Date: August 6, 1999
Place: Courtyard, First Floor, Library - Delphic Citadel - Haven
Cast: Aine, Cassandra, Emilee, Ranjeet, Spirit-Whisperer
Scene: Ranjeet, troubled by strange, elusive dreams each night, journeys to the Delphic Citadel to seek out someone who might be able to explain the dreams, and provide an answer in his search for the truth.

Aine taps Emilee's leg lightly, "Never regaining your control should scare you more, Emilee."

Emilee blushes faintly and nods, "It does... I..I almost wish I did not have it."

A novice in Healer white approaches the Varati and half-bows, "How can Delphi serve you today, imphadi?"

Aine cocks her head to one side, her expression that of sympathy, "I can understand that, now. But when you bring it back in your own control again, then you will see the beauty of it." She holds out her hand. "Give me the stone."

Entering the courtyard, dark cape sweeping behind the figure dressed in somber black, Ranjeet's gaze scours the area with a dark glare. Black boots clatter upon the stone as he draws further in, hair free and swirling lightly in the breeze of his passage till he towers by the Healer. His gaze fixes upon the novice. "I must speak with the Oneiromancer, Cassandra. Where may she be found?" Despite his dangerous appearance, the Varati's voice is low and cultured. But the aether about his head seems to fairly crackle with tension and his glint in his eyes has a feral edge to it.

The Caducean considers carefully and then replies in a piping voice, "I can see if she will receive you, sir. Is there a name I should give her?"

Emilee quietly pulls the pouch out. As she opens it her eyes flicker to gaze at the man while he speaks, then fall to her lap as she withdraws the perfectly rounded stone. She slowly offers this to Aine.

There is a soft sound, perhaps an oath, impatience clearly showing upon his features, but again, the voice is calm and authoritative as he announces, "You may tell her that Seshmew Ranjeet al'Samar is here to meet with her on business of the utmost urgency." The tone is firm, indicating that should she choose not to receive him, he will know exactly whom to direct his anger toward.

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

The Caducean bows again, "I'll go right away, sir." And she bounds off as if to run up within the Tower on this errand... only to nearly careen off the descending form of Cassandra herself.

Aine plucks the stone from Emilee's fingers without even a glance towards the other goings-on in the courtyard. "I chose this for its lack of impressions. It should be a peaceful thing to practice upon." In her grasp, the stone changes, stretching easily from the form of a sphere, to the angular shape of a cube and from there to pyramid and cone in quick succession.

Dark eyes follow her obedient steps, only to round upon the woman in question as well. For those with the eyes to see it, the aether about him arches and buckles, like the air above a fire. Seeking tendrils in his aura dart into the air, testing and tasting with constant vigilance. His steps carry him past the practicing Shapers, his eyes flickering down for a moment before returning up. It would seem he has little interest in defiling Delphi... at least at this moment. Ranjeet stops before the halfbreed, and in a surprising gesture, he bows deeply, cape swaying back and forward again with the regal gesture of respect. "Namaste' .... Lady, I would speak with you if you would do me the honor of receiving me?"

The young Novice stammers, "M-m-m-agus.. this man wanted to.." She trails off as the Varati manages to introduce himself.

Emilee's attention is captured completely by this display, her jaw drops as she literally gapes at the dance the young woman is leading the stone trough. Her hands begin to wring again in her lap as she murmurs, "I... have to do... that?"

A shadow languishing within the entrance, Cassandra emerges in the entrance of the Tower and roots there for a tentative study of the length of the courtyard. Lashes descending in a startled blink, the halfbreed drags her feet in a shuffle that takes her out of the way of the doorway for the Caducean. Her ample sleeve given a hearty tug, a small, fisted hand emerges from the edge of the hem to open and gesture towards the entranceway. Between the distraction of this, and the approach of the Varati, fickle attentions are easily absorbed until there is nothing left to give. "Speak," the roughened voice whispers amidst threadbare startlement. Enough of her senses are finally granted to bow in some shadowed mirror of the greeting gesture, before the afterthought of a nod tilts towards the Novice. "Of course," she adds with a thickening distraction, poised hand gesturing towards the hedge maze and then the tower in question. A reply patiently waited for, her regard flitters over Emilee and Aine with eyes that do not quite see.

Aine smiles, "No. All you have to do is not do this.." And in her hand the stone collapses as if it were water, dribbling off the sides of her hand only to be caught in the other.

Stepping to one side with marked decorum, Ranjeet offers the somewhat enfeebled woman a strong arm to support her should she care to be escorted. "My thanks ... Magus," he replies, testing the taste of the foreign word curiously for a moment. The thick dark hair shifts over his shoulders as Ranjeet turns his head to study the frail woman, wondering if it is worth trusting what little seems to remain of her mind and consciousness.

Emilee's eyes watch the stone as it 'melts' in Aine's hands for a moment before nodding, "I... I think I can do that. It hurts though, in here." She lifts her hand and taps the side of her head lightly.

Fingertips of the pale webbed hand stretch forward, but rather than her arm looping around Ranjeet's proffered arm, the pads of her fingers tentatively poke at the black silk fabric of the man's tunic. "Soft," Cassandra praises thoughtfully, pinching a bit of the cloth between her fingers. "And shiny too." She demonstrates by tugging on the material just a bit to meet the moon's argent light. Satisfied with her cursory inspection, her arm finally loops around the Varati's with no further warning and she begins a sluggish traverse towards the Tower. Were there even a trace of Ranjeet's thoughts donned upon his expression, Cassandra shows no indication of glancing over his visage in anything but skimming sweeps.

The Caducean Novice swallows nervously and then backs away. Once a safe distance she quickly retreats to the far side of the courtyard.

Aine frowns. "Hurts? How?"

Spirit-Whisperer emerges from the grand set of double doors leading into the citadel.

There is a disturbed flicker that shifts over the Varati's features, a twisted mix of concern and disgust. But the tendrils of his aura lean, shifting their focus to the pathetic creature clinging to his arm. Course, for a Varati, his behavior and tolerance is perhaps astonishing. He allows the delicate half-breed to set the pace, walking slowly with her as they make their way carefully and haltingly toward the Tower. "Are you... well, Lady?" Proud features and eyes focus upon their destination, flickering every so often to touch upon those that draw close to their path, studying them carefully.

Emilee tilts her head a bit, struggling to find words for it, "When I try to... stop things from happening, I get... a really bad headache."

Ranjeet senses: Battles of old, dawns yet to light the skies... the past, present and future swim in a convoluted stream around Cassandra. Chaotic, loathing of quiet, visions dance about her form before blurring into milky substances that appear to become absorbed by her skin. At the crown of her milky white head is the most potent of visions, rumblings of random buildings within Haven, portions of the edifices crumbling to the ground. Last to be seen is the slender prominence of the white tower, splitting down the center and crumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust. With that, the visions pause in an eerie stillness before sliding out of her proximity completely. There is a moment of serenity, a faux calm over the true storm of expressions, before that is gone as well. All of this, seemingly unbeknownst to the woman.

Aine makes a little face and shakes her head, "We will have one of the Healers see you then, just to make sure. But for now, you will just have to continue to try. Hopefully in time the pain will go away."

From within the tower, another halfbreed walks out into the courtyard. Spirit-Whisperer, in his formal brown kaftan, steps through the double doors to meet a pair of well-groomed Hounds, one Empyrean and one Sylvan. Nodding to each with a slight smile, he adjusts the tied belt of his robe and starts off in the direction of the courtyard gates, the Hounds flanking him in escort.

Cassandra vanishes into the tower.

White Tower: First Floor - Delphic Citadel - Haven:
      Before you stretches the vast diameter of the tower interior. Above, rising for hundreds of spans, is the hollow vastness of the building. The delicate ribbons of a free-standing spiral staircase wrap around the circumference of the tower, until the highest levels fade from the perceptions of your eyesight, appearing only as thin strips of lace. There are very little furnishings here; however, the Spartan setting is offset by the muted mural that covers the walls -- walls which have no seams. The mural itself is a flowing spiral of life. The floor of the tower has been painted to represent the sun, with its vast rays snaking up the walls. Figures of animals and people, barely discernible against the grey stone, break free of the sun, stretching up towards the pinnacle of the tower. The higher the tower reaches, the darker the images become, so at the farthest distance, one may see the faint flickering of false stars.

The images, sensations, touch him, causing the frown upon his brow to deepen. As they enter, Ranjeet pauses, taking in the choices about them before asking, "Which way Magus ... somewhere comfortable for you to rest?"

Distance is covered in the short-legged and easy strides of the halfbreed for a brief stretch of silence, the library the apparent destination once the threshold is crossed. "I am well," Cassandra finally remarks slowly, some measure of startlement dancing in lightning flashes over her visage. Colorless lashes drooping in a suspicious squint, she queries a heartbeat later, "Are you feeling well, Imphada? My intended says that there is a plague spreading. Those are usually fatal." Finished on a solemn, matter-of-fact note. The door is tugged open roughly, before Cassandra murmurs, "We may sit in here, and rest, yes." With that, she delves into the shadowed doorway and beyond.

Cassandra steps through the arched doorway into the chamber beyond.

Library - Delphic Citadel - Haven:
      It is said that all learning originates at the Citadel, and that all recorded history may be found among the shelves of the Tower's great libraries. One of the smaller libraries in the compound, this room boasts a larger collection of tomes than many lords have seen in their lifetimes. The vast chamber is lined with shelves. Halfway up the wall a narrow walkway encircles the room, reachable by small sets of spiraling iron staircases spaced across the length of the chamber. From the walkway up, the great shelves continue until they very nearly reach the ceiling. The highest shelf of books is reachable only by long ladders, not for the faint of heart.
      Poorly lit, the room is shrouded in heavy shadows and has the smell of forgotten memories. What light is allowed is carefully attended lest a stray spark ignite the entire collection. Though the books are always under a watchful eye, many students come here to study and gather for meetings, as this is the most accessible and public of the many other rooms in Tower.

For a moment, Ranjeet pauses, drawing away fractionally so that he might study the mutated woman on his arm for a moment. "There is no illness in Atesh-Gah ... only in the Tent City outside of Haven, which my Shakir has seen fit to tend to. Even that seems to be only affecting Empyreans, lady." He leads her to the seats indicated, assisting her down and waiting till she is settled. But the Varati remains standing for the moment, peering down at her over the aristocratic length of his nose. "Your ... your intended? Are you to marry, Magus?"

"If they have not been affected by it yet, they will be. It is the nature of its course," Cassandra remarks breezily, returning the study through eyes that are nearly hooded until her regard is a shadowed curtain of white. With a creaking protest of her knee joints, the halfbreed carefully lowers herself into the chair and perches at its very edge. "Yes, Imphada, I am to marry eventually." The center of one brow quirks upward in a strained arching before smoothing back into a noncommittal line. "I have tried to talk him out of his intent -- he is full-blooded with a relatively prominent family -- but he does not appear to be dissuaded. But the act has not happened yet, so we shall see." There is lucidity to these words, some darkened shadow eclipsing the chaos of her features. "You will be sitting?"

Staring at her strangely, Ranjeet mumbles, "No, I don't think so ... thanks ..." his mind clearly trying to unravel the twisted route that time and talent has made of hers. It is difficult, nay, impossible, to think of someone, wishing to bond itself with this frail ... creature, that sits before him. "As for the disease ... I suspect as much as well. Do you speak from foresight, or simply experience?" Shaking his head, as if clearing it, finding the twisted route of hers perhaps not worth the effort, or not wishing to be seduced by it, Ranjeet corrects instead, "You are an Imphada ... I, Imphadi."

"Perhaps I speak from a bit of both, Imphadi," Cassandra murmurs thinly, subtle emphasis on the final syllable. Releasing a fluttery breath that flares nostrils slightly, another more insistent gesture is given to the chair beside her. "I have not spent my life with a nose buried in a book to get a strain in my neck from having to look up to you, Imphadi. Please, do sit?" Even in the steel that surprisingly resides within the pliant frailty, there is a pleasant entreaty to her vocal inflections. "And then if you wish you will tell me the nature of your time here."

One brow raises up at her sarcastically phrased request, but Ranjeet is willing enough to seat himself and does so. The cape, a concession to the chill in the air these days, is tossed to one side casually before the Varati settles himself opposite of Cassandra. He rests his elbows upon his thighs, leaning forward fractionally in his seat, long hair shifting over his back and rolling over his shoulders carelessly. "I have questions for you ... ones that hopefully you can answer in terms that I can understand." Again, the aether flickers, his aura intensifying as he reaches out with magic and mind. "I have spoken to Domina Jana and ... others. About the dream. About what you call the Wrongness. I have caught a glimpse of building crumbling in the aether surrounding your head. Domina Jana has spoken of a web, people drowning ... of your visions of fiery destruction ... reminiscent of a dream I had myself as a child. That which has made me the man that I am today. I want answers, Imphada, and failing that, I want information. When? How? Why? Can it be stopped ... and ..." and there is a curious pause here before he queries, " ...should it be stopped?"

Truly there is more bluntness in phrasing without the delicacy of diplomacy without there being the intended barb to strike with sarcasm. After the moment of lucidity passes, there is the troubled storm once again, a pained contortion and shifting of facial muscles that is plainly written. Startlement is a flicker-flash, an illumination before impending darkness. The halfbreed's chair creaks uneasily as she leans forward in slow and slight measures, remarking in a tone that drowns in thickness, "There is still much to be seen of the Wrong. Much to be seen." Head canting at a sharp angle to sketchily study some obscure portion of nondescript wall, she continues in a low, guttural tone, "I think that perhaps it is inevitable. The destruction wrought in the herald of its coming is the world balking at the change that will come. But change... is not always as bad as we perceive."

"Do you believe the translation ... the images ... to be literal or figurative?" For Ranjeet, he has received little else than the impression of peril ... of something disturbing and destructive. No searching, no seeking upon his own has brought him more ... at least of that dream. Other images, dreams, and portents have touched him with his tireless and demanding pursuit, but not this. The frustration is nearly palpable, but he heaves back tightly upon the reins of control. Now is a time for focus and peace. Discernment. Change... yes, the Varati knows of change. Within a short span of a year his life has changed dramatically, leading him down paths he never fathomed or dreamed of. But such catastrophic change as what has been envisioned? "Why is it so ... vague? No focal point, no beginning to be identified? It is strange to me that something so powerful that it touches upon the dreams and visions of clairvoyants everywhere, no matter position or race ... that such a thing would be large enough to look at more closely."

Weight leans against the edges of Cassandra's eyelids, dipping them down entirely for a moment before they madly flutter open. "I believe that some of the images are literal, and others are figurative. There will be destruction, but it is not the apex of the damage that can be wrought upon us. I have seen that, and it is night and day sharing the same sky, so glaring are the differences." One hand rests against her lap, fingers unfolding until her palm is upright and empty. Staring at the pale lines that criss-cross over her alabaster skin intently, she continues in a muted murmur, "There will be more truths to come and some will be in mind. But some of the most substantial revelations are carried upon ancient verse from eyes that no longer may see. But I have not yet learned... where."

"I want you to show me .... teach me ... " Ranjeet rasps, leaning closer to the Oneiromancer, eyes bright with a passion for knowledge. For the truth. He has sacrificed beliefs for this pursuit, has taken chances with his life. For the Varati, it is a powerful ambrosia ... a compulsion that cannot be denied. "Guide me..."

A gentled smile overtakes Cassandra's lips, a delicate confidence for a subject known and well-worn, but even this blossom of strength threatens to shatter. "Rather than searching through my own muddled visions and interpretations, let us work on you seeking out the answers to your own questions. Have you worked much with actively beckoning a vision to you, Imphadi?" The threads of aether about her shift in that curious study of that underlying web of you. The filaments about her glow intensely aureate, even stronger and more certain than the last time she was seen, patterns intricate and bright to a point that almost lacks comprehension.

But she can see what I cannot .... he rails for a moment, silently. Then closing his eyes, Ranjeet dips his head down in thought. Confessing to her his experiences as if they were sins, Ranjeet rumbles softly, "I have had many visions ... some bidden, others not. I have searched for answers, often receiving answers that are clear, images that I can see and recognize, but it would seem that the questions are more complicated than the images are willing to detail. I ... I have touched minds with an Atlantean, received images and spoken with her mind. I have sent my mind far from my body ... to places that I had been told of but could not believe existed." Finally, his head raises, dark eyes yearning and somber as he answers more simply, "Yes ... yes, I have actively beckoned a vision."

To a consciousness that often lacks mundane elements, such things as limits and inability are less capable to be comprehended. Confident reassurance is an ephemeral buoy within the stormy eyes, a memory or a fragment of the teacher she once was. The underdeveloped wings at Cassandra's back twitch absently as she leans further forward still, propping elbows against her lap. "It begins as a distant notion, almost a memory that you seek for but cannot quite grasp. A hollow sight that is indistinct at the very edges. Think of that which you have seen, of what has been imparted to you." The roughened voice seems ageless now, speaking words in a comfortable groove that have likely been spoken dozens of times before this for all of the Clairvoyants that have sought the wisdom within these halls.

The dream ... she must be speaking specifically of the dream. His brow furrows for a moment, the lines plowing deeply in frustration. Other images, other dreams come when he beckon ... they may not always hold what he hopes for, but at least they are there. But this? This portent lies heavy upon his mind but light along the horizon, dipping out of sight like a ship just passing beyond the edge of the world. But, listening to her words, Ranjeet blows out a heavy breath of air, concentrating not upon the failure, but upon the wisp of memory, the tangible touch that he felt so far off in vara al'Samar. His eyes flicker shut, for there is no image to see .... it started as a feeling ... a sensation .... a certainty. Without traditional Varati force, Ranjeet sets himself out upon that body of water ... that ocean of time and fate .... swimming slowly but surely toward the horizon where last that dream skirted his mind, rippling its surface indelibly.

A castaway ship off-course in waters that are boundless -- there is nigh always that moment of uncertainty. The split second when the past, present, and future melt into something so vast that it can barely be comprehended, let alone unskillfully grasped for. But that which has been seen, and a mind accustomed to wandering... these are familiar things that settle in during that second moment, more secure a shroud within some minds than others. As flesh and reality are dismissed, and the strength of a mind is relied upon, Cassandra unsteadily shifts within her creaky wooden chair and leans forward with interest. The jagged and irregular shadow of a gaunt and winged creature blends in with the more solid and still neighboring one, as too-bright eyes remain wide and unblinking. Intently, each move is observed, considered, and tossed somewhere within the recesses of her jumbled mind. "When you sense the smallest bit, tug upon it like it is a fraying thread and you wish to capture its source," she coaxes in her thick-voice, the edges of her words reverberating on an uneven hum.

The first waves are rough, unexpectedly turbulent seas. Though he is young, he has been sailing the aether with his mind since childhood, and it takes only a few moments for the rudder and sails of his mind to catch the breeze, find a path through the rough waters of time and memory. Ranjeet faces the horizon, the winds of the aether whipping his "hair" back from his features as he peers against the light ahead, determined to break through the layers with patience and unflagging will. Her words touch up his mind, a light caress, the whisper of sea and wind. But they are heard and, stretching forward, Ranjeet reaches for that wisp of what he seeks. He envisions his hand reaching out, into the waters of the aether that stretch before him, all senses extended as he seeks out the tendril that calls to that night, that elusive dream. There is a lick against his fingertips, his hand closing carefully about the slithering line of the vision, unwilling to lose it in his haste to grab on too tightly.

Carried on the breeze of instinct and skill, it draws Cassandra's voice further away with each lapping of water... until it sounds almost indistinct and sourceless. A nagging whisper, a wind carrying a song. "Before we can learn more, we must... remember first," urges the voice, a sound that slithers over the waves with resounding whispers, threatening to fray at certain portions. "Remember the beginning of the dream, the part that is unchanging... the part that can madden us with its unchanging detail." Mad. A word so often to describe the Oneiromancer, and yet there is a fluidity to their form, a confidence unbound by the confines of aesthetics. The halfbreed lapses into a brief silence, her gaze an intangible touch upon the aether he weaves, tracing each spindly thread.

Remember? Remember. His mind casts back, catching on the remembered threads of the dream, what he had felt, seen, and been told of. It is tricky business to cast back when moving forward. But since the aether is like an ocean to him today, his mind moves like a wave, scooping down along the basin of his memories and then shifting forward, rolling with momentum and purpose toward his goal. Answers. The Truth. Within this Varati burns a beacon that desires to know ... anything, everything. But he focuses the flame, reaching out with one question and searching for its ever-elusive answer. His body responds in tandem with his mind, Ranjeet unaware of the fact that he leans forward upon his seat, that one arm has physically stretched out before him as he strives for the horizon before him.

As though a touch might rouse the 'dreaming' mind, and shatter that fragile bubble that encases the reverie, Cassandra quietly slips back as he leans forward. The scuffle of chair legs and floor is a muted and quick sound, before she eases herself back against the seat again to fall into her own slumbering stillness. "Hold onto that fragment of thought, that sliver of memory, and play it out first," comes the reminder in that hissing whisper, distance and lack of clarity seeming to lend age to its sounds. It is only the memory of that which has been seen and done that supplies confidence to her voice, for so much of this is a passive waiting, observing the weavings of aether's threads. A map's guidance within the cold and friendless tides that threaten to seize a clairvoyant's grasp upon their sight.

His hand closes, fisting about the invisible tendril, unwilling to let it go. His mind replays what he remembers ... but it is so little! Taking a slow deep breath, Ranjeet presses back the dismay at what little he has, focusing on how much more stretches out before him. He holds the whiskers of this vision, the first tendrils that touched upon his mind so many months ago, testing him, tasting him. But he has grown in power since then, grown in confidence, and taking a firm grip, he pulls at that tendril, bringing the image closer to him, up over the edge of the horizon. I will own this vision, I will see it .... it is mine!

"Tell me what you see," the halfbreed gently coaxes, a sound seeming to rebuff on the flapping of sails, nearly plunging into the icy depths of silence. As though weaving two threads together, Cassandra's fingers twitch against her lap as strands of her own aether entwine with his -- it is not any more of a compass than her voice can be, but more of a stronger wind imbuing the sails and propelling him forth with a bit more strength. "Ware the eating by the moon of the sun, with final conquest comes the rending into two, of one. Though unlike day and night, or the ebb and tide, certain wrongness taints that which is forced to divide," she intones in what seems ancient sing-song, before her voice is lost entirely. Drowning. Flooding. The aquatic touch seems to be at first an overwhelming tidal of Aether, but in a flicker-flash of light, the slender, elongated form of the Citadel's white tower shimmers blurrily in the reflection of water. Garish tents drag sluggishly through the lapping waters, as the ocean crawls further along Haven's streets.

His voice comes out soft, husky, as if the distance of his heart and soul were reflected in this physical manifestation. Her warning rattles meaninglessly in his mind, recalling the day of fear when the moon swallowed the sun for a short time, but unable to comprehend the warning or the threat it wares against. "The water," he rasps, "The water is rising, swallowing the streets of Haven. Only the Citadel stands tall enough ... but not for long ...."

Perhaps it is distance, or perhaps merely concentration, that cause the beginnings of a vision to be met with silence, a quiet coaxing without an utterance reaching his consciousness. Only the rustlings of water are a reply, soothing from a quiet rage to a possessive lapping, smothering the streets with its cerulean tendrils. And then another angry lash of water slams mercilessly into the nearest buildings, stirring up froth and bubbles. The thin membranes of circles stir with uncertainty in the air for a moment, before they begin bursting... and each one carries a voice. Some are foreign, and others a familiar pang without being able to discern exact sources. 'ellp!' 'My...' 'Help us..!' '...has cursed us...' '...first the earth rumbling, and now...' 'Please!'

He jerks, his body reacting to the vision as if slapped, the violent shift breaking through the barrier of mind and body again. But Ranjeet will not let go, reaching out to those voices, the mind's eye wide and staring. Reality or metaphor?? Voice husky now with emotion, Ranjeet murmurs, "More..."

More and less, all at once. Cassandra's urgings with her own Aether were but a temporary aide, and the vision threatens to dissipate when those secondary strands unwind and withdraw. It causes the voices trapped within the bubbles to sound muffled, and then to disappear entirely, leaving a stillness as sight within finally settles to a relative state of clarity once again. It seems almost as though it were a memory of long past, the familiar sights of the towns appearing to be buoys floating in and out of the shifting waters, detail lavished upon only the most obscure of details. Spiderwebs of cracks from some sort of damage give gap-toothed appearances to the structures that most closely neighbor the "lake" that is more commonly known as the Rialto, and yet the bodies that struggle through the water are all faceless and robbed of other identifying traits. "I can't see it," whispers some soft and almost girlish voice that seems to originate behind him and always dart out of his peripheral vision.

His mind's eye turns, away from the vision of destruction, seeking out the voice who searches with him. An ally? A partner in this quest. There is frustration building, the painful need for more, the desire for answers. He turns to the voice while reaching toward drowning Haven, torn between what lies before him and what might be forming behind him. In battle, you should always guard your back, should something find you vulnerable. Flipping through the aether, Ranjeet circles quickly, looking for stray threads that might overlap, bearing other seekers or other visions of equal importance. "Come back," he whispers, the words spoken aloud as much in spirit. It is hard to say if he calls to the vision, to the voice, or to both.

A soft and pained sob chokes in the voice's throat, a burbling sound similar to a water's gurgling, before it slips out into silence. Pale tendrils that coalesce into the forms of slender, almost spindly fingers, stretch up towards his face with a desperate reaching. "I can't see it," the unseen girl articulates again in a trembling whisper, the edges warbling violently around a whimper. Each word of her whisper carries across the surface of water, stirring in ripples and blurs. Some weight seems to tug the faceless creature down, pale and nebulous, even a tangible touch of her seeming aqueous. "I can't see your aether anymore..." Pitifully, she sinks into the waiting surf as the vision begins to crumble, revealing the mundane sights of the library behind in fragmented pieces.

His hand reaches up to those beckoning fingers reaching for his face, a caress or a touch perhaps would strengthen their connection. But she shifts like vapor and his eyes flicker open, staring about the room somewhat dazedly. His features paint a picture mixed betwixt quiet pleasure, for succeeding where before he had always failed, and disappointment. It would seem eternally that the more he delves, the more questions are in turn offered up to taunt him. His hands close into fists, tightening as his gaze drops to the floor for a moment, his breath a little quicker than when he had started. Slowly, Ranjeet's gaze raises to rest upon the pale woman before him. "There ... there was someone else. You?"

Quiet and almost owl-like, the pale green eyes are settled steadily upon Ranjeet as these fragments of her emerge into view from behind the shattering reverie. Cocking her head sharply to the side with a rustle of colorless hairs, it takes a moment before Cassandra's voice stirs within her throat. "I was not within your vision with you, merely watching your aether. Though it is possible, since I talked on the outside of it all," she utters softly. Even though her voice often has roughened edges even within melodic flow, there is a certain pitch and tonal quality that are just different from the hazy, dulcet voice that visited his mind. A subtle shift, another twitching of her wings, these small motions seem to produce a resounding sound within the dull quiet of the library. "It is a journey that produces answers and questions. But my question is, Imphadi, which do you bear more of now?"

FIN  

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