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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Carnifex" data-source="post: 239418" data-attributes="member: 227">Making their way out of the vault they found that more time than they had thought had passed; in the windowless library there was no real way to tell what time of day it was, but already the sun was sinking away. Alaric swiftly led them to a tavern on one of the City's broad boulevards; the sign of the establishment showed a Carthagian fang dragon in flight and held the name; The Cowardly Dragon. Melisande immediately recognized the emblem on the carved wood sign above the inn Alaric led them to, and wondered inwardly if he were trying to make a point, taking them for Carthagians like the "cowardly" fang dragon on the sign, but there was no guile in the Squire's manner as he ushered them inside, so she let it slide. Not that she had much pride to uphold in her forsaken heritage, but she was sensitive to being made fun of, having been blue all her life. Besides that, he proceeded to offer the whole company a profoundly welcome hot meal--Melisande's first in a very long time--upon tasting which, she was inclined to forgive any small jabs at Carthagia anyway. Within, it was wide, spacious, and full of merchants and travellers. Upholstered in dark wood and red cloth, the wide lower room was looked down on from above by an upper layer which ran round the walls to provide more seating for the clientelle, and it was up there that they were quickly directed for a meal that Alaric offered freely to pay for. Looking down over the taproom below they could see a veritable array of different peoples; travellers and merchants proving a varied bunch. They had barely settled down to the soup that was brought to them before they were disturbed. Tall, graceful, slender and with beautiful Huronese features, the woman stepped lightly, almost silently, up to the table, and gave a small bow to attract the company's attention to her. Clad in loose and simple red garments, her long black hair was tied in a single braid and reached down to her waist, and voluminous sleeves covered her hands clasped together before her. "Good day to you, travellers. Good day to you, Sandslipper," she said, bowing again to the young genasi who seemed confused by this attention given to her by someone she'd never seen before. The woman continued. "I bring my greetings from Ecurius. You need not worry about the burden you carry for the fiery one anymore, young lady, for it is the Seekers will that I take it from you know and deliver it to him. I know it must have been a dangerous journey for you; we are impressed you made it this far. Of course, you will be paid your due, but for you the journey is over. Please, give me the package."Sandslipper faltered, clearly confused and uncertain. Mel caught the desert genasi's hesitant look and intervened. "I beg your pardon, Miss, but I think it would be appropriate for you to offer some kind of proof of your identity," she suggested in a friendly enough manner, but one that was also meant to signal Sandslipper that she was not alone in this, and would have support should things go badly. She didn't know how many people were informed of Sandslipper's mission besides the recently debriefed Lord Corvus, nor exactly how dangerous the item in the package truly was, but it did seem a little too easy for this Huronese woman to simply claim to be Ecurius' envoy and request delivery. She gave the stranger a tight, expectant smile. Settling into his seat, having doffed his armour for the first time in days to settle for his meal, Sebastion felt rather under-equipped when they were suddenly confronted by a Huronese woman. Perhaps she seemed a little less exotic to him than the others, being from his homeland, but he still felt slightly at odds with her approach, and had his mouth not been full he might have said pretty much what Melisande did. Alright, perhaps without the subtlety or decorum, but the underlying suspicion would have been the same. Finishing his mouthful he leant forward slightly, freeing his back from the confines of the chair in preparation of movement. "I'm with her on this one..." he noted, quietly. The Huronese woman let her gaze settle on Melisande, impassionate eyes boring into the woman as if in irritation that the sorceress had the affront to question her words. "Proof of my identity? Such as what? What proof would mean anything to you?" Her gaze went back to Sandslipper. "This Myrmecian knows of no identification that she could recognise to be affiliated with the fiery one, nor would any of you recognise any proof I provided to affiliate myself with Ecurius. Identification is a dangerous thing, something that makes you very vulnerable; thus we work without it."Melisande felt her mind... blur for a moment. Her thoughts seemed to be scattered and swimming, as if her mentality was a pool of water into which raindrops were falling, sending ripples through her conciousness. Some strange, alien intrusion - foreign thoughts, not hers, trying to push their way in - could be felt, and then with a surge of willpower she found herself back in reality, sitting at the table and sweating profusely, her breath coming fast after the mental attack. On the air, over the usual smells of food and sweat in the tavern, a lingering scent of burning tin wafted in the air... Thrashing mentally, Melisande surfaced from what felt like a deep, deep murky pool, gasping for air. It was the solid, no-nonsense consciousness of Pierre that she gripped like a rock jutting out into the ocean, and clung to while she tried to clear her head. "Oh, my brain..." she murmured weakly. One hand went to her head, the other to the pocket where a very worried toad had poked both heads out. Weakly, she echoed his thoughts. "What happened?"Panting, with both palms flat on the table in front of her for support, she felt herself gaining solid ground slowly, with effort. She was reminded of another little girl from her village who often found herself the butt of the other children's mockery. Periodically, the skinny, pale little thing would drop to the ground and begin shaking all over. (Oh, how the boys loved to mimic her, the nasty things!) When it was over she would be sick--she would vomit and vomit until nothing came out, and then would drag herself home and not come out for two or three days. Mel, versed already in her youth in physiology, diagnosed a brain complaint. Was that what was happening to her now? She was not on the floor, though she was shaking a little. No nausea. The smell of hot food still spoke tantalizingly to her stomach. Nor did she feel especially tired, except for the mental exhaustion of willing herself to rise from that drowning pool which had so suddenly swallowed her. How warm it was, and what an odd odor. Was something burning? For a second she wondered if she might go under again. What was I doing, just before--? Oh, Sandslipper, and the Huronese woman. Yes. Wiping a sleeve across her perspiring forehead, she blinked a few times before resuming. "Excuse me. It's quite warm in here. Anyway, I do understand, Miss, your absence of identifying marks, but I'm sure Lord Ecurius would not want his messenger to hand over the package to just anyone who said so. If she was that sort she wouldn't have been charged with the mission in the first place. Surely he gave you something to prove that you are really his emissary...?" Even as she looked at the neat woman's cold, hostile stare, her voice trailed off. Did she do that--? Mel turned a concerned frown to Sebastion, who thankfully had voiced his support, and saw that he in his tunic was not particularly sweaty. By way of warning, or perhaps question, she kicked him under the table. Then she looked again at the Huronese woman, and decided that if anything--anything--strange happened again, she was getting Sandslipper out of there.The woman threw her glare back to Melisande again. "There is no identification I could show you that would mean anything to you anyway; you do not know of any emblem that would be associated with Ecurius. Nonetheless, if you insist so much..." The woman reached into her robes, and drew out of it a small spinning pendant. As the disk came to a halt, it glinted in the light; the simple image of a scorpion engraved on the silver was easily visible. "There you go. Does this mean anything to you, young lady? Do you know of its connections with Ecurius? I think not." As the woman had reached for the pendant, it had sent her long braid of hair rippling; and in that moment, something within the thick swathes of dark hair had glinted. Just for a moment, Melisande had seen the slender hilt of a knife; this Huronese woman kept weaponry in her hair! Looking over the table, she could see Sandslipper shuddering slightly, sweating profusely and with a vacant look washing over her face. Lord Ecurius' symbol is a scorpion...? Mel wondered, having been expecting a griffon or a lion or some such. The venomous arachnid rather came as a surprise. But even as she registered this shock, she gasped from another: the glint of metal from the woman's hair was no decorative pin or comb--a blade! In rapidly growing alarm she reached across to grip Sandslipper's arm, and found the genasi's sandstone skin slick with sweat. What? Her too? Sandslipper's empty, fixed stare confirmed her fears. Sebastion watched the two women, in turn, become glazed-faced and blank, sweating profusely, and leant forward as they did, eyes narrowing towards the stranger. "Then I'm sure you'll understand if we decline your kind invitation..." he observed, one of his hands gripping the leg of the table beneath the cover. "We're.." Melisande, however, did not appear to be listening to him, any more than the Huronese woman was. Bereft of his weapons and his armour he felt woefully inequipped to deal with the situation, but there didn't seem to be any option. "Knife! In her hair!" Mel shouted, wishing her crossbow was elsewhere than on the floor. Besides, Sandslipper was across the table and it would take more muscle than Melisande possessed to budge the heavy earth genasi, she realized. What else could she do? She was sure now the Huronese woman was doing something to Sandslipper, just as she had done to Melisande when she dared question her. Break her concentration somehow... What can I do? 'Mend' her eyelids shut? All my spells are practical, not offensive! But she had a new spell! She leveled an angry blue finger at the Huronese woman, let the seed of magic in her mind germinate, and spoke a word that would phase heat away in a propagating wave right at the strange woman's face.Wincing as Melisande let out a cry that would likely alert any support this Huronese woman had, Sebastion watched his blue-skinned associate level a finger, and added his own contribution. Hoisting the hand about the table leg into the air, he placed his other hand beneath the surface and tried to drive it forward into their guest as a weapon. . Meg'anna had been too entranced by the aura of this place to be concerned with the woman that had approached them. The entire place felt odd to her, as she had never been inside of an inn before. As the soup was brought to them, she held the metal utensils that they brought to her, as if they were some strange artifact from long ago. She had used spoons before, but they were crude utensils carved from a stick, these were precious metal objects that someone had painstakingly slaved over to provide. Ever so carefully, the young woman scooped up a bit of the warm broth in the metal spoon and drained it, letting her teeth feel the warm metal tang left in her mouth by the spoon. It was an unusual feeling, but it was better than getting a splinter in your lip. Diving down for another bit of her meal, the table was suddenly jerked by the warrior, sending her meal flying! Finding herself unprepared for this particular situation, Meg'anna quickly summoned one of nature's minions to attack the new threat. The sound of a rushing wind fills the air. The wind dances through trees, rattling the leaves and shaking the branches. The rush passes again and then the sound disappates... Reaching for her spear, Meg readied herself for another attack.As the others made small talk, Ebri continued to eat, observing the exchange in watchful silence. She let the others focus on Sandslipper; she watched the Huronese. Tension in the neck, the left shoulder. Likely a weapon, probably in the braid... At least, that would be where she would carry it. If she needed weapons. She dropped her spoon, clucked at herself audibly for clumsiness, and ducked beneath the table to retrieve it. From there she could see the soldier's hand about the table leg. Interesting. An action that would increase the chaos, but as the Huronese was standing, and they were resting seated, wise, most likely... Ebri's mind sifted through the likely outcomes almost of its own accord, apart from her. As the table jerked, she aimed a vicious punch at the Huronese's knee cap. Sandslipper seemed vaguely aware of the chaos that suddenly erupted around her, but caught up in some mental daze she just sat there in an incapacitated manner as from amidst the tables around them, other figures leapt to their feet, sending frightened clientele scattering as fast as they could as weapons were drawn. The four figures who came to the womans aid all wore loose, baggy clothes of an inconspicuous simple cloth, cloth wound round head and most of the face so that the eyes stared out from the concealing masks. One whipped out his hand and from it flew a storm of glinting metal discs; his target - Melisande. She was able to avoid most of the missiles but one shuriken struck true, causing pain to lash up her arm as it bit into her forearm. Within moments she suddenly felt weaker, her whole body feeling heavier and more difficult to move, as insidious sensation flooded up her limb, and pulling the shuriken from the injury saw it to be coated with some dark black substance... One of the other attackers reached within his robes and pulled out two nuchaku, setting them into spinning motion as he closed in on Alaric; fortunately for the squire he was able to avoid one of the whirling weapons while the impact of the other was absorbed by his chainmail. The third warrior quite literally hurled himself at Ebri, apparently having noticed her fall into her customary combat stance. Leaping into the air to cover the entire table in one jump, he tumbled next to her and set into a flurry of unarmed strikes, but Ebri managed to twist aside or block each one, flowing round her opponents hard strikes as she did so. She could tell from the combat stances that their assailants had all fallen into that they were well versed in some martial lore, but it was not one she was familiar with; instead of her flowing, reflexively reactive stance, theirs was tense and whiplike, lashing out with punishing strikes that, had the man managed to connect a solid blow, she was sure would have hurt. The fourth of the figures stood himself up and glared at the combat, one hand whipping over his shoulder to draw the slightly curved blade that was sheathed there, the weapon sliding out with a hiss, and he fell into a stance with the blade held back and his other free hand in front in a defensive posture.He closed his eyes in concentration for a moment; when he opened them again, they glowed a bright, shining silver and an instantaneous rainbow-flash of light swept away from him, petering out after a few feet. Even as he did so, strange, almost liquid fire burst into existence over Sebastion and Alaric, the ephemeral stuff scorching them before it faded out of existence again. The woman acted with insane speed, leaping backwards and, even while still in midair, reaching into her braid and whipping out the knife in a hurling motion at Melisande. Even as the first throwing knife arced out she was already pulling yet another from within her hair, landing lightly on her feet some ten feet away from her previous position, and there was a grisly crunch as the knife struck agonisingly true into the sorceresses chest, burying itself up to the hilt there. Her eyes alit upon the frenetic combat between Ebri and her own accomplice, and she yelled, "She fights with the Way of Shadow! Take her down, capture the bitch! And get that package!" Alaric leapt to his feet, drawing his blade and striking with it in one smooth movement, but the monk easily dodged the swipe and continued to send the Flame Hawk squire reeling from his assault. Ebri found her original target outside of her range, but she had this new assailant to deal with, and in the midst of dodging his hail of blows managed to time her own strike perfectly, hitting him hard below the ribs and eliciting a grunt of pain; though the strike was no-where near enough to drop this tough opponent. Everything had happened so fast that as Sebastion slammed the table forwards, all it achieved was to send cutlery and soup spilling everywhere, for the woman had already leapt back away from him. What it did do was make the entire wooden thing collapse under the force of the judder, at least now meaning everyone could easily stand up without the obstacle of the table. With a surge of natural magic, that caused tiny buds and leaves to sprout from some of the nearby wooden fixtures, Meg'anna conjured up a sizeable and very irritable dire rat that came into existence on the wreckage of the tabel, next to its mistress; it looked to her for orders, seeing no-one immediately threatening her. Caught up in pain, Melisande nonetheless managed to lash out reflexively with her magic, a beam of icy energy biting into the woman and drawing an angry hiss from her lips as the freezing cold burned her slightly. Nonetheless it seemed it had done little to actually stop the Huronese, as she prepared for another knife throw. For Ebri, the hiss and thunk of the knife seemed to echo, reverberating as if it were the only sound in the chaotic room, and the only blow. Failure. A rock plunged through the surface of her consciousness, disturbing her accustomed, reflexive calm that was a product of fighting. Failure... But she could not allow fear to influence the outcome.Focus. The blue woman was intelligent-- spirited, and gutsy, if absent-minded and inexperienced. Perhaps she would remember that she had a elixir of healing. You were right to think she might need it later.. She detached Melisande from her mind, bringing the rest of her attention back to the opponent in front of her. End this quickly. Time is short. Each moment is an eternity. she reminded herself. Each moment creates the next. She struck out again at the monk attacking her. It was like a small explosion erupted around all of them. The table was flung away, knives, throwing stars and other weaponry filled the air, the glint of the light on metal catching her eye. Nothing could describe the generalized chaos that was battle, but Meg'anna understood that this was the way of most people; primal, war-like, attacking and killing all for no reason. Yet, she had a reason to fight, these people were trying to harm her friends. Seeing the azure-skinned sorceress fall to the ground, Meg'anna could only think of one thing: Help Melisande. The words rang through her mind, echoing through the empty corridors that were filled just moments ago by the ponderances of human activity. Needless to say, Meg'anna had evolved from the helpless forest girl into the hardened druidess warrior. She would fight, like so often in the past few days, to save her friends' life. Wretching her spear from the shards of table it was buried under, Meg'anna thinks only briefly about casting a vial of flaming death upon the attacker. She dismisses the notion rather quickly, knowing that it would only lead to endangering her comrades, and she was here to defend them, not endanger them. Her knowledge of offensive gifts were limited as well, as Nature provided for her followers, she did not wish for them to war with each other. Without giving it a second thought, Meg'anna lunged at the maiden attacking Melisande... Animal instincts were one thing, but then again, so was loyalty. Micah was distraught trying to decide to help his Mistress or whether to stay out of trouble. The small fox ended up hiding behind a fallen chair, watching out for her back, rather than engaging the four-legs directly. Feeling the structure of the table collapse beneath his efforts, Sebastion was disappointed to see that he hadn't managed anything more than creating a little more work for the maid. Keeping hold of the table leg, he grasped another as the table broke apart, and wielding one in each hand as a club, he advanced on the nearest of their assailants, ready to do battle. This, then, was something he understood: man against man, face to face, battle for the right to walk away. It was harsh, it could get brutal, but it was really living, just for those few moments where death rested with a hand on your shoulder. The half-remembered sweat reappeared at the small of his back, and the sound of his own heart echoed in his ears once more, adrenaline heightening his senses and his anticipation, as he feinted with one arm and lashed out with the other, seeking the reassuring feel of wood connecting on flesh and bone. Sandslipper remained seated, still charmed, amidst the confusion of the melee; around them the tavern patrons had fled to the lower level, as the innkeeper ran out to call for the guard. Down below, over the railing that lined the upper level, the crowd below could be seen looking up in awe at the furious combat unfolding up above... The monk who had initially attacked with shuriken seemed to have no more of the lethal razor-discs, and instead charged lightfootedly at Sebastion, agilely and gracefully moving through the wrcekage that was rapdily becoming the fate of most of the furniture in the area. The man came in hard and fast, a flurry of bare-handed strikes storming at the warrior, but Sebastion managed to avoid the worst of it and remained unscathed as he fended his assailant off; the furious gaze of the monks eyes from behind his mask betrayed his unpleasant intent. The katana-wielding warrior waved his free hand beckoningly at Sandslipper, saying "Give me the package from Fireball!" and the dazed woman began to root through her pack, searching for it. The dual-wielding monk continued to batter at Alaric with his twin spinning weapons. The Flame Hawk squire was defending himself desperately with his own blade but the battle was going against him, his skills clearly not as honed as Sebastions. There was a painful crack as a nunchuk hit him solidly, winding him and sending him staggering as he winced in pain. Triumphantly the monk stepped forwards to try and finish off his assault, driving the squire towards the railing and the edge of the upper level... The monk attacking Ebri changed his tactic against her. Instead of the flurry of strikes he instead tried to bullrush the woman towards the edge of the upper level, doubtless the wily fellow planning to hurl her off, and this sudden change in tack caught Ebri off guard, missing an excellent opportunity to strike where he had opened himself up. Fortunately she managed to pivot and exert her strength excellently - in a manner her teachers would have been proud to see her display - and the man was unable to force her back. The doubts continued to nag at the back of her mind though... The angry Huronese woman pulled another of the needle-like throwing daggers from her hair, and hefted one in each hand, eyes narrowed unpleasantly as she focused on targets. The blue-skinned sorceress was down, maybe dead - good thing too, the irritating wench had been getting on her nerves - and that ridiculous Myrmecian was under the control of her comrade and on the way to handing over that package. That left the Huronese man, seemingly a skilled warrior from his stance, the Naserian who was, unbeknownst to him, edging towards the void, and the female who was fighting so well in unarmed combat against her monk foe. She reached a decision, hands whipping forwards. With a zip, one blade slived through the air towards Ebri, and the other towards Sebastion. Sebastion, caught up in fending off his energetic assailant, was caught completely by surprise by the missile. He felt the agony as it tore into the side of his chest and hot blood gouted down his side, staggering him but not enough to take him down. Sebastion gasped as the knife sank between his ribs, grating against the bones as it settled into place, sending a rivulet of thick, heavy blood winding its way down the inside of his shirt. His face was grimace as he took a half-step back, the jolting pain keeping him awake as the shock made his vision waver for a moment.  The knife ground against his ribs, and he coughed with the difficulty of breathing, but a half-smile flickered across the pained expression as he stepped in close to his opponent. He could back off now, but there were other assailants around, and in his condition he would fare badly against two, let alone one. Better to finish this off, and see what situation presented itself then.At the last moment, Ebri proved once again that she could survive anything thrown against her, jerking her head aside to dodge the knife that would otherwise doubtless have hit her in the throat. The missile was enough distraction though for Ebri, as she reached out for a strike to her opponents neck that would have temporarily incapacitated him, to flinch, and the monk easily dodged the stunning attack. Even as this occurred, Alaric managed to rally and lunged forwards with a crude but powerful attack that hit his monk foe solidly and elicited a hiss of pain as it drew blood from the dual-wielders chest - it showed his discipline that he did not cry out in pain at such a punishing blow. Sebastion was hard pressed, the dagger in his flank hurting badly but now he had weapons, skillfully striking with the two rather unconventional improvised weapons. The long hours of training to become experienced in the two-weapon style paid off as the amibidextrous warrior struck back with ferocity, sending his surprised opponent staggering as he slammed strike after strike into the man, successfully hitting with each table leg and badly injuring the batteerd monk who seeemd amazed at the sudden fightback after what he had considered easy prey had been hit by his mistresses hurled dagger. Mel had seen the glint of the woman's knife coming at her fast--so fast--and then she was on the floor with the wind knocked out of her. Her mouth opened for breath and nothing happened. Did the knife strike? As if on cue, a blinding explosion of pain burst from her chest by way of answer. The shock at least got her breathing again, if only in wheezing, choked gasps. Pierre's mind was screaming. I'm dying. The unnatural weakness inflicted seconds before from a shuriken was now joined by the warm, floaty sensation of blood loss. Pulmonary vein, she thought, sinking into the drowning warmth for a moment. Blood the color of a summer night sky soaked through her dress, making a dark flower bloom on her chest around the hilt of the knife. She floated. She heard shouting as if from a great depth. I hope they get Sandslipper out of here. I hope no one's hurt. I wonder if the nasty spying amulet person is still watching even now. Show's over. Someone save Sandslipper. Remembering the unhealthy, blank stare on the genasi's face, Mel managed to surface enough to open her eyes. Sandslipper was still sitting on her chair by the overturned table, unmoving but sweating with some internal struggle. Someone help her! she cried but the knife had stolen her breath and her voice, and all she could do was gasp. Meanwhile, a panicky toad was rooting through her pockets in desperation. Snail shells rolled. Here! Pierre sent. Me! Obediently, Mel reached for him, her oldest and truest friend, for comfort. Poor dear. At least you'll never really be alone in the world. Be brave, little toad. She patted him. He nosed something cold and hard into her palm. A vial. The shadow-demon's healing potion! Oh Pierre, you wonderful, sweet, darling toad!Melisande shakily lifted the vial to her lips, tasting the alchoholic tang of the herbal mixture as it slid down her throat. Immediately the pain dulled, and her injuries seemed to be lessened as the flow of blood stuttered to a halt; it was still bad, but nonetheless she could be sure she had some life left in her yet. Meg'anna's silent charge over the debris-scattered floor seemed to bring a tinge of surprise to the Huronese woman's features, as if she was surprised that the druidess had the audacity to even consider attacking her; but it quickly became clear who had the upper hand, as Meg'annas spear thrust was easily slapped aside and downwards by the woman in a display of highly skilled unarmed martial combat. With a sneer, the woman hopped back a step or two, leaping easily over the dire rat's attempt to gnaw her leg off, and as the oversized vermin disappeared again, Meg'anna's spell concluding, she seemed to be about to reach into her robes for something... Yet again the druidess's attempts had failed. If only she had been a bit faster, then maybe she could have hit the superfast woman. Anger begins the soft rolling boil into a muted rage. A rage which could have been expressed through screaming battle cries, a masterful display of weaponry, or a show of brute strength. For Meg'anna, she could do none of these things and she merely clamped a hold of her oaken spear, gritted her teeth and continued to concentrate on the target. It was then that she heard a muffled cry of pain behind her.When the long knife had flown through the air, Meg'anna did not know, but she saw it now, or at least part of it as the blade was buried to the hilt in the soldiers side. Life-blood seeping from the wound, she had to act quickly, before they were all doomed. Melisande seemed to be recovering from her wound, at least well enough so that she could still function. She was the only one uninjured as of yet, and it would be up to her to help the others. Fragments of plans flew through her mind, as the young druidess scrambles over broken bits of table and other debris to get to the wounded man. Thoughts of the vials of fire tucked into her sash flew through her mind again, yet she knew that it would only endanger her life and those around her if she did. Calling upon Nature's gifts once again, Meg'anna touches her hand to the youth's body, allowing the life-energy flow from her being and into his. This should help quell the bleeding. I need something more effective than this spear. I need a more powerful weapon, but what can I use? Too late, Melisande realized she hadn't tried to pull the dagger out of her chest. In retrospect, it probably would have killed her to budge the solidly lodged blade, so perhaps it was just as well, but now that the shadow-demon's potion had weaved its life-giving force into her damaged blood vessels she was just going to have to live with the excruciating grind and scrape of the knife against her ribs. The hilt protruded from her chest like an embarrassing appendage. Gathering what little strength she had left she struggled to raise herself up onto her elbows. Her first thought, now that Pierre had saved her own blue skin, was Sandslipper-- No you don't, she glared at the masked monk advancing on the genasi, whose eyes remained void even though she was moving, digging in her pack for something--what, Melisande could easily guess. That imperative sense of loathing was on her again, rising in her wounded heart in spite of the agony, driving her on even though her every instinct, as well as her toad, screamed for her to crawl away to safety. Not until I've cracked a few skulls, she thought, grimly borrowing her mother's expression. Later, if she survived, she might laugh about leveling a finger like a deadly weapon. Right now, however, she was furious, and her eyes burned with angry blue flame as she pointed at the man who was leaning over Sandslipper. Sandslipper, digging around in her bag as ordered, seemed to have found what she was looking for, grasping hold of something within and beginning to tug it out. Around her the battle continued to rage chaotically, monks almost dancing around in agile and dextrous stance as they rained a hurricane of strikes towards their foes and the defenders company fought back with equal ferocity. Only the katana-wielding warrior held perfectly still, poised beautifully for action on the spur of the moment as he waited for the earth genasi to deliver the package to him; only his eyes showed any trace of movement, flickering to catch the events unfolding around him. The monk hefting the two spinning blurs that were nunchaku frantically tried to defend himself from the sudden burst of fierce energy that seemed to have surged into Alaric. He found himself unable to get back on the offensive and was unable to land another strike on the squire. Over by the edge of the upper ledge, the monk facing Ebri reverted to simply trying to hammer her down with a storm of strikes, but the woman wove around the flurry of blows as if shadowing and foreseeing all his strikes, a reflexive defensive dance that the others would have found beautiful if they were not so caught up in the immediacy of the situation. Sebastion and his monkish foe were caught in frantic, tense battle. Both were badly injured now - very badly injured - and he could see fear on the man's face. It was all he could do to hold his own against the martial artists storm of strikes, and then he let one punch slip through, a mistake, brought about by the fatigue and pain of his own injuries. A glancing punch like that from a normal man would have hurt but he'd still have been standing. The monk's style though,a whiplike tenseness locking in as he ended the punch, smashed Sebastion off his feet and dropped the soldier unconcious to the ground. Bashing his fists together in triumph, the monk threw his gaze around to land on the embattled Ebri. The woman, facing Meg'anna with an expression that was a mix of furious anger and haughty arrogance, reached into her robes and produced a long, slender, coiled whip, sinuous leather tongue ending in a fierce metal blade that glinted glutinously with a coat of some dark, viscous liquid. She smiled sadistically, and lightfootedly danced back to lash out with the weapon hand, bringing the demonic tendril round with a crack as it bit through the air. The long whip wriggled through the intervening space at the druidess but by dint of quick reflexes Meg'anna managed to avoid the weapon's strike. Alaric growled as he forced his foe back, the frantic monk battering strikes away with his nunchuks, but he knew he was in trouble. With a grunt of effort, the squire thrust his blade straight at the midriff of the man with such speed that he didn't manage to dodge. Kicking the corpse off the sword it had become impaled on, now slick with blood and glinting red in the tavern light, Alaric prepared to move to intercept the monk who had just felled Sebastion; the situation looked grave and he needed to keep the enemy from being able to gang up on the others of this band. Ebri herself was unable to break the deadlock with her foe; the blur of limbs was simply block after block as both martial artists proved unable to overcome the other.Sebastion was down, and unconcious, but Melisande had just managed to bring herself back up again and despite the pain in her chest around the protruding blade, managed to overcome the agony and concentrate enough to unleash burningly icy energy at her chosen target. The ray lanced out and now the poised man moved, dancing easily to one side as the cold beam petered out, and then striding purposefully and gracefully towards the young aasimar. Melisande did not have time to curse her bad luck.A few quick paces and he was there, then the katana slashed down. Her mouth went dry. Pierre, get away from here. Hide! Go! she projected, but the toad didn't need telling twice. He slipped from her pocket and slunk down the length of her skirt using its folds for cover. Oh for a swamp and a deep muddy refuge. Melisande's mortal terror was too much for his amphibian brains; it was all he could do to keep from making panicky, haphazard leaps. The image of the flashing hurting thing raised over his Friend impressed on him how important staying under cover was at the time, however. It was a display of swordsmanship, of true mastery of the katana and its style, that left Alaric breathless for a moment as if he was watching a blademaster demonstrating technique rather than an enemy in a deadly battle. Sebastion, had he been concious, would too have marvelled at the skill of the man.The katana hit her with such force she was unconscious before a fountain of deep, sea-blue blood gouted from the cleft in her body and a panic-stricken two-headed anuran sprung in a terrified bound toward the cover of overturned chairs, his minds going abysmally dark with the absence of Her. Melisande tumbled like a rag doll, a perfect cut from left shoulder to right hip bitten in by the blade and gouting gore. Even as the man had been striding purposefully towards the sorceress, Meg'anna had been scrambling away from her superior opponent, running to the side of Sebastion and letting natural energy flow into him. It assuaged a few of the bruises, but more importantly brought conciousness flowing back into the young man. His eyes flickered open to the faint sound of birdsong echoing around him as the magic soothed a little, though he still hurt like hell. Both of them looked up just in time to see Melisande brutally cut down. Sebastion returned to consciousness with a gasp, looking up to see the expressive face of Meg'anna above him, staring down. Past her, however, he caught the glint of a blade, and moved his attention to watch the blade flash down. His mind was still a little rubbery as he watched the damage being done, feeling his heart clench slightly as he watched the result of crossing the line he had felt such strange exultation in walking. She might have had the brain of a chicken, but I didn't want to see it... He felt a giggle try to lurch up from his stomach, roiling there in a fight with bile for a bid to escape, and he forced them both down. He moved to stand, and his arm brushed the knife lodged in his side, sending a wave of pain through his ribs and behind his eyes that drove the wavering from his mind. Gripping the slick handle of the knife he dragged it out, and cast it with all the strength he could muster at the back of the swordsman, hoping to distract him before he could finish Melisande. "Squire!" he hissed, through clenched teeth, pointing to the swordsman, as his eyes met the monk he had been up against before. Grasping his makeshift clubs from the floor, he rose slowly, raggedly to his feet, squaring up against the man, wondering whether Meg'anna would stand with him, or move to attack the Huronese witch. Within a blink of an eye, the fluttering of power escaped her person, and the entire scenerio changed. One person entered the combat, while another person exited. As the blade sliced through the small woman, Meg'anna's heart broke into small pieces. The muted rage that she felt now exploded into a full blown torrent of rage. From somewhere deep within her mind, a spell broke to the surface. Her mind began the sing-song chant before she even realized what was going on. The words broke to the surface of her mind, amid the swirl of enraged thoughts. Wood unliving,may come alive.From death to lifemay this gift unfold,spring to lifefrom warmth gone cold.With Nature's furythis stave en-twine. Oblivious to the carnage around her, Sandslipper finally found what she was looking for in the depths of her pack and stood up, reaching out towards the dark swordsman with a hand that clutched a small parcel. He moved quickly away from the fallen Melisande, apparently unconcerned with checking if she was finished or not, to grab it himself; the face of the woman wielding the whip became gleeful as finally their objective was complete. The monk facing Ebri continued in their dance, each strike blocked or pushed aside as they each attempted to gain the edge. He feinted a strike, then suddenly lashed out with a palm with a blow obviously aimed to incapacitate Ebri by hitting a nerve point; but he stumbled on debris as he did so, overbalancing himself and missing wildly. Meanwhile the other monk saw Sebastion bringing himself up from the floor again, with the druidess next to him. Cursing loudly at healers in general, the monk hurled himself back in the direction he had came, unleashing a furious attack at Meg'anna but fortunately for the druidess she was quick enough to be able to fend off the warrior. The woman grinned, seeing their work done, and backed off towards a nearby window which she opened wide with a fluid, graceful motion, the other hand still cracking the bladed whip angrily. "Men, we are leaving! Bring the package, let's go!" Immediately the monks all began to try and disengage from their respective foes. Alaric paused to observe the situation, which was so rapidly changing with every few moments that passed, unsure as to where his blade would do the most good. He saw the monk attack Meg'anna and Sebastion - they could surely hold their own. He saw Ebri still locked in combat with her foe, and saw that in that struggle the only one who had been injured was the enemy; she too was not in dire straits. Melisande lay bleeding but there was little he could do, for the ways of the healer were a foreign province to him. But the swordsman had the package, and though he knew not what was in it, if it was destined for a Truth Seeker and these people thought it worthwhile to kill to get it, he was not about to let it fall into their hands so easily. He charged the expert warrior, gravely aware that from the demonstration of the mans prowess against Melisande, and the burst of strange ephemeral power he had conjured earlier, the young squire was likely outmatched. But he charged anyway. Blade struck blade as they began to duel, Alaric unable to penetrate the defences of the swordsman who kept the package tucked tight against his side with one hand. But even as they circled, the swordsman trying to break off to leave but hampered by the young mage-knight, a hum was audible in the air. A strange blue glow began to suffuse the area, and in the air around them, all over the upper floor, strange ethereal doorways began to solidify. Alaric smiled grimly. "Flame Hawks are coming, and they're mere seconds away - give in now and maybe your lives will be spared," he growled. The swordsman simply spat in his face and began to back off towards the window and his female accomplice. In the glimmering light shed by the materialising portals, Ebri continued to trade strikes, still unable to land another solid blow, while Sebastion hurled the dagger which had so recently been buried in his side at the swordsman, the blade flitting through the melee of blades to strike home and elicit an angry snarl of pain as it bit deep in, dark blood gurgling from the man's abdomen and sending him coughing and staggering back. Meg'anna cast her spell, natural magic surging into the staff and imbuing it with power, but as she did so the monk attacking her took advantage of the opportunity and struck hard, hitting home; fortunately she managed to keep her concentration, and the magic sent her weapon flourishing into bloom. Still wringing her spear in her hands, the stave sprang to life, in a muted flash of pale emerald light. Vines sprang forth, coiling about her hands and the rest of the stave became quickly embroiled in the writhing mass of vegetation that erupted from the once dead wood.Spinning the weapon in her hands, Meg'anna then set her sights on the fiend whom struck down her friend... Snarling savagely at seeing the dagger strike home, Sebastion felt rather more enthused as he struggled to his feet, breath rushing out in a pained gasp as his table-legs swung up in front of him. "That's got to hurt..." he muttered, though it wasn't immediately clear about whom, or what, he was talking. Stepping closer to the battle between Meg'anna and the monk that had floored him, Sebastion tried to move around to the best striking angle, and lashed out once more. The swordsman had the package now, and their leader had ordered their departure, but still the monks were unable to leave; Alaric's timely assault meant that his opponent could not back off without opening himself up to the squire. The katana-wielder sneered at his foe's warning of impending doom, instead lashing out with another near-perfect slice at the Flame Hawk, which bit deep through his chainmail and sent him staggering in show as a sluice of blood splashed out of the wound. Ebri's foe once again tried to stun her with a carefully placed blow, but his increasingly desperate attempts to finish the fight - and to escape - came to no avail as she blocked the strike. The monk attacking Meg'anna broke away, moving towards the combat between Alaric and the swordsman, ready to dive in when next he saw the chance and aid his brethren.The leader, the woman, with bladed whip in one hand, reached into her hair for another dagger, hurling it with force at Alaric, but his armour caught the attack and it caused him no harm. Alaric, caught in combat with the swordsman, was unable to penetrate the warriors defences with his own blade, but Ebri managed to place a strike through her opponents defences and hit solidly with a cracking sound; combined with her earlier blow, it was enough punishment to drop the monk, lung punctured by the rib that she had just smashed in. Sebastion, weak but now standing again, headed after his earlier foe, and assailed the monk with both chairlegs; enough to batter the man to the floor this time, unable to dodge all the strikes in his own weakened condition, where he lay, unmoving and perhaps dead from the smashing clubs. Meg'anna, full of rage and now wielding her staff empowered with the magic of nature, charged without battle-cry nor scream at the katana-wielder, who found himself embattled and nearly surrounded. She swiped out, catching him unawares and hitting with fury-augmented strength that sent him reeling though it was not enough to kill him. Then the ephemeral blue glow crystallised into three phantasmal portals, through each of which stepped a warrior resplentant in the garb of a Flame Hawk. They leapt into combat with the katana-wielder, one lashing out and connecting solidly with a strike that flared with flame and caught the man, immolating his torso in a single blow. The smoking corpse dropped, and at that moment Sandslippers gaze changed from vague and distant back to normal, and she looked around her in horror as if seeing the carnage for the first time. "Oh Grumand..." The Hawks went for the woman, but she was too quick, dancing easily out of their reach and through the window, seemingly dropping catlike to the alley below and disappearing into the shadows. In the growing dark of late evening, they stood no chacne of tracking one such as her. * * *One of the Flame Hawks saw Melisande on the floor, bloodied and slashed. "A Cerulean One?" he said in a surprised voice. "Lieutenant, get that woman to the Naskharites quickly!" One man gracefully scooped up the limp pile and in moments was back through another glimmering door of blue. The apparent leader of the Hawks, a middle-aged and stocky warrior, turned to the party, nodding to Alaric. "We came as soon as we heard of the trouble, and got enough details to know where it was and who it involved. I'm... sorry that you have to had experienced this in our city; from young Alaric's presence I assume you are the band that Lord Falkmar told me were guarding a package for Lord Seeker Ecurius. I assume too that this is that package," he said, picking it from the floor by the smouldering corpse and handing it back to Sandslipper. "I'd make sure it was in a safe place, if I were you." Sandslipper stared at her feet, a look of shame on her face. "I don't know if you might be able to shed some light on why these people attacked you, but I don't see it as a matter my troops need to investigate seeing as how you managed to deal with it more or less by yourselves; you've earned whatever possessions these scum might have been carrying. I must ask thought; I didn't realise you were accompanied by a Cerulean One. She's safe, don't worry; the lieutenant took her to the main temple where she'll be given healing. I'm sure she'll be fine in no time." He didn't sound too sure though; the injury had been pretty bad. Watching the Flame Hawks end the confrontation with a single, augmented strike was somehow a little galling after the struggle, and the rather hollow assurance that Sebastion tried to give himself - that things would have been different had he been armed and armoured - settled him not a whit as he sat rather heavily in a chair, breathing shallowly as his ribs ached. Unable to rest against the back of the chair in any way that was comfortable he leant forward, arms folded over the wound to stared down at the monk he had finally felled, seeking a sign that he was merely unconscious and not dead. Watching the rather smug sounding Flame Hawk speak, he looked up, feeling the first shakes of the departure of adrenaline start in. "What is that, anyway?" he asked, teeth chattering slightly as he tried to stand, and weak, rebellious legs decided not to comply. And why did that nutsucking Huronese b|tch want it so badly? he added, silently, as the queasy feeling in his stomach lurched violently. Taking a deep breath, and wrapping his arms tighter about himself as his vision swam a little and he realised how cold it was, he settled into the chair, not really expecting an answer. The Flame Hawk captain raised an eyebrow quizzically at Sebastion's question. "I assume you mean the package that your companion carries with her - if so, then no, I don't know what is within it. That is for Lord Seeker Ecurius to know, not me." Ebri padded over quietly to Sebastion. "You are injured. Badly. Hold still, let me see what I can do for those wounds..." She muttered a quiet prayer under her breath, then laid her hands over the knife injury and let positive energy flow into Sebastion's side. Flesh knitted back together and his mind was flooded with soothing calm that balmed the feeling of pain shootuing through his body. Kicking herself for letting the woman get away, Meg'anna looked around at the carnage from the battle. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed, blood and gore smattered all over the walls and wood splinters everywhere. Her body was fatigued. Small cuts and bruises began to surface, as well as the rather large gash that she had suffered. Yet she was the least injured. Sebastion had suffered a near death experience and Melisande's body lie crumpled on the floor, an azure fluid leaking from her body. Ebri had her bruises as well, and the squire was bleeding from every feasible position on his body, the chainmail armour he wore now splint and broken in many places. Yet they still had very little idea who had attacked them and why. We all need healing and rest, yet trouble seems to follow where ever we travel. Surely there is some way to rest and heal without being disturbed.... And just who were those people? What did they want? More and more unanswered questions! Why cant we just be left alone?!? Sebastion slumped slightly in the chair, spots appearing before his eyes as each successive breath seemed harder than the last, even as the lids hung heavier and heavier. Hands on his side stirred him only slightly, but the warm, flowing sensation that emanated from those hands woke him suddenly as a slight haze passed over his senses, dulling them momentarily. He looked up into the disinterested expression of Ebri Zol's face as she broke away, and reached down to rub away the remaining blood from his side where the hole was closed. "Didn't even leave a scar..." he muttered quietly to himself, half amazed at the act, half disappointed by the lack of a victory marker. "Thank you." were the words that came from his lips, though, sincere and hushed. Examining his side for a few moments more before lowering the remains of his shirt to cover his torso again, remembering suddenly he was in public, he coughed nervously, spun the chair around and leant on the back of it with his chin on his hands. "Suppose someone tells me what one of these High Seekers is, anyhow? Seeing as we're heading to see one... maybe you can tell us about it as we go to see how Melisande's doing? It'll only take me minute to get my armour on." Despite Ebri's healing magic - and the fact that the only hole he felt aware of in himself was the one in his stomach as it rumbled loudly - he still felt more than slighly naked without the reassuring weight of the chain, and he hoped they would be moving soon so he had an excuse to fetch it. Pleased to see that Ebri had taken care of Sebastion's wounds, Meg'anna sunk to the floor, leaning heavily against the wall. Today had been trying. They had almost been imprisioned and killed. For some of them, they had been on death's door, or extremely close to it. Regardless, with the rage within her being subsiding, in its wake it left a terrible chill. Tears flooded into her eyes. It was all that she could do to wipe them away before new ones sprang to life to replace them. Micah scampered across the debris-littered floor and leapt into the woman's lap. Whether it was more of a comfort to himself or the woman whose lap he sat in, no one could tell. Moments later, she had gathered most of her scattered emotions, and sat against the wall, legs pulled against her chest, the small rust-coloured fox lying ontop of them. Her mind was empty. She was mentally exhausted, and she could think of no release. She let her mind touch on brief memories, that of her father and mother, whom she could not remember very well any more. That of her surrogate father, whom was lost at the hands of some vile creatures, that of a band of gnolls, whom she had found slaughtered by a band of soldiers. Images of death and destruction filled her mind, and again the mute woman fell into a silent sob. The two Flame Hawks watched uncomfortably as Meg'anna descended quietly into tears. Sandslipper shyly walked over to the tall druidess and crouched down next to her, trying to be a reassuring presence but not quite sure what the cause of the mute oman's distress was. "Come on, Meg'anna, let's go and see ho Mel is faring in the temple. I'm sure the priests will have made sure she's fine already." The Flame Hawk captain turned to reply to Sebastion's question. "Truth Seeker, not High Seeker, young man. They are an ancient and highly respected society of sorcerers, who search for truths in many fields. They are akin to historians in one way, for they research a lot into the past of the world, and the causes for how things have come about. Always, relics and pieces of old things are being collected by them - I wouldn't be surprised if that's what's in that package. It is said they have many old prophecies scribed down that are thought lost by others, and certainly the Seekers tend to keep what knowledge they have accumulated to themselves." They waited as Sebastion pulled on his armour, and some olf the others checked the bodies of the fallen foe. Each of the Huronese men, it could be seen, had a tattoo on their upper arm depicting a scorpion ready to strike. They managed to scavenge four potions marked 'healing' from the corpses - and corpses they were, for not a single one had survived in the end - along with a single little vial containing dark liquid, and marked 'Scorpion's Hatred'. When they were all ready, the Flame Hawk turned to the others. "Ready to go? Follow me. If you have any more questions, please ask." They strode down from the wrecked upper level of the Cowardly Dragon, past the small crowd of patrons who watched them cautiously, and then out into the night-time streets. * * *Melisande awoke, and despite what she had feared, there was no pain. Maybe that was worse, since she was surrounded by cool white sheets, in a white room, and so there seemed every possibility that she was dead and perhaps in heaven. On the other hand, it was only poorly lit and then only by a few guttering candles. Maybe she was in some worse place? The others in the room discouraged either hypothesis. Two women in blue and gold garb, the holy symbols hanging round their necks depicting the golden dragon head that symbolised Naskha the Great Sorcerer. They looked down at her with kindly eyes, smiling to see her regain conciousness. The third figure was a tall man, also in blue and gold robes though these were of a far less orderly pattern than the two healers. He was bald, but seemingly well muscled; most notably was the fact that his skin was entirely a cerulean blue colour, it seemed. He smiled too. "Young lady, you are in the temple of our Lord Naskha, here in Corvus city. Do no panic, or worry for your friends. Flame Hawks came to their aid and your attackers were defeated, and then you were brought here were we might tend to your wounds." It took her a few moments to find her voice. She was still disoriented and weak, although apparently healed, and the shock of adrenaline comedown as well as this made her voice come out rough and wavery. The hot sting of tears was in her eyes. "They're all right? Sandslipper and her package? Oh, thank goodness." She sank down into the pillow again, swallowing a lump of relief in her throat. "And I'm alive and this is the Temple of Naskha and..." Mel wanted desperately to ask this man, from his robes and gentle smile probably a priest of Naskha, why he was blue. But for the life of her she could not think of a nice, polite way to put it; all her life, people had teased her, pinched her, asked rude questions. So how did one go about pointing out something so embarrassing without risking hurt feelings? Instead she just smiled, pretending it was perfectly natural for two blue people to be conversing. "Thank you. And thank the Flame Hawks. My name is Melisande, by the way. I'm a--a--uh, you didn't find an unusual toad anywhere around the restaurant, did you?" The cerulean-skinned man gave a wry smile as he sat himself down on the edge of the bed. "Yes, your friends are all fine, as far as I gathered from the Flame Hawk who delivered you here. I'm afraid I don't know anything about a toad though; it has not been long since you were brought here, and the Hawk in question travelled here and back via magic, so I would think your companions - and probably this toad - are still in the tavern." "Ah. I didn't realize. Feels like it's been days. Guess I was out of it, wasn't I?" Mel smiled weakly. Even as she idly chattered, she eyed the man's skin tone with wonder. It really was nearly the same sky-blue shade as her own; a little darker in hue, which in a normal person might be termed ruddy, but otherwise quite similar. An idea occurred to her. "Are you an aasimar?" Belatedly recalling Lord Corvus' annoyance at her question Are you a real sorcerer?, she amended, "...by any chance, because I've been reading up on them and I heard they were often--you know--" her tongue caught on the word "--blue." She tried an apologetic smile, fearing she had ended up offending him in spite of the pains she had taken not to. The blue man gave a friendly laugh at Melisande's question. "Ah, my child, I feel it is that you ask because you are blue as well, not because you've been reading up on aasimar, eh? It's quite hard not to notice your own hue of skin." He grinned. "The Flame Hawk who delivered you here thought you were a Cerulean One, though of course you are not - your skin is quite genuinely blue, and what a blessing it is you have recieved from Naskha! I have heard you are a sorceress too - truly the Great Sorcerer has rained gifts down upon you, and you not even a Naserian too!" "I am not an aasimar, child, no; I am quite human in physique. Look closer." And, now that she was concentrating a bit more, and the feeling of cotton wool stuffed between her ears had receded as she awoke properly, she could see that he wasn't really blue-skinned at all. Rather, his skin was covered in intricate blue tattooes, of amazing complexity and all down to a tiny level of detail. The patterns were so tightly packed that from more than a few feet away, to one not aware mof it, the man did indeed seem to have blue skin. "I am a Cerulean One, young sorceress. Myself and the others who follow the path of the Cerulean seek to be one with Naskha, to be tools of His will in both mind and body; as such we seek to bring ourselves as close to Him as possible, by decorating ourselves in His likeness; for the Great Sorcerer was of blue skin Himself, so it is said in the Azercorium, our sacred text. Our tattooes bring us closer to Him, and He in his grace grants divine energy to flow through them and protect us." Melisande's disappointment that the Naserian priest was not really blue was quickly offset by her excitement at hearing about the Cerulean Ones--not to mention her amazement that anyone would be blue on purpose. She had never heard about Naskha being blue, nor that He had followers who were tattooed to resemble Him. What she had learned of Naseria and its god in Carthagian schools was quite derisory--and derisive. She sat up, her eyes wide with wonder. "Do you think Naskha meant me to be a tool of His will? Do you think his divine energy could flow through my skin like it flows in your tattoos? I mean, I always wondered if there was a reason for this. My mother wouldn't tell me anything about who my father was or why I'm this way. "Maybe Naskha wants me to help defend Naseria against my homeland, Carthagia. I was an apprentice Manipulator there, until I couldn't stand it anymore and decided to try my luck here..." She wanted to ask him to pray to Naskha for her, to find out if the Naserian god had a mission for her. How easy life would be if a divinely imposed goal were set before her like a shining road; no more tortured decisions, no more foundering in doubt. But on the other hand, she realized she might not want to know what Naskha had in mind after all, even if gods were in the habit of spelling things out to people, which even she knew they weren't. Right now keeping Sandslipper safe on her journey north was foremost in Mel's heart, and in the end that probably was service to Naskha anyway. If He had some darker ulterior struggle in mind she didn't really need to hear about it just now, still recovering from a mortal wound and enjoying the last days of her innocence as she was, yet--yet the temptation was strong... She may never have another chance to get some answers. Naturally, she gave in. "Is there some way I can be of service, do you think? If I perfected my skills as a Manipulator, could I help Naseria protect itself from Carthagia? Is that what I'm here for?" * * *Huddled amidst debris in the abandoned restaurant, feeling more than a little anxious, a two-headed toad nosed its way out from under a cloth napkin. He knew without knowing that if his Friend had died, as his right head had feared, he would sense it; she was in both his heads most of the time and her presence was still there, though distant and muffled. He probably should enjoy the peace and quiet. Yet both his heads would remain uneasy until they found their way to their safe and comfy pocket once again. Or perhaps not so safe; but comfy was one thing toads had an excellent grasp of, and valued very highly, and Pierre somehow knew he would not be comfy again until he had located his wayward Friend. Because Pierre didn't think of Melisande as his mistress, owner or protector. Sometimes it was the other way round, in fact. What trouble she had gotten herself into this time was far beyond his amphibious brain but Pierre was fine with that. He truly did not want to know. It was his (literally) stick-in-the-mud simplicity of purpose that had more than once guided Melisande out of dangerous complications, and he sensed she needed it now more than ever. Walking in the woods collecting snails is good. Fighting with bipeds is bad. Pierre shook loose the napkin and took a low, tentative leap out from the debris. His Friend's still-hot blood stained the floor dark blue. Though an inveterate lover of puddles, he avoided this one, directing himself toward the flow of cool night air from below. It was going to take time to negotiate the stairs, even for a jumper, but Pierre had a single-minded patience and nothing else as important to do, and so he slowly, ponderously, clambered down toward the doorway and freedom... and probably cockroaches! * * *The band was led through the night-time streets of Corvus, amidst the tall, looming buildings. Here and there lights flickered from windows, denoting the presence of some late worker or someone partaking of evening entertainment. Few others wandered the streets, though clustered under lamp posts, knots of guards wandered the streets. The gas lamps that lined the main streets were a marvel to behold, perhaps magic or perhaps technology that shed orange light over the cobbled boulevards. With one Flame Hawk leading the way and another taking up the rear, the band was not stopped nor questioned as they made their way towards the temple of Naskha. Feeling, strangely, far more comfortable in his armour, knotting his hands about the central hilt of his two-bladed sword, Sebastion had felt considerably more secure as they stepped out into the street on the shoulder of the Flame Hawk. Stepping boldly, moving closer to Sandslipper, he drifted into the position of almost a bodyguard, instinctively, as he watched the surroundings for a repeat performance from the Huronese woman. "So what do you think the package might be?" he asked her, quietly, scanning the surroundings constantly. color=silver]"And why do you think she wants it so badly?" [/color]In response to Sebastion's quiet question, Sandslipper could only shrug. "I really don't know what's in the package, Sebastion. The one who hired me made it pretty clear it wasn't any of my buisness, but from the size of the thing I doubt it is anything large, and it's not very heavy either. As for why that woman wants it, I don't know either. Maybe she's an enemy of the Truth Seeker? From the tattooes on their arms, all those men must belong to some group who use the scorpion as their emblem, I would imagine, though I've never come across such an organisation myself." Eventually they arrived at the temple of Naskha, the great building's front doors open to let light spill out onto the street in front. As they approached the entrance, they could see the gerat golden dragon head inscribed on the wall glinting in the meagre illumination. * * *Pierre, a mere toad posing no interest to the guards on the streets, slowly made his way towards the temple, following distantly in the trail of the big two-legged people who had also gone in that direction. A cat hissed at him, but didn't try to eat him because the Manipulated toad scared it too much. * * *"My child, Naskha works in ways that often we cannot hope to understand, for He is the Trickster too and delights in subteruge to defeat His foes. Perhaps you are right, and you have a calling gifted to you by Naskha, but only you can know that, in your own heart. I am not so learned that I can tell a persons fate merely by looking at them." He chuckled. "Yet it is clear you are special to Him, certainly. I cannot tell you what your future holds.I cannot give to you a clear, definite command of what He wants you to do. But I can tell you that you are in His favour; believe in Him, and He will give you strength." He reached into his robes, and withdrew a little necklace, from which hung a tiny emblem; th holy symbol of Naskha, a circle within which lay the profile of a dragon's head, the entire emblem in gold. "Here. Take this as a gift from the Church of Naskha." "Oh, thank you!" Melisande gasped. Her blue eyes welled with heartfelt, grateful tears as she accepted the gold pendant from the Cerulean One and reached back to clasp it around her neck. Yet as she did so a disagreeable memory arose unbidden in her mind, of the moment in the druid glen when she foolishly donned the shadow-demon's amulet only to discover later that the thing held fast to her like a tick. While she did not hesitate with the emblem of Naskha, still the thought of the scrying amulet stole some of her joy. She drew the eye and pyramid symbol out and held it up for the Cerulean One to see. "I'm sorry Naskha has to share my neck with whoever this belongs to. I put it on without thinking and now there's nothing I can do to get it off short of cutting my own head off. And worse yet I have a strong feeling it's scrying on me. Do you know what I might do to get rid of it, by any chance?" * * *The band was ushered in by blue and gold-robed priests, who looked on with concern and set to caring for the battered party members with bandages and healing magics. Offers were made of lodgings for the night - for the temple was surely as safe as any other place - and reassurances that Melisande was alright, and was even now speaking with a Cerulean One. The clerics seemed slightly in awe of the young aasimar, excited by the fact that someone so clearly blessed by the Great Sorcerer had been delivered to them. Sebastion accepted the offer of seating, and the prospect of a night's rest, with a mixture of welcome relief and - to his mind at leats - healthy scepticism. He had been attacked at an inn, why should a temple be necessarily any safer. That said, he did feel rather more at ease here - how much threat could there be from a group of men who wore dresses, after all. Settling a little, he still kept his armour on, and waited for something to happen, for he felt sure the evening would not pass uneventfully. * * *His Friend's mind came back to Pierre in a rush of sound and emotion, so much that only one of his heads noticed the cat and even then could only respond by staring in dismay at the spitting predator while the other head steered him ever forth. He lumped along the night street, sticking to the ditches whenever possible, and seeking the mind of his Friend like a beacon. However, now that he had been buoyed by the comforting awareness that she was alive and well and even for some reason happy, he felt a somewhat less pressing need to find his way to her pocket again, and so lingered as he approached the temple, hoping for a crunchie. * * *The Cerulean One took the emblem in his hand, looked at it for a moment, then pulled the necklace round so he could instead see the catch. After fiddling with it for a bit, he raised an eyebrow. "Magical lock, I would guess. A simple dispel should do the trick..." He chanted a low prayer under his breath, and with a click the necklace undid itself from round Melisande's neck. He handed the now unattached necklace back to her. "There you go. Sleep well, for it is late, and I shall leave you now to rest." * * *Even as Meg'anna tried to get Sebastion's attention, more priests came, and the blue-and-gold robed men ushered them to various rooms where they could rest overnight. As they walked the marble and white-washed corridors of the temple, in many places they saw the sings of a more military side to the church; armoured clerics in chainmail guarding some of the doors and walkways. This was, after all, a city most at threat from Carthagia. The lodgings they were given were comfortable enough, not opulent but pleasant. Provided with baths and fresh dressings for wounds, the company was advised to get rest. The Flame Hawks had long since departed, but the priests told the band that they could see their friend Melisande in the morning, when she had rested too. * * *Morning light flooded across the cloisters of the temple, clergy contemplatively wandering through the temple and guards watching vigilantly. Each of the band found themselves gently awoken by a cleric, who quietly told them that they could, should they so wish, have a morning meal in the refectory; and that the Flame Hawk Alaric had departed that morning, saying he would be back soon once he had finalised the company's trip north to Tarravus. Melisande's first waking thought went to Pierre. She hadn't slept a night separated from him since the magical link was forged between their disparate minds over a year before. So anxious was she to recover her warty yet adored little companion that she did not even take the time to mend her laundered but shredded clothing before racing out into the Temple in search of the exit, both hands clutching her dress shut as she went. Wild with worry, her navy hair whipping loose, she hurled herself through a blessing of morning acolytes and out the Temple gates. Placid as a clod, Pierre marred the marble Temple steps with his blobbish presence. No one would have stepped on him. The only danger he was in was the possible passage of a street-cleaner with a shovel. Kneeling, she scooped him up fondly and hugged him to her partially exposed chest. "There you are, you ugly, sweet little lump. Into the pocket again? All right with me. Upsy-daisy! Yes, I'm much better now too. You won't believe where we are right now..." Ignoring her chatter, Pierre settled into his familiar old pocket, which he found he now shared with an uncomfortably cold piece of metal on a chain. He shifted so it lay under his backside where it was least uncomfortable. Wandering back inside she realized belatedly that her dress truly had suffered as bad a wound as she had, and although the clerics of Naskha had seen to laundering the blue blood out of it, it still required serious healing of its own. She stopped in the sun-flooded vestibule to work her familiar old Mend spell, magically bringing the frayed gash back together and wonderingly recalling the last time she had used the spell. Similar circumstances... she had received a slash wound to the chest from a gnoll ranger. This one must have been worse. It was a good thing she passed out, she realized. How dreadful and exciting her life had become since she left Carthagia! She had fled the horror of vivisected goblins only to be vivisected herself, repeatedly. Once presentable, she followed the scent of hot bread toward the Temple dining hall. If her Cerulean friend was there she hoped he'd be able to direct her to wherever Sandslipper, Meg and the others were this morning, as she was anxious to see them alive and well again.The acolyte that came to wake Sebastion found him already up and alert, running through basic practice routines with his sword on the balcony outside his room. Acknowledging the invitation, the warrior returned to the room to oil and tend to his weapons, before shucking his armour long enough to check it quickly, bending a few links back into place with a small hook and liberally oiling the whole ensemble. So it was that he found himself approaching the refectory, armoured but not armed, just as Melisande was arriving. Realising he was rather obvious in appearance, and knowing it was too late to hide from the often acerbic young woman, he coughed slightly, to cover the pause in his pace, and carried on, arriving at the door as she did. "You are looking well." he said, neutrally. "...uh... how... how do you feel?" It was weak, as greetings went, but it would serve for now, he decided, holding the door for her, and feeling assailed by the smells of cooking. At the entrance to the refectory the ebullient Melisande found Sebastion Cornell wearing a pinched expression, as usual as sour and macho as a sweaty leather codpiece. Nevertheless, on impulse, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as she breezed past to breakfast. "Wonderful! Thanks for asking. And you?" She stood scanning the dining tables for Meg'anna, Sandslipper and Ebri Zol, guessing from Sebastion Cornell's presence that they were all lodging here at the Temple of Naskha. Unless Sebastion had volunteered to come check on Melisande's healing by himself, which seemed to her somewhat unlikely. The kiss caught him by surprise, and he found himself clearing his throat repeatedly as he followed her into the refectory. Looking around he hoped none of the Priest's had seen: despite being blue, she was a passably attractive woman, and this was, after all, a temple.Once inside, though, such thoughts rapidly disappeared as he sought out something to eat, hoping that the priests here weren't so ascetic as to pass over the joys of eggs, bacon, black pudding and the like for breakfast. They found the others clustered around a table in the refectory, eating of bread, cheese, bacon and eggs provided for them by the priests. Sandslipper appeared a little groggy and not very talkative, instead concentrating purely on eating. It wasn't long before Alaric returned. "Good morning," the liveried warrior said quietly as he entered the refectory. "Glad to see you're all alright - are you feeling better, Melisande? I've been aranging matters for our journey to Tarravus; horses are outside, ready for whenever we choose to leave. That is, assuming that you want to go today; I'd better point out that Lord Falkmar would probably prefer you on your way soon though." Sebastion barely halted in his eating, staring for a moment over the top of his fork as another mouthful of bacon disappeared. Chewing quickly he gestured with his fork at the squire as he spoke around the mouthful of meat. "If Lord Falkmar is so keen to be rid of us," he pondered, aloud, "I wonder if he might be willing to aid us with supplying for the journey? I could use a few replacement throwing-axes, or even a bow, if there's a barracks with spares near here?" It was a long hope, he knew, but 'don't ask, don't get' was an old and tried aphorism. "Yes, Squire, I am feeling better, but of course better than disemboweled isn't saying much. Thank goodness--thank Naskha--for you and the Flame Hawks. "I suppose the longer we stay in one place, the more likely this is to happen again. Although I'd love to stay a day or two longer in Corvus City..." She motioned broadly, taking in the beauty of the Temple, the peaceful clergy and the sumptuous breakfast all at once. "You don't suppose his Lordship would mind providing a little for the journey, seeing as how we are serving his liege...? Just some trail rations, that sort of thing? I mean, in addition to the horses, which were really very thoughtful." Mel cocked her head, looking sidelong at Sebastion Cornell. "We'll need all the help we can get. Guards, too..." * * *It was later that day when the small band trotted out of Corvus city atop their steeds, clattering over the wide wooden bridge that spanned the expanse of water seperating the northern gate and the northern bank of the river. The sun shone pleasantly down over them, covering the landscape in its balmy glow. The countryside of Naseria was lushly green and verdant, cultivated fields and thick woods spread over the rolling hills. Alaric had arranged for more supplies, and their packs bulged with rations. he had even managed to secure a well-made bow for Sebastion - "made in Fayen, the elven realm in the north-west" - which the warrior had found to be serviceable and even decorated with engraved vines. Yet they departed the city missing one thing, or rather person. Meg'anna had left them. * * *None of them had been able to tell what it was that had been weighing down on the shoulders of the tall young druidess. Mute as she was, she could not speak to them of it, but even if she had been able to there was no certainty that, whatever the matter was, she would have wished to tell them. All she had given them was an apologetic shrug and miserable face before she set out of the southern gate of the city - heading not south, but east... * * *They made good time north on the well-travelled road that day, but some confusion over how far they'd be able to make it before sundown happened meant that they spent that night camping out by the side of the road as darkness fell. Sebastion had spent the day comfortably slumped in the saddle, alert when it was his turn, but dozing gently for the remainder except for the few times he drew his new bow to accustom himself to the draw. Unsure of the necessity of the decoration, especially when contrasted against the rather stark, austere, pristine lines of the remainder of his equipment, he knew enough of the near-legendary elven archers to accept the bow at face value and believe its crafter knew more than he. The night air was cool, pleasantly so after the sun of the day. The disparate collection of individuals quickly slipped into sleep, except for Ebri. The woman found herself unable to settle down properly. She couldn't be quite sure why, but it was as if she was on edge,a s if something had made her nervous that she wasn't aware of. No-one had set a watch, this being well into the civilised territory of Naseria, and around her the others slept soundly. It disturbed her that, for all her discipline, her mind would not quiet.Ebri sat upright in her blankets, her wool wrap about her shoulders, absolutely still and composed except for the minute movements of respiration. This posture was a favorite of hers, soles of the feet touching, hands curled halfway and resting on the knees. It was the first thing she had been taught upon her acceptance to the monastery, after months upons months of dishwashing, laundry, and countless other menial tasks. Although she had long since advanced beyond such simple things, it was well to be mindful of one's humble beginnings. She had raised three successive crops of vegetables in the thin mountainous soil, learning balance, she had later realized, from having to work in the precarious terraces that clung to the sides of the mountain. One could not relax, not simply let one's mind go to daydreams as one walked along a rich black furrow for lengths and lengths, the whole length of their land... Forget for a moment where you were, and you would reach for a spade behind you, be counting seeds while stepping out a row, and there, you'd fall off the edge into the great chasms below. Balance, Ebri nodded to herself, and awareness.She used the words to rein in her fractious mind again. Memory, memory had been a terrible lure all afternoon, in the idle time as they rode, and now, when it was the time for sleep. Not remembrance, not the useful and productive reflection on the teachings of her elders and the mysteries of the Great Prophet, but memory. The useless re-living of the past. It was wasteful of energies to dwell overmuch on the past; it removed one from the present moment. No doubt it was the cause of her inability to be centered for sleep. It causes one to be nowhere; not here, not there... Her eyes caught the dull gleam of the mimir in the starlight, there next to her knee. The thing was a meditation in itself. A replica of a human skull, its grisly reminder of death, an artificial memory, one that, if it were to be believed, circumvented death-- it preserved the words--the voices-- of those who were long dead. It was inanimate metal; it was not a weapon, except as one considered those things that contained knowledge weapons-- and Ebri did--;it was a product, obviously of powerful magic... and, like a mirror, it gave a reflection. Admittedly, a small, rather warped one, as it was not a flat surface. But there, at her feet, in its cranium was a tiny, dark, distorted image of her. Well worth reflecting on-- she thought, without the slightest bit of humor. She sat for the next hour, using the mimir as a subject to focus her thoughts, much as her old teacher had given her impossible riddles and made up words to train her mind to discipline. It sits there, staring back, like a pagan idol, except that it speaks, much as the simple people would wish it to... Ebri, ask them... ask them... She sighed as the sounds of drumming filled her ears. Do not we all have weak days? She remembered something her master had said, early on. Moments of weakness remain only that--moments-- unless we think to much upon them. When we cannot forgive weakness, it grows in power over us... Ebri, ask them... ask great great grandmother... wheat or barley this year? the north field to pasture...? when is Nilesu's baby coming... Sitting amidst her sleeping blankets, she could not help but jolt in shock as she heard the voice. Strangely sibilant yet at times harsh and snarling, deep and strong. "Ebri Zol... Ebri Zol...""Look to me, Ebri Zol. I stand here. We must speak." There, shrouded in the night gloom, a few metres outside the camp, the bulky, shadowy figure stood. Her breath caught. Old master. She'd never heard one speak before. Around her, the others continued in their slumber, untroubled by what was taking place in the waking world. The voice seared into her mind, startling her out of all composure. An Old Master[//i]--Surely it knew of her lapses. She had almost failed now several times, it had taken her longer than it should have to find the blue woman, and she was proving ineffectual to protect her. She had learned little of the shadow that touched her. I am a poor student. She swallowed hard, and rose to approach the indistinct figure, then prostrated herself to the ground in obeisance. "Old Master..." she murmured. "speak thou to me; thy humblest servant is listening."There was a moment of near-silence as Ebri could feel the gaze of the Old Master boring down into her; all was quiet except the faint rustling of breeze through the leaves of the foliage around the campsite. long now had the fire been quelled to mere glowing embers, and it was by faint moonlight piercing through the clouds that she could make out the shadow-wreathed figure before her. "Abasement is unwise; to lower yourself before shadows is to offer your neck to a blade from the dark. Show wariness and care, for pure darkness hides many things, while shadow-light distorts and alters what can be seen. Both can be used; against you, if you are unwary, yet for you, if you are wise." It raised its inhuman head-shape up, as if looking towards the few dots of light that pierced the cloudy veil above. "A pleasant cast of glimmer across the landscape, this night. Well-suited to travel." Then, without warning, it changed the subject again without missing a beat. "The ward is well?" It moved to survey the campsite. "Ah, yes. Good. You do well. Now listen." "When you arrive in Tarravus, seek out a man called Karbal; he will act as a liaison between yourself and higher authorities, to give you further instructions. It is important that you seek him out, as he will be a link between you and us. If I had the time, I would speak longer to you this night, but events elsewhere call my attention. Know this though; your ward is not merely under threat from steel sword or fletched arrow; the foes arrayed against us in our great task find equal use of corruption of mind and insanity. In time, you shall know more, but for now, be wary and alert against all forms of attack." "I see you have a mimir. I have not seen one of those for many years now - a valuable item, indeed. Keep good care of it, it may prove most useful to you." It gazed down at her. "Fortune be with you, young priestess. One day you will you will prove worthy of understanding the Purpose, I have no doubt. For the time being, be tireless and faithful in your task, and prove to us your skill." It brought up one darkness-covered arm, and for a moment Ebri could see a glimmer of metal, silvery in the moonlight. Then with a slicing action it brought the arm down, the metal tearing through the weave of reality with a faint noise. Edges of existence flapped loosely, as through the tear Ebri could see gray-black void, too blurred for her to make out any details of what lay there in that realm beyond the real world, and the figure stepped through. Within moments, the tear had sealed, with no evidence that the Old Master had ever been there at all. "Of course, master..." Ebri whispered reverently, glad the exalted one had gone, so as not to see her weeping. She wiped the traces of tears from her cheeks, and sat back on her knees. "Thank you..." Carefully avoiding any taint of worship--that belonged only to the Prophet-- still, she locked the master's words in her heart, more precious than any treasure, than any gleaming thing of gold or silver could be. Wisdom was sacred, and she allowed herself to cherish what remained of the encounter. She would not need a mimir to recall them. You do well... You will no doubt prove worthy... There was no denying that the path she walked on was long and difficult. Encouragement was sweeter than she remembered. Her eyes welled up again; she wiped them sternly. Tears cloud the vision. You must watch, and see clearly. She rose, and turned to survey the little camp. The three there, huddled in their blankets, sleeping all unwary in the wilderness, they were the objects of her vigilance. Her especial ward, Melisande--who frowned and muttered in her sleep-- but the others as well. The soldier, Sebastion-- a simple man, she judged, with simple aspirations, but not without courage. He had placed his bedroll farther than necessary from his female companions, but sleep had betrayed him-- his hand stretched out, as if of its own accord, towards the blue woman. Ebri noted it with a wry smile. It was well; it would make him more irrational than he already was, but if the soldier had affection for Melisande, he would fight all the more to protect her. It would serve the purpose; she, Ebri, could think clearly for both. The woman Sandslipper slept, for all the world like the statue she resembled. Unmoved, and untroubled...? She did not know the genasi's importance, but her arm would be another between Melisande and the enemy's blades. She would watch them; although she would defend her ward alone if need be, it would be folly to be so arrogant as to spurn help. After all, they may have a part in the Plan, though I cannot see it. Her muscles trembled with unused energy, and she was still far from sleep. Rest, at least, she should try to find, if not for the body then for the mind. Kata, then. Breathing deeply, she began the slow dance that formed the basis for the Way of Shadow. A shadow can exist only where light is. Thus are a thing and its opposite intertwined. Think on this. They cannot be separated... The night was far from over, but it was hours before Ebri's thoughts troubled her again.Horses, although Melisande knew a good deal of the theory--ruminant stomachs and vestigial toes and such--proved a new learning challenge. She much preferred small, predictable, hoof- and toothless beasts like toads. Besides, there was not any part of her lower body that did not ache desperately after a day in the saddle. On the other hand, traveling on horseback allowed her more leisure for magical musings. Only the second day out she discovered yet another new technique involving a phase-shift, but this time of energy. Instead of making focused beams of cold, she found she could propagate a high-frequency vibration in thaumic potential; except that such a beam had to be grounded in a kinetic life-energy source or, more properly phrased, a target. The first time she tried it was on an unsuspecting squirrel and tearful regret still haunted her. Such experiments were more the cruel profession of her former mentor. At least, she consoled herself, the creature endured but the quickest of deaths. DM Note: Mel gains the Magic Missile spell <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f609.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=";)" title="Wink    ;)"  data-smilie="2"data-shortname=";)" />Perhaps it was the bad dreams that had set off a more violent series of magical experimentations. Since the attack at the Cowardly Dragon Mel dreamed nightly of poisoned blades and mind-melting stares, mixed with the stock dream potpourri of childhood embarrassments and symbolic angst. Pierre helped enormously with soothing her startled awakenings. The connection between their minds seemed gradually to be growing clearer, as if coming into focus. He had let her know early on that she would have to do something about that cold metal thing in his pocket. Mel took out the scrying amulet with its etched symbol of an eye on a pyramid and held it out to Ebri as they rode side-by-side on the road to Tarravus. "The Cerulean priest in Corvus helped me get this off. All it took was a dispel, can you imagine? I'm tempted to clasp it around the neck of a badger and be rid of it for good, but then again, that healing potion that came with it has saved my life twice and I can't make up my mind. What do you think?" "No, not a badger-- we should give to whomever watches a better show than that, surely." Ebri laughed, in good humor. "But I will take it, if you wish to be rid of it." With lowered eyes, between packing and riding, and the wealth of interesting plants that lined the path, she had been watching Melisande all this morning. She had let it go far too long: even more than a victim, a ward required study. Be alert against all forms of attack-- the Master had warned her. She could try her utmost to prevent Melisande physical harm, to stand in the way of her enemies, but-- not knowing her strengths and weaknesses, how could she protect her from herself? Or, the emblem glittering on the silver chain reminded her, from the unseen threat... There were those among her order--Ebri was not one of them-- who were gifted in prescience, in the ways and manipulation of the mind. Such things could be done. She observed the slight droop of her shoulders, the weak blue tone of her skin, the hollows beneath her eyes, and recalled her attitude in sleep of the previous night.Was it only chance, or was her ward not sleeping well? "What I think is--without information, we should reserve judgement, and not throw things of power away hastily. If the removing of it was as simple as you say, perhaps it was not malevolent after all-- there are situations, I imagine, when having an amulet that could not be removed easily would be very useful. The clasp would not break by accident, it would not fly off in a fall, and it would be difficult for a common or even an uncommon cutpurse to steal it. The potion was beneficial, yes. Perhaps the one who watches you...watches over you..." Ebri suggested, then shrugged and shook her head. "That too, is speculation, and I would not credit either line of thought. It would be well to be wary. Let me keep it, and I will study the thing as I may. It will be a useful pastime," she added, after a moment of thought. "--tonight, if I cannot sleep. Lately, I find my sleep is not as restful as it might be. Perhaps my god is reminding me to be more dutiful, if travelling has become less of a joy than it should be..." * * *Melisande missed Meg'anna, she reflected as she curled up to sleep by the side of the road in the gentle, sweet-smelling Naserian countryside. Never had she met such a patient listener... And the druid would have enjoyed the kind spring of this generous land, she was sure. As she drifted off to sleep she tried to keep her mind on pleasant things in order to ward off the assassins from her suconscious. The memory which seemed always to ease her mind the most was of beams of sunlight glorying in the vast Temple of Naskha in Corvus City. She thought of the blue god of sorcerers with hope and affection. In spite of herself, however, her mind turned uncontrollably back to her mother and her mentor in stony Carthagia... the mystery of her own conception and the fear of what her mentor might do if he discovered she was in Naseria guided her into troubled sleep, as usual. Sebastion rose early, just as the sun hit the horizon, seeing to the horses as he scrubbed sleep from his eyes, and ran a hand through his ruffled, sandy hair. Sleeping on the floor was not his usual preference, but he had done it often enough that he could stretch the worst of the kinks out quickly enough, and it didn't take long to water and feed the horses, though one of them didn't fancy her salt, and he took a moment to check she wasn't pregnant. That would have caused problems, but thankfully she was just obstinate - mares often were, he thought, with a chuckle - and was easily cajoled into taking it by an experienced hand. Having checked the shoes as they ate, he turned to make a start on his own breakfast, wondering if he would have enough time to tend his armour before they left, and set about his work. Placing his pack on the back of his own horse, a solid, dependable, if uninspiring mare, he checked the padded pocket into which he had placed the healing philtre that had been meted out to him, making sure it was well wrapped. Of course, if the horse fell on it, it would make little difference, but he padded it nonetheless, and eyed the vial of poison that Melisande had spent so long studying the night before. "Listen, if no-one else is willing to use this, I'll take it." he said, pointing to the bottle. It had already been made quite apparent to him, by actions and looks if not words, that they didn't consider a future in the martial sector to be a suitable qualification for ownership of a mimir, and he had given up hope of convincing them it might be better in his hands when he left them. And that day would be soon. He couldn't abandon them in these lands with just the Flame Hawk squire to guard them, obviously, but once they had arrived, and he had seen them safe to delivering their package, then he would leave. He would, on his own. Leave... But...</blockquote>

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