Things had been quiet, but frustrating. The identity of Am'thyst's attacker had not yet been revealed, but it had nearly become common knowledge that she was murdered. Acts of destruction, the bleeding out of strong emotions so tied up over the nymph, had been occuring lately. Talomar promising slow, agonizing vengenance, Tara truly seeming to spin beyond what little control her mind had left. Others had been searching -- Jewell and Kristia had come to his room, asking questions. He had expected it, but not this soon. How easily people remembered his night with Amthy there on the couch, telling her the story of Ayla the Wise and the Spear of Fire.

Very easily, indeed.

That night ended poorly. They had disturbed him, you see, and the death knight did not like to be disturbed when he was trying to rest. Having apparently gotten what she wanted, Jewell finally left, leaving Kristia standing there.

Smirking.

In the end of things, he would rest satisfied that she got what she deserved. He told them he'd put them over his knee if they didn't leave him be, and while it might not have actually happened that way, she did recieve a none-too-kind swat to her bottom when she finally did turn and begin strolling away like she owned the place.

It was a short brawl, but savage. Jodiah Ayreg was not well accustomed to fighting with hands and feet, after all, but he gave as good as he got. It turned mostly into a grappling competition -- and he would have thought he had done well, despite her superior, inhuman strength.

Until her fangs slid into the flesh of his throat. It takes only the quickest piercing of vampiric fangs to sap all the strength to fight out of a mortal.

The night ended well enough, if not a bit smug on her part, judging by the way she spoke. She fancied herself his better, perhaps -- a fancy he would have to disabuse her of, given the proper equipment that, ironically, was mere footsteps away back in his room.

Fortunatly, today was a new day.

The common room had filled up slowly and steadily. Jodiah Ayreg did not care for crowds much, and this group was no exception. He retreated to the alley outside, ostensibly to enjoy the smoke of his silver-worked pipe. Bootsteps were heard echoing over the cobbles as he entered, and he moved to a place of hiding. Perhaps he could take his mind off of Amthy's true murderer by becoming one himself.

Down a Dangerous Path, Flirting with Disaster, and Waltzing the Edge, Sid"]The back alley of the Inn was empty, just the way he likes it. Solitude. Quiet. Peace. Until the sound of boots over cobbles echoes up between the buildings. He turns his head briefly, glancing in the sound's direction. The twisting of the walls preventing any sight of the owner.

Crouching down behind any one of a dozen or so obligatory dumpsters, he waits. The footsteps were coming closer, and it had been some time since Ayreg had delighted in the joy of a random kill. His Runesword was left in his room, because all he wanted was some peace for few minutes - and he was NOT going to get that in the common room today, it seemed. Closer still, the steps sounded broad apart which spoke of a man of some height. Heavy steps of boots also indicated that: very few women, even in Rhy'Din, wore heavy boots. Jodiah's leather vest creaked softly over the blackened mail coat, and his eyes narrowed to keep some of the afternoon sun from blinding him. Just a little further now . . .

As the booted feet neared, Jodiah Ayreg counted down from three. Three. A sword would have been preferable to end this quickly, and bloodily. He would have appreciated it. Distractions have been keeping him too long from reveling in the bloodshed of random carnage. Two. Even closer. Hands and feet were not the old knight's strong suit when used in the attack, but he was knowledgeable enough to know what a killing blow could do to a man - though not knowledgeable enough to the killing blows themselves. He was strong enough to fend away attacks, and strong enough to pummel others with his own. One. He paused the span of another two heartbeats, and then - like a coiled wire released - burst out from behind the dumpster. He had been expecting a tall man, naturally, so his arms were flung out to grapple and tackle the unlucky pedestrian that was happening by.

Sid went down with the tackle, her lean, lank form twisting deftly beneath the onslaught until one hand gripped the butt of her blaster at the small of her back. Yanking it free, she used the momentum and their bodies' own weight to roll off it and over to allow the arm to swing wide. Her other hand had struck out for the attacker's throat, first two fingers and thumb clawed to grip with vice-like intensity. Muttered words flowing through the action were hoarse and raggedly breathed. "Ye really dun wan' to be yotzin' me off today."

This simple and humble pedestrian was near as slippery as a snake, and writhed easily in his grasp. This pedestrian was also . . . strong. Ayreg was very nearly stunned when the surprise ambush turned in to him pressed to his back. Larynx strained and his airway compressed to have his breathing at labored rasps, he balled his fist to lash out at this person now bestriding him like a colossus - and he knew they had to be, after all, because of the feel of solid, strong thighs gripping at his flanks - but the figure itself was silhouetted against the backdrop of the afternoon sun. The blaster, though - that was something he recognized, and feared. Especially without his armor on. The voice, and the tell tale jingle-jangle of bells clinking against bits of mirror? "Yotz"? He blinked, but his hand stayed fisted, and his other stayed upon the wrist whose hand was at his throat. Swallowing hard, his voice came out as raspy as his breathing. "Obsidian!?"

The Trueblood's eyes had gone to solid orbs of black, staring down at . . . "Jodiah! Jodiah? Frellin' crap, Jodiah." Immediately the pressure was released from his throat and the blaster turned muzzle back. Still, she remains atop him. "Death wish, much, dux?"

He gasped as the pressure vanished, allowing him to breathe once more. The hand that had been balled into a fist rubbed at his throat, the other dropped limply when she pulled hers away. It ended up on her leg, briefly, before gravity brought it on down to the cobbles. Masterful as they were for making cheap and resilient streets, he did now take notice that they weren't the most comfortable bed to lay upon.

After a moment, his thin lips twitched into a smile. He still couldn't see her because of the sun, but at least he wasn't being so thoroughly thrashed like a dirty rug taken out to launder. "I..." He gave a cough. "...I wasn't expecting it to be you, Obsidian." His mind worked over things he could say. Every possibility was as foolish as the next, and the one before it. The one he finally settled upon was no less foolish, though perhaps the least of all. "So, what brings you down the deserted alley, Obsidian?"

The Ancient knew they watched, knew they were spread over the city so thick she could taste them. Would this incident bring Jodiah more to their attentions, would they know and use him at some point to get to her like they have done others associated closely with the Three since Ber had worked his spell? Did she now put him into the line of fire? Maybe she should cold-cock him and jump up, kicking him as he . . . His words paused those thoughts and she scoffed, her own words holding truth tempered by mirth within her tone. "I be lookin' to kill somethin'. An' ye, Jodiah?" Shifting atop his form, those well-toned thighs flexing along his hips. "Why be ye hidin' out here like some . . . rogue bandit?"

"I have been known to be the proper rogue from time to time, I'll have you know." A wolfish grin, of sorts, played along Jodiah's lips though it may have appeared odd on the face of the aging knight. "The common room inside is . . . well, entirely too occupied for my tastes. I've been acquiring a great deal of attention lately, for some reason. Commissions from other patrons of the Red Dragon. Grem contracted me to build him some kind of collar big enough to fit onto a bear, and that dark elf . . . " He shook his head. "Too busy, for me. I was enjoying solitude when I heard you come up. Had I known it was you I would have greeted you somewhat differently."

His head rolled back, now, relaxing onto the cobbles behind him. Oh, what a compromising appearance they would make should anyone come outside, or look out one of the windows. It's a good thing Jodiah Ayreg didn't particularly care what anyone thought about him. Well, what most thought about him. A close few - though perhaps they did not realize this fact - he did, indeed, care about. "Looking to kill, you say?"

"I..." Sid looked about her now, teeth worrying briefly at her lower lip. "I be nae realizin' I be this close to the Red Dragon." Oddly, this seemed to disturb her, but she recovered swiftly and stuffed the blaster back to its place beneath the leather. "Och! It canna be comfortable on this ground." Looking back to him, then, head bowed over so those elflocks formed a ringling curtain around them. "An' aye, lookin' to kill somethin'. 'Tis Rhy'Din, Jodiah. There always be somethin' or someone about needin' to get dead. Or . . . close enough."

"Comfortable, no. But you know what they say - it's all about location." His hand lifted to lightly lay atop her thigh, apparently tempting the Fates to become one of the next things that needed to get dead. "I suppose you have a point, but most people prefer to do their murder under the cover of night."

The grin came at his joke, fox lit and sly. Her laughter whiskey-tinged and honey-warm as elflocks joined in with a gentle chiming. "Ye made a joke, Jodiah. I be 'avin' nae idea ye be such the wit." Her own hand moved from her hip to slide down to his on her thigh, fingers just barely a breath from his own. "An', aye, I suppose ye be right about secretin' thin's 'neath the cover o' night. But, if'n one nae fears the day or the eyes about, then 'tis when convenience calls be wha' works best. Aye?" The Trueblood spoke all this so casually, as if she was giving him a recipe for some tasty treat. Still, behind those eyes now morphing back slowly to the glamoured hue, a shadow lurked. One which the Ancient was becoming increasingly annoyed with.

He had to always think about what she said. He, himself, had been born and raised in Rhy'Din, though he never exhibited any sort of dialect. Others did. Sid in particular. Occasionally he had trouble understanding what exactly it was that she was saying, but it was a rare thing to completely miss an idea, or a statement. In this case, it was quite clear. If it had bothered him that she spoke so openly of wanton acts of murder - in broad daylight, no less - it didn't seem to reflect on him outwardly. "I'm not possessed of any great wit, Obsidian. Sometimes I try, though. You are right about the other thing, as you often are. I've discovered women having a tendency to be that way more often than not. Being right, I mean. And if they are not right, then they try to convince everyone that they are anyway."

He shifted beneath her as a single cobble had started to push awkwardly into his shoulder blade. Another shift. Finally his hands drew back behind him, and he leaned upwards toward her to tickle his own face on the bits of mirror and bells woven into her hair. "You have been distracted of late, Obsidian. I... I haven't seen you around often at all, save only on the day of your shifts here at the Red Dragon."

"I find nae much difference in the genders after all this time, it sort o' all balances out. Either tha' or I be forgettin' more'n I remember. Which be possible." Her weight slid back until she rested on his thighs, most of it held off him as she rocked upwards onto her ankles. She had been distracted, too distracted and that could prove dangerous.

His words brought a lowering of her head, a sliding of her gaze off to the right to study some bit of brick for a moment before she looked back. And, for the briefest of seconds, she opened so plainly to him it might well smack him in the face. Then she breathed, thin lips drawing a smirk, and the moment was gone. "Aye, distracted. An', in this burg tha' be dangerous, oft deadly. Ye can be sayin' tha' many thin's weigh upon me which I be nae accustomed to, Jodiah. I find meself dealin' with such I be nae created to know."

Jodiah Ayreg was often a study in dualities, and never more so than now. Secret games and meetings and liaisons played with the nymph had softened him terribly - far, far more soft than when he first arrived at the Red Dragon so many moons ago. He craned his head forward, the tip of his nose touching against one of her woven elflocks. Perhaps he would have used his hands had they not been occupied with keeping him leaned upward, but that is in the realm of what-nots and might-haves. "You smell nice." Then, a blink, as if remembering himself and regaining his composure his head pulls back, awkwardly, and his thin lips twitch. "It sounds like you need a holiday, Obsidian. Tell me of your troubles; perhaps we can find a way together to ease them."

He pulled back too soon, one of her hands raised to touch upon his jaw, or stroke a strand of graying hair. Instead, it fell back as she sighed, the smile soft and conveying a gratitude for his compliment, his presence, his . . . Him. What was this male to her? Why had he wheedled his way within the confines of her being? These were questions, like many more on even more subjects she had not the answers for. "A holiday?" This bringing a most unladylike snort. "Aye. Except those like me, we get nae holidays, Jodiah. I 'ave gone away o'er times, but it be nae pleasant for those left behind nor for me. An' truly, Jodiah, do ye wish to know me troubles? Methinks ye 'ave ye own, an' I wish nae to be a burden when I know dire thin's weigh upon ye head. In fact, if'n I were to speak plain . . . an' mind ye, I only possess the knowledge I get from talkin' to ye an' watchin' ye . . . But, if'n I were to speak plain, I believe mayhaps we share similar troubles to some degree."

And then she did it, she let that hand come up and the silken touch of her fingertips drew down the line of his jaw, her smile soft in quicksilver sparked eyes. Her voice a whisper. "Sometimes, methinks, War be the simpler o' existence."

What was this male to anyone? To Alysia he was bodyguard, and valuable aide-de-champ within the boundaries of Rhilshen. To Rhaine he was a tool, and nothing more. To Sluiss, he might as well be a forge hammer with feet. To the nymph? To Sid? And to think - all of it started when Tara harassed him about trying to be nicer, and Sid had just happened to be the tender on duty.

The only reaction he had made in response to her velvet touch - amazing how not a few minutes ago it was likened unto iron - was a faint twitch of his thin lips, though his green eyes did indeed take a sparkle or two. His head canted again, then, in the direction of her fingers. "Everyone can have a holiday, Obsidian." This was one of the many lessons he had learned from the nymph. "And everyone deserves one. Surely people do not rely so heavily upon you that their lives diminish with your absence?"

But he continued, not waiting for an answer and not expecting one. "War is simple. Lead well, and be victorious. Win or lose, with no middle ground for partial failure or partial victory. I like the life, but those days are gone, Obsidian. I've had to adjust. Speak plainly to me, woman, and I will hear your words. If there be nothing to do for them, then I am no more impressed upon by duty than I was a few moments ago. True?" He dared something himself, then. His hand lifted from behind him - his other readjusting to be more central - and he touched lightly over the sapphire-inlaid silver necklace dangling down her chest.

His words struck a chord, her smile wry, the nod knowing. Those eyes followed his hand and she drew a deep inhale before meeting his gaze. "I wan' ye to know somethin'. Somethin' true. Nae illusions, or thin's gettin' in the way. Mayhaps this be foolish on me part, but I wan' ye to see, to know o' me. Will ye let me show ye, Jodiah?"

Ayreg gave a simple, wordless nod and reaching up, she took a hold of his hand touching lightly upon that necklace. Slowly, in the dying light of the day her eyes were morphing back. Darkened threads swam in the glamoured blue fields, overtaking them. This was something he hadn't been expecting. Obsidian was an elf, after all - tall and lanky, toned yes, but he hadn't noticed much in the way of magic capabilities from her, and this was beyond the scope of most magics he was aware of in general. His head craned a bit as he stared into her eyes, watching in rapt awe as the darker shades began to engulf the lighter hues.

Her eyes were solid orbs of black now, fingers curling about his wrist, another deep breath was drawn and she opened herself to him, she let him see. The visions came fast and furious. A field littered with thousands of bloodied and broken bodies of creatures of entrancing perfection. The skies rained fire, filled with the sounds of warring birds of prey bent on destruction. Above, winged beings, counterparts to those that littered the battlefield, cried out for their brethren's blood.

A sharp gasp was released from the aging knight, then, and the sudden hijacking of his vision left him without words to speak by. It was . . . cold? And hot. Battle heat. Fire rained from the sky, and the smell of brimstone was everywhere. He blinked and turned his head . . . the alley was gone, so far as he could tell. Around him was a veritable charnel house of chaos, and destruction and - no. It couldn't be. His eyes narrowed as he examined one of the fallen dead. No, dead would be far too pleasant a word. These bodies were ravaged, and annihilated.

Battles are always hot, even in the cold. The stink of death was all around him, engulfing him, and the sulfuric fumes were made to choke, riding atop the scent of death. Where had he gone? His head craned upward, skyward, to those majestic beings battling one another in the skies overhead. It was as if he was standing on a field of war the likes of which he had never seen before. Never experienced, in all of his years of battlefield knowledge. Surely not, though - surely he was still pinned beneath the elf's body, in the alley back behind the Red Dragon! But there he was, all the same, awareness expanded on all levels to take in the sight, and the smell . . . and the carnage.

Swords of dazzling light and terrible construction were wielded with calculating precision. The creatures . . . gender-less, immense, androgynous, enthralling beauties. The vision speaks these events play on for some span mankind finds incalculable. And then, a shift. A fair meadow, the beauty of a spring unknown to most who walk the physical plane. Bare feet, falling feathers. And as the point of view moves upwards along the form, it is female. A tall, lank drink of water bathed in luminescent flesh and silvered hair; between her lithesome legs and falling from the crown of her head over wings tattered and torn, broken and bloody.

Blackened eyes look to a crow, braver than his brothers, who stands there to investigate. Her screech of speech from unused throat and lips, doing little to scare him off. As the Mystery, the crow, looks defiantly, his beak reaches forth to pluck a falling feather, gulping it down before he takes to the skies. The creature gesturing outward and upward in child-like motion, dropping to her knees and pulling the tatters of her wings about her.

There was meaning here. Symbols. He was thankful to be away from the terrible sight of battle, but now this? She seemed to resemble someone he knew. He couldn't place it. Someone from another world, perhaps. He reached his hand out and became aware that his body didn't seem to move right. He felt his arm clutching something, roughly - as if in horror - but he saw his arm extend out as he tried to reach forth his hand. It . . . did not feel like his own. More like a thing he controlled as if a marionette on a set of strings. However he felt, though, this creature - slender, tall, and exotic - was beyond his grasp to reach, and his feet did not seem to work like he thought they should have. He opened his mouth, and even his own voice sounded strange to him. Hollow. Tinny. As if not really there. "Are you all right?"

In the alley, the air turned cooler as it was sucked into blue flames that slowly started to grow between those narrow brick walls. Taking shape, drawing upward, pulling their dancing edges into the hard lines of the old man. The armor that surrounded him coming first into view, then the sword he carried at his side. That sword was brought swiftly to hand once the flames died into him, his gaze narrowing to look around.

Tass had felt the power that was being expelled by the one, and a frown came as his eyes alighted on the pair before him on the ground. He knew the look upon her, and he thought long and hard at pulling her free. The thought was made for him, though, as he watched her draw more power into herself. It might not be enough yet, but soon it would prove too much for the one beneath her to handle, and Des wouldn't like that. He quickly shoved the blade to its sheath and wrapped his arms about her.

As his arms encircled her, she shrieks. A keening wail in the speech of her kind that was more than harsh to mortal ears; a thousand murders of crows on the wing. Tass cursed himself, and quickly dove into his power. Wrapping Ayreg in a cocoon to protect him from the shriek first, then into her. Supporting both her body and her soul as the link broke and she fell full weight to his hold, blackened eyes staring upwards, unseeing. He would not see her lost.

Another sharp gasp, and Jodiah fell backward with a dull thud against the filthy cobbles of the back alley. He, too, stared wordlessly skyward. It was blue now, and didn't have terribly beautiful creatures doing battle. The skies were not raining fire. There was no winged being anywhere about him. A terrible sound had been heard, but it vanished almost as quickly as it started. The earth seemed to quake for the time it was there, though. He was as limp as a boned fish, lying there on the ground.

Beneath Tass? hands, a hot spot; something secreted about her person burned like a tiny sun. Pale lids fluttered, those eyes morphing with quicksilver flash - her usual glamoured blue beginning to swim through the maelstrom - looked up to the dragon and then cast over slowly to Ayreg. A voice, hoarse, like glass over gravel, breathed out. "Help him." And then those snowy lids fell, shuttering the light behind them.

Tass continued to hold onto Sid, but seeing what passed for her soul kept and secured he turned the power to the one who lay prone on the cobblestones. It was a matter of making sure now that his soul was properly tethered to his body. It could have been easily lost in the backlash he had felt. Especially considering Jodiah Ayreg was a normal, ordinary mortal man. His soul could very well have just been ripped from his body, and it would have been a lifeless cadaver sitting there between Sid's thighs. As it was, the aging knight was particularly strong of will, and of metal fortitude. As his mind clung to sanity, so, too, did his spirit cling to his body - like a cat desperate to avoid getting wet, but clinging all the same.

Finding mind and spirit there, yet clutching desperately to the thread it had, the old dragon wasn't one to leave one dangle. Even his enemies. So, a mental hand extended, the powerful talons drawn back in friendship as it offered help to draw Jodiah back from the precipice.

The next few instants could have been truly devastating to the psyche of any mortal. Ayreg, however, was more than willing to grasp at the offered assistance, and with an abrupt (and another) sharp intake of breath, he leaned his upper body up off the cobbles, and coughed harshly several times. Set back into place on all levels - physically, mentally, and spiritually - another possible disaster had been averted. He groaned, softly, as it felt like fifty big strong fighting men just went a few rounds on him. He blinked, taking in the fading light of the evening sky . . . it had been full sun, the last time he looked skyward.

Once Ayreg was properly in place, the talon hand vanished from the mind and the human one that was extended to help him to his feet drew back around Sid. The Ancient in his arms was there, but gone. No reasonable amount of time spent on rejuvenation and rest in many, many days, this had taken a great deal out of her. Perhaps, in the right light, a brief glimpse of a silvered-hair being, regal of bearing and yet pure like an unsullied Spring morn could be seen, superimposed over the street savvy image of the Red Dragon's tender.

Tass sighed softly, seeing she was at least resting. Looking to Ayreg, then. "Are you well enough that I need not carry you?"

Ayreg might as well have been asleep, if he had his eyes closed. He was breathing at least, even and steady. But, wide-eyed stare of brilliantly green eyes never left Sid's form. A single tear had rolled down his face, interestingly enough. Not exactly weeping, but a tear nonetheless. For what was glimpsed, and lost? Or for merely what was glimpsed? He snapped his head as if shaken when the dragon spoke to him. "What?"

The old dragon nodded, seeing the man was still not full of sorts. "If you'll permit me, I'll help you to my library where you can rest and heal. It will be where Sid will be until she recovers."

"I..." Jodiah shook his head slightly. He had things to do. A commission for Grem was ready to be delivered! But . . . something was wrong. His head felt stuffed full of wool like he had just taken in four full glasses of Midnight Tears. "What happened, man?"

"Much and nothing." Tass? answer was straightforward. Much had happened, but none during this time. They had merely been within the alley, prone to attack by any here near the Red Dragon. "Need that rest?"

"To this library." Ayreg, said with a faint nod. "Yes, rest." He gave another lingering look to Sid and a final nod to Tass as the old dragon lifted the Trueblood into a powerful hold, then felt the dragon draw the air into a semi-solid mass beneath his arms for support. Cold flames rising at once to take them all onto the Athenaeum.


He had no real memory of what happened after. The gnomes at the Dragon's Breath would later tell him he was gone for almost two days, but what had happened in that library that he had been taken to? With a mind of fog, he resumed his daily routines, only now he stared at Obsidian like they were both strange cats in a small room. It could even be said he may have been avoiding her, but she made no real effort to approach him, either.

The human mind was easily warped, even the death knight's. He needed time to sort this out, and time he was given.

Eventually, he did approach her again. They spoke briefly of what had happened, and he told her something that would, when it was said and done, change his view of her entirely. How little did he truly understand what he was signing himself over for, as he spoke the words. Such simple things, words. The wrong combination can break alliances between the greatest nations of the world, and the right combination can have you in the loving arms of that world's most beautiful woman. Just words, and nothing more. Powerful magic and an unbreakable sword were little beside the long-reaching impact capable of being made with a single spoken phrase.

"I would like to finish what we have started."

That poor page!

Finding Sid wasn't the easiest thing in Rhy'Din to do. Her brownstone, though he had the general (and, admittedly, vague and only barely understood) directions, didn't ever seem to be where it was supposed to be. This was made even more difficult by the fact that people lived in WestEnd specifically because they wanted to avoid being noticed. It was one of those strange fluxes in the Nexus, one might suppose, but while inside the borders of what is generally considered to be the WestEnd, people seem to be able to hide in open sight, and any scrying or serendipitious magic is rendered null.

And it wasn't like there were a bevy of neighbors' doors he could knock on to ask, either.

The aging knight had right scared the crap out of him, so he wasn't returning to the Red Dragon until his task was officially completed. This meant a few nights on the streets of WestEnd for our poor little messenger, hanging in the approximate vicinity of where he knew the Trueblood's brownstone to be until, by happy circumstance, he spied her walking out of... nothing, one late morning.

His glee nearly made him fall at her feet. This, of course, bringing an upraised brow from the Ancient as she looked down on the poor lad. Handing the note over, he took off at a dash. He had an urgent date with the nearest facilities he could find. The Trueblood's words carried on the wind to him as he took off at a run. "If'n ye see him afore I get there, tell him I be on me way!"

In the late mornings, Jodiah Ayreg was, normally, slinging a hammer and folding steel or silver at the Dragon's Breath (assuming he was not otherwise occupied in Rhilshen, of course). This particular morning, though, was very much a fine holiday for him. The pulsing, beating link, reaching out to her through the Elf Tear she gave to him, placed him somewhere in Old Town.

It could have been the forge, actually, until she actually got there to check -- not to mention the fact that the gnomes themselves would have told her he's not there -- and then it seems to be farther down the street than first anticipated. The Red Dragon itself?

Clearly.

This early in the day, though? Before the hustle and bustle, before the demons terror-assing all over creation and maiming Icer, before the mewling words of lovers wrapped in each other's embrace to forever promise their love to one another in the most sickeningly disgusting ways... ah, it could be theraputic in more ways than one, being here this early.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Serene.

It was there the death knight awaited her, seated in the otherwise empty common room of the Red Dragon, sitting at the first table he could find after arriving from the backbar, and slouching lazily in his chosen chair. He had begun to wonder if the page had failed in its task. There was a time when I would have killed him for that... the death knight mused. Less, even. I'm growing soft.

She dutifully followed the link after seeing to a certain warehouse and the remnants of the O an' A, wondering again where the Lady had gotten off to and why she hadn't appeared when DCH had come calling with the wrecking ball. Sid, herself, was waiting for the lawyers to make a play for the 'stone again.

If they could find it, that is.

Luckily, the dabblings she had done mixed with the wild magics ebbing and flowing through WestEnd (not her fault, she would swear!) pretty much meant that would be the twelfth of never, if her luck held. So, traipsing out of the WestEnd, the portal jumping her southeast of the Red Dragon, she moved along the streets seeking the pulling of the link she held on Jodiah. Thin lips pursed as it led her to the Inn, and jackboots were kept silent moving up the porch steps. A finger to those lips for Guido before the bouncer could call out and open the door like usual. Instead, she smiled at him and moved to the door, opening it gently and peering inside to watch him for a moment, undisturbed.

Jodiah Ayreg was, first and foremost, a man.

He was a man that liked a certain degree of privacy, and a certain degree of peace. An interesting dichotomy, given that he generally prefers to live in a state of conflict and strategic battle, but even the hardest of men like a moment of quiet from time to time.

This was one such time -- early in the mornings, before the lesbian vampire elves began rubbing all over each other, and the little bewinged pixies began throwing sparkly magic dust in everyone's face.

Near to the center of the room, a thin plume of blue-gray smoke rose smoothly out of the death knight's thin lips, and his eyes were lowered enough to be closed. Surely if anyone showed up then they'd be announced like any other would be, right? Or make such an ungodly noise (which did not have to be much in the near-absolute silence of the common room) as to take his attention.

Right?

Wrong.

Sid went unnoticed, for now. He was slouched in that chair, still, smoke rising from a wasting silver-worked pipe in one hand, and a half-empty glass of not-so-chilled-anymore wine in the other.

The Ancient smiled, watching him. She did make a slight wrinkle of her nose at the scent of tobacco wafting from his spot. Of many things from the Worlders that Truebloods cherished because they did not flourish well across the veil - including chocolate and coffee which held a particular sort of near addiction and made them often euphoric - tobacco wasn't one of them. Though many of the Bordertown contingent, Sid included, adopted smoking of herbal sticks due to some fascination with vid stars of the old flicks often seen on the Magic Latern's screen.

Silently, not wishing to disturb him and wanting to continue her observation, she moved inside and toward the bar. Behind it, she made herself a mug of sludge that she chose to call coffee, but that even the most hardened trail cook would bury and say prayers over before letting it see the bottom of a tin cup.

Still quiet, she moved with mug in hand over to stand in front of his table, glamoured blue eyes roving his form as if to memorize.

The death knight, for all of his eyes being closed and not partaking either of his pipe, nor his wine, was most certainly not asleep. Hearing might be the first thing to go when the effects of age set in and upon one, but he wasn't completly deaf yet.

She was, however, quiet -- though that didn't save her from the side effects of her actions. The movement of air. The vibration of steps through flooring. The slight change of light if she stood between him and the lantern or magelight or bulb or... whatever the heck it was that Panther used to provide illumination all over the common room. A faint twitch might have been detected from the corner of one eye, and it opened just-so.

Enough to see the form in front of him, now, anyway.

This meeting would very likely go considerably better than the one before last -- he, after all, was not leaping at her from behind a stinky, smelly dumpster.

Jodiah Ayreg seemed to have just woken, in all honesty -- Sleeping in one of the benefits of being on holiday from both his duties in Rhilshen, as well as the Dragon's Breath. His clothes could, at worst, be called casual, and his hair was loose from its normal tail off the back of his head.

Loose-fitted breeches were tucked into always-worn boots. His choice of tops, though, was somewhat different -- a white (no, really) shirt left unlaced partially down his chest was also tucked into those breeches at the waistline, and a thick strap of leather with a solid buckle of gold-toned metal were the order of the day. Of the hour, really -- he'd very likely become far more presentable before he truly went out into public, but for now? Relaxation demanded comfort, and little was as comforting as a shirt woven in Rhilshen.

Strong enough to resist cuts and stains, and yet it breathed like Egyptian cotton... ahhh.

Thin lips twitch a bit as his eyes open more fully and his chin raises to greet her. "Obsidian." A simple greeting, but it would do.

"Jodiah." Inclining her head in respect in greeting, those elflocks ringling light past her face and ear tips. She nodded to the chair opposite him before sitting.

Truth be told, the age-lined face of the death knight may even have colored slightly at how she said it.

All things considered, Jodiah Ayreg was something of a prude now when it came to those of the opposite gender. Take me to your room, Jodiah. Please. The innuendo was as thick as saltworms on the coast after a good thunderstorm.

At least, naturally, that's how he observed it.

Coughing gently into his hand, he turned and gestured, and... just as she asked.. took her to his room. Room three of the Red Dragon Inn was larger, and far more impressive, than room twelve wherein he previously resided. He was unsure if he had hosted her here like he did before, and such uncertainly painted itself across his furrowed brow. The door was unlocked and opened, and she had been ushered inside. The door was then closed, and locked, and the key deposited on the top of a heavy dresser near the door.

"I be glad ye decided on the larger room, Jodiah. I be sure it be much more comfortable."

It was even more spartan than his old room, really, mostly given to the much larger square footage of space in this one. The bed was commanding, though, and neatly dressed and squared away (a soldier to the last). No less commanding, perhaps, was the rack with his exquisite suit of clockwork armor, enameled black and affixed with spikes and the effigies of skulls in places.

She moved about the space, lingering over the impressive display of his armor, fingers tentatively touching here and there as she marveled at its appearance and wondered at its workings.

A suit of armor meant to intimidate every bit as much as it was designed to protect.

Other weapons -- a sword, a dagger, a single-edged knife -- were elsewhere around the room, but his writing desk was unusually empty, and his wardrobe was closed. The door leading into the bathroom was also closed, for the moment.

The sword, etched with runes and markings that were, likely, unfamiliar to her was, of course, the one he himself forged. A craftsman thrives on knowing his work is appreciated, and her admirable gaze made a gently warm feeling rise in his belly.

Even someone who rides an iron horse, and who wields a blaster finding time to look over his creations with a lingering eye gave him a great sense of accomplishment.

He had been leaning against the dresser, but now moved. Toward the center of the room. Tall and lanky as though she may be, Obsidian did not get away with turning about to face away from him and walk to the window. Green eyes followed the gentle twitch of hip all the way until she spoke, and then they quickly raked away less she look up. "I am ready if you are. What must I do?

Sid wasn't oblivious to appreciative looks from the opposite sex, or the same. She just chose most often to not flaunt about like so many in this realm did.

Her figure wasn't as curvacious, or ample as many of the females, either.

Still, for all she tried to remain street-savvy and beyond all that, her natural sensuality could not be hidden or quelled. Especially during the Spring and early Summer. It was her time. Her chin tucked briefly as his eyes tore from his admiration of her walk, a smile secreted behind the soft fall of chiming elflocks before she looked back upon him. "If'n ye wish to move forward, then we shall. Methinks the bed be best. Ye sit at one end, an' I at t'other." And thus she moved, over to the bed, taking position at the foot and kicking off her boots. "Now... "

"Ye 'ave somethin' to say?"

He shifted a bit. Uncomfortable? Perhaps. "What happened last time, Obsidian? It felt like I had been wailed upon by a titan."

Sid got quiet and still, then. Eyes cast down where her hand twisted at a bit of coverlet. Her voice soft and low. "Beyond me nae preparin'... I be thinkin' tha'... Well... I didna wan' to stop. I didna wan' ye to leave at tha' moment." Unspoken words seemed to point to what they'd done in the alley, what they were about to do here and now, as a great intimacy. It was, perhaps, too quick for him to note the last time just how intimate this would end up being. A soft sort of laugh, and a gentle shrug.

"I don't think I wanted to leave then, either. Something ripped at me, though.. like it was not meant to be finished, but was. Forcibly. I don't remember much about it, I just remember I was having to deal with a bit of pain for a few days after that. And some kind of earthquake, if I remember properly."

Sid said nothing of the earthquake, just continued to eye that piece of coverlet she was about to pluck right off. "Aye, I believe Tass be right, though. The power levels were beyond ye comfort, Jodiah. I be careless, unthinkin'. I hope... Ye can forgive me impulsiveness in such." Up those magiced-hued eyes came and looked into his soft green ones. " 'Twill nae be tha' way this time, I promise."

"Let it be as it needs to be, Obsidian. I am no porcelain doll that is easily broken."

It was some time after -- how long didn't seem to have a reference point where he was. Time was a construct of lesser beings.

Still, time has passed and that is clear.

The skies are vacant.

The sounds that come are those of a battlefield after the battle has been waged, but... different. The creature's eyes he looks out from once more focus on the pools of murky darkness oozing out from beneath his field of vision. They turn up, confronted by the sight of another just above, pinioned there with black, gaping holes where its eyes and heart might normally reside.

Death. True death.

You are the lucky one, brother. The host's back, his back, screams with fire as one slick, blackened hand rises and gives a great wrenching to break the spear above its chest. The corpse of the other falling to a pile of moving and unmoving bodies so like all the rest. It takes many tries, but eventually the host removes itself from the spear and stands shakily to survey the fallen.

Disgust rings true within its thoughts, and yet there is a driving duty to do this all again when the next battle comes. Hands, wet and oil-black, reach up and touch behind on silken shoulder blades, already the appendages grow back strong and nearly ready for action once more. As the host steps over the forms littering this field - comrades and enemies alike undistinguishable - some moving and others not, there comes a remembrance, a myth or legend that may have been heard passing amongst the Legion.

It thinks on others its been told of, ones of the Children of Light who chose for themselves not to fight this senseless fight. Who decided that what was being fought for they already possessed, and that it was futile to war against their brethren. For this, though, they were cast down to a World not finished, a borrowed home to help see it to its maturity instead of being banished to the eternal darkness with the Morning Star and those that followed.

Inside, as feet slosh through remainders of its siblings, a light sparks hot.

I, too, possess such. This does not have to continue.

How does one even begin to comprehend this? It did not explode the mind, as it tried to do before, but it did boggle it. From within his host's eyes, Jodiah Ayreg might very well have been staring slack-jawed.

These creatures... he knew of them. Their names were poised on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't recall it. A myth of a legend of a secret history of a fairy tale.

But what were they!?

He could hear... words? A thought? He tried to answer back, but his mouth would not work. Perhaps the mind... Let this end, then.

Could it be an actual reply? Could he even begin to direct the events he was witnessing?

The horror around him was enough to make him sick up, but he was confident and assured in the fact that he was nowhere near this, no matter what pain he felt through his vessel's shell. Somewhere, deep inside, he clung to the fact that he was really in his room, in the Red Dragon. Sid was really there with him. There were no dead. No blood (at the moment), no fire (at the moment, also).

Just she and he, on his bed, and him clutching at her arms like a child to his mother.

As soon as that spark grew to white-hot intensity within host, when the creature realized something close to the Grace that had been withheld from the Legion upon their creation now suffused it.

It gave the creature... Hope.

Such a light cannot be banished or dimmed. Such a thing overrides senseless duty. And, within the barest moments from this realization another terrifying sensation befalls the host. It is not enough to say there came a ripping of the fabric of reality, though that might come close, but nonetheless something of the kind did happen. It was if that dark and horrid landscape swallowed the host up.

Though hope was bright and glad within it, the terror of great and gut-wrenching loss near overshadowed as the creature plummeted, fast and far and for times unknown, ever reaching upwards and keening in that earth-shattering wail for what it had known and what it now fell to.

Truth be told... in the grand scheme of things, Jodiah Ayreg would have preferred witnessing this from his first vantage point. All of the flying, the falling, the flinging... it was starting to get to him. One walks the path that is laid before you, though, and it does not always intersect with the path you yourself would like to walk.

Far more violent, and fast-paced, he wanted to weep for what was felt to be lost. Weep for what was felt to be gained. His host fell through nothingness, and he lurched with the host's body. In the real world, fingernails bit down into Sid's wrists. The chaos and bloodshed was gone.

More than that, though -- the pointless conflict, the futile endeavors was over.

Finished.

The tone? Yes.

The voice? Too young to be... could it?

Obsidian?

Words did not come to him, again, even as he tried to speak. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of the clutch he had on her forearms; aware of the gritted teeth and the wide-eyed stare.

He felt it, even as he didn't notice it.

Oberon. Where had he heard that name before? And Manon? That name, too, was familiar. Something... what?

A singular thought screamed out in his mind. Obsidian!?

As the thought screamed, Sid's fingers tightened on Jodiah's wrist, but there was nothing more than that.

Time still fled and images moved forth. Manon, too, came to discover physical love. Her form shifted in these times -- sometimes she was a dwarf, sometimes a dragon birthing a clutch from a Bronze. Sometimes male, sometimes female. The race of beings in this World became the birth parents of thousand and more races, and all were her children. All were delighted in, reveled in as she reveled in the Spirit of Nature.

Soon, or later, depending on your view, the World they had been banished to, the borrowed they had been sanctioned to protect as it came to its own maturity, finally did mature. The Fae, as some were calling them, moved freely amongst the children born of and from the earth. They found amusement in the short-lifed man.

However, all was not sweetness and light as it once had been for. Was it truly ever? Some among these beings and their offspring rallied that Summer was coming to close. In the depth of Summer, where the beings kept their most precious treasure, that which approximated to the heart of the mulitverses, the heart of the physical plane, Manon and Oberon kept tryst.

It was a growing thing, this new found physical love. From the chill shadows one did watch. Oberon, heedful of the cries from his brethren, named a boundary guard. He set as guard between the world of Man and the World of Summer three Goddesses.

Three sisters.

A Maiden, a Mother and a Crone, as the humans and their kind might call them, though apperance-wise one title mattered less than either of the other two.

Manon became the Maiden, elven Goddess of Beauty, Love, Innocence and Joy; Mistress of the Dance that could call a soul to sing. The cold stare of the Crone, Mab or Titiania, ever watchful as Oberon grew more attentive and enthralled. She was the one in the meadow seeking secrets.

She was the one who made it her call in this existence to take what Manon loved best and brightest.

Jodiah Ayreg gasped, his vision returning.

From the falling, to a new birth, to her new life, to the end. From exile, and war, and abandonment. To the very border of reality. He saw in his eyes as this person -- this girl, this woman this.. this creature -- formed in his eyes from various shapes, and sizes, from the great to the small.

The Bloods. Lankyn.

The entrance to Rhy'Din.

Kairee. Sid.

A quaint little apron, and a name-tag.

To the woman sitting across from him, now.

Palms were asweat, and clamy to the touch as he blinked a few times, staring at her. It was like he wasn't even sure this was real anymore... except from that level, even stare she sent into him. It was a kind of stare that sent men into fits, and he was no different: he felt it clawing at his spine.

She was waiting.

Waiting for a reaction? Oh, she'd get one!

Jodiah Ayreg, possibly moving faster than he ever has before while not in battle, got off the bed and took a few steps back away from her. His jaw worked, furiously, as if trying to formulate words. She let him down easily, now -- the link was not snapped as it was, before -- so his mind was intact.

But full, now? Quite a bit to wrap the human's mortal coil around. His hands lifted, tearing the leather cord out of his hair and freeing it. It had been late morning when she came, but it was... what was that? The sun had started to fade through the window. Late afternoon. It had felt like only a matter of moments.

Fingers raked through his hair, twice, and green eyes stared at her like she were suddenly some kind of viper laying in his bed. The death knight found words, at last. "You... You..."

Ok, so words. Not complete sentences.

He cleared his throat. He coughed. He blinked again, and once more combed his fingers through his hair. His voice was lowered, now, and more in control.

"I have seen... your life. Everything. From the beginning. Oh, Obsidian, I... I thought your kind was a myth."

But her kind were not a myth, it would seem. He took a step forward and lowered himself, as regally as he could, to kneel before her. His head was bowed, and the link of the Elf Tear announced to her he was a fluxing myriad of emotions, and feelings, and she could, perhaps, see a single tear sliding own his cheek from his brilliantly green eye.

"You are a Celestine!" Ignore the exclamation mark, folks, because that was less a shout and more a hoarse, dry-throated rasp.

Black eyes watched him leap and the Ancient tensed herself for words of recrimination that did not come. Instead, as the soild black began to morph and shift until her eyes were silver true, wetness was felt upon her pale face. Tears streaming as Jodiah knelt before her. A shaking hand reaching towards him as the glamour fell and she sat there like that, hand outstretched, looking much like the youngling in the telling. The Maiden of Summer clothed in flimy white with silvered hair cascading about the tall, lank form.

Her words were trembly and tear-filled. "Please. Please, Jodiah, dun. Dun do this. I be... nae a thin' more'n ye knew o' me afore. I be showin' ye me true form, for I believe ye be earnin' such, but I canna. 'Twould bode unwell for one such as ye. But, I show ye this, wha' I can, out o' respect for who ye be. Other'n me siblin's, Jodiah, there be but one other tha' knows o' me trueness. One other an' ye know the full o' it. This I place to ye trust, Jodiah. Do ye ken?"

Not a thing more? She pretends to be an elf, but she's a Celestine! Other races had other names for them, of course, but he knew them only by that name. The First Ones, by whatever name the myths and legends told of them as. Some, such as the more altruistic humans of other worlds, would call them angels. To others -- those who serve the shadow in all ways, consumed down to the very cores of their being, rightly fear them with every fiber in their body.

Jodiah Ayreg was neither altrustic, nor wholly shadowbound (not anymore). He rose to his feet, and he felt as if his eyes might burn with the looking upon her.

They did not.

He did stare, though, like a vampire immune to the rays of the sun for one day might stare at a sunrise. A blessed and beautiful thing that will be glimpsed but once, and then never to be seen again save only in the picture of memory. He reached into his pack, and withdrew the large stone she had gifted to him. It glimmered in the light that was left filtering through the open window. He held it in an open palm for a moment, looking down at it, and then to her.

Ayreg's fingers closed, and gripped it tight into his fist. Her outstretched hand was taken with his own, but slowly, gently. Like testing to see if the feel of her flesh would turn his own to a solid block of ice. Satisfied that it would not, his head bent, and pressed a light, quivering kiss against the knuckles of that hand. His voice, still a rasp, spoke out to her again. "You place this in my trust... Obsidian. I will keep it safe."

The fingers of her free hand touch silk beneath his chin as his head bowed to kiss her knuckles. Lifting his face gently to hers, she leaned forward, silver eyes drilling deep in brilliant green pools as if she would know his soul.

And then, smiling like Summer World's own sun, the Maiden kissed him.

Lips like petals of newly opened roses brushed his own with an electrifying warmth. Her eyes remaining half-lidded in that kiss, it lingered for three beats of his heart before she pulled back, still holding to his hand. "I mus' tell ye somethin' more, Jodiah. I fear this, me impulsiveness in wantin' ye to know o' me, it be possibly puttin' ye in danger. Ye see, a couple years back by mortal time, the War o' Above threatened this plane... again. But, 'twas a renewed effort led by ones taken in they mind to madness. They believed they be needin' this to once more bask in the Architect o' Eternity's light once more, it bein' gone too lon'. But, it be ne'er leavin', they jus' didna understan', didna see through they own... obsession to know it. So, Lankyn performed a spell, he created a Triumverate. He, Belial an' I be... Well, changed. This be in order to keep Michael an' Gabriel from wagin' destruction on this plane. I be, different. Different in ways I be nae fully understandin'. I think 'tis a part o' why I wanted this tellin' to ye."

"I... feel. I feel, Jodiah." Would he comprehend this last when mortals were born to such a thing?

"How does this threaten me?" With everything else to wrap his mind around? Most likely not.

Somehow, somewhere, in the back of his mind, he, too, has been changed. It would be later, perhaps, over a smoke from a silver-worked pipe and a tankard of that orc swill that Panther continued to try and pass off as ale that he might have time to stop and think.

For now? For now, his attention was focused almost solely upon the Celes-- no. She didn't want him to think of her that way. How else could he think of her, now!?

No.

She was Obsidian. Always Obsidian.

"You feel." He repeated, softly, canting his head to the side. He had to remind himself to blink, else his eyeballs would dry up in his sockets. So powerful was the conviction to stare, and to gawk. His hand clutched hers, still, as if forgotten about. "What do you feel... Obsidian?"

She pulled him down beside her, shifting to face him again as before though her shin touched his thigh. Still, she held to his hand. "I feel... thin's I be nae created to know, Jodiah. Ye call them emotions. An', how do this be threatenin' ye? Well, e'en though Michael seems to 'ave abated, Gabriel an' his soldiers still look for a way to take me an' the other two o' the Three down. I dun doubt tha' with this openin' o' meself to ye, ye mayhaps be able to sense them about town now. Feel they eyes upon ye as they be spread o'er Rhy'Din like thick butter. Nae matter if'n ye canna sense them, I know they shall be able to know ye import to me now. For this, I canna tell ye how sorry I be. I shouldna 'ave done this, but... I felt compelled, Jodiah. I give nae other excuse, an' fully understan' if'n ye be angered."

Did he actually feel anything?

Sense anything?

Perhaps later, when they were apart. For now, he knew only her. Even the constant tug of his own "gods," the Nihil, were not felt. That was common around her, though -- and, originally, why he appreciated her presence as much as he did -- the lovely twitch of hips notwithstanding.

Unable to resist the allure of the Divine any longer, his non-held hand reaches out to her, and calloused fingers touched her gently sloped jaw. "I am not angered. You have honored me, and I will join with any battle I have to, against any foe I must face."

But could the death knight truly battle these that she warns him of, now? "But... Obsidian... why were you compelled to reveal yourself to me? How am I even a tenth worthy of this gift?"

His hand touched her jaw and she leaned into it, soft and warm against his sandpaper flesh. She nuzzled that hand to her shoulder and remained this way, casting those silver eyes up to his. "Because, Jodiah. In ye soul, in ye the deepest parts o' ye tha' e'en ye canna reach much anymore, ye be worthy. Ye be so much more'n jus' a warrior. In ye way ye 'ave honor an' nobility. Ye word means somethin'."

"An' though ye 'ave nae travelled a path ye an' others would be callin'... righteous, I be here to tell ye tha' thin's such as tha' dun matter as much as mos' think. Ye 'ave seen wha' I 'ave shown ye. Do the bein' I be, the bein's I come from, do they be righteous an' all lightness an' good? Knowin' wha' I be, Angel as some name, I know wha' mortals think o' me kind. But, as ye saw, 'tis nae exactly wha' be advertised, aye?" She grinned then, that fox light bursting upon lips and in those silver trues.

Turning her head, she placed a kiss upon the palm of his hand and raised her head. "Ye be worthy, Jodiah Ayreg, trus' me on this count if nae other."

Jodiah, however, was not so peaceful.

As he lay there in bed with the Cele-- with Obsidian.. his arms wrapped around her tightly, his mind raced. The metal gears of his brain were working furiously, mostly repeating the same question over and over again.

What in the bloody name of flaming Malfeas are you doing, fool!?

She breathed softly, gently; warm air flowing over his arm curled over her chest. She was the Maiden of Summer, Mistress of the Dance; a Goddess in all of her natural splendor and beauty. The Divine.

And here he was. In bed with her. His arms holding her tightly to his body, no less!

How much longer before this test of hers was over? How much longer before she was dissatisfied at how human he was, and summoned bolts of lightning from a clear sky to turn him to ash? How much longer before she opened the ground beneath his feet and had the earth itself swallow him whole for being such a slave to emotion?

He listened to her breathe. His hand cupped over her chest felt at a heartbeat. He held her close, and tightly -- an ant would have made it an effort to move between them. But even as he had images of her smirking face standing over his broken, battered body as she sent him on his way to Oblivion, he also had other thoughts of her.

That shimmering gown did nothing to hide the fact that she was female. He was a man, after all, and so had images of pleasurable frolicks. The lewd press of body, and the grope of hand and mouth and finger and... teeth? Yes. Teeth.

The Nymph had taught him the joys of physical love, again, and he both blessed and cursed her name for that.

He did the same to Tara, who had convinced him to try and "be nicer" in the first place. It was happenstance. Unhappy chance! Obsidian was the one working the bar that night, and so he went and became socialable. To a degree, anyway. He can't even remember what they spoke about now, though, truth be told. Then the most curious thing happened as he lay there on the bed beside her, against her, around her -- he had an argument with himself.

Not like The Voice that plagued him not too long ago, but vanished after Amthy's murder. This was just entirely with two parts of his mind.

No. Mortals were not meant to have such lascivious thoughts about her kind.

But... she was so beautiful...

No!

Just look at her. So peaceful. Serene. She is happiness. You saw that smile.

It cannot be!

It can not be!

It's too late, Ayreg you old fool. You're smitten, man.

It isn't right.

She doesn't care. You heard her words. She makes herself for you.

But... she belongs to another.

Her other is in a world far from here. Lighten up.

But...

Or Am'thyst died in vain.

He blinked. Twice. Then again. That purple ribbon was still there on the dresser, away from them. Tucking his head down, he hid his face in the spider silk strands of her glorious hair.

Jodiah wept a few stray tears before he finally fell into slumber with the Cel-- ...with Obsidian. He wept for what might be gained. He wept for what was lost. For joy. For sorrow.

He wept for the total and complete world-turning night this had been. How could things possibly ever be the same, now?