Life in WestEnd Part I

She stood there, plaster dust from the broken ceiling raining down like the finest of winter's powder, a rather oversized varmint of the nasty, house-munching variety skittering above on an exposed, broken pipe. Disgusted, she arced high a silvered brow and made to flick a pale wrist, almost forgetting her own edict that magic in and around this structure was, for the time being, strictly verboten. Grumbling, cursing a streak to make the foundation smolder, she climbed the two remaining ladder rungs and peered into the guts of her home, metal sprayer at the ready.

It was magic that had gotten this Brownstone on RhyDin's lower WestEnd in the shape it was today. Rather, the overkill and misuse of magics without regard to consequence. She'd seen it rampant in this realm since first she'd stepped foot in it, following up on her charges. As tender for the Red Dragon, she was lucky if even a third of the night's take made it whole to morn's light; most currency turning to so much Fae dust in the wind at the first rays of dawn. Conjured. Not worth the breath it took to spell whatever had been spelled to make it. In the beginning, and for some time after, it had not mattered much. She and Scottie had moved into this house and made it their home, settled in the best that two lifetime wanderers could. Her paltry pay, and the coin he made as a Bard, had sustained them minimally beyond what they had accustomed themselves previously. But time and things change as is their nature.

Throughout their nearly two years together, she and Scottie had discovered, collectively, interconnecting pieces to a greater puzzle. What was once lost had again been found. There were still some holes in the picture, but what it amounted to was that they were bound, wholly and irrefutably. It was during the time they began to think along these lines, making the arrangement official with simple words and a pair of binding rings, that she began to feel inexplicably rooted in this flat that they called home. After the last of the upper two floors' tenants moved out, leaving just her and Scottie in one first floor flat and the halfling slave girl Chy in the other, she made a deal with the landlord to purchase the entire Brownstone. Not much later, they became horribly acquainted with the true annoyances of unchecked magic use. The greater populace of RhyDin bandied it about without so much as a "how do ye do" to any future fallout. This included her now ex-landlord. Ex, in the fact, because at the point she discovered the secreted shambles his magical "maintenance" had caused, he suddenly was nowhere to be found. Oh, believe the Gods she looked. Weapons in hand. Rage at the ready to fling his way. For when it went wrong at the Brownstone, it all went wrong, and most disastrously so.

Snorting a nose full of the herbal vermin pesticide, she gagged and nearly took a swan dive off the ladder. Letting loose some of the aggression she hurled the sprayer across the calamity of the third floor room and leaped from the ladder, jackboots sounding hollow in the ruinous cavern of her house; dust and debris bouncing as her weight settled. It had been weeks upon weeks since they'd had anything resembling running water. Scottie was due home early for a change and she had a surprise in store for him. So off she went, grumbling and griping, to affect a sponge bath in the makeshift, cold-water shower they'd set up out back of their flat.

Frozen stiff after her cleanup, she snugged into worn leathers, grabbed the jacket which still proudly bore the colors of a "Dead Warlock," put things in place, and took off for the docks of the BHO.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a note attached to the remnants of the downstairs bannister. Her elegant hand requesting his presence as soon as he came home from work. A cryptic message penned in the blue chalk they'd been using for marking off spots in their repairs and renovations. To pique his interest, and start the tease, the note just read: "There be a surprise waiting for ye, lover," with some vague directions to where they would meet.

He thought the note was the nicest thing he'd seen all day. The curves and whorls of her cursive handwriting brought a smile that reached the crow-dark eyes. He stashed his pack in the flat and did a quick check of the building to make sure there were no squatters. Ribbons fluttered gaily as he left the block of flats, goaded by the chill winds of winter.

There was an iciness to the winds that blew down the dockside. Scores of warehouses, most filled to the rafters with products and such belonging to the Bloods of House Onyx. About a half-block from the Oak and Ash, a large door swung lazily back and forth upon its hinges; leaves and litter blowing in eddies in the open portal. Lavender, basil and dill's sharp tang played amongst the breezes. Her scent, and soon, through the sounds of the building storm, came the warmth of her voice singing loud a raunchy tune she'd, perhaps, learned from him, or perhaps picked it up in her own travels. The kind of tune to make sailors blush.

He enjoyed walks through RhyDin Town. The city had a way of stretching and folding back upon itself as if it breathed. He suspected it did, living through the lives of the fantastic beings that flocked to the Nexus' core. So little time of late had he to journey down narrow alleys and broad avenues. He had become a man with responsibilities, ones that put even his old grudges and lusts for revenge aside. And so he found himself, taking long strides easy enough for his lean and lanky form, down the street of warehouses, recognizing the Oak and Ash and most particularly the scent of his Moon. He paused with a bird-like tilt of his head to listen to her song and did not blush, but took up the tune in a whistle, a third below her whiskey warm voice.

Delicate nostrils flared and picked up the scent of sunshine and hay long before sensitive pointed ears heard the sound of his whistling entrance into the tune. The smile came, like Summer World's own sun upon her pale lips. Laying her head back, elflocks jingled softly with her slight motion against the outside of the marble masterpiece. Inside that warehouse, one she had procured by proxy without anyone's knowledge, was now filled near to the ceiling with five shiploads of the finest wares for building. Marble and woodworking from far away shores. Enough to renovate a neighborhood. And there she was among the booty, her impossibly long and lanky frame stretched out in a magnificent stone tub that would easily fit three. She was singing at the top of her lungs, smiling, eyes closed as her head rested against the back edge, a coltsfoot and comfrey cig bobbing in one corner of her mouth.

A hand shot out from the ribbons to stay the door's restless swinging. He had followed her song - though he didn't need it, her scent, her presence was enough - to the doorway and now stood in awe at what he saw. Awe laced with apprehension. He suspected, but he wouldn't voice a word till he knew. All care and worry took wing when he saw her there, body draped in the large stone tub, elflocks dangling at her shoulders. His step was light; the only sound was her song and ribbons rustling. "What a delightful vision . . . "

The song faded from her lips as she heard the rustling of satin announcing his arrival. She was pretty sure he was wondering where all this came from. Chuckling, she would let him wonder just a bit longer. Turning her head so that she faced him, eyes opened and periwinkle blue met crow dark depths. "Aye, ye are a delightful sight for tired eyes, m'love. Come, join me." A long-fingered hand patted the side of the tub. "Come see how it will feel to luxuriate in here once it be set up in the house, love."

Ribbons of multi-colored hues, grass green, dandelion yellow, cardinal red and indigo shivered as he turned a slow circle to take in the contents of the warehouse. There was so much, of such craftsmanship, he could not fathom the price - or was it priceless" It had been in his mind to sit where she bid him and so he did, a thigh draping across the lip so one dusty-booted foot dangled while the other stayed firm upon the ground. Silky satin brushed her arm as he leaned toward her. His eyes, so often glittering chips of onyx, softened and deepened as they met the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Lips, still cold from his walk, dusted hers. "I fear we will need to build an addition to fit this tub in the house."

Those lips! The brush was too tempting, their taste too inviting. One leather-clad arm lifted and caught him by the back of the neck, his words mumbled into the deep and longing kiss she gave him, pulling him towards her until he slipped off the marble and landed in her lap. Her own chuckles vibrating around the lip-lock as she held him close and tight.

Summer exploded around him as their lips met. Memories, old and pushed away to cobwebbed corners, of days spent lazy in Summer's sun with her arms around him threatened to burst free. He grunted against her lips as he bounced into her lap. What an unmanly position, he thought, amused. What a wonderful position to be in her arms. He would give up flying if that is what it would take to forever stay there.

Resting her temple to his, she snickered. "Now wha' be tha' ye were sayin', love" I fear I couldna make it out."

He shifted his body till it draped beside hers, and pressed a flutter kiss against her temple. His voice was a soft, musical baritone in her ear. His breath feather light. "I was sayin' that you are a most incorrigible and exquisite lass." He plucked the cigarette from her hand and took a long hit, grinning around the smoke curls.

She was looking like that proverbial cat who snacked on the bird, eyes sweeping around the warehouse briefly before returning to his gaze. "Aye, I 'ave been tol' I be such, love. But 'tis why ye are so enamored o' me, nae?" Long legs entwined with his as she shifted to get comfortable in that enormous tub. "Be this nae divine?" She was practically salivating.

" 'Twould be divine, lass, if it were filled with scented water - hot water - and you were naked beside me." He finished off the cig, filling the area around them with scented smoke. Leaning a bit out of the tub to douse the cherry, he tucked the butt carefully in his watch pocket.

"Ahhh, but soonest, me love. Soonest, if'n I an' Dal 'ave anythin' to say about it." She was just waiting for it, knew sooner or later he'd have to ask.

He could sense her glee, the need to tell him just what this was all about, the need to crow over it. He had no doubt he'd be happy about the news. It was so rare, however, that he got a chance to tease her like she did him. He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back, enjoying the stretch and her closeness. He enjoyed that especially. "That so' I will have to go searching the markets for just the right scent, then." He glanced sidelong at her, a playful arch to his brow.

He was teasing her! He wanted to ask but knew she was waiting for him to so she could let loose the happy secret. Silvered brows came together as she saw the arch of his brow. Thin lips puckered, slanted eyes narrowed. How long was he going to make her wait' Her entire form was fairly vibrating with the pent up need to shout it loud. "Aye' Mayhap some oils an' a nice brush for ye to scrub me back with, then?" She wouldn't. It might kill her but she would keep her lips shut till he asked.

Oh how she quivered. He knew she knew his plan. He could not keep the coyote smile from darkening his features. Crow eyes glittered with the sport. He knew he would ask, but he reveled in the anticipation. He drew a lazy fingertip in a line from her shoulder to wrist. " 'Twould be m'pleasure, lass, to scrub your back."

She tingled where he touched her, an electric spark igniting deep within her belly. The moan was soft and breathless as she sank lower in the tub, legs parting to rest on either side of him so her hips met his. "An' will ye wash me hair, love" Pamper me in splendor with oil an' scents an' creams massaged into e'ery inch o' me lily-white flesh?" There was lust in her smokey gaze that traveled up to his onyx depths, an inviting smile that bespoke a myriad of entrancing promises she could fulfill for him.

He felt the tingle and drew that finger back up her arm and across her shoulder and downward, till it traced a lazy figure eight upon the flat of her belly. "I can think of nothing I would rather do, lass, than to soap your hair, massage your body . . . " His features bore an intensity. He was forgetting the tease and losing himself in the splendor of her. Woodwork and stone tubs could wait.

She knew that look. Truth be told it had been far too long since they had had such time together. What with the repairs and appointments for contractors. Her job, his job. They never seemed to have any time anymore. Suddenly, pale features darkened as she frowned. Once more she turned to survey the warehouse and its contents. And now" Now with all this" Surely Dal didn't mean to give it to them free and clear. Coin for his labor, or for the booty, she had enough, but not both. Those twelve plats and the rest of their measly store were only going to stretch so far. And since the holidays, work had been inundated with conjured coin. All the real currency given up to make the night's till, with only the dust of magicked metals left in her tip jar come the light of morn. She sighed deeply and let her head fall back to the tub's edge with a thump and a groan.

He withdrew his touch, instantly aware of her change of mood. 'That'll teach me,' he thought. He wasn't as good at teasing as her. He was all concern, a brush to her cheek. "What is it, lass?"

"Och, love! I be so sorry!" She gripped his hand and burrowed her cheek against its palm. A small smile offered up to the glittering onyx eyes. "Dun mind me, I was jus' thinkin' o' things tha' shouldna worry me so at this time. So . . . Where were we?" Swiveling deftly in the confines of the bath, she ended up facing his body on her side one leg draped over his, her arms around him, her head on his chest, hands wandering the lines of his form.

His hand tangled in her elflocks, the other brushed her shoulder as his body arced toward her touch. He felt the stirring her caresses caused. He placed a kiss at the crown of her head and smiled as he breathed deep her scent. "I was about to ask you about all of this."

"Oh." Somehow, in light of what she was just thinking, this all didn't seem so wonderful. In fact, it seemed quite the burden and her tone reflected her disappointment. Such a swift change in mood wasn't unusual for her, but in these past months she'd managed the tiniest bit of stability. "(q) 'Tis for the house, me love."

"Such bounty. "Twill make the place as grand as a palace." A smile was in his voice as he dragged his knuckles down her spine.

She arched her back till her body was pressed tight against his. A smile as she kissed him soft, fairly purring, nuzzling his neck. "Aye, quite the bounty, love. Mayhap more'n we can afford. I be afraid Dal was ripe into the o'erkill o' this project. I mean five ships o' it! Miles generously held onto the loot till I procured this place for the stuff. All his ships an' crew lyin' idle in the bay, jus' wastin' the money he was payin' out in salary. But 'tis a wonderment o' craftsmanship, aye' We certainly willna use it all, mayhap we can sell the rest an' pay it off?" Pearly teeth nipped the satin flesh of thin lips as she thought aloud, her head snuggled against the crook of his shoulder, silky breath fluttering along sensitive skin.

" 'Twas m'thought, indeed, lass. How much is the initial cost?" He stiffened at her attentions, finding it hard to think of finances with her voice purring in his ear, her body pressed so close to his.

Her mind was clouding with thoughts of them entwined somewhere soft and dark. It was times like these she longed for the carefree days of the past. No worries, no responsibilities. Just time to wander and to love, if it came her way. But she had found him. They had found one another again and, in time, everything changes. Eons alive had taught her this. Sometimes change wasn't a bad thing, just a nuisance. Chuckling at that thought, she shifted again, slipping up to straddle his hips, her smile shining down upon him. "Well . . . I 'ave nae idea actually. I 'ave nae spoke to Miles' friend Dal yet. He be dwarf, by the by."

A brow arched, his hands fell upon her hips, warm and heavy. "A dwarf" With ships" Interesting . . . no matter. Do you like these things?" His eyes shifted to the piles of lumber and marble workings.

"Nae, silly!" Elflocks ringling as she tossed back her head and chuckled. "Miles has the ships. Dal just be 'avin' him pick up the stuff for the renovations on our brownstone. Ye know Miles. As in Malign?" She leaned closer till her nose touched his, their eyes locking.

He coughed and shifted beneath her. Not caring one whit who Miles was - though he remembered the man! - not when he could lose himself in her eyes and her body's machinations. "(q) Aye . . . I remember, lass . . . " He groaned as hunger built in his eyes.

Sitting up she twisted to get a good look at the warehouse. One spidery finger tapping her lower lip as she spoke. "I be likin' some o' it well enough. Some seems to be a little garish an' o'er done, mayhap, for me tastes. But I 'ave nae explored the loot fully, yet. Seems to be enough here to refurbish an entire neighborhood, let alone our lone brownstone." His head flopped back against the lip of the tub. He didn't care if he banged it too hard. She was the queen of tease, he conceded. He'd never try to outdo her again. His need was growing. He felt sure she could feel it. His voice squeaked at one point. "(q) I'm sure there is enough to our tastes, lass. "Twill take time . . . " here was the squeak " . . . to go through it."

Looking back as his head hit the tub's edge, silvered brows fretted, lips turning down in a worried frown she slipped a gentle hand beneath it. Instantly that worried frown became a teasing grin as her lips brushed against his own. "Somethin' wron', lover mine?"

He closed his eyes against the searing heat of the brief kiss. His lips seeking hers as she withdrew, even as his body tensed. "(q) Actually, there is. You still have your clothes on . . . "

Oh, she was sooo bad! For a moment there she'd let her worries get to her. But just being near him, feeling what passed between them, connecting them, worries held no chance against what they possessed together. Things would work out, somehow, she knew it. So she upped the tease of before. Lifting his hand, she drew it slowly up the lean lines of her frame bringing it to her lips. Warm kisses wrapped each ink-stained finger, her eyes holding tight to his. "But 'tis cold in here, m'love." Tantalizing wink of moonwhite lashes as she grinned, wicked and wanton.

His jaw slackened as he stared glassy-eyed at her. Sensation was at the tips of his fingers, threading from them to his very core. And when she took one into her mouth, his heart stirred and mind quaked. He ached. "(vs) I will . . . keep . . . you warm . . . "

Stretching out atop him, she chuckled. A long, throaty, honey rich sound. "Ye would an' ye do, me love." She nipped at his lower lip; a fox grin in silver flecked blue. "But should we nae lock up first, or give some passerby a thrill sure to cause an attack?"

The look in his crow eyes was helpless against her fox. He took a deep shuddering breath and wiggled his trapped fingers. "(vs) I don't think I can move, lass."

"Oh really now?" One silver brow arced high, pale lips curling into a broader, teasing smile. "Hmmmm . . . " And she unmercifully shifted atop him. "Such be the pity. Wha'e'er will I do with ye?"

He coughed again and took a long, leering look up and down her body. His eyes widened as she wiggled atop him. "(q) Love me?" His voice a rasp, deep and throaty. "(vs) Forever, m'Manon?"

Slipping back to lie close beside him, wrapping his arm around her taut midriff, she smiled just for him. "(wvs) Aye, m'love. Fore'er an' a year I be yers an' ye be mine." His hand pressed flat against her stomach as the smile brightened. "(v,vsw) An' the li"l ones."

He buried his face in her shoulder and smiled. If possible, he drew her tighter to him. His thumb tracing lazy circles in the skin of her flesh where their children would grow. Still awash in the animalistic feelings that engulfed him, he didn't trust himself to speak much more than he had.

She shivered and grinned. "This marble be cold, love." He couldn't feel the cold with her warmth so near. He stared deep into her eyes. The feral, wildling faded slowly away to the more familiar glittering sparks in his ebon gaze. "(vs) Blessed, I truly am, Manon . . . " He stole another kiss from those lips before the coyote asserted itself in his grin. "(w) Walk ye home, lass?"

Cackling in glee she nipped his lower lip. "Aye, mayhap there be another surprise there for ye. One ye can sink ye . . . teeth into. An' mayhap tomorrow we can actually go through this stuff an' see wha' be here." Her hand held out for him to take as she stood beside the tub. "Unless ye wan' to take me up on tha' offer o' givin' some innocent passerby an attack?"

It took him a moment to situate himself, jumping out of the tub with easy grace. He took her hand. "Willful wench. Aye, and tomorrow indeed if I can keep m'hands off you." Crow-dark eyes glanced around the warehouse then to the door. "Givin' someone an attack" Hmmmm . . . ?" He took the possibility seriously. "It has merit."

"Oooo . . . " Wriggling her bum in a tempting sway as she moved towards the door, his hand in hers. "Please dun e'er keep ye hands off'n me, m'love. Nae e'er!"

He stayed a half step behind, just to watch her sway.

Closing the door she bent over farther than need be just to tease as she set the spell lock. Not being able help himself, he gave her back a swat and left his hand on her rear, quite ready to walk home that way, a wicked grin shining down upon her.

Jumping, she giggles, a sound reserved only for him. Returning the swat in kind and letting loose his hand, she laughs then. "If'n ye can catch me, ye can 'ave me, lover!" And she was off like a shot down the docks, that whiskey warm chuckle in her wake.

He stood still in shock and deja vu till he realized the prize, tearing off after her like thunder from a cannon. He'd catch her this time.

Life in WestEnd Part III - Reminiscing

"Look at you." The brown man leapt about the still form of the one known as Scottie. It capered and pranced in irritation.

"I can't very well look at myself without a mirror, m'friend." Instead, Scottie stared unwavering at the tall tree that grew in the small patch of green behind the brownstone that he now called home. The tree, planted just a year before, had sprouted like no other tree the former wanderer had ever seen. A Yule-gift for Obsidian, the silver-barked tree grew inches in a day. He swore the tree, even now in the strange RhyDinian weather, thrust out its slender branches to the watery sun high above in a vain effort to touch the fiery warmth.

The brown man hunched down on its haunches, knuckles dusting the long grass. It too, now gazed at the tree. Liquid brown eyes glittered as it took in the golden, spade-shaped leaves quivering in the rising wind. It threw a sideways look at its long time friend and shook its head. Long lengths of mossy brown hair fell into its eyes. "Look at you," it muttered through gleaming white teeth. "All you can do is sit there when there are *things* to be done."

"And what should I be doing, friend?" The wind sent the ribbons on Scottie's coat fluttering in a cacophony of color, and still the man did not move from his cross-legged position on the ground. His fingers were steepled beneath his whiskery chin.

"You should be walking in Summer! There are those who wait you!" The brown man could not sit still. It jumped from the crouch. A leathery palm grasped at the lowest branch. It swung there, peering at Scottie like an intelligent chimp, waiting. "You can go back now."

"I cannot." The brown man's final words brought a flash to Scottie's crow-dark eyes and awoke a beastly snarl. "I am still exile. He walks still in Summer, as you well know." He was Scottie's father, who in league with Summer's Queen had placed a number of enchantments upon him. A changeling, he was then, doomed to wander the lands of Spring and Autumn. It still surprised him that he had found a place, a home in this strangest of all places.

The brown man flipped and climbed and leapt to the highest branch it could. Its weight, though slight, still bent the branch and turned his perch to precarious. Scottie didn't watch. His gaze had traveled far and far, out of that place where the brownstone stood, trembling on rocky foundations while its walls threatened to crumble on their very heads. Far from RhyDin where the weather played its witchery — summer one day, winter the next. He walked silent in Summer's past on four legs with ears pricked to the sound of her laughter. The tall grass tickled his stomach and left dew trails on his blonde fur. His tail twitched as he sat, tongue lolling to the side to cool himself, to taste what the warm wind offered.

Her scent overwhelmed him. Her laughter teased. Memory awoke...

The coyote slid to a stop, falling back on its haunches to pant, it's pink tongue lolling to the side as it tracked her with sight and scent. Content it seemed, simply to watch her...though there was cunning in his eyes.

A ways from him the runner ceased its running. Moon-white silk caressing the naked curves as she spun on bare heel and faced him. With a fox grin she sunk to her knees and posed to stalk. Her voice spanning the distance easily, though the tone was low and husky, words of an ancient tongue, like song reached the coyote's ears. "An' I thought ye o' all could stay the game. Win the prize."

The coyote cocked it's head, a quizzical expression to the set of its muzzle.

"Sure o' foot an' swift. Cunnin' an' sly....Intelligence behind those eyes." A soft growl fell as she slinked closer, foxy light in silver true. The scent of her hunger strong in the air. The beast's nostrils flared as it picked up at that enticing scent. It quivered in the grass as she stalked forward. It itched to move, to spring....but not yet. It let loose a puppy's whine at the unfairness of the world.

She chuckled. Honey warm and light with teasing. "I know ye....'ave watched ye. Ye move among me children, lost an' yet nae so." Something brought her head to lift, scent the air. Profile to him, the turn of her head was to make the angels weep. Sharp pointed ear twitching at the tip that peeked through silvered silk, a breathless whisper flowed. "'Tis Mystery they say..."

The coyote stood quickly as she tasted the air. Its hackles rose along the lean neck. It too took to sniffing the wind, to find what caught her attention.

In the blink of that instant she was to her feet, much faster than seemed possible even for those who inhabited this land, and past him she sprinted. That scent that spoke of hunger and need over those of her own usual ones enveloping him. The barest of grazings were her fingertips to soft fur, an almost electric charge left in their wake. And to the forest she darted, a smile in her words moving back on the wind to him. The whisper carried to his pricked ears alone. "...but ye are me own secret for now, wild one." As she melted to the darkness there came a scent of wood smoke and heather. Another ringing from the other direction of fifty silver bells and nine. The coyote's startled yelp at the brush of her fingers turned into a frustrated whine as the moonlit figure disappeared into the trees.

It took a few paces toward the forest, then turned at the sound of chimes behind him...

"Hssssst. There's someone knocking, crow. Seems your house is made of straw." The brown man's voice hissed in his ear. Scottie jumped, startled awake from the memory of lives past. The knocking was insistent. Scottie left the brown man on the patio to open the door. The door, of course, fell off the hinges and landed with a crash in the foyer.

With a host of furious fancies, Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear And a horse of air To the wilderness I wander Anonymous

Life in WestEnd Part V - Another Day at the Inn

Yawning, stuffing the tank top into leather pants, jackboots thumped down the steps from the upper most suites of the Red Dragon Inn. She was getting tired of living above this din. The smells of stale brews and smoke permeating their entire life right now. From clothes to the air they breathed. It never seemed she could take enough showers these days. And the noise was, at times, unbearable. She knew Scottie wasn't faring at all well with this arrangement. He not being as "citified" as she had become over the years. Hopefully the dwarf, Dal, would have their home ship-shape in reasonable time. Again she made the mental note to go over to the Brownstone and finally meet up with Miles' "fix-it" man.

The lanky frame deftly twisted to avoid tripping over the laces of her untied boots, and she hopped the two steps left, landing with a jolt and grumble on the common floor of the Inn. No coffee yet and sleep these last few weeks had been a precious commodity. She cleared her throat, tugged at the tank and glanced around with one of those "I-meant-to-do-that" kind of looks; spying Nejjara, grinning, over her stylish entrance.

"G'morn, m'sweet," smiling over to her friend. A grumble of some nearby patron reaching her ears.

"Grumblegrumblestoopidhouselandlordsstructurefoundationplumbin'....Wirinpipeswindersdoorsnframesnbrickworknstairsnwoodnbafrooms." Periwinkle blues shifted slightly from her view of Nejjara. The grumble seemed, appropriately enough, to be coming from a dwarf wearing a horned helm, seated at the bar's end. Tall mug of what was, presumably, ale held tight in his rough hands. As the dwarf stopped long enough to drink deep from that mug she returned attentions to Nejjara.

"And to you, Lady." Nejjara spoke quietly in greet to her. Fingers layered loosely over her grin. "Coffee." Was what Sid managed to grunt in response, turning towards the bar and moving behind it.

"Okies..." Heard from the dwarf as she rounded the bar to seek out and make the life-giving sludge she called coffee. Again she glanced his way as he took another drink. More of his mutterings barely focused on while she began her search.

"ANDderdoorsdon'work,ANDderplastersfallin'off,ANDdeygottermites....AndaratdersizeofGruptri...huh?" Moonwhite lashes blinked a bit hearing the word termites, but she grabbed the bag of arabica dark roast, ripped it open and poured the whole thing to the machine's filter apparatus, filling it with water and flicking the switch.

Fingers drummed impatiently while she waited, her eyes locked upon the magical elixir maker named, Signor JavaQuick. 'Aye, quick me lily-white bum', she thought sarcastically. Ears were slightly tuned to the conversation the dwarf seemed to be having with a local barfly.

"Dal okies.....Just need lotsa beer. But Dal gotta go back to work on house. Not even house no more....big pile o' rotten wood, cause magiks can'no build nuffin."

"House?", Sid mumbled. Still watching the pot, silvered brow knitting in question. She shifted a glance the dwarf's way, ears now fixated on his words.

"S'okies...not Dal's house. Sid's house...whoever Sid be." That brought a direct stare from the tall elven woman to the dwarf. Her brain still not cranking on all gears just yet. "Anywho's...Da house tried ta eat Dal, but Dal beat da floor up, n' decided ter come get a drink....cause nobody home at Sid's house."

Looking blankly out across the commons she caught a questioning look from Nejjara, who also appeared to have been listening to the dwarf and his companion of the moment. Deciding then, that even without her coffee she should dare it and try to form coherent speech. Enough to talk to the man. Clearing her throat she turned, looking directly at the dwarf. "Excuse me, dux?"

"Yah?" Came the rough rasp of the dwarf as he looked up to Sid and took a long pull off his mug.

She glanced at the pot, hoping the sludge was done soon. A clearing of her throat and eyes turned back to the dwarf. "Ye know a Miles Malign?"

Life in WestEnd Part VII - Uninvited Guests

Dawn's first rays peirce the persistent morning fog hanging over the WestEnd. Through the mist, the aging brownstones still retain some of their old glory, reminiscent of a gathering of old southern belles. Their glazed windows have watched the joy and pain of an entire neighborhood for centuries, but as the mist burns off, the cracks, rubble, and decay start to show themselves. As the sun's light begins to dissipate the remnants of the WestEnd's concealing veil, a long shadow crawls its way down the cobbled street, followed soon by the creaking and clopping of a heavy horse drawn wagon. Pulling to a stop before a particularly shabby example of how not to keep up a house, the wagon creaks to a halt. The brake set, six heavy sets of boots clamber from the wagon's heights, landing with loud rings on the brick cobbles. Their beards are long, their shoulders are broad, their legs are...well...short. In readiness, weapon handles are gripped, eyes squint, a nose is picked absently. Passing in review, Dal slaps the probing hand down,

"Pick yer own nose, Radzak, you stoopid dwarf." Glaring at the Crew, Dal sniffs suspiciously, black eyes burning as he tries to figure out what?s wrong. A soft snore from the bed of the wagon brings realization.

"BOMBAY! You wake up now! You 'orrible dwarf! Dal not b'leeve what Dal see! You make Dal wish Dal no had kin to curse Dal wit stoopid 'orrible cuzzins, you so bad! You get up! You grab axe! You move move move move move move move move move! Herding the fat dwarf out of the wagon with kicks and curses, Dal jumps down from the wagon again.

"Okay, dis what we gunna do! Dis Sid's 'ouse! She got skaven in der basement! We gunna go in dere and RADZAK GET YER FINGER OUTTER STAN'S NOSE! Right! We gunna go in dere and clean der ratties out n' close down wha'ever tunnel dey come in. DEN we gunna start in on der termeeites. Dis gunna be dirty messy real dwarf work so pay 'tention, watcher buddie's back, watcher OWN back, keep awake, DAT MEANS YOU BOMBAY LAZY DWARF, n' we all get out 'live. Ready! CHAAAAAAAAARRGE!

Seven sets of hobnailed boots pound up the creaky stairs, clomping over the ruined door, knocked down by Dal's previous visit. Through the house the dwarves charge, exploding through the door leading to the basement with dwarvish battle cries ringing in their ears,

"DEEDAH!" "DIE RATSES!" "I'm HUNGRY!" "YOU SHUT UP LAZY DWARF!"

Stunned by the sudden charge, the surprised rat men scramble toward their hole, only to be overwhelmed by the enraged, if hungry, Crew. As Dorvor and Poppin corner the last of the interlopers, Dal, Radzak, Zegar, Stan, and Bombay start down the twisting skaven tunnel. Brave, or stupid, ratmen who stand in their path are trampled, axed, or headbutted down as the dwarven wave rolls on, following the tunnel as it winds under the WestEnd.

Breaking into a large chamber, Dal and the Crew pause, their momentum stopped cold by the sight of the skeletal figure in the middle of the chamber. Standing twelve feet tall, covered in patchy fur, the skaven Plague Lord smiles, long lips pulling back from yellowed fangs, his naked tail twitching. The remnants of the Skaven clan gather around him, clubs and rocks held in their front paws, waving them in false bravado.

Knuckles cracking as he grips his axe, Dal gives a rictus grin. "DEEDAHDEEDAHDEEDAHDEEDAHDEEDAHDEEDAHDEEDAHDEEDAH!!!!!!" Exploding out of the tunnel mouth, the burly dwarf charges the Plague Lord, followed by the Crew. The rest of the skaven panic at the charge, leaving the monsterous Lord alone. A sweep of a muscled arm sends Stan flying as the dwarves near, the other clawed hand grasping at Dorvor. Ducking under the sweeping arms, Dal piles into the creature's knees, rolling through the beast's legs to slash at its knees with the broadbladed axe. Squealing in pain, the Plague Lord turns, knee buckling under its great weight. Piling on the great beast's back, the rest of the Crew attack, axes rising and falling. Bloodied but unbowed, the Plague Lord shakes itself like a dog, dwarves flying in every direction. Bouncing up like a rubber ball, Dal grins, swinging some of the gore off his axe, as the Plague Lord gathers himself.

"We finish dis now, Squeaky. DEEDAH!" Charging in, Dal leaps the snoring body of Bombay, hopping to the left to avoid the double handed smash of the giant rat. The great double bladed axe swings, cutting deep into the beast's elbow with a crack of cartilage and a spray of blood. Roaring in pain, the beast screams, leaving itself open for the backswing, smashing into the monster's great chest. Mortally wounded, the Plague Lord slumps forward, just in time for the recovering Crew members to return to the fray, chopping at the rapidly deceasing skaven. Prying the body of the Plague Lord up, Dal recovers his axe from the beast's chest, grinning as the Crew sets about squabbling over who got the killing blow.

"I did it, I Dorvor..." "You shut up! Poppin did it!" "I'm HUNGRY!" "Radzak the Mighty rules the day!"

"A'right, all youse shuts up! We gunna seal da tunnel, AFTER we go back troo it. Den we gunna start cleanin' up rat bodies. DEN we gunna start RADZAK GET YER FINGER OUTTA DAT NOSE! RIGHT! Den we gunna start settin' dem termeeite bombs. Ready' Too bad, we goin' anyways."

Leading the Crew back down the tunnel, Dal pauses occasionally to plant a small glob of grey putty, given to him by Maddock Malign, with a small dial. As they reach the basement of the brownstone, the walls rumble, dust rains down, and a great spout of debris spews from the mouth of the tunnel, coating them in a fresh layer of dirt.

Grinning through a dusty beard, Dal barks out more orders, "Okay, Radzak n' Zegar, you guys start 'aulin' bodies out. Da rest of you, we go get der buggie boms."

Tromping up the stairs, the dwarves drown out the faint tapping coming from the door. It isn't until Dal's horned helm emerges into the light that the frail form of the knocking lawyer is seen. Against the sun, Dal blinks.

"ZOMBIE! DEEDAH! Oh......you no zombie. What you doin' imitatin' zombie?" Heavy brows knit together as coal black eyes study the walking skeleton...

Life in WestEnd Part IX - Renewed Purpose

Dal stood on the pile of rotted wood and crumbling stone, glaring with baleful black eyes at the brownstone across the street. It seemed like years, not months, and yet there was so much more to do.

At least the foundation was finished now. Dal glared at the mountain of inferior materials, shoddily put together, the result of a demented carpenter...or a cheap landlord. The new foundation was what had taken so long, the dwarves had to brace each section of the house long enough to tear out the sodden pine and cheap limestone and replace it with good honest granite and thick beams of oak. If there was one thing growing up in a mine taught you, it was the importance of a strong foundation. Do it right, first time, every time, or you were a dead dwarf. Sure as dark was dark.

Examining the still shelled 'stone, Dal considered his next move.....He STILL wanted to tear the thing down and start over...but that plan had been nixed repeatedly. So, he was going to have to do it peicemeal....Foundation, now frame. Start at a corner, shore up the walls to either side, tear it out, build it anew, move on from there Wall to wall, room to room, floor to floor, by inches and feet and sweat and curses and boots to the head and kegs of beer and more platters of brownies than he cared to count, he and the Crew would do it. Then, on the last day, when the 'stone gleamed like a gem, he would burn this pile of crap and rock he stood on, roast piggies till the stars begged to sleep, and wash it all away in a mountain of beerfoam.....

Hocking a glob of phlegm into the rubble below his boots, Dal stomps down the mound, heading for the 'stone with renewed purpose...

Life in WestEnd Part XI - Rumination over Rubble

Waking up at the crack of stupid — not hard when Scottie pulled an all nighter and failed to make it home — she stumbled down the steps from the third floor suite and fixed a pot of sludge amongst early morning drunken calls from the Inn's usual rabble. Peering out the window while the coffee brewed, she decided it was probably about time she faced the music.

So, coffee mug steaming in her hands, she moved slowly down the street until jackboots met the cracked and cobbled paths that marked RhyDin's WestEnd. It's true, it wasn't a great neighborhood. Not compared to the others and to the out lying areas with their manses and such. But, she had come to call this side of town home. Something she hadn't done in a very long while.

Speaking of home....She sighed heavily and looked across the street at what amounted to not much more than a pile of rubble. She landed with a morose flop upon a mound of rotted wood and crumbling stone. A decaying heap formerly known as the insides and foundation of her Brownstone. Muttering glumly, she dropped her eyes from the sight, sipping from her steaming mug of coffee sludge.

"Damn! If'n it be nae one thing, it be t'other! Those frellin' sharks an' they insistence this belongs to them! Bloody hell!!" A large chunk of masonry flew from her fingers, thrown violently for emphasis.

Bells rang clear through the morning air, marking ships' status in the port close by. Pale face turning with eyes closed to the sea air. She wasn't one to do so, especially in public, but the sight of the skaven trap across the street brought tears to well, and she stared down into her mug again. There came a way too cheery voice sounding off to her left. "Morning, Sid!" And there stood Miles, saluting her with a stick.

"Oh!" Taken off-guard she sniffled and swiped her eyes across her arm before looking up, forcing a smile she didn't feel. "Miles, 'tis a good morn to ye. Good to see ye."

"And yourself." The pirate rogue said, pointing that stick across the road to the brownstone. "Surveying?"

She gave a small shrug of bare shoulders and glanced back across the street. "More like stakin' ground for me own personal pity party, Miles."

"Oh now....From what Dal says, it's coming along quite well."

"Aye, he has done wonders so far. Jus', ye know, one thing an' another." A heavy sigh fell, and those eyes dropped back to her lap. Miles crooked a brow and started the climb up the pile. "What happened" Now, I should say."

Summer's blue eyes looked up to the man she called friend and more, near defeat bringing sadness to an otherwise fair face. "Nae a thing, believe it or nae. Jus'....I dun know, Miles. Lately I been thinkin'...

"Always dangerous." Said in his typical straight-faced manner. Plopping down next to her he turned to smile, a glimmer in his eye that bespoke of the jest. She gave a slight chuckle at that. "Aye, an' given me age I should 'ave learned me lesson in tha', lon' time back. But still....Be it too much to ask for some substance in ye life" Somethin' tha' does nae turn to dust in the morn light or fall about ye ears after a time" Or should I jus' follow tha' ol' adage: 'When in Rome...'?" Pale lips thinning into a sarcastic sneer.

The coffee mug was lifted and sipped from, her eyes wandering slow over the decrepit neighborhood — sullen cast in those periwinkle blues. A thought came, fluttering to the fore of her consciousness. One that never was truly far away. With all that was going on right now concerning her charges, The Bloods — amongst many other things connected and not — it seemed awful petty to be depressed and sulky over the temporary loss of her house.

After all, she and Scottie had a roof and a nice suite on the third floor of the Red Dragon. Grail giving her a discount because she worked for the establishment was a bonus, considering her and her mate were not rolling in the coin — unlike many of their neighbors. The sneer continuing, she gave a derisive snort.

Was it contemptible of her to be so whiny in her disdain of magic usage in this realm, making judgement calls" Especially, when so many others were lacking more than she and needing help" Another snort exhaled. Who cared if anyone thought such of her!" She knew without these periodic moments of self-indulgence and moodiness she would snap. That would be bad. That *had* been bad. **Very** bad.

With a long existence came a tendency for insanity. The smart ones, however, knew the tricks to manage the manias and psychoses in Immortality's territory. Of course, as was in Sid's case — like most Ancients — the older you were, the crazier. Thus the common proclivity to wander off into ones' thoughts.

"Well.....You have Scottie...." As Miles spoke, jostling her from the mental wanderings, she turned her attentions back to him. Her mouth relaxing into a bright smile. "So that'll last.....You have the Bloods....And the Brambles....Couple of Maligns....We who are left at least....A rather smelly cat...."

A genuine warmth lifting her laughter, she offered a grin, nodding. "Greebo. Aye....An' in all ye are mos' right, Miles. For all o' ye I thank the Gods, too."

"Pretty soon you'll have the loveliest home in RhyDin. You have an eternal foe in the Stew......Life'll never be dull..."

She gave him a warm smile of friendship, leaning to his shoulder and staring across the street, allowing her mood to brighten. The pirate slipped an arm around her shoulders for a hug, joining her watch. "You did the best thing you could getting Dal, Sid. He's the handiest fellow I know."

"Ye be the one I thank, Miles. For gettin' tha' crochety ol' mine digger to do this job. Ye willna e'er know how grateful I be for all ye 'ave done. For the materials an' the help gettin' Dal. Jus' for bein' friend true, in a place where they nae come easy. An' than' ye for cheerin' me up, I be rather maudlin when ye arrived."

"Oh well...Can't have that. Now then....What's the 'stone going to look like" I'd ask about curtains, but I don't have all day."

Squeezing his hand, she grinned. "I shall buy ye a brandy. Wha' say ye?"

"I've never turned one down yet....No good reason to start now." He gave her a roguish wink and returned the warm gesture with a smile. She rose before him offering a hand. "An' ye know, as a housewarmin' gift....I be needin' some spoons."

Miles started to rise, then collapsed in a fit of laughter. Sitting up, tears streaming he chuckled heartily through the words. "Just when you think you've exorcised the demons of the past..." He grinned and took hold of her hand, hoisting himself up. "Let's get that drink and you can pick a pattern. So....Did Luse and Lankyn ever settle their little....Difference of opinion?"

"Aye, I believe the Lord gave his consent. But....Seems the Lady be indisposed. O' late anyway. An' I dun believe 'twas a difference o' opinion. Jus' tha' Luse has a sense o' honor an' wished to ask the husband's permission afore marryin' the wife..." He gave her his arm, blinking a bit at the relationship Luse was marrying into. Ambling off down the street towards the Red Dragon, letting her babble as the coffee sludge finally kicked into gear. It was going to be a long brandy.

Life in WestEnd Part XIII - A New Home

Dal tromped along the hardwood floors of the 'stone, keen black eyes studying as he moved, looking for any flaw in his work. Around him, the Crew was working with brooms and towels, sweeping up the last remnants of their carpentry. Poking his head into the kitchen, Dal gazed about, nodding in approval at the shine of polished steel and gleaming tile. Moving through the house, the rooms were checked off one by one, library, great room, guest room (ground floor), powder room, pantry, closet. Then up the stairs to examine the music stage, guest suite, other guest suite, nursery with nanny room. Finally the top floor, master bedroom, bath, and enough closet space for a kleptomaniacal magpie. Dal grumbled at the pale whiteness of all the walls, but Sid hadn't given his book back with her color selections yet. He'd be back. His work, for now at least, was done. The ramshackle crumbling pile of rot was replaced by the finest house in RhyDin. A home soon enough. Nodding in satisfaction, Dal gathered the Crew, herding them outside and locking the door behind him. Time to find Sid and have a piggie roast.

Life in WestEnd Part XV - Furniture and a fall

The book with its paint picks and paper choices had been returned to Dal a few days ago. A few weeks before, with the help of her sissy pix, Amthy, and Miles and Morpheus, she had gone back to the warehouses that lined the docks to pick out furniture and such from the Pirate Rogue's latest haul. And so this day, after several weeks taken off for personal business out of the realm, Sid brought the pouchful of miniaturized furnishings to the Brownstone. Prepared to set up house, in a manner of speaking.

She brought along tarps for covering the things once she had them settled in to place, since Dal had not gotten the book in time to finish the painting of the 'stone. A fact she was sure he would be bellowing about soon. A husky chuckle loosed at the thought, she entered the double mahogany doors and made her way down the hall to the great room.

Pulling from the pouch the miniature of the large camel-back sofa, with its midnight blue brocade, and its matching companion pieces, she began to set them to their spots. The pouch rumbled in her grip and she growled. "Stupid manna! Jus' han' on a bit more, dux, please."

Pale brow knitting, she practically ran for the library. Maybe keeping magics from this space had not been such a great idea. Perhaps this 'stone and its place now would work against any magics used. She hadn't thought of that before making the decision. As usual, leaping before the look. Mentally chastising herself, the pouch rumbled in protest against the spell upon its contents while she retrieved the dark green leather wingback chairs, round oak cocktail tables and four paintings she'd found amongst the plunder depicting scenes of the hunt on horseback. Setting them to appropriate places, she raced off for the kitchen.

The Dining area would remain bare until Miles or Dal or both came up with the cherry wood table and matching chairs with their pomegranate blossom brocade seats. Enough to seat twenty-six, as Miles suggested. A bit ostentatious in its size for her and Scottie, she thought. But, one never knew when the room might be needed. As the pouch shook and rattled, she placed the ash kitchen set to its spot, dropping off the silverware and tea set, plates, cups, copper coffee urn and other such dining accoutrements before hurrying along to the guest apartment. A snicker fell as she swiftly placed the furnishings to their respective rooms. Wouldn't it just be fitting, and her luck, to have some of the siblings seated around that dining table talking shop?

A full out laugh, summer's blue eyes rolling, she bounded the steps to the second floor. Corners and legs and such poking and prodding the insides of the pouch, the contents fought against the magics holding them. Miles had the piano for the music room covered, even though she'd told him he'd done enough already. And so, she made her way to the guest rooms; beds and chairs, dressers and tables in blonde oak placed before heading into the nursery.

The whomp sounding from downstairs, as if a vacuum had been breached, missed her attention completely as she moved over to the only thing now in this room. Pausing as if in reverence, she let slim fingers trail lovingly over the lines of the black oak crib, her Yule gift from Riley. Eyes overbright, she whispered, "Soonest." Another whomp resounding throughout the 'stone causing her to jump. "Ack! It be goin' to happen whether I wan' it or nae, better leave rumination for later, Sid."

Quickly she pulled out the black oak furnishings that matched perfectly with the crib, some placed in the nursery, the big bed for the nanny's room. Tables, dressers, bureaus and chairs interchangeable between the two rooms were hastily dug from the pouch as it seemed to boil, that vacuum-like popping sound reverberating now through the whole of the house. Down the steps at a dead run she shook the remaining things from the pouch into the middle of the great room floor. Just in time as tarps, tapestries, wall hangings and floor coverings alike popped and warped to full-size before hitting the wood with loud thuds and thunks.

Laughter, bordering on hysteria, left her and she fell to the camel-back sofa. Now that it was furnished, it still seemed large and overly boastful for the two loners that would inhabit it. But still . . . Her thoughts began to drift as she got comfortable on the couch, fingers digging to a tight leather pocket.

Her jacket rolled beneath her head she lie stretched out upon the camel-back sofa, pale fingers turning and fiddling with a small silver object as her thoughts took wing.

It was time to get real, Sid, she thought. Time to emulate one and bear down on the insanity that could quickly come to claim her as it has others of her kind. This was a home. A real home, like none other she had known. One she shared with Scottie and would share with their children.

Children . . .

Pale lids drooped over the silver true her eyes had turned, breath beginning the rhythmic pace that would take her into sleep, close guarded glamour fading with each soft exhale. Her hand dropped to her side off the sofa, relaxed. The small silver object falling and rolling a bit from slightly curled fingers. The sound causing her eyes to open briefly, focused blearily upon the object. A sleepy whisper falling. "Canna dream..." Then those eyes closed slowly, almost reluctantly, as thoughts began to echo in her fitful sleep.

Children . . . Hers. The hundreds she'd sent to their deaths. Death in a war amongst a land newly created.

Deep slumber took over swift, two crystalline tears slipping from closed eyes as a ray of the dying sun sparkled and shimmered along the lines of the small silver acorn just inches from her grasp on the floor.

Life in WestEnd Part XVII - Wrappin' it all up

Peace reigned on angular features, the kind she had not experienced fully in far too long. Her eyelids fluttered reluctantly as she was nudged to awareness, silver trues turning to the Dream Witch. "Melyantha....I..."

Clearing her throat and propping herself to an elbow Sid looked across the land before her. Why did children litter her dreams" Long nimble fingers toyed absently with soft stalks of green grass as she looked back to Mel. "I 'ave wondered o' late..." A scoff at that and she rose further up, scooting back to lean against the great tree, her gaze turning out across the fields again. Fields her mind's eye still saw bathed in blood and a darker time since past.

"I wondered too oft for too many years when lucidity would rear its ugly head through the white dragon's fog. An' now it fills me thoughts nae matter how hard I push it down. Did I doom them at the moment o' they creation?" Her hand rose and slid to rest against the flat of her stomach, eyes closing as her head dropped back to the roughness of the tree's trunk.

"(s) Did I do it then" Be it any different' Be I?"

Loss and confusion, frustration, all of this in the sigh that fell heavy from her. As Dal moved the sleeping Sid a sudden shimmer rippled the dreamself, her hand shooting out for Melyantha as she gave frantic plea. "I dun wan' to go back!"

"An' wha' I be an' 'ave been" It condemned the others, surely. Can ye truly say such abou..." Words to Mel cut off abruptly as Sid's eyes fluttered open at the clattering of something being dropped. The cloth tarp covering her was touched and she smiled. Moonwhite lashes blinking rapidly to focus her eyes, those periwinkle blues finding the dwarf, Dal, with no problem.

"Och, sorry for nappin' in ye way, dux." Standing with a stretch and a yawn, the elflocks shook out and ringling loud, she took a look about the place. She must have been sleeping a while, it looked near to completion.

"Ye will be the guest o' honor, Dal. Ye an' Miles for makin' this happen for me an' Scottie. I be throwin' a gran' party to show off ye an' the crew's beautiful work an' the generosity o' two dear friends." She weaved a bit, her hand reaching out to steady herself on the back of the couch.

"Whew! Nae offense, Dal sweet, but I should be lettin' ye get back to finishin' up. I 'ave hindered ye time schedule quite enough the whole while o' this. An' I needs be gettin' out o' here afore the fumes 'ave me to swoonin'."

She took up the jacket, snapped it from its roll, her arms sliding to the comfort of the leather with ease. Angular features of her face caught a frown, and she bent her head from view to free the wrapped locks from the jacket's collar. Melyantha had said she didn't have to leave, she could only pray that meant she was welcomed back to the dreamscape when she found a peaceful moment again. She sighed, the jacket snugged and zipper tugged up midway, hands shoved to pockets, she pasted on a bright smile, looking up once more.

"Will ye be sendin' word to me or Scottie at the Oak an' Ash when the work be done and how lon' it be for the fumes to air out, Dal" I 'ave a party to plan an' things to be done, sweet. Got to hit the bricks." Impulsively she moved over to him to hug him tight, a soft kiss brushed over his bristly cheek.

"Ye are a true treasure, Dal. Ye an' this crew. An' me words willna e'er be enough to tell ye how much this has all meant to me. Ye 'ave gone through a lot to make this place a home. Somewhere tha' gives me the feelin' o' roots. An' tha' be somethin' I 'ave nae felt in lon' an' lon'. Anythin' I 'ave be yers for the askin'. Anythin' ye e'er need nae matter wha', nae matter when. 'Tis a high honor to be able to call ye friend, Dal, an' I willna e'er be forgettin' this."

It flowed from her like water from a faucet. Her hands resting gently to the dwarf's shoulders, she spoke into his eyes. Every word meant, every breath it took to say them and the air was filled with the weight of an unspoken vow from her to him. Long pale fingers gripped in a warm squeeze, she turned, hoping the smile had held and the tears went unnoticed. Finally, gathering the small pouch, she made for the steps that led up from the great room, taking an exaggerated glance down the hall to cover those emotions that so easily betrayed her these days.

"Anythin' ye need right now afore I head to the Inn for shift, Dal?"

"More Beer"

Reflections, Recollections and Rotgut

Part II - The beginning

Ever notice how in the Bible, whenever God needed to punish someone, or make an example, or whenever God needed a killing, he sent an angel" Ever wonder what a creature like that must be like" A whole existence spent praising your God, but always with one wing dipped in blood. Would you ever really want to see an angel?

Thomas Daggett in "The Prophecy"

A metallic clatter rattled between narrow walls, bouncing off crumbling brick and plaster. Pieces getting lost through jagged glass and growing weaker, chasing darkness' interloper until its own inevitable demise. Fanning out to be lost in the night streets.

The throaty purr of her v-twin putted through the dilapidated neighborhood, one of many dotting Rhydin Township and surrounding areas. She was heading for Stars End Sector, the vacant wheel wells of her mage bike swaying gently over debris littered cobblestones. Head down, elflocks ringling in the breeze of her wake, dim gas light flickered off the back of a time worn jacket and the colors she still wore with pride; the name "Dead Warlocks" rockered around a patch of a bloodied wand.

When the cat shot out from the alley if the Panhead would have had wheels they'd have been smoking with the jolt of her stop. Long fingers white-knuckling on the grip of her ride and the other hand on the blaster still pointed after where the cat had fled, she planted both feet to the ground and took two deep calming breaths. "Frellin' feline," muttered as she replaced the blaster against her back and shook a coltsfoot and comfrey from a crumpled pack. Warrior instincts were well honed, but if she let this trek through her mindscape and memories daze her out too much she might be looking at more than just road rash as consequence. Dragging deep she kicked the bike back into gear and continued on towards Morrison's.

She was Ancient. Not just in terms of time, but also in name; a title, of sorts, given to her kind after a few generations had been born and grew. They were the birth parents of a thousand races; inhabitants of borrowed home, protectorates of Worlds' essence. They were the Third Faction.

In truth, in terms of time she is older than dirt. Literally. Though one of the youngest created of the Third Faction for the dimensions she covers, this is fact.

At the end of the beginning, or so she has heard tell from others who remember such things of the Afore Time, while the Children of Light worked tirelessly on the spires of their new cities, The Architect busied Itself with an even grander project.

Wind of such plans soon spread outward.

The Children were created an unflaggingly loyal breed, shamelessly adoring and devoted. But, it can sometimes be devastating of Spirit to be so close to one's Creator.

As the wind took shape and form, moving from being to being, divisiveness began to rear its ugly head. Before the Morningstar had Fallen, before foundation had been laid to The Architect's latest work, the trappings of an Eternal War commenced to brew and bubble.

Work on the Pinnacle's cities was abandoned as brethren took up arms against brethren. And, as any harried parent may sometimes do, The Architect gave into whims of Its more favored before knowing all facts, in order to be left alone to complete Its work. Believing the siblings could and should work such problems out amongst themselves.

Eventually, out of such whims came a legion of new brethren, a lowly warrior caste meant to fight and die only to rebirth so as to fight and die anew, in battle after bloody, ruinous battle.

All this over a misperception, or so she has been told, for there came a growing number of the Children who did lay down their arms; refusing to continue on such a hopeless path. Choosing not to take up sword for "the greater good."

As it happens, winds change, oft suddenly and without warning.

Badgered and hounded from one side and the other, facts and nuances of the struggle lost to pressing matters of project finalization, The Architect stepped in. Decree issued with a broad stroke. Damnation for some, banishment for another faction.

The Third Faction.

She was warrior. She was Ancient. A disaffected Goddess. An apathetic pecca junkie on a suicide machine.

Spotting the light pouring from the roll-up bay door, she swung the ride down the alley. A tribal-primitive rock beat from the juke inside spilled out with the light and the rabble that danced and gyrated along the wet pavement in front of the Metalworks. Nick, Jim's bouncer and all-around handyman, nodded her way and gave the thumb's up as she strode indoors, the Panhead to be safe under his watchful eye.

Reflections, Recollections and Rotgut

Part IV - The Fall

All of your life you've lived in a world as pure As Eden's sixth day. Now all you've been allowed Is taken away, they will not let you be so proud And you have felt the fear growing inside Protest follows far and wide. They'll see how long It will take 'til you fall from so much denied.

"Back Door Man" By: Sarah McLachlan

She drug her thumb across her lips, the chill of the shot glass against flesh so contrary to the acid-like burn of the rotgut as it chased doubt into the pit of her stomach. There were many doubts. Was this a good idea" Could she even remember all that has gone before" If she remembered, weren't her memories suspect, colored by mental triflings and self-inflicted mind warping"

Actually, she thought, placing the shot glass back to the table and watching as the prattling female and tattooed male walked out into the night, that was a bunch of centaur caca and she had to laugh, sardonically and long. Justification, that's what it was. Rationalizations to keep from beginning; really beginning not just rehashing the tellings of those that had come before, or reminiscing through a youngling's fable.

But how to start, she wondered, taking a swig from the sweating brew and letting glamoured eyes grow unfocused. What would she tell the bairns when they came asking" That thought alone causing a wry smile to flash. Of the hundreds she'd created, she knew this pair to be different. She was different, the father and what she had with him was different. There would definitely be questions, no way around that. Damn! The bottle thunked against the metal tabletop sharply, slanted eyes narrowing. Could she even do this" The whole earth mother, nurturing, fostering a youngling's growth was H'll"n"'s shtick, not hers. The Ancient knew when she was at her best, and it didn't much have anything to do with nurturing or helping a being grow. She was created for something else entirely.

Lifting a wave to a nervous looking Rack, waving him back to "at ease" after the bottle slam and scowl, she smiled a little and took a deep breath, leaning back into the corner more. What would she say"

"Well, m'loves" Ye mum's beginnin' be a bit o' a sticky wicket, see. A bunch o' brats wanted to fight. They be wantin' to fight lon' an' hard, but they didna actually wan' to take all the lumps, or be the ones wha' be 'avin' to make all the mess. So, they be whinin' an' harrassin' the one in charge o'er it all until they be given all the tools needed to make up a batch o' toy soldiers, pawns to move about they board an' do all the dirty work?"

Another belt off the brew, another wry smile and Sid chuckles. So, the structure of that may not be exactly fair, but for all intents and purposes, it was accurate. In truth, she does not remember how long she existed in ignorance; time does not hold much meaning to her kind, and it holds no meaning at all where they originate. She recollects not the initial Choosing and many of the leavings that took place then and after, information was closely guarded from those of her caste. She recalls the tellings, though, the tales of those who chose, why they chose and where they had gone. Yes, she thinks, a cheerless grin breaking across the pale face, she remembers those well?

Within a Private Study - Unexpected Findings II

"By altering his arrangements and changing his plans, he keeps the enemy without definite knowledge." - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

The Ancient is pondering the current defense of his Family. He realizes that forces gather against him and his, he knows they seek something greater than mere lands, establishments, products or other such petty incidentals. Corwyn knows what the powers governing the current Dragon conflict really want.

The Mages have spoken of their actual goal: the hopes of gaining the power of the Walking Gods, the mythical race, the Ancients. He is in all things aware that to triumph one must be aware of the enemy that is unknown, that to many does not exist, yet lurks in waiting like a cobra ready to strike.

The Family now faces a greater foe than ever before, a foe that knows of them but they do not know of their foe. It is a wise soul that recognizes that knowledge of one's foe is the key to success. It is to these ends Corwyn shall work; to know the foes they face, to learn their desires, and to manipulate them against those same enemies.

Corwyn keeps his senses above all sharp, seeking any that could threaten or harm. Seeking any who might cross the boundaries between what is safe for the mortals, or other races not of their ilk, to know and what is not. Since the capture of Belial he must insure that such an event is not allowed to happen again. It is true she is one of the weakest of the Ancients; crippled by amnesia and a kind of madness she had wrought upon herself since her Fall, but that makes what happened to her no less dangerous, a serious threat that could destroy far more than create. Perhaps it is time to eradicate the texts, the mages, the knowledge: All that could bring this ruin down about the Angels heads"

And hence the tickle of Sid's presence in his private library is felt and her current project comes to light as bright as the Great Architect's touch within. He has little choice but to intervene. The knowledge Sid holds cannot be shared with any who would use it against the Angels themselves. The knowledge Sid has unearthed must be destroyed as certainly as those who would seek to use it.

* * * * *

Corwyn steps into the cold, dry tomb of the hidden library from a door few know of. He pauses, allowing his sight to adjust to the low level of light, pools of it spill over the tables, but the books and scrolls are rarely kept lit to preserve them from the harm it would otherwise cause. He can smell where Sid is and he follows that scent, as quietly as the crawl of time itself, he moves unheard, unseen; an art his race did not have to learn, something they have been simply graced with. He places a firm hand to his sibling's shoulder where she studies the lost language, working hard on the translation which he alone realizes she cannot share.

"Manon?" His voice warm, soft, inviting. Perhaps the memories of their time together removes the edge that he would have otherwise shown to any other who sought the same knowledge"

"I am aware of your current project, Manon." Her name rolling from thin lips with an elegance rarely heard as he speaks in a tongue only those of their breed could hear or understand. "You know what the content holds, you know it cannot be shared with any outside our race. You must deny what you have learned and destroy the scroll. There is a storm gathering upon us, and none can be allowed to gain such control as the contents therein can supply."

He speaks soothingly, understanding Sid's desire to aide a friend in their quest. Sid is one of the youngest, one of those most abused by their race, she deserves far better than she has ever been given by the Angels and he knows this as a mortal knows breath. The reason for her creation alone was an abomination, had he not already removed himself from their ranks, quit his *job* so to speak, he would never have allowed such atrocities to be committed. Too late, as with so much of the past, it is too late to undo what was done, but he shall oversee her, insure that they never touch her again, never play her like a pawn they had created her to be. His hand squeezes the frail feeling shoulder beneath long fingers tenderly. Manon will always rest inside his heart, although some would argue if he has one or not.

"Perhaps there is another way to assist your friend" Please, attempt to discover your friend's need and desire" If you wish, you can bring Lucien to me and I shall do all within *our* power to give him what it is he needs. But this?" A nod to the scroll she has been working so hard to discern. "This is knowledge we cannot allow any other to hold." His words firm yet gentle as silvered eyes rest upon his lost love.

Long Lankyn Leader of the Bloods Retired Guardian of the Fixed Stars, Creator and Mentor of the Elven Race.

Within a Private Study - Unexpected Findings IV

Knowledge is the power: The power to rule, to dominate, to control the masses. Only teach the minimalist of needed skills to the masses, for it is in their lack of knowledge that they remain meek and within one's control to manipulate. The masses are what make a great ruler greater, use them as the tools they are and success is assured. - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Corwyn listens to Sid's softly spoken words, silver eyes never falter from the beloved visage and yet, there is no true safe place where knowledge of this magnitude can rest without worry that one day it may fall into the wrong hands. Even now the Angels Above move to interfere with their siblings on Earth.

The arrogance, the pride; was not that the reason Morning Star was cast from Heaven" Yet, it seems since the Great Architect slipped away, the Angels Above now fall to the same sins, taking it upon themselves to intrude with their siblings below. Corwyn wonders what Dante says to the Mortals that take Innocence for granted more so than He or his would ever dare"

Somehow he doubts that Dante dares to chide the Dragons, leaving only that tainted honor to Corwyn and kin. It would suit the arrogance of the Angel to think that because Corwyn is who and what he is, Dante holds some right to dictate. But none Above hold such rights over him. In fact they hold nothing over any, they are merely lost lap dogs, awaiting some direction, begging for some attention from a greater being who has forsaken them because they were not worthy to serve.

He shakes the silvered head gently; bending to one knee, silver eyes to periwinkle blues.

"Manon, Sun does not have the keys to Avalon, and even if she did, do you really believe that there are those who would still not trample the dimensions to seize what they want' Power is a strong allure, it attracts only those who know and understand it little. True power" That is born into the soul, not stolen or taken, not earned through hard work and labor. And those most desperate to have it' It is they who should never wield it, for in their hands greatness fails, falls to ruin and death is the only harbinger of peace." He could name names, recite a list of mortals who abused power because it was not within them but stolen, seized, taken by the hand of force, but this is not a history lesson.

"I understand your friend has great need, and I also understand your desire to retain, protect the treasures you feel such texts and tomes hold. But I beg you to think what would happen had Hitler, Pol Pot, any of the earthly tyrants would do with such knowledge" Even now there are those who would use such things against our race. This knowledge could bring our destruction, the ruin of all we have striven to build, to nurture. It is within your power to help me keep this from happening.

"You are welcome to falsify the documents, but when they do not work, will he not feel the betrayal, even if it is not known to him' Demons, Manon, what are they but our Fallen Kin's creations" Are they more worthy sacrifices than the Elven Race" Do we, knowing who and what they are, have the right to pass such knowledge on' To allow their enslavement by those who have not earned such rights" Would you give Belial to one seeking such control" Aleron' Are they unworthy of our protection?" A pause as he allows his words to find home in her thoughts.

"I ask only that you carefully consider what you will be granting him should you insist on giving him this knowledge. And what you will be sacrificing if you give him false information. But I shall allow you to make the choice, if he abuses this knowledge, then perhaps Michael and Dante will have something worthy of their wrath to invest their attentions."

From Manon's creation, she has been denied the many rights of the higher echelon of their race, used more like a tool, a weapon, never given the opportunity to a voice, or to taste the truth or freedom of their ilk. Histories were not shared; past was not granted freely, as she was merely a toy in their bloodbath of battle of kin against kin. When she had removed herself from their grasps, he and the other Neutrals had gladly taken her in. He had declared that she would never be so harshly treated, ignored, or overlooked again, and this he has seen to.

Perhaps she did not like the title, the position to which she had been "elected", but her affinity with the spirit, with Nature, was what had gained her such a crown. How does he express his sadness to his lost love, how his heart breaks that she denies herself in turning from what she truly is" A vessel, an Avatar of something far greater than the Angels, something that is the playground of the Gods themselves"

She has the soul, the spirit of the universes residing inside her, if only she could accept it, tap into that greatness" But it isn't Corwyn's place to dictate or control her. She will never be a toy for him or any other to manipulate, for Manon is still touched with the innocence, still untainted by the brutality that begot her race. Caressed is she by the very essence of Nature, it is her choice alone what paths she picks to travel, not his, not now, and mayhaps, never again.

He could feel jealous of the Crow, hate the male for stealing what was once solely his, but Scottie has worked miracles with Manon, to deny this would be a lie unworthy of making. Corwyn smiles with heavy sadness, he could not grant her the peace she finds in the arms of the other, and yet, he can still remember the taste of it, the fabric of that love and yearn for what he had stolen from him.

His revenge against Mab will never be complete, for she will never know the suffering that she wrought against him. Mab does not have a heart, cannot feel the depths of it's breaking. Never will she know the joy either, as little reassurance as this reality is, it offers no tangible real satisfaction, merely a whisper in his mind, a vapor of light mist that numbs the pain a small fraction.

"Again, I offer you my aide in whatever choice you make, Manon. I would help your friend in any way possible, for you." His hand lifts to caress her cheek, brush back the silken strands, tucking them behind the pointed ear. His eyes reflect little of his thoughts, but never would he hold his love for her away.

Long Lankyn Leader of the Bloods Retired Guardian of the Fixed Stars, Creator and Mentor of the Elven Race.

Within a Private Study - Unexpected Findings VI

The Past-the dark unfathom'd retrospect! The teeming gulf-the sleepers and the shadows! The past! the infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past" - Walt Whitman

The ancient silver eyes stare deeply into glamoured summer blues, as spidery fingers caress Sid's pale cheek. How easily she reads him at times, he ponders silently to himself. To realize his potential for destruction of objects, texts, information not really his to control and to understand his motives, the lack of morals that offer little in the light of reality, and yet still see the nobility that lurks behind what could be perceived as something altogether different, Manon did all this and more. She understands Corwyn on a level few others have achieved. He gives a slight nod, his words will mean more than the gesture itself.

"Yes, Manon, I *will* help Lucien as I offered and I shall not make such hasty decisions concerning this knowledge at this time." His tone is low, barely above a whisper but his gaze never falters from Sid's. His word is his honor, something too few no longer comprehend or recognize but it doesn't stop Corwyn from relying upon such a token. He knows Sid will understand.

Personally, Corwyn doesn't really know much about the attorney, Lucien Mallorek. In fact he knows very little other than the male had earned the title of *friend* from Sid. Lucien's ambitions or motives are unknown elements to Corwyn, but he has learned to trust in Sid and her instincts rather than his own dark nature and paranoia. If Sid insists that Lucien isn't seeking control over dark powers, Corwyn will believe in her opinion until proven otherwise. He will do all within his power to help Lucien in his quest, although Corwyn realizes that he does this out of selfishness rather than selflessness; he does this for Manon and for what she will see in him because of this seeming act of kindness.

Manon's opinion of him become of import to the Ancient many lifetimes ago, in an age long forgotten by mortals, when the world was young enough to nurture Faith and Hope. In those times of light and love, his race had roamed freely, creating "life" with flamboyant ease. The fear of oblivion, the glittering red tides of war, the Fall of Angels were but distant prophecies heard only in evil whisperings of dark, moving shadows. It was a time when optimism and beauty reigned, and Manon shone above all in her naivet' and purity. The Mistress of Summer, the Dancing Maiden with arms flung wide as skirts whirl with the wonder that surrounds her. Sid may joke about her *Title*, but it was bestowed because of what she inherently accomplished; Manon earned her title by existing. He would say the same of each of the Ancients, from Mab to himself, each Title granted was meant to utilize individual talents to their fullest. But that was the Beginning, and a very long time ago, things have changed vastly since then.

Thin lips curve in to a warm smile, sharp features softened by a rare show of emotion, Corwyn leans to press a light kiss to Manon's cheek, spidery fingers cupping her chin gently. "I do not seek such a promise from you, My Love, but offer one; you have my word that I will use all within my means to help Lucien. Whatever you decide to do I shall simply choose to have faith in it." He pauses, silver eyes seeking summer blues. "You are so much stronger and far more talented than you realize, Manon, your power will reflect in your actions. Rely on what you feel within, yes" If there is a promise I seek it is that you will trust in yourself. Your instinct won't lead you astray, My Love, but down a path true to *you*."

He drops his hands to capture hers, spidery, long fingers curling over the smaller fragile-seeming ones with a gentle squeeze. Corwyn knows that there are dark times ahead, old enemies seeking revenge loom on the horizon, he understands that soon they will all be swept up in the rising storm, but right now, this moment, he allows himself to sup of peace and tranquility. Soon enough the tides will roll in, but right now he spends the time lost in the rejuvenating eternity of glamoured summer blue depths.

Long Lankyn Leader of the Bloods Mentor of the Elven Race Neutral

Upping the Stakes

"With great power comes great responsibility." Uncle Ben, Spiderman 2002

It is an ancient place, a place of power surging with echoes of worshipers over many centuries; this is where he's chosen to do the casting. He can hear the sounds of the city in the distance, people, traffic and the snap, crackle of electricity. The ruins are close to civilization, but at this late hour no one will travel here. This place is remote and private enough for his task tonight. The strand of nexus is just beginning to form overhead and will take another ten minutes to fully develop but this is the very reason he's here, far from Rhydin, far from prying eyes and multiple spies from copious enemies. He needs the power of the nexus for the spell, but he wants no interference from his brethren or any others seeking his extinction. This place is perfect.

Silver eyes follow the strand of surging power as it grows dipping slowly towards the ground his thoughts heavy upon him tonight. The conversation with Sid had gone poorly, she was upset about Aya, the girl from the future, accusing him of "doling out only what information he wanted them to know". Partially true, but he understands the repercussions of the future interfering with the now, the consequences could be devastating, and instead of victory, they might find themselves defeated. It is best that what Aya knew stays closed, stays as it had been intended from the beginning of this plan. Explaining this to Sid would be opening her to more danger than she is already in, another bad idea. Corwyn strives to protect the brethren under his wings to the best of his abilities, putting any one of them in greater danger he considers insanity.

With a wave of his hand, candles, previously not there, burst to life and incense filled the air. He knows the words of the spell; he didn't bother to bring the parchment with him, just in case things get out of hand; if he should fall it wont be counted among the trophies. The insects and night creatures give a natural rhythm to the night. Corwyn nods his approval of his chosen setting. It will do just fine. He steps to the center of the ancient temple, arms lifting to the sky, waiting to be engulfed by the surging strand of the nexus.

He doesn't really know what will happen when he casts the spell. It has never been used before, there are none to ask, no records to refer to. It is of the angelic arcane, secrets of the Creator, and in a script so old it's even been forgotten by his own race. Save for a few, nine of them to be exact. The import of the nine is the exact contents of the spell. "What was gifted but once will be gifted to thee." Cryptic to many but forthright for him, Corwyn understands what this means and from what Aya told him; he thinks it will grant them the edge they will need to survive. Because if they in Rhydin fall, the Lands will be next and everything they have built will be destroyed.

Sid had been hesitant, Belial resigned to the idea, but Corwyn knows what?s coming and he understands what only one other had known before him. Michael has gone insane and he shall smite as God, beginning with the pollution of the seraphim and their half-breeds. If Corwyn doesn't use this weapon, they might not survive the onslaught of Heaven. Corwyn is very aware of the amassing of the armies; Belial had not been taken down as easily as Gabriel had anticipated. He won't make the same mistake again; this time when the attacks begin they will be far more deadly and intended to take them all on. And Gabriel has been busy, he knows all about Corwyn, Belial and Sid, thanks to Mab, the betrayer.

Corwyn should feel sorry for her; she's attempting to buy time, bartering with Michael in hopes of being spared, too bad she's so stupid. Once Corwyn is out of the way" They won't hesitate to take the Lands apart, destroying everything they've worked to build since the first dawning. Corwyn knows he's the only thing that stands between the Lands and his vengeance-seeking siblings. He knows because he is of the original nine. It is the only reason that they haven't struck before, but all that has changed, hasn't it"

Michael is willing to cross lines that the Creator laid down, in his arrogance and pride he believes this is the way for Angelic redemption. Corwyn doesn't pretend to understand his sibling but nor is he going to allow Michael to destroy all he's created. Michael can rot in his madness; make war in heaven all he likes, but bringing it to Corwyn's doorstep" His brother is in for a surprise; Corwyn doesn't take trespass against him or his lightly, he's going to give them hell right back.

Hadn't Morningstar paid a price for his pride, his arrogance" Michael was there when Morningstar Fell, he knew, he saw and yet he's now walking that same path.

The nexus strand reaches the earth and energy begins to shift and surge in tides of power. Somewhere nearby, maybe even in the city, some poor souls might be swept up and tossed to foreign dimensions, like Rhydin. But here in the ancient ruins, Lankyn cares less about such unlucky fates as he begins his spell, the words of the old language rolling easily from thin lips. He offers the hair of the three, himself, Sid and Belial, the chosen participants, and as they burn the last of the words are spoken. The nexus strand continues to alter and course around him as the candles flicker wildly, but nothing has changed, he feels no different at all. Anticlimactic comes to mind as he lowers his arms, the elegant elven brow furrowing. Perhaps the spell hadn't worked" Or maybe it won't work on him" He has to return to Rhydin immediately, and contact the other two, a nod to his thoughts as he waves a hand, extinguishing all signs of him or his dealings here.

A dark frown settles on thin lips just before he teleports to Onyx, he's certain he'd cast the spell correctly, but lacking the results creates new more troubling issues.

Long Lankyn Progenitor of the Bloods

Upping the Stakes III Stand

Exile, for no other motive than ease, would be the last defeat, with no seed of future victory in it. ~ Lois McMaster Bujold, "Shards of Honor"

Hot wind beat against her face, tangled the streams of elflocks 'til all sound was choked from their lengths. Thrashing rain pelted flesh like hard-driving nails and still, she knew she couldn't drive fast enough or far enough.

Hesitant, she'd been more than that. Yet, the offer and askance came with words of keeping those she held dearest from a possible wrath. How could she say no' She knew he kept things from her. He knew she knew. It was the way of things, always was. And, for as far as she could see beyond this now it would always be thus. He was a rock for her. That, too, had never changed and she doubted ever would. Then came the mention of Her, clinching the deal enough for the Ancient to agree to the spell. What price madness"

Honestly, even after reluctant agreement some small part of her truly believed she could still walk away. She didn't want this. She'd never wanted any of it. There had never been any choice except which side to pick - not even that in the beginning. The freedom of declining never came to play. When angelic soles met the warmth and wonder of earthen soil there seemed an abundance of time where she was liberated; shackles, which had clung and kept her in the place she was created for were cast off and forgotten. But, when one forgets the past one is oft doomed to repeat it. As she saw it, First Winter came from her. There were obligations to be met. In the end, by his side, she met them, as best she knew to do - with sword in hand.

Then the choice became hers, or so she thought. An end to the fight, and to the fawning and adoration of followers she never felt worthy to undertake. Her role, her station, her responsibilities were not of import. Things would sail smoothly regardless of being there " in her mind, almost certainly better.

With the Return and new amusements to ponder and play amid, she ducked and dodged, spiraled into a darker abyss than any she'd known previous; and all for what, to forget, to hide" Sure, eventually she wet her feet here and there, pretended gallantry for lending a hand, keeping a watch. But, in truth, it was lies; lies to herself above all others. Never a stand was honorably taken.

Dirt and gravel spat beneath the wheel-less wells of the mage bike, silver true gaze skewed from the havoc taking place within. The spell was in effect, and she'd gotten out of the 'stone to spare Scottie and the bairns any fall out. She could still run, still fly fast and far. It didn't have to mean commitment; she'd made no vow or pledge. If she did, though, what was she"

Then, as trees moved past at a breakneck speed, as her hand twisted on the throttle to send her faster over the rise up ahead a lone thought struck her mind with pinpoint clarity. The most singular moment of clarity she could recall since awakening in the Above and choosing to follow the Exiles to their earthly dimensions. If she never took a stand, if she never met conflict except out of some forged sense of debt or duty she would never be more than what they made her to be. She would never be fully and wholly herself, and there lay more danger than a hundred thousand swords at her throat.

The turn took her by surprise. Lightning cracked and thunder roared as sharp rocks and barely covered roots peeled flesh from muscles like skin off ripe fruit. And, when finally her body, minus its consciousness, came to a rolling stop in a heap of bloodied cotton and leather, there was a smile on that elvin face.

How long was she down, how long had she been traveling silvered threads until she corroborated they all led back to a single anchored knot' It still rained, but there had been enough falling to wash her clean, enough time passed to shrivel the useless flesh hanging in ribbons from arms and torso, scab over the healing already at a run. Turning her face to the skies, she opened her mouth to the rain and felt the rush and pure enchantment as it had happened that first time when an angel's feet met earthly soil, when a choice had been made with free will and awareness.

Struggling to her feet, she thrust her fist up to the darkened heavens. As a squat and gnarled tree beside her burst into a blazing inferno, she laughed long and loud, the sound of a hundred murder of crows.

"Ye jus' come on down. Come an' take wha' ye think ye can. Aye?" Laughter dying off with a raspy cough she limped over to the downed ride and righted it, climbing stiffly back on and turning the bike back towards Rhydin and her stand.

Battle-Ready

War is not a life: it is a situation, One which may neither be ignored nor accepted, A problem to be met with ambush and stratagem, Enveloped or scattered. T.S. (Thomas Stearns) Eliot. "A Note on War Poetry."

War can only be abolished through war, and in order to get rid of the gun it is necessary to take up the gun. Mao Zedong

" " The ancient slides through the dimensional portal; stepping back into the reality he calls his home. Silver eyes as aged and fathomless as the sea reveal little as they scan the comfortable confines of his office at Onyx House.

His number one, Trevinor, known more familiarly as Wylde, would be arriving soon carrying the news of the other seven fronts." They are ready, as ready as they can be: The plots, the placement, everything taken into contingency. The army has been built, unlike any other that has fought before, with both good and evil within the ranks. The sheer force of what Lankyn has accomplished should give the ancient a sense of pride and accomplishment or at least a momentary pause of peace for what he has created is unique: unique and formidable. However he does not delude himself; victory holds as much sorrow and misery as losing.

Yet, that's not the point is it' He didn't start this conflict, he can't end it with quaint words or a grand gesture, magic alone is futile, his only recourse is to meet the challenge head on and win the day. They are strong enough; they stand more than a chance against the angelic horde. If anything it is pity he feels for Michael who in the end will have lost everything.

" " There are still a few things left remaining to accomplish before Corwyn is forced into an inactive state of waiting and patience. Not that this intimidates the ancient, he's grown used to waiting, he's honed patience as a virtue, and in the face of victory only the most shallow or hollow would be so obvious as to gloat." Many lives, too many lives, will be sacrificed and although the price may be worthy, the cost nevertheless weighs heavy upon the elder's shoulders.

" " From the dark corner the lackey steps, his head held high defiance gleaming in eyes the color of the bluest skies." Corwyn smirks at the mortal, at the overconfidence, the desire to show contempt to the one that saved his wretched soul. "You must have news, yes?" The words spoken tight and low, dismissive in tone and texture as aged silvers roam the fancy cut of the fellow's livery.

" " "You said to bring anything I find that is odd to your attention, right?" his snarl showing his contempt as Rafe glares at the ancient." "Well, there is this ghost whispering things to me when I'm trying to sleep." Is that weird or odd enough?"

" " " Corwyn's silvered brow rises as he looks at his thrall. A ghost' This could be the sign that the seers spoke of. He nods as he takes a casual lean against the front of his oaken desk." "I consider such events important. Please?" Do continue with this ghost story of yours Rafe."

" " The handsome man obviously bristles, he doesn't enjoy his "employment" and he doesn't believe in subterfuge, showing his dislike openly. "It says that she will die if we don't go get her.?" He purposefully plays the tale vague, wanting to string the ancient along, wanting to play cat and mouse on the winning side, at least this once.

" " "Enough." The word is soft spoke, the eyes remain unreadable, but perhaps it is the hold of the body that conveys the most threat"

" " Rafe understands. With a sigh and a drooping of broad shoulders he shrugs. "I don't know what it's going on about, ok" All I know is that it wants us to go get the girl from some sandy oasis out in the NeverNever. I have a crude map. Never was much of an artist, ya know."

" " "Give the map to Finnie, he will know what to do with it.?" Corwyn dismisses the man with a wave of his elegant hand, his attention shifting away from the lackey.

" " "Yeah, of course. Give it over to someone else to do. Right. How could I forget, I'm just a stooge, not important enough to follow this through." Rafe snarls as he spins on his heels, heading towards the hidden passage that allows him private access to the lord of the manse.

" " "Oh?" And Rafe?" Stay away from Sun and Belial." In fact." Stay away from the Oak and Ash.?" Corwyn adds almost as an after thought.

" " Rafe spins back around to glare malevolently at the immortal. "Yeah?" You tell me to find them and now you tell me not to go where they are"! How the hell do you expect me to do the jobs you assign when you tie my hands with so many 'rules'"!"

" " "Not all of the angelic will be hunting Belial at the Oak and Ash, Rafe." A canting of the ancient's head as nostrils flare delicately, taking in the scent and location of his race spread like a thick layer of butter over most of Rhydin currently. A slow cruel smile moves over thin lips. "They are rife throughout the city. Use that inhuman nose I gave you, yes?" Sniff them out; you have the ability, use it. Just stay away from the women in the Bloods. This includes all the women, not just the two I've mentioned. Oh." And the men." A significant glance of ancient silvers tossed towards Rafe, they shimmer hard and cold. "You can play when we are past our current circumstance, but until then" You will behave like a monk."

" " Rafe growls low as he turns and rushes towards his exit. He doesn't pretend to understand how Lankyn can know the things he does, or why the ancient would make such a demand upon him, but he does understand the consequence of disobeying. He will do as he is told, but Lankyn hadn't said anything about his early morning jaunts to the Medieval Tavern. At least some small pleasures are left.

" " Corwyn watches the thrall leave, the man's thoughts ricocheting inside the ancient's own head: heated, angry and defiant. It would take a thought and nothing more to undo the magic that keeps the thrall alive and walking but that would not benefit them now. He needs them all if they are to win this upcoming conflict, as each still have a vital role to play, Rafe among them. Rafe is Corwyn's shadow, he can pass where no other Blood can go, he can walk into the fray and none will take notice of him. Yes, in times like these shadows are most certainly useful.

" " Corwyn can sense the return of Ana, and the Seers have foretold that soon Ona will also be returned, just in time for the conflict." His children, are they to be his greatest sacrifice" He would rather end his own existence than to allow them to fall to these enemies. But all the worry is moot now, isn't it' It is too late to go back and change the events that have already occurred, too late to stop the confrontation that Michael is hell bent upon.

" " "Raphael, what an impressive office you have, old friend." The familiar voice draws the ancient's silvered gaze as it takes corporeal shape beside a bookcase. A hand lifts to run a fingertip over the leathery spins of aged books as if the touch of the texture is a pleasure to bask in. "Dangerous times which we live, not like the old days, but similar, don't you agree?"

" " Corwyn smiles, it is a cold smile lacking the warmth it may have once held. "Raziel, how nice of you to make an appearance." Irony taints the comment as Corwyn moves behind his desk a hand falling to the back of his intentionally intimidating chair. "Either way, you know how dangerous you appearing here is, why have you taken this chance, Brother?"

" " "Because the tribunal has been called, Brother." There is a hint of satisfaction to Raziel's tone, however the expression upon the physical countenance remains calm, serene, untouched by the emotions the soul might express.

" " "It is too late, Brother." Michael will not allow anything to stop him. You know as well as I, Raziel, that this time things are out of anyone's control save one, and Gabriel will not aid us in stopping Michael."

" " "Gabriel is lost, Brother. And the toll has cost him his sanity, I fear. Heaven is in the hands of madmen and the earth shall reap the reward of the betrayal. Gabriel is plotting, Raphael, he plans on taking Belial and not returning her. If you dare, the tribunal will be held in twenty-eight hours, you still hold a seat but your words may not hold the same power as they once did. Michael may not have the backing of the hierarchy, but the lesser hordes are still his to wield, no matter the outcome, Michael's true strength will remain unchanged."

" " This information is not news to the ancient. Corwyn nods as his silvered gaze shifts to the window. "Raziel, the time is upon me to choose, yes" To retake the position once held or to turn my back upon my duties for the final time."

" " "I do not relish your position, Brother. It is a hard one, it could change everything."

" " "Everything has already changed, Raziel, has it not?"

" " "Ah, pragmatism has served you well, Raphael, but truth has a tendency to force revelations deeper than that of the mind, it likes to tear open the soul and revel in the ruin of it's destruction. Take your place, Raphael, return to your rightful position and help us stop this madness before it rains upon the heads of the innocent."

" " "I cannot." The words spoken low as the ancient's chin dips towards his chest.

" " "Why are you so stubborn" You remember as well as I. What we were created for, why we exist, it is the fabric of who and what we are. It is your duty, Raphael, as it is mine. We must let the past go, we must step forward and from the chaos we must find a way to rebuild that which was lost, it is our only hope. It is the only way we can stop Michael, Brother, the only way to take his army from him. Raphael, you are the only one who can accomplish the healing needed?"

" " "You are blinded, Brother." Corwyn interrupts his brother's speech coldly. "Blinded by the past, by your faith, by the idea that what we were created for still holds some relevance. But in this Michael is right, the time for our race is past. Mortals need little intervention to find their faith and what they have learned has eradicated the glory of our abilities. Magic has been replaced by science, Brother. No matter what I do or say, whether I am at the tribunal or not, you know as well as I that what Michael wants cannot be gotten. He will continue down this path until he forces God's hand and I am afraid there are too many others like him, too many who feel the same way, they will not hear what we have to say, they can't."

" " "Tsk, tsk. You have lost hope, Raphael, how terribly sad I feel for you. I can remember the time when it was you who gave the most comfort." The expression upon the smooth unlined face does not change although Raziel's tone holds the truth of his words. "Perhaps you are right, and nothing we do will stop Michael from his intentions, but we both know that he will fall and when he does who will be left to pick up the pieces" I beseech you to consider returning, Raphael. It will be up to us to reclaim the glory of Heaven."

" " "Glory of Heaven." No infliction taints the words as Corwyn shakes his head with wry amusement. "There is no glory in Heaven, Raziel, not even you spend your time there, admit it. None of the elders claim their positions; all of us walked out eons ago." Remember?" The fight for free will, followed by the fall of Morningstar. This new insanity of Michael's proves to me that perhaps Heaven would be better suited were it controlled by lesser afflicted beings than we." However?" The ancient pauses his hand smoothing over the thick leather of his throne-like chair. "I shall be at the tribunal, what little good it may prove, I have not gotten as jaded as to believe that I can turn my back on all my past duties. But I ask you not to put much stock in the outcome. It will not matter to Michael if we approve of his current actions, he will pursue them nevertheless."

" " Raziel smiles beatifically from the androgynous face of this newly created form. He is unwilling to risk being discovered therefore he has chosen to wear a "mask" of sorts, using an ambiguous form that cannot be traced back to him." With a slow yet pleased nod he responds, "It is all I ask."

" " "You know what I expect from you, Brother. Keep your promise to me and we shall overcome Michael before he has the chance to ruin the mortals and their worlds."

" " Raziel nods again, his physical form already little more than a ghostly shadow as he readies to depart. "Yes, yes, all is prepared, Raphael. But it is with our voices combined that the tribunal will give us their support."

" " Corwyn returns the nod, if only he could be as hopeful as his brother that the support of the other Seraphim will matter. Perhaps if they lend their energy to Corwyn's spell" Yes, he should rally for that type of support. His thoughts do not distract him from security, even as Raziel fades from the room, he is mentally checking to ensure that the magical shields have held and that no one except himself and his brother could know of this meeting. There are so few that can be trusted and were any to learn of Raziel's alliance with Corwyn he fears his brother will be tasting the Paths of the Dead, the oblivion where the angelic spend their afterlives after having their "powers" removed. He can't afford to lose Raziel; he needs the energy and the knowledge that only this Brother possesses. All seems in order; the shields are in place and their brief tryst should pass unnoticed.

" " Corwyn doesn't have time to waste, not on random speculations or worries of potential discoveries; there are still a few tasks ahead of him. He reaches out telepathically to Belial and Sid, summoning them to him, for the time has come to up their training. Very soon the three of them will be forced to stand against the legions of Heaven, and the fate of too many will hang in the outcome.

Long Lankyn Progenitor of the Bloods

Battle-Ready III

To see a world in a Grain of Sand, And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. - William Blake (1757-1827)

What she came with when she was created was ultimately still just a shell" Ageless, sexless, achingly exquisite in form and symmetry, currently visible as unaltered by her time spent on the physical plane. All but seeming carved of finest marble by some Master's hand it knelt beneath the winter-tarnished tri-color leaves of Sid and Scottie's Nesting Tree; the embrace of one alabaster arm about the silver trunk perfection, a statue of a veritable Angel missing only its wings to make it complete.

But what did she need with wings when the lines of light - the web of life that radiated throughout the physical plane's dimensions - lay open to her now" It had taken some time to get to this stage where the apparent statue of a former self waited, breathless against an anchor in the backyard of her brownstone while she lost herself to the fabric of Life, the essence of Nature. In current time, the shell gave forth a shudder; tarnished leaves shivering a near silent chiming as somewhere a distant primitive land spewed forth molten pieces of itself to build anew - to evolve.

"Destruction is fundamental to creation." It was a voice of ages that reached through the chaos of the weave. She knew this to be true, and it reminded her of something, something she'd been doing not long back" It was a quote. Reveling in the songs of creation's pandemonium, she struggled to form concrete thoughts. A quote from a book" She had been reading" Why"

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Corwyn's spell had hit hard. For a long while, Sid had chosen to cloister herself in an apartment she kept within one of the Bloods' warehouses. Besides emotions of uncertain and unstable nature she did not wish Scottie, the twins or the rest of the populace to be subject to until some sort of control could be had, she was having to come to terms with the fact her "secret" was pretty much out in the open to stay.

Slowly she reemerged from her seclusion. New talents toyed with and tried as she took note of her brethren's eyes watching from all corners. Soon enough she was confident in her ability to conceal the brownstone and its occupants - Remove it from Angelic radar, so to speak - in order to return home without fear of endangering her family. This was where she needed to be, where she would find a key that would help her begin to unravel the puzzle of her purpose.

Aspects of H'll"ne, Mother-designate of the triple Goddess, came first as Sid reconnected with the twins and her mate. At times when she was distant, out upon the patch of lawn beneath the tree, giving over to the bedlam inside to gain more command, even facets of Titania, the Crone-designate, made show. Only the Maiden, her personal designation, meant to frolic in the beauty, joy and innocence of creation's anarchy was sorely absent in the beginning.

As the babes grew and she enjoyed a comforting home life with Scottie, more and more she turned to reading in the quiet moments. The once Spartan library of the brownstone became quite full with tomes collected from many ages and dimensions.

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"And what have you learned, grasshopper?" It seems her personal voice of ages had a sarcastic bent. Go figure.

It felt like loss to pull back into herself enough to form coherent ideas in order to communicate. Sunk into the physical like this, apart of the whole of it, she was a giver and taker of life, a watcher of wonders. "Somethin' I read. Ye reminded me."

"Perhaps it was you who reminded you. What was it?"

"Avoid the crowd. Do ye own thinkin' independently. Be the chess player, nae the chess piece."

"Ralph Charell, a human twentieth century motivational speaker from a handful of Earths." This wasn't conversation in the conventional sense, but Sid could still intuit the disdainful snort accompanying that statement. "Interesting. Why do you read?"

"It helps put order to me thoughts. It helps me find pieces I 'ave missed sortin'." And it did! And Scottie and the twins, too! This was significa" Far away, shifting plates off the coast of some unnamed continent created ruinous tsunamis to marvel in before the voice brought her around again.

" " "And what pieces did this put in order, what did you find?"

" " Sid began to gather the bits laid out before her, pulling back to herself and finding the anchor until the statue there breathed and straightened, a joyous smile rising to those thin pale lips. "I found meself" I found a start."

" " Sitting cross-legged to the ground, leaning softly against the tree, she remembered what had brought her out here what could have been weeks, even months ago. She had no knowledge of time and her surroundings gave no clue.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

" " Why that had been the first book she picked up, why it had even been in the brownstone's library would forever remain a mystery. But she read it, that one quote bringing a trickle down of memory.

" " Being imbued as the Nine, the direct result of Corwyn's spell, still did not give her clarity as to why exactly she - and legions like her - was created. They were merely pieces in a larger game. Given no History, no "Grace" but what allowed them essence and form from Michael's hand, no Knowledge, it was Gabriel's nature which infused them most. Even the miniscule creative fire granted from Uriel's hand was tempered through "God's Strength", the warring soul derived from Gabriel. Warriors made, duty drove ambition.

" " It was an effortless matter now to recall rumors about the Exiles she heard in "downtime" while in the Above. How they fueled her free will, and led to her awakening." Sid had never "basked in the light" of her Creator, she had served as she was meant. Thus, the decision to join those on the physical plane seemed simple enough.

" " Upon the physical, Mystery was her first contact. It came in the form of an aged crow who rebelled against the fear of his brothers, boldly approaching the broken-winged angel; studying her and then heckling before snagging a straggled feather, gulping it down and taking to the skies in mockery of her plight.

" " Then came wonder and enchantment. For long times this was so under the tutelage and eyes of the other Ancients. In her own right, as they had done, she, too, became a creator; populating the Summer World they had built to the left of the mortals' reality. In this Dawn, she began to make up her own mind as to the nature of the Architect.

" " Around every corner something miraculous was occurring as the Mysteries of Nature married themselves to the Architect's creation. It became easy to believe that the natural and the spiritual - the physical and the celestial - were meant as a meaningful unity.

" " Sid recollects how most of this belief was forgotten not long after Oberon set the boundary guards - the triple Goddess designates - between the Summer World and that of man. How new and alien emotions fell to the ploys of Mab as First Winter came upon the 'Lands, and she crawled into the Thicket of Sorrows to hide herself from that which felt too much like her senseless beginning.

" " Eventually shunning her station and the responsibilities associated, with feelings still of being but a pawn in a game, and free of many thoughts and memories due to Mab's dalliances in her mind, it seemed easy to lose herself among the mortals and that which spawned them. Through the ages of their maturing, they had always entranced; she felt a deeper connection to them and their home, and to the Exiles ensconced on this physical plane than she ever did those in the Above. Even the Fallen were given deference beyond They with which she started her existence.

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" " And now" Now, it has been centuries upon centuries, eons she has existed between one flux and another. Between who she was created to be and what she can become. She is reminded of something she read from Buddha's writings: "Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it."

" " She knows at this moment that the Architect is not dead, nor does It slumber. She knows the mantle bestowed upon her from Oberon is no burden, but a gift she will learn better to use well in order to help protect that which Summer shields and holds in precious trust. Again, her mind evokes the memory of a passage from a text she'd seeded in a mortal's imagination long back and had just recently got around to reading the results.

" " ?"you would have a Queen! Not dark but beautiful and terrible as the Morning! Treacherous as the Sea! Stronger than the foundations of the earth! All shall love me and despair!" If she were Tolkien's Galadriel, she would have been shouting this to the Heavens and those Above. This is a meaningful unity, it was meant to be, and all those who exist upon the physical plane deserve to go on as they are" In them, too, resides the spark of the Creator.

" " "Manon, it is time." Ber's silky voice stirs throughout her thoughts. Stretching cat-like and standing beside the tree, she smiles knowingly. "Aye, 'tis time, indeed."

" ? With barely a nudge she turns the winterscape of the brownstone's backyard to that of springtime's joy, the tri-color leaves of the Nesting Tree shimmering silver, gold and copper in the noon day sun, reflecting happily along the green lawn. Possessing a true consciousness of the Mysteries that are beyond what the Angelic know, she heads inside the 'stone to search for her mate, to reunite with him in love and then delve into those teachings only he can give her knowledge of, for they will need them in the fight to come.