progress, and only takes a few steps closer to be within a good spring's reach of them.
Sepdet pages all: As Sepdet makes a brilliantly contradictory pose. I guess I did budge. :)
Murphy's face fails to purple, although he is most certainly enraged. He glares out at the pack. Sepdet's leg folds under her, and her fall takes her to the ground with a crack of her femur and hip.
Wayfinder rolls to her feet again in moments, zipping back towards the fray, eyes narrowed and ears pinned back.
Paul's eyes narrow, and he darts a quick look over to the sharp sound.
Sepdet's concentration is broken along with the bone, and she gives a pained grunt. But as soon as she finds wind, she only turns to watch, eyes squinted, mouth crimped into a thin line.
Paul's neck spasms so that he can't turn his head back.
Paul shouts, "Blindness! Go for the eyes," and closes his own.
Sepdet pages: Gah. I'm going to KICK myself if I'm wrong. One more observation, and then I'll see if I'm right. I think I understand, I think ,i think...
From afar, Wayfinder is going to dodge and harry, when she gets to you. I want to blow a pip of that Rage that's hovering about, to be especially zippy.
From afar, Wayfinder is focusing more on distraction than injury, btw.
Murphy bellows, straining the unbreakable strands of the silk of the giant spiders of the Diamond Mountains, and attempts to kick Wayfinder's harrying shape.
Paul pages: Of course, with your name like that. :) Nowthen, where murphy looks, disaster follows. So. I'm going to back up and face him sideon, wait for him to glare somewhere else, and attempt to throw some vine around his head. :)
Long distance to Paul: Murphy okies cheerfully. :)
Dylan leans down, long fingers digging into the soil, until he has a large handful of dirt. Then he straightens and moves patiently around, not hurrying, not to be diverted, until he stands where he can throw the dirt into the trapped man's eyes.
Wayfinder ducks away, using speed born of the Rage so recently called up to whirl lightning fast and dive in again. Time-worn tactics of distraction, to all apparent.
The flying boot misses, but Wayfinder does manage to tread upon a particularly pointy piece of stone, which makes her shift her balance, and over she goes, end over end again, only this time at Rage-speeds.
Sepdet winces at Wayfinder's tumble, struggling to her feet in protest against the possible fracture.
Murphy strains the net, and Dylan can see a few of the strands beginning to give. Through gritted teeth, the man says, "Only... a matter... of a moment..." as his massive muscles ripple.
Wayfinder pages: Hurting?
Paul goes side on, hands VERY carefully and patiently getting the vine loose from his belt. Whistling shrilly, he cracks a peek to see where Murphy's attention is, then lets fly with the length of vine aimed to whip around the foe's head. And eyes. Hopefully.
You paged Wayfinder with 'No, he seems to be trying to keep you off balance until he can actually hurt you with something. Like that giant tree he's dropping on you. ;)'.
From afar, Paul spends a rage so his finger's will go fast enough to take all due care (two if that's what it takes) but I want to be ready to throw when I can.
Wayfinder finally digs in her claws enough to stop herself, and bounces back up again, fully prepared to charge at the man again.
Murphy's attention is up, bringing a truly impressive oak tree down to smash Wayfinder (hopefully).
Wayfinder pages: Your call. Wayf was just beginning to move, I posed it that way so that you could determine if she is quick enough to be out of its way. Dex 5, in this form.
Dylan's dirt catches Murphy square in the face, giving Wayfinder, with her Rage, plenty of time to slip out from under the oppressive and growing shadow of the tree. Paul takes advantage of the situation and neatly binds up Murphy's eyes. Murphy bellows angrily and strains at the net, but seems thoroughly trapped now.
Sepdet gives a low soft chuckle, sudden and quiet in vast contrast to the sounds of cracks, thuds, and other dramatic fight-sounds; perhaps her own voice is lost in the chaos. "Ah. Fall back. Little bully's not worth our effort anyway. Ignore the little prick." Yes, her English is gruff and rusty, but she does use that word. She adds something else more sharply, in an insistent trill, trying to pack meaning into a few spare notes.
To the pack, Sepdet explains fiercely, He's built himself into this great huge villain, but we don't have to buy his tale.
Murphy strains the net. "I'll rip your heads off. I'll choke you in your own bile and stop your hearts with a glance! I'll be out of this in moments, and you'll see where your talk gets you!"
Sepdet has finally gotten her feet back under her. Slowly, calmly, she turns her back on the frothing caricature and starts to walk across the clearing, suddenly more interested in the bark of a nearby tree.
Paul turns his back to the 'foe', and walks over to Sepdet. "How's the leg?" he asks with (slightly) forced casualness.
Wayfinder angles toward Sepdet, jumping as the tree thumps into the ground just behind her. She is obviously confused, but seems willing to let her cooler-headed sister prevail.
The voice turns sly, and he quietly works against the ties that bind him. "Can't you see what they're doing here? They're keeping all these children prisoner with those huge dragons at every edge, keeping everyone in. I've come to set them free."
Dylan takes a step back, and then another. Then he turns his back. ~I like the little altar,~ he observes.
Sepdet rolls her shoulders. ~Hunh? Oh. I'm doing pretty good these days, really. Do you think anyone would mind if I borrowed one of these staves? I dropped mine somewhere.~
Paul says to Dylan, "We had a treehouse near where I lived back in the East, but it had NOTHING on this place. The kids'll be glad to play here again." He hands the staff to Sepdet with a smile, then steps over to the tree/cathedral to look it over.
Wayfinder noses Sepdet worriedly, then looks between her and the bound man.
Murphy continues, voice getting a step more desperate. "Look, you can have any part of the world you want for yourselves. I just want to have the City. Those automaton queens who never did anything for anyone can go off the edge and we can split the place up, okay? The kids will be safe and happy, and the mean queens will be gone."
Paul steps away from the tree and offers Murphy a canteen. "Would you like some water?" Guarded a touch, perhaps, but even now visibly relaxing as he massages his neck.
Sepdet sighs and lays a hand against one of the beeches. ~Someone really needs to give you more water. Maybe we can sing down a good rain for you.~ She grins down at Wayfinder and--a bit stiffly--lowers herself to the wolf's level, burying her fingers in the wolf's ruff and beginning to groom her.
Murphy tenses. "I don't want water. I want my wife, I want to be let go, I want to make this world RIGHT." His voice doesn't raise, particularly, but it slips toward the shrill.
Wayfinder barks at the man: This one does not /want/ to stay here! One has a mate to return to! Subsiding, she turns back to Sepdet, nudging her very cautiously.
Paul puts the canteen back on his belt and says calmly, "Well, your wife will come back if she likes. And changing someone else's world doesn't make it Right automatically. Anyway, I'm sorry about your hand. Is it going to be ok?"
Paul pats the bound man on the shoulder gently.
Murphy explodes into a ripple of muscular motion, screaming in incoherent rage, tearing in Paul's direction.
Paul's whistle catches a ride on a wisp of a breeze, but Paul doesn't even look at the bound man bumping up against him. Perhaps to his error.
Sepdet sighs and gives Wayfinder a tighter hug, before letting her go. In spite of the sounds behind her, she doesn't turn around. With a little effort.
Murphy snarls, amidst the roars of rage, "I know how to get back here, I can leave now, tomorrow, any time, go home, and I'll come back, I'll come back here and I'll WIN, I'll WIN this time, goddamn you smug fuckers, I'll WIN because I'll have Beth with me again and as long as she's helping I can do anything. I can do anything even without her but goddamnit we'll rule this place like no one else has ever ruled before!"
Sepdet says absently but clearly, ~Just ignore him, packmates. He's not important. Let's tidy up here a bit, leave a little surprise for the kids. Think we can manage a sand castle out of dirt?~ In punctuation, she gives a simple, lazy whistle. Blindness, she reminds them. We don't see him.
Paul steps away from the bound and frothing man, saying, "I've never tried that."
Murphy's shape begins to lose cohesion, molecules slipping over each other in an excellent mockery of Garou shifting or, at least, a Hollywood version of it.
Wayfinder suddenly appears to understand. This one can dig!
Dylan stands with one hand against a tree trunk, head slightly lowered, his ineptiness with dissimulation hindering him. At least, though, he can keep silent. He knows how to do that.
Sepdet gets up and starts moving around the clearing, gathering discarded leaves, twigs ,and anything out-of-place and bringing it to the area in front of the alter--building materials! She has a big grin on her face. Perhaps grown up was never a duty that sat well with the Strider anyway.
Dylan gives a soft worried hum, as though unable to stop himself. Do we know he is ending, and not leaving?
The form seems to pull in on itself, shrinking, the voice getting thinner and fainter, the vine-ropes of the Scarlet Jungle tightening. At last, a small doll remains on the ground, still wrapped tight by the rope and net.
Dylan sings three notes, a gentle, falling triplet of warmth and acceptance.
Sepdet starts decorating the others' hastily-erected walls and towers with sticks for flagpoles with leaves stuck through them, and nice pebbles for the floors. Finally, almost in afterthought, she "stumbles" across the doll. ~Someone must have dropped this. Here, we'll give it a little tower to play in, where he can pretend he's the villain plotting to take over the realm. An out-of-the-way tower, though, so he's not a nuisance.~ She sticks the doll haphazardly in a pile of dirt, thoughtfully gives him a pointed cap--wizard's, orappli dunce's, hard to tell--and sits back, apparently satisfied.
The forest grows quiet, and the trees, creaking like old women, begin to unwind their grips on each other. Light from above streaks through, dappling the ground and breaking apart the gloom.
Paul looks at the tower. Looks at the doll, looks at Sepdet with dark eyes. And whispers into the no longer still and silent air.
Wayfinder follows after Sepdet, somewhat protectively, carrying things in her jaws as needed. She regards the doll in its tower somberly, after Sepdet sets him up.
Paul pages: +pack/w Leave this one here, and he could again become Menace for this place. He reminds me all too much of Chloe walking my dreams, and nearly dying of gunshots. A child, a malicious child, but perhaps a child. How is a child like this prevented from becoming an adult monster and wrecking havok on all the worlds?
Dylan watches Sepdet and smiles. Then he reaches up and loosens his hair from its braid. To Paul, he says, ~Shall we take it back, then? Back to the Queens?~
Wayfinder sniffs around the area, absently. We are done? /That/ was what killed the dragon? Where is our guide?
Paul sighs. "We could take him with us. Back, if back we can get. That would remove him. As opposed to kill him.
Sepdet turns back to look at the trees and listen, not answering their questions and glances for a while. Finally she sighs and stretches. ~I think we're finished here, but we can ask them to make sure. S't-Bastet--~ by this, she seems to be addressing the cat-- ~do we need to go back to the Queens, or do they see? Is this a proper ending for this story?~
Gray pads up to the castle and pats the tower delicately with her paw. This is a very good ending for the story, and I thank you, we all thank you, more than you can know.
Paul looks at the cat for a long, long moment then says, "if the tellers and guards of the stories are satisfied, who am I to argue? Certainly, it looks a lot better than it would ending in something grim."
Sepdet smiles wistfully at the cat. ~I know the Queens said it was a very strange chance indeed, not usual, for such as we to fall into this world. But I wish we could...come back sometime. To see if the dragon's all right. But I suppose we have our own dragons, our own dreams that need caring for, and perhaps should go now, if you need us no longer.~
Wayfinder regards the cat, serene now, but lets her packmates speak instead. She looks apprehensively skyward as Sepdet mentions the way the group arrived.
Gray sits up, squirrel-fashion, and reaches out a pair of small hands, her muzzle growing sharper, and wings unfolding again. Yes. You need to go now, before the dragon wakes again, and /this/ (picking up the doll) will also need to be gone. She looks obliquely at Sepdet as she starts to rise into the air with slow, silent wingbeats. This is Ishikor, the eight-sided mirror, and when you need it, in dreams it is there. You know the way, although it will be barred to you henceforth. The way knows you, and will welcome you in your hour of need. Both are true.
Paul extends a hand for the moppet. "Shall we take it with us?"
And the world turns and the world turns, and the Garou find themselves at their entry-point, with a long, thin, golden path of light leading into the reaches of the Umbra they are so familiar with.
Paul staggers, and lets his hand fall. "Or not."
Sepdet stares up at the path and touches it with her finger, tasting it. ~That was what I asked Cat, Shesemw. If we had taken it elsewhere, it would not have been an ending. It would have to _go_ somewhere. If the Queens need to put it in a safe place, now, I think, they can.~
Dylan stumbles as he comes into his own world. ~Thank you,~ he says softly, only hoping it will be heard where it is intended.
Wayfinder looks quite relieved that she doesn't have to fly, or otherwise have her paws leave 'ground'.
Limbo pages all: Since I'm not exactly authorized to give away Cool Weapony things, I do the next best thing: your weaponry is now extremely pretty jewelry. Wayf even gets a filigree web-charm.
You paged Sepdet with 'And your staff is returned to you. :)'.
Limbo pages all: many thanks to my assistant, the cat. :)
From afar, Sepdet adds a moon-charm to her necklace.
Limbo pages all: Good night all. I hope it was enjoyable. :)
Wayfinder pages all: It was extremely fun, Limbo. Thanks! :)
Paul pages all: Think I'll add a nice vine tattoo around a limb. Hmm. Some new carvings popping up on the staff, too. Thanks limbo!!
From afar, to Paul, Limbo, Sepdet, and Wayfinder, Dylan wonders what to do with his, and then figures it out He sends it home, to where they try to make Ishikor either more accessible or less necessary. :) Limbo, it was marvelous.
Limbo pages all: Limbo passes out hugs and stuff, and staggers off to bed.