Date: November 11, 1999
Place: Inner Courtyard - Living Quarters - Palladium - Haven
Cast: Atalanta, Cynara, Drusus, Jana, Kalypso, Kiera, Oriane, Vertinius, Wyrdrune
Scene: Magic is going awry; mages are finding it more and more difficult to retain control of their powers, and a young wind-mage accidentally looses a devastating storm upon Haven.

Inner Courtyard - Living Quarters - Palladium - Haven:
      A colonnade surrounds the perimeter of the inner courtyard, whose paved paths lead to various domiciles, each built in the traditional Empyreal style. Tiled roofs, arches, columns, and even balconies are common features on all the homes, and the decor is light and airy -- much like those who dwell within. There are no staircases, although there are some residencies that extend to a second floor, for the occupants have no need of stairs when they can simply glide through the air. Almost everything is built of pale marble in shades of white, cream, or rose, and climbing vines of flowers mirror their hues when the season is right. A circular fountain graces the middle of the courtyard, and residents can often be found seated at its edge, whiling away a few hours.

Though it's late, Oriane stands in the courtyard just beyond the gates of House Tritonis. The rain continues to fall, but seems to make a swirling pattern around the dark-winged girl as she stands still then begins pacing, heedless of the way the rain drenches her.

Kalypso's wings arch over her head as she steps out, drawing a simple shawl around her shoulders. She's seen her cousin pacing from the window, and now must investigate. She calls, albeit softly, "Oriane?"

Not seeming to hear the soft call, Oriane continues to pace, flaring her wings into the breeze-tossed rain with each turn. Expression troubled, the girl seems as lost in thought as she's lost in the weather.

So if not heard the first time, try try again. "Oriane?" Her voice rings a bit louder, though still mightn't be heard in the swirling breezes. Kalypso takes a step forward, but doesn't get too close. She sees the rain moving in circles, and she'll not attempt to get in the middle of that.

Startled, Oriane stops and spins to face her cousin, "Kaly..." Attempting a smile, she slides her arms across her middle and calls out, "How are you?" As if she were pretending nothing was wrong and that the raindrops weren't beginning to race horizontally around her.

The touch of the breeze that Kalypso feels is cool enough, raindrops rolling off of her wings and then blowing into her. "I'm well, Ori... how're you?" A quizzical expression is on the young woman's face, as she doesn't make any attempts to move any closer.

Taking a deep breath, Oriane nods, "I'm fine." The most telltale sign might be that the darkling doesn't make any move to come closer to her cousin. Above in the sky, there's a faint rumble of thunder.

Kalypso's head tilts somewhat, her brow narrowing. "Do you need me to... fetch anything -- anyone for you?" She's trying to be helpful, for obviously everything's not fine, but Kaly doesn't know what to do.

A touch of panic settles into Oriane's face at the thunder and at the offer, "I... don't know. I don't know..." And the pacing resumes again as the dark-winged girl takes a deep breath and stretches her wings into the steadily building winds.

Kalypso's gaze swings towards the Hall of the Sky, before returning to Ori. "I... I should go see if the Emperor -- or Empress -- if they are free." They are the only others she knows of with 'the gift,' after all. "I... just stay here, all right?" The question remains in her eyes, shawl wrapped tight about her arms.

Announcement: The rain has continued most of the last day and a half, but with a few ominous rumbles of thunder, the weather seems to be taking on the intensity of a storm...

Kalypso is only slightly yelling, as she speaks. To be heard.

Shadows array themselves along the eaves of the compluvium, winged shapes black against the angry night sky. Their silhouettes' edges ripple and lash, clothing torn by the growing winds. Like vultures, omens of doom come to watch those down below. Another slice of midnight floats across the sky, serene -- for now -- through gusts which would tax the flight of any normal Empyrean. It is Drusus, searching, his eyes cast upward towards the hulking, rumbling, threatening cloudmass.

Standing at almost the center of the courtyard, Oriane seems to be the eye of the current whirl of winds and rain. Looking uncertain and a little panicked, the dark-winged girl shakes her head, "I... don't want to disturb..." But of course he'd already know. Dark eyes shift to the winged shapes, "I don't want to bother anyone..."

A trace of lightning dances along the underside of the clouds, showing just how dangerously low they really are. A teasing, a warning of bright silvery color come and gone in the span of less than a heartbeat. The light illuminates the long, broad expanse of the Emperor's wings as he arcs towards the power's eye, homing in on his ink-stained scribe.

How's Tyche managed this one? "You're never a bother, Ori. Never say that." Only a piece of panic resides on Kaly's normally impassive face as she scurries towards the hall, but the figures above draw her attention, and it is then that she notices the Emperor. Her wings wrap around her, as she stops, gaze cast upwards.

Trying to contain her own trembling, Oriane brings her eyes back down to the ground and the grass beneath her feet. No matter how hard she concentrates, she can't seem to bring the beast that is this building storm under control. It's as if the more she tries to control it, the more control it gains over her.

Announcement: The ocean churns angrily in an echo of the sky as this incoming storm seems to pick up power from the ocean and sweep into the city from the eastern quarter and the Palladium.

Drusus backwings as he reaches the compluvium, dropping straight down. The rain beats down around him and shatters against his head, shoulders, and wings -- he is outlined in grey mist. Even the gold on his brow fails to sparkle: it is a band of black around his pale grey-framed hair. Another beat of his wings casts up a fresh spray of broken rain and he lands on the edge of the impluvium. Quick steps bring him towards Kalypso and her ward. "Ave, Dea." There is a strain to the formality of his tone and an intense worry in his eyes. "Domina Oriane," he ways. The words are a question, a request, a warning all bundled up in one. A new aura replaces the mist which no longer glows around him now that he is out of the rain: raw energy, barely held in check.

Drusus's aura is not a visible one; rather, it's a palpable field of energy around him, like that of a strong battery on the edge of discharge, or the tingling feeling one would get when lightning is about to strike.

Kalypso's head tilts towards Drusus as he drops down, her eyes moving back and forth between the two. She says nothing, merely curls her arms about her. The rain, the breeze -- it's making her cold. And that tingling sensation -- rather disconcerting for one who doesn't ever feel it.

Lifting her gaze from the ground to gift Drusus with a panicked expression, the girl that seems to be the eye of this particular storm gives a frightened curtsey. Oriane stands in the middle of the courtyard while thunder rumbles overhead and a sharp crack of lightning can be seen skittering over the underside of the clouds. "Emperor" Realizing she can't lie to herself or anyone else any longer, she says in soft words almost lost to the howl of the rising wind, "It... won't stop coming."

Announcement: A crescendo of thunder drowns out the building howl of the wind as the rain continues to pelt down onto the buildings and streets of Haven, forcing most to seek shelter of some sort or another.

Atalanta plows her way through, heading for her Household's quarters, wings wrapped tightly around her as the wind lifts and fluffs the feathers every which way. It's only by sheer determination that she's probably made it this far. At the sound of voices, she lifts her head only slightly to determine who is about.

Drusus grasps Oriane's arms gently. He says, "I can't stop it. You're the only one who can." His stomach is a pit of terror, though the fear doesn't express itself anywhere in his expression or eyes. What if Oriane becomes a threat? "You must try to blunt it," he says gently. His hands fall away from her and he steps back.

Kalypso takes a step backwards from the pair, her wings and arms wrapped tightly about her in the buffeting winds. She can do naught to help, but she can't leave -- it's that morbid fascination mingled with genuine concern for her cousin.

The panic that others might be better hidden within others is readily evident on Oriane's face. Now that Drusus has touched her arm, she doesn't resist the trembling that claims her while rain continues to fall down over her. "I... I can f-feel it... It's angry and surging and wants only to pound the city. It w-won't go away..."

Atalanta stops and listens. She might have known that it was Ori's fault. It's always Ori's fault of course, but this is extra special. I mean, look at my wings. I'm going to spend days on getting them back to just perfect. Course this is also ripe gossip material.

He says, "try to dampen it." Drusus' voice, normally so empty, is gentle. The wind rips his words into shreds -- only someone very close to him, as Oriane is, would be able to understand them. "Don't try to reverse them or you'll make a cyclone, all right?" He's read about this in Delphi's books. He suddenly relaxes, somehow managing to look boneless and alert at the same time. Waiting. It's a fighter's stance, the posture of someone who is quietly awaiting battle. Gaze turns inwards and the crackling energy around him intensifies: for a moment, it sparks blue against the wet gold that marks his station. Then that questing power is turned outwards, dissipating as it is stretched forth over the fabric of the air that enfolds the Palladium and the surrounding city of Haven. It's like trying to walk on oiled marble -- even his ability to sense scoots away from him. His feathers ruffle, raising, puffing out his wings in unconscious reaction to the internal tenseness as he struggles both to sense and to apply his will to the damping of the storm.

But here's the secret: Oriane is much more powerful than he is, and he has turned his practice to finer things, such as the manipulation of air pressure in a localized area. He has not played with storms.

Announcement: Another deafening crash of thunder cries out from the sky above while a dance of lightning begins to illuminate the rain darkened streets. The scent of salt is in the rain, hinting of the sea and the fury of the weather called off her waves.

Kalypso's gaze flickers quickly to Atalanta, and then to the pair. This is no place for Deas to hang about, and so she begins movement towards the gates of her house. The winds, as they are, make progress slow when one has wings, every step a battle to make, a victory when made.

Now oblivious to anyone in the area but Drusus and the storm that's taken hold of her senses, Oriane stares at the Emperor. Almost as if to herald his words, the air moves in a cycle around her, whipping the rain against columns and people horizontally rather than vertically. Panic starts to set into her dark eyes as the winds seem to howl in protest.

Wind lashes down through the arcadii, the graceful collections of columns that normally serve to open up the space inside the collection of buildings that is the living quarters. Now they funnel the wind, make it howl, and it slams into Drusus, knocking him against one of the stone columns that supports the compluvium. His wings are wrenched backwards, joints straining against the unnatural angle the wind seeks to give them. His arms wrap around the marble; he clings, unable to fight the vicious currents here when his power is turned outward towards the sky at large. A feather is torn free and races away, gone so quickly that its passing might seem to be an illusion. Then another goes.

Atalanta ain't movin'. It's bad enough that she's come so far, she, well, wants to watch what happens with Dru and Ori, of course, in the hopes that there will be something in the future that she can use against the darkling, not to mention, she's never been this close to magic working. She doesn't understand a damn thing, but it's still compelling, and of course, beyond the obvious magical sense, magical in a more figurative sense. She tucks her wings in so tight, they probably hurt.

Wincing with the onslaught of wind, Oriane cries out a sound lost to the storm as she sees Drusus tossed off balance. For those with the senses to see it, they can probably feel the lash of power that the darkling girl unleashes against the angry skies above. For a moment, it seems as if it might work, calming the winds and ceasing the violence of the thunder. But... Oriane's expression is wrong and the air feels... as if it were waiting.

Announcement: There's a sudden change in the storm and the rain seems to lessen its harsh assault. Thunder softens to a vague, distant-seeming rumble. Perhaps it's over? Or perhaps it's simply a lull...

If Kaly hadn't been off to the side, if she hadn't a hand on the gates, perhaps she, too, would be flung across the courtyard. But as it is, she is pitched closer to the gate, her hands taking grip as she holds on. So much for crossing the small garden outside the main doors of Tritonis to get into the main plaza, sheltered from the winds coming from her darkling cousin.

Drusus staggers the other way, his physical strength fighting a force that's suddenly no longer there. "No," he says. "Stop," he says. His own magical power lashes out into the waiting lull of Oriane's storm, like a needle lancing an eye.

Atalanta had been trying to get as little space between her and the ground, without crawling, until she looked up an in opportune moment. It's slight, but that's all the advantage needed at the sudden gust, despite her 'grip' on her wings, perhaps it is something instinctual, the wings start to unfurl as if to act as a balance, except they aren't strong enough. With them acting as a sail, she's thrown against the nearest hard surface, one of the doorways to the another House. The scream of pain is torn from her mouth, gone on the wind with many of her feathers, and she drops face first to the ground.

And like something pulled too taught, the storm breaks into full fury as Oriane's strength strains and then breaks under the effort of trying to hold it all back. Dark eyes go glassy as she cries out into the gale suddenly sweeping through the Palladium and Haven with renewed, bitterly angry vigor. Wings as dark as the sky has become arch out behind her to catch the wind and pull her across the grass to her knees. Perhaps the storm has claimed its first and primary victim.

Announcement: Just as the storm seemed sure to have lost its power, it resurges with a new, even angrier power. Rain lashes at shutters hastily pulled shut and wind batters against both weak and strong. The thunder proves that it was only hiding and lightning dances in the sky with wicked glee.

Drusus is knocked back into the column. The impact numbs one of his arms but he holds on with the other. Already tortured wings are buffeted anew, more feathers yanked free. A trail of blood starts from one spot on his right wing. There is no fear in his expression, though, just a cold and terrible intensity. He stares at nothing and everything. Another trickle of blood starts from his nose. The gale howls and tears at him as it tears at Oriane and Atalanta, but he pays it no heed. He has been caught up in the larger battle. A bolt of lightning strikes in the garden, shattering a bronze statue and the tall columnar pedestal that had held it up into the sky as an offering to Jove. The scene is frozen in a blast of light, the bolt's core impossibly whiter than the whitest white. Then there is darkness and chaos and the stinging smell of ozone.

Drusus' right wing snaps clean, the elbow joint breaking against itself. The wind wrenches the now largely unsupported limb at an angle entirely, terribly wrong. The pain lances through him so fiercely that he can only choke. But in some awful way it brings a sharp clarity to him, a control he could not find earlier. That is the key: pain is the key. He rides it, and thusly rides his power.

But he is still not as powerful as Oriane.

And tossed again is Kalypso into the gates she clings to for support, her arms gripping tighter to the iron bars as feathers are ripped from her wings, very close are her wings from being stripped from her. Her toga, delicate as it is, is steadily shredded by the winds -- her eyes now filled with an awful terror as she tries to see through the winds. She knows her cousin is still alive, because of the power of the winds, but the screams that she hears and cannot place... And then another wind hits her like a brick wall, sending the gate free, and sending small Kaly flying backwards to the main doors of the Tritonis House. As she slams into them, a peaceful blackness comes over her like a curtain, before she crumples to the ground like an abandoned child's toy.

Atalanta is being casually deplumed by an uncaring wind, there's probably a mini cyclone of feathers being chased around the living quarters, a mixture of black and white. That was quite possibly the worst pain she's ever felt in her life, it takes moments to lift herself to her hands and knees. Walking is an impossibility, and she, too, like the Emperor, has a broken wing, which would only be made worse flopped about willy nilly. It's to her credit that she thinks to crawl towards Kaly. Leave the two wind 'mages' to work on this, she has to make sure that Kaly's all right.

It's the gift of a wind mage to call the skies and bid them do what they wish. Taking that gift and ripping it inside out, the storm that has fully descended on Haven now controls Oriane. Pulling at the girl's strength and affinity, it uses her to build itself into a monster that will destroy all within its path. People, buildings, streets, it all does not matter. All that matters is that it is destroyed. And what of the originator of all this? Barely conscious, Oriane is a ball of black feathers in the center of the courtyard, desperately struggling to find a shred of control somewhere deep within herself.

Meanwhile, some leagues to the north of Haven: Well, another crappy day in Paradise. Kiera finally began to gather her wits about her, after a near-miss on killing herself, when after a long day of solitude (against the sage advice of the Sachem Many Shadows), Kiera retreated to a distant no-where, to recuperate. One quiet day. One day with little rain, for the rain didn't penetrate the canopy of the forest where Kiera hid, the forest that, unlike her home, still has leaves on the limbs and limbs on the trees and soil on the earth and... Well, in this environment, this haven without of Haven, Kiera tried to come to peace with her magic again, with what her magic had so recently wrought. She cleaned her feathers (this task lessened by her having lost quite a few to that storm of her own making) and patched her garb, finger-work always lending the mind something other to chase. And then she slept. And then she woke and hey-la, all hell's breaking loose on Aether, again.

Groggy from being pulled from sleep by insistent winds clamoring in the trees, by distant pulses in magic like sing-song nerve-twangs across her body, Kiera takes a long moment to determine that this isn't her fault. It's not. Then... Whose fault it is? That the storm is magic, Kiera is sure. Dawn? Who else--? Terror seizes the halfbreed and Many Shadows' words are remembered: Go to Haven. See about the safety of your mate and your father (her words, not Kiera's). In the instant born by fear, Kiera inadvertently tests her own magic. Perhaps that so much is being sucked by another, going out of control not so far away, perhaps that Kiera's not coming out of the moon stage she had when she lost control, but she proves to herself in that instant that she can, again, wield the air-magic without it's destroying her. A bit, anyway. Enough that Kiera launched from flat-feet into the air, that she helped propel herself to Haven.

"No." The word is grunted out through teeth clenched tightly against the agony of his wing; the wind makes it wave like a flag and each motion grinds splintered, cracked bone against bone. It feels like someone has jammed a dull, red-hot spoon into his wing and is now grinding the joint into a paste. But the pain makes Drusus aware of everything -- everything -- the wind, the storm, and the magic that is bound up throughout everything.

It's like two nets fighting to catch the same school of fish. One is stronger than the other and waves wildly out of control. Drusus knows he's getting nowhere. And he feels himself weakening. "No."

Suddenly he abandons the fight above. The storm is not of his concern: he can't control it or even blunt it and he knows it. If he continues he'll lose himself as well. What did his father teach him? To focus on things he can control.

Oriane. He looks at her. It's easier to focus on the air immediately around her, much easier than trying to address the vast expanse of sky that covers Haven. The wind still yanks at him, it still lashes Kalypso and Atalanta, but there is a sudden and eerie calm around Oriane. A bubble of perfectly calm air.

The bubble's edges are fraying as Drusus clings to consciousness, against the pain that provides him an essential means of focus but which is building so quickly that it will soon overwhelm him.

Atalanta makes her way towards where last she saw Kaly, the approximate area that the Dea landed. She squirms like a worm, inching her way across the ground. This is worse than the pointless exercises that she was put through by the Velites. In the long run, might be better for the muscles to worked, but she's not going to be offering as a suggestion. She has limits. Even though she can't be sure of a response, every so often she calls out, "Dea? Dea?" The sound doesn't travel even a few inches beyond her, but it's some small comfort, strangely.

Announcement: Howling wind, furious and fast lightning, it all seems intent to continue and build up enough fury to destroy every bit of Haven. Several smaller buildings in Bordertown have already collapsed while even sturdier buildings hear their roofs creak. Everywhere is a strain but for the relative calm of the Rialto and Delphi... Perhaps the Citadel is saving its own?

No response comes from prostrate form of the young matriarch of Tritonis, crumpled as she is against the ground and the door. The winds no longer cause her pain -- but her arm is bent at a most curious angle.

Somewhere above: Winds back her, flushing against Kiera to push her toward Haven, against that which comes to fling her away. Kiera's own wings become, to a great extent, inconsequential. And the magic comes too easy, so that Kiera falls into the trap of fighting the other winds with her own. But, as she nears the towering thundercaps, feels the electricity in the air, as her own manifested breezes only seem to feed these, Kiera shifts tactics. Her winds stop and she depends, for a moment, on her wings to catch her and balance as she flings out her consciousness to the storm, to the web-threads it rides on, to catch some of those and to mentally snap them. Break them. One, then two more dear feathers are taken from Kiera's wings. She corrects. Breathes. Loses herself again in awareness and finding those threads. In stopping that fearsome lightning and its herald, thunder. More threads snap. Kiera seeks to find the base of the power, to dam the source, and in doing this, she works through the storm -- thinning. Physically, she's lost track of forward progress or backwards. She only stays in the air.

Huddled in on herself as the storm claims her with the hunger of a starving lion, Oriane shudders and trembles with only the faintest awareness of what these winds of her making are doing to the people she would give her very life to protect. It's that minute awareness, though, that comes to the fore when suddenly the air becomes calm around her. It's a small respite and does not lessen the taking that the storm has put upon her, but it is enough. Crying out with a strangled, bird-like shriek, she reaches out with her affinity, desperately seeking to banish this beast of a storm. If it were not for the fact that another, with more power and strength, was working for the same purpose, it would surely fail again. But somehow... the wind howls angrily with desperation as it begins to be torn apart into nothingness.

If she were any stronger, the wind would take on palpable shape -- it would spear Drusus against the column, literally pinning him with a bolt of hardened air. Thank Jove she is not that strong. What is wrong with this magic? He's not aware of Kiera's work; all of his attention is focused on keeping Oriane within that bubble of calm. He doesn't even pay attention to his wings: he should be angling them against the wind so that they do not fill, like sails. He is yanked backwards again but the column arrests him hard enough to knock his breath from him. This he doesn't need.

Blood splatters all across the base of the column and is drawn out in long, elegant lines away from him on the floor. He gasps and the wind returns to tear at Oriane. Then he has his control again. He stops fighting and is held flush against the column by the savage gale. He closes his eyes -- his vision was going black around the edges anyway.

Keep.

Bubble.

Oriane.

Safe.

Somewhere above: And so Kiera searches. Celeste is located, but not as Celeste -- as a wash of Non-Storm in the center of the city. Kiera's more rational aspect has already determined that Dawn does not flavor this storm. The source is another Empyrean, or a halfbreed. Electricity crackles around Kiera, then dims, then is banished with a surge of her own power. The noise gone, the pyrotechnics defeated, Kiera has only to deal with the snapping winds and foul rain that soak her feathers. She will have to land soon, quickly; physical endurance does not match her mental endurance, and her mental endurance is most taxed. The halfbreed banks, thinks, heads toward the Palladium and finds that yes, the source of this power is there. So there she flies.

Atalanta nearly crumples many times to pain, except, she's already on the ground, so there's not much crumbling to be done. And despite her strategy to stay low, occasionally a good gust of wind, hits the broken one in just the right spot that the comforting dark that Kaly now rests in and the Emperor flirts with decides that two's company, three's a party and seeks to add to it. Who knew that a few feet could seem like miles and it would take her hours to find Kaly? Are we there yet?

Despite the storm, the Palladium is not unprotected. There are guardians, though they be hunkered in niches and other shelters against the wind. Drusus' Schola are still arrayed about the compluvium of the living quarters, wings plastered flat against the roof let the wind get under them and lift them free, hanging onto the edge with one arm and clutching their pila with the other. It is hard work just to stay still. But there they are.

Barely retaining consciousness herself, Oriane sobs with exhaustion and fear but clings to the oddly feral sense of order that has begun to assert itself in the skies. The beast is beaten but still fights to claim her for its own, so she must struggle with her own strength to calm the winds and rain that still whips ferociously through the Palladium and city beyond. Painfully slowly, the wind begins to falter and fade ever so slightly. In the moment where she feels as if she is going to collapse, Oriane sees Drusus... and the blood... so stark against the marble. Crawling forward towards him, she fights the remaining wind, "Drusus..."

He does not see Oriane's approach, but he is aware of it. He feels her moving through the air, and struggles to keep the calm air centered on her. It's fading. He's fading. She makes it easier by crawling into the lee of a column. He almost passes out as the terrible effort is relieved for a moment. Then the wind shifts. He's almost done.

Atalanta acquires a set of bumps and bruises that will rival the best of those brought by 'training.' It's gonna be hard to look lady like with them, but she's fairly certain that Kaly and her new teacher will just have to forgive her. Finally she reaches something that doesn't have the consistency of metal or marble. It's Kaly. In a rather inelegant move (so often the way that Ata does anything) , she collapses on the woman, if nothing else, the debris will hit Ata first.

As if she is but another heavy object thrown from the sky -- another piece of roof, another flapping canvas tent-cover, another hunk of ripped lumber, Kiera falls toward the ground, toward the inner courtyard, from the mass of storm still roiling above. Only just before she lands, Kiera buffers that landing -- her wet wings cannot be totally trusted anymore. The halfbreed lands in a crouch, wings curling in with feeble exhaustion, that darkness that is those wings, her skin, her hair, her eyes now even sleeker, darker, with the water. Those overlarge eyes fix upon Oriane, upon black wings. As if the contact with earth through fingers and feet seems to ground Kiera's magic as well as her body, she lets forth one more blasting pull of control, to sear Oriane's magic from around her, to disconnect her from the storm and the storm from existence.

The small body crumpled at the door of her house is still touched by the winds, feathers torn from her and being spirited away by breezes that are still cruel. Kaly's arm above her is twisted unnaturally, perhaps wings twisted beneath her in the same fashion, though now impossible to tell under the form that is her cousin. A thin trickle of blood comes from her temple, leaving a small pool of blood beneath her on the ground.

Announcement: As if a final battle raged within the storm itself, it dissipates as quickly as it appeared. Thunder and lightning fade into nothingness and then the wind dies down to insubstantial gusts that leave the rain to fall in the natural patterns it began with.

Upon reaching Drusus' side, Oriane nearly collapses herself. Held so tightly against the winds that still sought to claim her, the absence is enough to make her world crumble. One possessive hand reaches out to the Emperor, pleading silently with him to be all right. Dark, glassy and nearly vacant eyes look into the darkness towards the only winged figure standing out in the open.

There is a desperate intensity to the air around Oriane, like some beast holding its breath. It's Drusus' power and awareness both, just waiting. He knows Kiera is there. He senses what she is doing. But if the halfbreed tries to harm Oriane to stop her, he will do his best to kill Kiera. Neveryoumind that he can't even move, pinned to the column as he is. Neveryoumind that his right wing flaps brokenly against the column with every gust of wind and leaves a widening red stream as it does so. Neveryoumind that he can't see and that his consciousness is fading. He won't be able to protect Oriane soon, but his powerful will does not recognize this fact yet. Suddenly there is no wind at all and he falls heavily to the ground.

The rain is cast up in shimmering auras of grey as the Schola suddenly bate their wings with surprised anxiety, surveying the area now that they finally have the chance. And oh look, there's a demon in their midst, menacing the Tritonides domina and their Emperor. Kiera finds herself surrounded within a nest of sharp pila -- some bent by the sheer force of the winds, but the soldiers manage to orient them with the business end in Kiera's direction. Their eyes are cold: they know she can kill them. They don't care.

The wind has stopped. What? I said the wind has stopped! Eh? She lifts her head up and peers around, might have known, it's another darkie. Hope they shoot her. Hope they shoot both of them, but it's not likely. Atalanta rolls away from Kaly, gasping as she puts pressure on her bad wing. A few moments are taken to regain some semblance of composure, remembering how to breath, that sort of thing, before seeing to Kaly. She can't be faulted for that, I mean, what if she was in the middle of seeing to the Dea and collapsed, not good.

Only slowly, Kiera's regard slips off Oriane to the man Oriane focuses on. Recognition does not spark in the woman's gaze. Kiera, in fact, is blank of feature and her wings tremble. They don't just tremble, they are subject to visible tremors of adrenaline and, as that fades with the storm, replaced by utter exhaustion and that terrible dull aching pain that comes from misuse, overuse. Once, Kiera exhales, then she blinks and rises, slowly. At this point, perhaps, she notices the soldiers and Kiera's eyes hood to dangerous slits. "If you harm me," she speaks, sotto voice, "Khalid will eat you." In the best if circumstances, Kiera finds social mores a strain. Now, she simply cannot conceive of much beyond simple physical existence. And likely the Empyreans will be deafened to her words, having endured that voracious storm.

Hovering almost protectively over the broken man beside her, Oriane stares at Kiera with wide, dark eyes. She knows who Kiera is -- most Empyreans do, even the ones that aren't Khalid's step-children -- but this is the first time she had seen the woman up close. Swallowing, her breath catches and she jumps to the next conclusion and voices it with a hoarse, barely audible whisper, "You stopped it..." There is a touch of awe and fear in her features as black wings flutter behind her and ebony feathers molt free to the puddles still dancing with light raindrops.

The Schola couldn't care less. So what if Khalid ate them? Four Schola for her death wouldn't be so bad. They step forward as if one man but-- "Stop." Drusus' voice is a terrible parody of his normal baritone, a raspy, burbling croak. The Schola stop. Drusus' lips are pale red from the blood from his nose, diluted by the rain. "You." Is he addressing Kiera? "Get... out." If there are to be thanks at all, it will have to be later. He shudders. "Oriane." His voice is fading. "...Oriane..." He's trying to ask her whether she's all right. The words aren't coming out, his ability to speak as broken as his wing. Gods. What a time to pass out. Can't pass out. How many others are hurt?

At least she breathes, still, does Kalypso. Though still she sleeps, the pool beneath her head growing larger with every passing minute. The rain that falls manages to stick the rest of her feathers to her wings, and washes some of the dirt from the side of her face that is visible. Who knows what the other looks like, knowing the force with which she slammed against the sturdy doors to Tritonis.

Atalanta hisses urgently, "Dea! Dea!" Shaking, Kaly's arm for a moment, to judge response, then dredging up the very basics of when she cared for the soldiers that were lodged in the Tritonis plaza after the war. Bleeding, by and large, is bad, but wet, exhausted, and weak, she can't even tear off what little remains of her own or Kaly's clothing, she settles for shouting. Loudly. Shouting for Kaly's complement of Golden Boy Guards, "Valerius!" My that's suddenly loud without having to fight the wind, and hoarse.

A flare of hate, of energy, of passion rises within Kiera at Drusus' words. At the soldier's actions. At Oriane's fear. This, in her eyes, is turned onto the Emperor and the dark-winged woman, for a moment, then brushed over the armed men who would have her blood, then finally the remaining shreds of Empyreans who slowly come back to life around the courtyard. This fury surges, courses through Kiera and it, likely, is the only reason she is able to remain upright -- is able to turn and negotiate a path from this place. The soldiers -- any with martial experience, or athletes -- will recognize immediately (as Kiera knows too well) that the halfbreed teeters just on exhaustion, that she could not defend herself now, at all. Though -- the magic is always a wildcard, but -- is it telling that Kiera walks out of the Palladium, instead of taking to the air like some hovering dark vision?

More cries rise up in to the air. Two Schola follow Kiera, a cold and angry escort. Their Emperor forbids them from killing her? And now when they can see that she is weak? Now is the time to strike! Frustration makes them hound her out of the Palladium closely. Other regular guards approach in response to the cries, to strike at Kiera, and they are bitterly called off by the battered guardians in bronze and scarlet. Arguments may ensue, but Kiera is not harmed. They simply determine that she is out of the Palladium as soon as possible, and they give every indication that they'll scour the path she took with salt to scrub away the taint.

Frozen for an instant as Kiera turns and strides from the Palladium, Oriane opens her mouth to call something after the half-breed, but finds the words missing from her voice. Instead, a weak, pleading voice beside her pulls her attention to Drusus. Eyes widen with a renewed fear and she reaches out to trembling touch his face and then take his hands, "I'm here... Oh Drusus, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Please... Please..." Please do not be as hurt as you appear. Suddenly she calls out desperately in her weak voice, "A healer! Send for a healer!"

It is not the fair Valerius who responds first, but Dove and a bevy of his household staff. Perhaps they have been watching at the windows, perhaps they have been attempting to pick up statues and benches as they were knocked over by winds -- to hold the doors shut so that they, too, wouldn't be flung open. Valerius and the other guards reply not soon after the servants, quickly taking stock as the servants rush forth with towels and bowls and whatever else they've managed to collect in just a few minutes. The blood from the Emperor is easily visible, the Domina at his side battered and torn as well, and in just as much need of help. The Guards pay no attention to the departing halfbreed, already Pitocles is on the move, responding to Oriane's words as his wings unfurl, sending him towards the sky -- his wings strong and fast.

"Healers," Drusus whispers. His fingers twitch, curling around Oriane's. "Check. Pall--" he can't finish. "Others." He's trying to swim through molasses. He swallows against the nausea as he becomes aware of the condition of his wing. But she is all right. It will be all right. He's suffered worse. Vaguely he remembers things. Like Kalypso, standing near Oriane. Where is she? There was another, someone he didn't recognize. Or was there? Oh, gods, how many others were caught outside or in the inadequate shelter of gardens and open atria? He opens his mouth to say something and find he lacks the strength. A kind of lethargy settles over him. He's actually warm.

Atalanta drags herself somewhere out of the way, holding her own wing in the least painful possible way. Her eyes closes slowly. Oh lovely darkness, here I am. I'm just late to the party, that's all. Here I am.

Valerius kneels next, at the side of Kalypso, his cerulean gaze locked on Atalanta for a moment, before he bends forth over Kalypso. His fingers touch the pool of blood beneath her head, before rubbing together as he sits back. He has seen injury before, and he is not a stupid man, contrary to popular belief. His voice is a soft rumble, and not at all hoarse. "Do no move her, nor yourself, domina." He stands, wiping the blood onto his toga, as his gaze scans across the Courtyard, easily finding Oriane and Drusus. But he does not approach, staying by Kalypso.

It is likely only the fact that he is hurt that Oriane is still conscious. Barely clinging to her faculties, the girl bites back a sob as she clings to the Emperor's hand, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." It is also likely that if she was not quite as exhausted as she was, the winds would be resuming. As it is, for once in her life, the winds are absolutely still around her.

Shhhh, love, Drusus thinks. You couldn't help it.

Atalanta may have mumbled something agreeable at that command, and she's just too weak to say 'You're not the boss of me.' But the likelihood of her going anywhere is probably greater than ever giving Ori a great big old hug and meaning it as an expression of love and not a half-assed assassination attempt. The welcoming dark place is throwing too much of a good party for her to want to leave.

The Palladium is a disaster. Statues have been upturned, plants uprooted, gates pulled free from their hinges. The inner courtyard also seems to have its share of human casualties. Near the Tritonides House, Kalypso appears unconscious while Atalanta fairs little better. A bit further away, Emperor Drusus is prone with a puddle of blood nearby and a very exhausted darkling at his side, clinging to his hand. Oriane is almost sobbing as she mumbles softly, over and over again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Quite a scene here. Valerius -- one of the House Tritonis Golden Boys -- kneels by Atalanta and Kalypso. The latter is unconscious and there is a growing pool of blood around her temple where it rests on the ground. Both women look as if some baleful child had wrenched great double-handsful of feathers from their wings; Atalanta's wing looks broken and Kalypso looks as if she has also lost structural integrity in several limbs.

Against another column, Drusus and Oriane do not fare much better. Their wings, too, have been stripped of large numbers of feathers; blood trickles down from Drusus' right wing, both from where a bloodfeather was ripped away from him and from the badly broken elbow joint. The latter was broken clean and the wing is folded against itself in an entirely wrong reverse fashion. He has blood -- diluted by the storm -- all over his lower face and appears to be on the edge of consciousness. His thoughts become incoherent, wandering -- he sees faces from his memory, soldiers of battles past around him. His head lolls. Leto? Where have you been? I heard there was a problem on patrol...

There are other wounded people -- people caught outdoors in the sudden freak storm and slammed into walls, columns, statues, or tossed from the skies by the howling winds.

One of the statues in the garden -- a bronze statue of an Empyrean held aloft on a tall pillar -- has been reduced to slag. The stone pillar itself is half-crumbled and burnt.

Two Schola keep careful watch over their hurt Emperor, their pila at hand.

The two Outcasts are followed by four Empyrean guards -- not Schola, but the normal Empyrean variety. They, too, are armed with the tall, elegant pila, and they watch the two outsiders with intense interest.

It goes without saying that recent events have attracted some interest. Now that things have calmed, a number of Empyreans begin to appear, surveying the damage in a shocked silence broken only by quiet weeping or murmured prayers to the gods. Vertinius strides out from the grounds of House Acesius, his features even colder than usual as he pauses to kneel beside the crumpled form of an unfortunate victim. After briefly pressing his fingers to the woman's throat, he lifts his head to gaze out at the rest of the courtyard. A moment later, he is on his feet and moving in the direction of Drusus and Oriane, the repeated flexing of his silvery wings the only sign of his anxiety.

Valerius kneels down once again by Kalypso. She's still breathing, just sleeping soundly by now, though the arm definitely doesn't look very comfortable. All-in-all, she's not as bad as some of the others, but then again -- her wings are beneath her, and who knows in what fashion. He grunts softly, before stepping over Kalypso, and kneeling for a brief moment beside Atalanta. "Your wing - you will need a healer, domina."

Atalanta flutters her eyelashes in a manner that she can only do when not conscious of it. The open to reveal bright shiny blue eyes, it seems that the adrenaline and natural pain killers are starting to wear off and it hurts. A lot. This is the first time she's broken her wing. A half sob, "It hurts, Valerius." Apparently, being in pain, excuses the lack of titles. She does manage, "The Dea?"

Having been the center of the storm, Oriane is actually relatively unharmed. Wings have been stripped of precious feathers in many places, but no bones are broken. The largest danger for the darkling is that she is on the verge of collapsing from pure exhaustion. Both her hands remain on the Emperor's slack one while her shoulders and wings shake from the sobs that follow each repeated apology in her hoarse whisper.

Cynara enters the courtyard with Wyrdrune in tow, barely seeming to notice him. There is a look of worry and determination upon her face as she races toward the living quarters. She glares at any who try to block her path. The scene she comes upon stops her short, however and she blinks wide eyes. "Oh gods..." she whispers and calls to the guards following her, "Find FallingStar! Medea, any of the healers! Quick!" It is a command, and she expects it to be obeyed regardless of who it is she speaks to. Moving quickly, her damp white wings folded behind her, Cynara moves first to Drusus, holding out a hand to touch his face. It does not seem that she is all that concerned with the fact that she is a branded healer approaching the Emperor so boldly in the middle of the Palladium. "Drusus?"

Moving as if within a dream, Jana's eyes are wide with shock as she passes through the archway. No longer quite so self-conscious, as she had been when first upon arriving, she comes to a standstill. Mouth hanging slightly agape, she looks from face to face, disbelieving the destruction that has befallen upon these people. She herself was only soaked from head to toe, dripping water and leaving a trail of it behind her. Eventually, the stupor begins to fade from her mind, and only hearing Cynara's words -- the simple command breaks her out of her trance completely -- she turns to race madly for the streets.

The Schola know Kiera. They don't know Cynara. They step forward and snap their pila down, the spear's points oriented towards the woman's chest. "Are you a healer?" One demands. They watch her, warily, distrustfully.

A lift in the broad shoulders of Valerius, his gaze moving back to where Kaly lies crumpled on the ground. She is not disturbed, afraid is he to break anything worse than what it might be. For that reason, he does not know, but he does his best to placate Atalanta. "She's sleeping, for now." Sleeping/unconscious -- it's all semantics. He holds a strong hand in front of him, making a strong fist. "Make your hand a ball, like this, and squeeze as tight as you can. It will help the pain." Or make you think that it helps the pain. His head lifts again, towards the small commotion by the Emperor and Oriane. His eyes narrow a fraction -- it's that trollop from the Siren's Song.

Drusus' lips move but he doesn't appear to be saying anything coherently. Anyone who can read lips would see something like this: "Looks like I took a worse spill than you for once, Leto, d'you think they'll give me free wine at the inn?" Even the pain doesn't really bother him anymore. He's so tired. He just wants to sleep. He remembers this feeling. Where have I...?

Blood continues to flow out of the bloodfeather's pore. Like Kaly's head, though not quite as bad. Ori? Lyta--

Jana leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky above Haven.

Vertinius reaches the Schola at almost the same moment as Cynara, breath hissing between his teeth in frustration. Sparing a glance for the branded healer, he then tries to see around those who stand between himself and Drusus, even taking a small half-step closer to the wounded man. Precisely what motivates his interest is uncertain, for there is no concern evident in his features, no worry in those cool eyes. Though his wings lift and flex again and again, unconsciously.

Wyrdrune stalks his way in after Cynara, arms swinging at his sides with the rapid pace. As she changes directions and heads for the Emperor, he stops, eyes narrowing at the Schola as their pila snap down before her chest. A growl builds but he knows better and holds it down for now, staying silent. Cynara is the healer and this is her show, he's only along for protection. Somehow, he's managed to leave his entourage of animals behind. Then again, not all of them like the rain as much as Wyrd does.

The eyes of one of the Schola men leave Cynara and settle on Vertinius. Another person not recognized. The tip of his pilum shifts ever so slightly, taking on a new orientation.

It takes some time for the presence of others to filter into the haze of Oriane's mind. Still breathing out apologies between sobs, she lifts her head to stare blankly at Vertinius and then at Cynara. Recognition and fear rise in her pale face as she realizes who the branded healer is, "Drusus..."

There is no answer to the darkling's plea. Darkness has pulled the Emperor down in its black velvet fingers.

Cynara's golden head snaps up and angry blue eyes glare at the Schola, "I am." she snaps, "Now get those away from me so that I can again save your Emperor's life!" Turning her hard stare on the hated little darkling who holds Drusus's arm, the apologies are noted with a sinister shake of her head. A whisper is sent in Oriane's direction on the sound of a hiss, but it is low enough to most likely not be over heard by any other than Oriane herself. "Leave me alone and let me concentrate!" she snaps again at the guards.

Atalanta tries to squeeze her hand. So very hard, but she's so very weak. She does seem placated by the fact of Kaly's er, 'sleep'.

There is a moment of hesitation as the guard holding off Cynara weighs two important facts: a) the Emperor is bleeding to death b) Cynara is branded and he does not know who she is. He makes his decision and steps back, letting Cynara approach the downed Jovian. But he watches her with rapt attention. He'll run her through if he sees any monkey business.

Or if Drusus dies.

Valerius nods once more, a motion bringing the fair Dove forth. The grey-toned man, Dove, kneels down by the side of Atalanta as Valerius rises, another glance at Kalypso to ensure she's still the same before he moves across the Courtyard towards Oriane. More Oriane than Drusus, but the two are in the same place, so he accomplishes much the same.

Wyrdrune takes a step forward, closer to Cynara, and straightens, doing his 'dark henchman' duty. It would be advised that the Schola let her through so she can take care of business, but al he can do is puff up and look menacing. Puff up! Puff up! They hate that. Ahhhh. That's better. Run her through and he'll have to step in the way. Wouldn't THAT just ruin your day?

The gaze of Vertinius shifts slowly to the pilum now aimed at his chest, before rising just as slowly to study the man aiming it there. This is not a man who is accustomed to being balked. Nonetheless, he clearly decides that Drusus is not important enough to risk an injury. Or, perhaps worse, an indignity. Instead, he leans forward and around the Schola to ask in a cool voice, "Who did this?" Perhaps he can distract someone around the Emperor for a few moments. "Who lost their control?"

Flinching back from Cynara's words and brief gaze, Oriane turns her face away. Still, the dark-winged girl does not release the Emperor's hand. It's as if the pulse in his wrist and warmth of his fingers were all that keeps her anchored to consciousness.

Cynara nods as she is allowed to continue her work. "Wyrdrune, get blankets for those who are hurt, lift their heads and their feet, do not move them if they look to have broken backs, otherwise get them as comfortable as possible until I can see to them." She orders. Her fingertips reach out to Drusus, resting on his neck as her lips twitch upward. Her wings tremble. Nervousness? Anger? Who can tell with this one? Her teeth clench together as the smallest trickle of magic is brought forward in an agonizingly slow approach to healing using the fickle Aether. Though it is slower than normal, the blood does begin to slow and stop quickly enough.

Valerius sidesteps the Schola, still intent on reaching Oriane. He, unlike the others, receives no cold shoulder from the Emperor's guards, as he keeps away from the healer and her work. More likely ignoring the healer, and the work she does, although he is aware of it. His hand is gentle, a light touch placed on the shoulder of Oriane as he bends down. Support, if little else. And checking to make sure of her injuries.

Atalanta keeps trying to make that damned fist, the strength just isn't there. She raises her head to stare at Ori at the question of lost control. Her wing was broken. The Emperor injured, the Dea injured because she lost control. Always the darkling's fault. Yet another reason, in Ata's book, that her cousin needs to die. For once, she's prudent about it and keeps it to herself.

Vertinius is ignored, at least by the two Schola, who have their duty to attend to, and by Drusus, who is unconscious. He remains mercifully unconscious as Cynara does her work; he does not feel his body beginning to reknit. The wing will have to be set; the two ends of the broken joint are not even touching one another. His fingers are slack in Oriane's hand.

Wyrdrune nods once to Cynara and does as she says. Obedient little thing, isn't he? He casts a quick glance around and then almost lunges from a standstill to head towards a mongrel servant, cowering behind a column and watching silently. "You... I need blankets. As many as you can bring me." he tells the young mongrel woman. She blinks at him wide-eyed as he stares down at her. The words weren't snapped, nor were they loud, they simply... were. He stares down at her a moment more and she nods before turning to rush off for the requested items.

If she had more strength, Oriane would flinch from Valerius' touch upon her shoulder. Instead, she barely shifts her eyes from Drusus' face. The apologies have stopped, but the sobs continue in muffled, nearly silent agonized guilt. She knows that others have been hurt, and somewhere in the back of her mind she remembers seeing Kaly laying prone beneath the bronze gates of Tritonis, but she is barely clinging to consciousness as she watches Cynara heal Drusus.

Dove is ever kind, a gentle hand lightly patting the top of Atalanta's head. He's afraid to touch anywhere else, as bruised and battered as the woman is. He repeats Valerius' words, making a fist in front, though it is half the size of Valerius, and his words do not hold near the confidence of the golden guard. "Make the fist, domina. Ball your hand." That really couldn't work, could it?

Atalanta stares at Dove with those bright wide shiny blues, "I am trying, but I cannot. It hurts so. I'm so tired." She repeats, perhaps having forgotten that she asked Valerius, "The Dea?"

It does not take long for Jana to return, completely out of breath and nearly staggering with the exertion it took her to cross the distances. Behind her trail three Delphic Healers, as is evident from their white kaftans. Two Sylvans, one Atlantean. All three bear strain in their faces from long hours of work and the constant pressure of keeping their own magic from running wild. Perilous times. They were not surprised to hear of the damage done to the Palladium. As the Empyreal Oracle falls against a column, clinging to it for support while she attempts to regain her breath, two of the Healers fan out to attend to several fallen Nobles. The Atlantean approaches the first person he sees -- Kalypso.

Dove's voice is quiet, a glance over his shoulder at the Dea. "Still sleeping, domina Atalanta. Still sleeping." Valerius said she was sleeping, didn't he? Dove just repeats what he's told. Good at folding napkins -- yes. Good at judging life -- not necessarily. He pats the top of Atalanta's head again, very very softly. "Make the fist for the pain, domina."

With the blood slowing to a halt, Cynara shifts her position, kneeling at Drusus's side. Her jaw is tight as she growls at the man under her breath. "Big oaf! Always getting your wings all twisted! It's amazing you ever learned to fly at all," she tells him darkly. With gentle fingers, far too gentle to seem fitting on this callous woman, she moves the worst wing slowly, very slowly into a position where she can again use her magic to knit it together. It takes some time, but throughout her irritated mutterings at the Emperor, she does reset the wings and heal him enough to be sure that he will heal the rest of the way naturally, if she can not finish it off later. There are others who need her as well. When she is satisfied with the work she's done, she casts a glare at Oriane, and then stands on less than steady legs to look for the next worst off. "Take the Emperor someplace safe to rest," she orders his guards.

Vertinius's head jerks in frustration as he is ignored, and he turns his back on the Emperor and those clustered around him to survey the rest of the courtyard. Broad hands come to rest on his hips as his lips twist into a fierce scowl.

As if the guards would do anything less with the most vaunted personage in the Empyre. Shooting a glare at the branded healer, the Schola move forward to lift Drusus. One reaches down and gently dislodges Oriane's hands from the Emperor's, "Return to your quarters, Domina." Though he may not be too fond of darklings, she is one of the Emperor's advisors.

Hands separated from Drusus' Oriane's face is streaked with tears and exhaustion as she looks up at Cynara, "He will heal?"

The Atlantean Caducean kneels down beside Kalypso, his face one of intense concentration beneath the mop of coral pink hair that he sports. Webbed fingers reach out to touch the Dea's head, gently pushing back hair to examine the bleeding wound. His free hand then reaches down to her arm, and as carefully as possible, he sets it into a natural position. Then he falls still and silent, shutting out the world around him as he grapples with the magic.

Valerius stands behind Oriane, there for assistance when she needs it. And she will, by the look of her, need it.

The young mongrel woman returns at a rapid pace with three others in tow, all carrying a stack of blankets in their arms. Wyrdrune nods to them, having waited patiently with folded arms and a stern look, and then motions for them to follow as he moves towards Kalypso only moments after the Atlantean healer. Blankets are taken from servants and folded before being placed beneath the woman's head and feet. Raising the head will be good to keep the bleeding down, he knows this from tending to animals. He stands and glances to Cynara to check on her before moving to the next person.

Atalanta keeps trying to make that damn fist, stubborn as hell. Once, perhaps with the help of a muscle spasm, she manages to do it. She shows it off to Dove, "I did it. I did it. I did it. I did it." This is of great importance, apparently.

Pitocles arrives once again in the courtyard, now finding that his search for a healer was unsuccessful because they are already here. He grunts softly, moving back towards the doors of his house where Kalypso is. A few servants and another guard look over what that Healer's doing, craning their necks to make sure the Atlantean isn't hurting her. Which he's not.

Cynara waits for the men to move toward Drusus, and she turns her icy eyes upon the despised darkling. She nods once to the girl, disgust upon her face. "He will," she affirms with cold confidence. "Best run off to your plush little room now, Domina, lest you catch a cold while we see to the rest of the wounded." Accusation high in her eyes. Her stare remains on Oriane for a moment before she turns and heads in Kalypso's direction. Kneeling beside the Dea, she lends her own magic to the Atlantean caducean's, easing the flow of blood to a stop.

A vague nod from the Atlantean Healer goes to Wyrdrune, a faint noise in the back of his throat meant to pass as thanks. Help, any help, is definitely appreciated at this moment. Another nod to Cynara. He apparently hasn't seen the branded mark upon her forehead. "Broken arm," he mutters. "Ribs and face, mostly." More words follow this, but they are little more than a string of incoherent sounds. They cease as his concentration deepens, and his magic, aided by Cynara's, begins to mend the broken arm and cracked ribs.

Responding to Cynara's back, Oriane sobs once more, then crumples into Valerius' waiting arms. The darkling girl is out cold with slack features and an odd stillness about her. Guilt will be dealt with when consciousness wakes her at a later hour.

FIN  

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