Greycloud stands to the side of the courtyard, conversing casually with Morning-Mist, who has just seated herself.

Morning-Mist chuckles a little. "Morning-Mist expect same thing. But no care anymore." She folds her hands together in her lap. "Will wait little longer for Spirit-Whisperer, but if no come soon, will go hunt."

Early dawn rarely sees this particular Varati moving through Haven. But there are always good reasons to make exceptions. Striding into the courtyard of the Delphic Citadel, Ranjeet's dark eyes shift over the people there, narrowing as he searches for one in particular.

Stretching and sighing as she steps out into the courtyard, Starsong emerges from the infirmary, seeming to grow taller as she breathes in the open air. Spotting Greycloud across the courtyard, she perks up even more, and despite the late hour, her evident weariness seems to melt away as she skips down the steps, hurrying lightly towards the two chatting Sylvans.

Cassandra emerges from the grand set of double doors leading into the citadel.

There is only a brief moment of indecision before Ranjeet's gaze locks upon the fox graisha, drawing closer to the diminutive woman and towering next to her. He waits, however, patiently, before requesting firmly, but politely, "I have a need to see Cassandra... can you tell me where she can be found, or can someone be sent to summon her to me?" There is a slight tension in his frame, and there is a burning need within the depths of those dark eyes. An intensity surrounds him, as if he were generating heat and fluxing the air about him, but there is no physical manifestation.

Tsaruko steps through Delphi's tall gates and enters from the Rialto.

Morning-Mist senses: His aura is strong and palpable, visible, as dark black flames lick the aether about Ranjeet inquisitively, searching for visions and images incessantly.

Tsaruko walks up to the gates of the Citadel, and turns to the Triad following her. No vocal words are exchanged, but glances, and most likely thoughts are passed around the group. Finally, standing straight, and looking down her nose at the Triad, Tsaruko crosses her arms, forcing the leader of the guard threesome to bow his head in acquiescence. With that, Tsaruko gives a nod herself and turns away from the Triad, leaving them to wait outside of the Delphi grounds.

Morning-Mist stands up and speaks to Ranjeet with a voice that is obviously mocking of the Varati's firm tone. "Morning-Mist no know. Man should know graisha no part Delphi. Ask guard or someone else." While speaking, her eyes look over him over a bit. She then blinks a little and with a scrunch of her face, reopens them again. A calm look settles over her features.

Halfway across the courtyard, Starsong stops, suddenly uncertain now as she sees the newcomer approaching the two Sylvans towards whom she had been heading. She waits, hovering for a moment as she takes stock of this new scene, but with an air of forward motion about her even as she stands still, watching.

Ranjeet senses: Morning-Mist has a faint aura. Nothing strong, but given her attitude it's obviously amusement.

A frown pressed down upon Ranjeet's brow, causing it to crease with displeasure. "The Varati," he snaps back lightly, "do not generally consort with Delphi, and thus no, I have no reason to know that you would not be affiliated with Delphi. And I would hope that rudeness is merely your own fault, and not a trait of all graisha." Most other Varati would have struck back with more than the mild words that Ranjeet has proffered. But he will waste no more time on the impudent beast, and turns to find a more helpful source of information.

Greycloud's attention is turned first from the graisha, then to Starsong. It lingers there for some time, finding him smiling fondly. When the Varati man approaches and speaks, he starts to make an answer to the request. Morning-Mist beats him to the punch, and he's left gaping dumbly at the other man's response.

Tsaruko arches an eyebrow at the interesting ... conversation between the graisha and the Varati. Curious, Tsaruko casually -- as casually as Tsaruko can get, that is -- makes her way to the little group.

Morning-Mist has seen the wrath of more than one Varati and knows she got off lightly. That does not stop her from giggling as she leans over to whisper something to Greycloud and then sit back down on the bench, resuming her former spot and pose.

A shadow in the Delphi's entrance, a humming specter, the wan halfbreed emerges in the threshold leading into the imposing tower and lingers there for the stretch of a few moments. Carrying a haunting dirge at the underbelly of her breath, Cassandra unroots and scuffles down the few short steps leading up to the door, the tattered hem of her robe dragging against the ground behind. So much life and movement within the courtyard gives the former Sibyl a bit of pause, restless eyes skimming over sources of sounds and words with a musing hunger.

Starsong flashes a quick smile to Greycloud in return to his, but it quickly fades into a look of concern as she hears the beginnings of abrupt tones from the little group. Starting towards them again, she watches with new wariness as she approaches.

Ignoring the giggles with a long-suffering snort of disgust, Ranjeet searches for a more helpful individual. Fortunately, he does not have to test his own patience and the generosity or basic courtesy of the Delphi's inhabitants, as the woman that he is looking for emerges from the Tower, fulfilling his need. Walking up to her with a casually elegant stride, Ranjeet greets Cassandra by touching his brow, lips, and chest, hand extending outward in traditional Varati greeting. A wry smile curls his lips as he inquires, "Did you see me coming, Magus? It would seem that whenever I come to Delphi, you appear just as I am searching for you."

Tsaruko frowns ever so slightly, but at what, is certainly unknown. Tsaruko simply stops her approach to the small group and stands up as straight and as regally as she has been taught to do. She waits.

Though he's usually much more relaxed, Greycloud is definitely far out of his element here. He flickers a brief, hesitant smile at what Morning-Mist whispers to him, and steps back so as not to get himself yelled at.

Morning-Mist glances over at Cassandra and gives her a curious look before standing up again. Busy little thing, this graisha. "Morning-Mist tired wait," she states to anyone who will listen. "Think maybe go."

Aine emerges from the grand set of double doors leading into the citadel.

Cassandra's glance lingers on Morning-Mist thoughtfully until Ranjeet's approach is nigh complete, interest absorbed in this Varati greeting. Head canting this way and that, she abruptly extends her own hand palm upward until it's poised right next to his. "Imphadi," she greets briefly with an incline of her head before her hand is withdrawn. "Sometimes I see you," she admits flatly, the roll of her shoulders giving a rippling stir to her bulky robes. "But this morning I wanted fruit from the Rialto," is added with thin laces of guilt.

Celeste emerges from the grand set of double doors leading into the citadel.

This woman used to disgust him, confused him, but now that he has grown accustomed to her ways and manners, he finds within him a budding pleasure at seeing her. Nodding his head with an amused chuckle, Ranjeet proffers his arm, replying, "Well, then I shouldn't hinder you in your quest, but perhaps if you are willing to talk along the way?"

Greycloud smiles briefly to Morning-Mist, beginning to sidle his way away from the group and over toward Starsong.

At the same time, the crisis seems averted, and the conversation shifts away from Greycloud, leaving Starsong with both a relieved smile and an opening to approach. She crosses the rest of the way over to him, giving quick, polite smiles to the others that she passes along the way, giving Greycloud a cheerful, but hushed, "Chookma!" as she draws within earshot.

Tsaruko glances around the courtyard from where she stands near the middle. Tsaruko's lips are forming a frown and her aqua eyes are narrowed in annoyance, or determination. The Atlantean woman stays where she is, however, far from rude enough to intrude herself unwantedly into a conversation. Instead, she waits, for what, no one is certain, for she has not spoken a word since entering the grounds.

Flickering, distracted, Cassandra's attention drifts towards Morning-Mist in silent query for but a moment or two before the whole of her attention is diverted to Ranjeet with an unconsciously apologetic grimace. "Yes, of course, the Imphad-i would be most welcome company." She stares at the offered arm for a moment, then quickly slips her arm through before the invitation is revoked. With that, a slight nod is given, deferring to her unexpected guest to lead the walking.

There are people gathering in the courtyard. How pleasant. The Adept Idraeus steps from the Citadel, eyes immediately tilting upwards to the sky. Wings fan partway, feathers ruffling with the faintest breeze. Then, only after all of that, Celeste sweeps grey-robed outwards, though not entirely near the others. A soft mumbling, barely audible, "My one real student, and she goes missing at every opportunity. Discipline. Everyone here lacks discipline..."

Morning-Mist gives a little sigh and with a glance of annoyance towards Greycloud and Starsong turns towards the gate and heads off towards it.

The offer is not rescinded, and with a matching pace, Ranjeet escorts the Magus from Delphi and into the Rialto for the market's early dawn offerings.

[The Rialto - Haven]

The marketplace is already bustling, and that, in and of itself, makes it nearly a private place to hold a conversation. Everyone about them is moving along, deep in conversation, bargaining, and their own thoughts. Little heed is given to the Varati and the half-breed. But Ranjeet is a touch concerned that the color and people, the hustle and bustle, will distract the oft-times addle-brained Clairvoyant on his arm, making any useful conversation with her impossible. Still, the attempt must be made. "The dreams and visions are coming with greater regularity and clarity," he murmurs, his tone almost conversational. Only the shimmer of his black flame aura hints at the intensity beneath his mild words. "I would gather this means that whatever catastrophe is to come will be soon, yes?"

The movements of life and sound, the garish colors, the scents and sights, they all quietly beg for just a fragment of Cassandra's fickle attentions, and it is with determined and not entirely successful effort that these distractions are kept at bay. Aimless footsteps are suddenly forged with purpose at the sights of the familiar fruit stand, fueled by direction without haste. "Yes, they are visiting more, and yes, they herald the Wrong," the halfbreed murmurs lightly in muted tones. "What sights have been laid upon your mind of late?"

Morning-Mist steps from the gates of Delphi and into the Rialto. She slips quickly to the west toward Main and Border.

"Earthquakes and floods," murmurs the Varati, each vision coming to him brightly, as if he were seeing it then and there. "The most recent the river waters rose, devouring their banks, followed by a fog. The earth erupted, tearing itself asunder, but in the end the earth was split in two, and even though there was destruction and damage, each arm of the split rebuilt itself anew, but were forever divided." A hand reaches out, picking up a bunch of tender red grapes, proffering them for Cassandra's inspection. "Before that, there was a woman in distress, heavy with child and fleeing through the forests. She is unique, perhaps sacred, and with each contraction of her babe, light rushed out from her, as if she were meant to give birth to a miracle. But I could never quite make out the details of her face."

A flicker-flash of vision, that which may come to be a fleeting and elusive creature. In a blur, the serene composure of Cassandra's features twist in some anguished woe. Loss, utter loss, an erratic light flaring in the pale sea of the halfbreed's gaze. Help me, she says -- no, her mouth forms around silence, thick crimson liquid etching the letters along the Rialto's ground as she speaks them. But, on her next words, the vision submits to reality, and she is once again who she is -- determinedly focusing a majority of her attentions on Ranjeet as her gaze every so often strays to the nearest stall. Serene again. No longer silent -- that incessant humming is nearly a constantly worn mantle of sound.

"A miracle," the halfbreed repeats aloud, humming stretching out as she considers this word devotedly. "Yes, I suppose perhaps it is a miracle. It is a difficult judgment, Imphadi. Besides true good and true evil, there is so much gray in between." Spindly fingers wind around the offered grapes, and they are drawn up to her nose for a discriminating sniff. Odd looks from the woman tending the stall are oblivious in this state, 'twould seem. "The elements seem, at least, displeased by what is to come, for what else would unleash such a disaster?" Cassandra questions in simplistic logic, free hand lifting to brush against a ripened peach experimentally.

Ranjeet is frozen next to her, his eyes avid on Cassandra's face, his features fractionally pale. "A miracle need not be good or evil -- it is simply a thing of great power that is rarely understood." But it is not her words that alarm him, but her face ... and yet not her face. Softly, in a rough rasp, Ranjeet queries uncertainly, "It is you? Are you in need of help, Imphada??" Whether the earth will rise and fall is no longer certain to Ranjeet ... the visions and dreams have links in common, yet shift between landscapes known and unknown, speaking in fact and metaphors all at once. One thing is certain, this "Wrong," as Cassandra has named it, will not be stopped by him or anyone, be it a violent manifestation of the earth or something completely other. The question is, is there any way to prepare for it, in the hopes of minimizing the damage done? What use are these visions when you cannot use them effectively??

A spiderweb of lines slash over Cassandra's forehead in the evident curiosity, gaze directed towards Ranjeet even as she hands over the grapes and then the peach she unearthed to the merchant, before diving in to select more. "Help, Imphad-i?" she queries lowly, snatching up another peach and handing it over. Perhaps part of this curse of sight to remain blind to your own future? She does not give much time for an answer before she attempts an answer of her own. "There are answers to the words, a slate of what is to be, a map of what is the Wrong, but this guide has not reached the present's eyes yet. Perhaps this is what you mean by 'help' -- the hands that hold this guide would be appreciated hands, indeed." And then her attention is lost, to the price demanded of her for the goods, and the rummaging around in her robes for coins.

Aron is lured in from the north by the aroma of baked goods. Aron strides quietly through, heading toward the Citadel and stepping through a tall set of gates onto Delphi's grounds.

Okalani steps from the gates of Delphi and into the Rialto.

The money is drawn readily from his own pockets, and paying the merchant quickly, Ranjeet draws Cassandra away from the booth, his brow creased with concern. "Just now I saw you, in pain, in need, bleeding the words 'Help me' upon the grounds of the Rialto, as your own voice was silent." His hand takes hers, gripping the webbed fingers tightly. "Here is my hand, how can I help hold you?"

Okalani steps through a tall set of gates and enters Delphi's grounds.

Fruit is cradled within the corner of her free arm, nestled against the elbow's inner crook, as she is drawn away from the stand. "In pain?" Cassandra asks in a thick voice that sounds foreign against her own ears, tentative and questioning, threatening to break at any intrusive sound that the elements within the Rialto may deal to the morning crowd. She glances down to the holding hand in distracted thought, eyes weaving in and out of attentiveness by the bobbing of her gaze. "But I am not the path, Imphad-i," comes the buzzing hum. "Perhaps... this Wrong deals more misfortune that I can see, but I am not the map. The words are yet to be found, ancient words that forge a future untold, but I have not read them, nor even seen them. We have worked on you seeking out questions in what you see and perhaps you should consider this next..." And then a performer in garish colors traipses by, giving her words interruption to amusedly watch his travel across the heart of the square.

Staring at Cassandra silently for a moment, Ranjeet struggles to discern the logic in her maze of words and meanings. "Anguish," he returns evenly, "perhaps pain of the body, perhaps pain of the soul, I could not tell." His head cocks fractionally, dissecting the information she gives him one statement at a time. "If you are not the path, then who is? The path is definitely a person?" That much is unexpected, but Ranjeet remembers the girl who hovered behind him when he went vision-questing -- she could not see either, though, more a victim, he would think, than a path for the "wrong." Of course, often it is the innocent who bring forth despair and destruction. He saw the faces of the innocent plague carriers for too many months this past winter to forget that torment uses whatever carriers it so chooses -- the innocent along with the guilty. "You speak of maps... of ancient words that are yet to be found. How do you know that these words even exist if you have neither read nor seen them?" His head shakes for a moment, following the colorful figure that catches her gaze. "You said earlier that 'the hands that hold this guide,' you, 'would be appreciated' ... does that mean you need help in finding the answers? I do not see how my inferior skills will ferret out the truth that even you cannot see." Despondency. It colors his words, for more than anything this Varati desires the truth. It has branded him as its own, tearing away his very roots and beliefs and leaving him with nothing else to hold to. Bitter, cruel Truth, demanding his sacrifices but offering him little solace or reward in return.

Eric arrives right into the thick of the Rialto from the south. He steps through a tall set of gates and enters Delphi's grounds.

It takes a moment before she responds -- in fact, it may even seem that she was neglecting Ranjeet in this air of silence with her head cocked over a shoulder. "Perhaps I have phrased this wrong," Cassandra finally admits in a thinly-wrought murmur that is partially devoured by her breath. Her chin rests against her shoulder for a moment before her gaze finally returns, tilting upward in sharp bird-like motions. "There is a path, and a woman with her infant's birth is that path. An ending and a beginning, in many ways. But there is a map to this path, Imphad-i. It was once a person, and now only his or her words remain." Hope flares within her regard as she studies his expression, marking each subtle shift of emotion and thought. "Was that spoken more clearly? Our Sight is subjective -- it is not always about skill. There are some things that you see that I will never, regardless of ability. Do not despair that that which I cannot hold is intangible or unfindable, Ranjeet." Gentle encouragement strikes her words, a shadowed memory of the Sibyl emerging again.

Nandin is lured in from the north by the aroma of baked goods. He strolls through the crowd.

Cassandra is standing next to Ranjeet a few feet's distance from a fruit stand, bearing peaches and grapes that are balanced against the inside of her arm. She seems to be regarding her companion intently, waiting for some response. All in all, their conversation by no means glaring within the morning's bustle of crowd, save the fact that a halfbreed and Varati would be conversing at all.

Thenomain opens the overlarge doors to the smithy and strolls out, sounds of clanging, hammering being lost behind him into the din of the Rialto. He looks pretty content with himself (that is, not hungover).

As Nandin strolls through the crowd, he sees Ranjeet. Upon setting eyes upon Ranjeet, Nandin slightly nods his head in respect.

The mongrel smith disappears into the large building for a moment and pulls out a large box upon wheels. We're talking large. It's certainly taller than he is, and the wheels squeak and groan with the effort. Or maybe they just need oiling.

Thenomain retreats into the forge again and comes out with some long metal shafts. No, pipes. Terribly thin pipes, a few feet long and bent in odd ways.

For a quiet moment Ranjeet listens, then digests her words thoughtfully, a slight nod of his head indicating that he has heard and understood. "Yes, much clearer," he replies softly, dark hair swaying forward as his gaze shifts to rest on Cassandra. Not intangible or unfindable? Very well. The noisy din and bustling morning crowd are used like a blanket of white noise as Ranjeet studies the pale face before him, shifting up, rising up with his mind above the crowd in the Rialto. He reaches out again, searching and seeking, his body growing still as his spirit moves.

Thenomain continues doing those tinkering things. See him tinker? Yes, indeed, pipes, box, wheels, gears, who knows what else is going on over there? It's always a question if the people doing the things even know.

Though the halfbreed's attention is usually so easily seized, and normally would have wandered by now to the merchants and passersby milling in and out, there's a fixed interest laid upon the Varati in her company. And even when her gaze lifts, it remains in his vicinity, flittering in the air just around his form. Cassandra absently readjusts the fruit resting against the inside of her arm, lapsing into a pensive silence that lacks even the occasional dirge-hum.

Soaring upward, further towards the skies from the mundane of Haven's streets, it ought to be getting brighter. After all, it's a serene summer day with white fluffy patches of clouds providing the only shroud to the sun. Yet as your mind relinquishes its bonds of reality, darkness presses in with an urgent insistence. Suffocating. Binding. Air seems loathe to stir around you as your body seems incapable of feeling the afternoon's breeze all of a sudden. An eruption of muted light suddenly plays over a square in the center of your regard, a distant view of Haven given within this picture-window. Time is a jumble, and circumstances are inconstant, and within the events that unfold, there is little rhyme or reason to the devastation that is laid upon the town.

Ranjeet's hands lift, touching, then holding on to Cassandra's upper arms as a ground, as an anchor. His dark gaze hazes slightly, focused on her, but seeing something else it would seem.

Cassandra senses: Ranjeet breathes deeply and slowly, calming his mind and concentrating his spirit. The aether is always elemental to him, the last time it was water, this time it is air. He rises up in it, for a moment Empyrean perhaps as he soars over Haven, seeking the elusive answer. Words. Keys. Figures. What is to come, and how will it arrive? What does it bode, and how will it harm? And again, there is the pounding question of simply, Why?

Cassandra remains serenely still as she regards Ranjeet steadily, more movement coaxed by the passing winds than by actions of her own volition. And even these are stirrings of hair, of her bulky Delphic robes, the filmy feathers of her child-sized wings. So many sights and sounds of the Rialto are missed by her, surely made up once this reverie no longer distracts her.

All of the visions that you have conjectured within your dreaming mind are a hailstorm of events, intense and chaotic at first, and eventually trickling off until nonexistent. Another flicker-flash, claws raking over the square before the illuminated square unfocuses enough to reveal the heavily-pregnant woman struggling through foliage. A silent play, her cries land unheard in this objective perspective. Oppressive is the air as you're forced to watch all of these events again, until suddenly the view is blurred. Patches of colors, of light, fading... fading... replaced by an insistent scratching as the light wanes. Before the last hint of light is expelled, there is a blur against the vision. Behind the vision. Words forming, penned against the light of what is seen, before suddenly the flat surface bends and is rolled up with the pliancy that a parchment might have. Unfortunately, this hasty action robs your surroundings of the remainder of light, and you're thrust back into uncertain darkness.

In the world of pipes, metal, wire, wood, tools, in the world of Natural Philosophy stands Thenomain, pondering the pipes and the box all the while behind him (or, likely, beside him) hums the bustling innards of the forge with apprentices keeping busy. The tall box is fitted with pipes now, or with one pipe threatening to poke the eye out of some unwary cyclops. Behind it, out of view once again, the dark intelligence of the mongrel smith keeps him busy. Parts appear and disappear as the mental puzzle, the Natural Philosophy, the means and the end all start falling in place. Who knows who first decided that humans think with their brains; the wiser (and often less educated) people know better. Some people think with their hands, or their feet, or their heart. It would not take very long to see where Thenomain fits in this polycognate plan.

Is it the end of the dream? But then wouldn't the awakening come? Silence. Time. Waiting. And you, the watcher, have been subjected to this agonizing wait with the rolled up parchment. There is a musty tinge to the weighted air as darkness stretches onward with its relentless punishment. And suddenly there is a sound, a rumbling, and though it is low, it fills your ears with the deafening sound of the first noise after an eternity of silence. The walls yield to the trembling, splitting open mercilessly after remaining staunch barriers for so very long. Air, nourishing air, it assaults the ancient chamber, stirring up dust motes until they suspend from the air in an aureate haze. And the light that invades the room is bright, so very bright, threatening to blind you after this spell of seclusion. It blazes with the fire of a thousand suns, even in its slight measures. It touches upon the parchment... the scroll... before you are almost forcibly removed from the vision. And suddenly the summer's sun shines again, and the intensity of the Magus' gaze is upon you. And all is... as it was.

If he were not so consumed with what is before him, the Varati would certainly find the contraption being created in the Rialto's early dawn light to be intriguing at the least. His eyes narrow, as if in pain or surprise, and his hands shift up to block the light from his eyes. The sunlight? But it does not shine to terribly brightly, and after only a moment, Ranjeet's hands lower to his sides, his eyes fixing with clarity upon the half-breed before him. He is cognizant again of the sounds around him, the scents of food and wares, smoke from the smiths and the rasp of carpenters saws. Ranjeet blinks once, twice, before his dark eyes rest upon Cassandra's pale gaze. "I ... I don't understand," he whispers to her softly.

The Rialto is awash with interesting things. Over there, a potter pulling hot clay out of her kiln. Over there, three merchants haggling over who has the best selection of vegetables. Way over there, one of the dozens of food stalls that specializes in gourmet kaffe. Look, over there a small pack of mongrel children are stealing bread and getting away with it, too. There, a vocal orchestra practicing as they advertise their opera. There, a grease fire almost breaking out. There, a hawker selling 'magical goods to cure all ails.' There, a life. There, another life. This is the Rialto. This is Haven, City of a Million Stories.

As Ranjeet seems to rouse from his apparent reverie, the intensity of Cassandra's attentions ebbs in slight measures. It begins in slight ways, gaze lifting up towards the nearest passersby. "Answers do not always come in the way we want them, Imphad-i," she murmurs to her companion, attentions stretching out further as her gaze drifts off. Towards the scent of the nearest food stall, then towards the laughter of one of those mongrel children. "I think that, perhaps, if your Sight cannot give you the answers, it tries to tell you where you can find the answers. It is just..." A pause given as an unusual contraption finally seizes her attention. "Mmmm... it is just the first, Ranjeet. But a place you should start to think about, where might it possibly exist."

One small story, small but an echo of a more sinister one: "So, Ned, y'think it's going to rain t'nite?"

"Oi 'ope so, chum. Roin's been noice so far, bu' it 'asent done enough fer me crops."

"Bah, if there's a problem with the prices we'll just have another strike. Worked like jelly, last time."

"Oi wouln't call it loik jelly. Nae quoit. Lotta people are still makin' up fer th' loss."

"Yes, but the rest of us are doing plum, eh eh?"

Another small story, briefly passing in the crowd: "Rice!" a hawker cries out. "Rice!"

"Here," says a suspicious man, "where'd you get rice?"

"We got an Atlantean trade treaty."

"Oh yeah, that's likely."

"No, straight up. You go and talk to my captain, if you want. The Milka, third peer."

His gaze flickers around, suddenly the distracted and confused of the pair. Ranjeet forcibly drags his attention back to Cassandra, for suddenly visions and reality touch and collide. What if the catastrophe is real? What will become of these people ... of these lives? Not mere tales now, but potential victims. Potential deaths. "I ... I will need to think upon it," he rasps softly, suddenly needing someplace quiet and free of distractions to ponder out what he has seen and experienced." Ranjeet lifts a hand, covering Cassandra's as he murmurs, "I'll be back ... with more questions likely, and hopefully some ideas. You'll be here?" His voice is hopeful, covering up the burning anxiety within him to understand better what he has been given.

A curious angle is given to Cassandra's head as she studies the smithy, glance darting back to Ranjeet at the beginning of his words. The hand on the arm not burdened by fruit lifts up to pat his own hand in reassurance. "Well, perhaps not here," a meaningful glance added around the Rialto. "But I will be reachable, Imphadi." A squeeze is given before the touch withdraws, and as Ranjeet withdraws, her attentions are lost to the demand of the crowds. "Time runs short, just remember that." Perhaps the murmur is lost to the retreating Varati as she moves from the outskirts of the square, further into the heart of Haven.

FIN  

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