Banished... [Open]

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

Finnicks ran frantically down the streets of Karthay toward the Square. Behind him, he could hear the whizzing of air rushing past Aerin's robe. He quickly extracted a potion from his belt, a sparkling vial of powered faery wings, and quaffed it as he ran. Instantly, he felt his feet lift from the ground, and he willed himself to fly forward, beginning to get ahead.

The two came bursting out into the Square. Finnicks heard the spidery words crafting the spell just before the fireball came flying past his head and he flew out of its' way. Whirling about, he brought himself face to face with Aerin.

"Why are you doing this, Mortimer?" he said angrilly. "I thought we were allies!"

All the bustling people in the square had come to a stop and watched the two powerful Magi facing off. "Jonathon was my friend!" Aerin cried. "And you are in my way to power!"

"Jonathon was a renegade, prepared to turn against the Conclave as soon as he saw it fit!" Finnicks retorted with a snarl.

"You lie!" Aerin cried.

"Would you battle me?"

"YES!"

Aerin gathered himself for a spell, the incantation rolling off his tongue over and over, the inflection changing subtly each time, "Ast tiran, kai tangus moipiar..."

* * * * * *

Making her typical rounds of the city, walking toward the Warrior's Guildhome down Shore's Lane from the docks, Mara Fulone, Paladin of Takhisis, was stopped by a sudden quietness in the air. The air seemed to stop. Then she heard the screams. Screams of pain and agony coming up Seraco Lane from the Square.

She burst into a run down the street, unsheathing her sword, ready to lay terrible death upon whatever was ruining the peace of HER city!

The screams escalated, and she suddenly saw brilliant flashes of light. Her eyes grew wide, and she quickened her pace to that of a sprint. But when she arrived at the edge of the square, she stopped dead, and dropped her sword, her dark brown eyes growing far wider than they ever had before.

A wall of fire rushed across the square, vaporizing the water in the fountain and charring the statue of Zeboim as it rushed at a tall, muscular black-robed human at her left. She heard the all-too-familiar spidery words of magic coursing from the human's mouth, as a wall of ice sprang up before him, absorbing the shock of the fire as it melted. Then she watched in as the human send a massive volley of fiery purple projecticles from his hands, arcing in all directions toward the small, white-haired mage opposite him.

Finnicks! she realized. But she did not know this other black robe.

Finnicks wove his hands in an intricate pattern, calling forth a web-like crystalline shield which absorbed the deadly missiles, then shattered, the last few gaining past them and striking his arms. But he did not cry in pain. He needed his composure and every ounce of breath to cast his spells.

She watched as his opponent quickly sent a ray of color across the square, shattering the statue of Zeboim in its wake. Finnicks reacted quickly, sending a brilliant bolt of lightening from his outstretched palms, striking the beam and causing it to burst its colors in all directions. However, the green arched around and grazed Finnicks' face, causing the scar to erupt into gangrenous, poisoned tissue. He motioned his hand and sent another bright bolt of lightening toward the human, who leapt into the air with magical flight as the bolt shattered a merchant stand to pieces, frying the innocents caught in the shock of this collossal battle.

The human began to wave his hands, and suddenly everything was plunged into darkness as he turned the fountain into a sun-catcher, sucking up all the sunlight for more than a mile.

Finnicks reacted, tossing another bolt of lightening toward the human, lighting his position. With a quick motion of his fingers and another spidery incantation, the human's body flared into magical light, which was not caught, apparently because it was not sunlight, and thus revealed him.

As the battle raged on, spell after spell, counterspell after counterspell, each trying to gain the advantage but always being checked, Mara came to realize the power of the Magi, power which she had never truly realized. One mistake, as minute as a slur of a word, a twitch of a finger, the slightest intake of breath at the wrong second meant death in this contest. She marvelled at the sheer magnitude of this fact, all while faced with unparalelled fear unlike any she had ever felt. Soon she was looking upon the battle as a perfect, deadly dance.

Gathering himself, Finnicks cried out more of that spidery language, and chains of brilliant lightening burst from his body in all directions, shredding the remaining merchant stands and burning the last of the innocent bystanders still lingering in the square to ash. Some of it caught and burned his enemy, sending him flying the ground, thanking Nuitari that he had only been grazed, but already preparing himself to cast a spell.

Finnicks took his advantage, conjuring up an arrow of bone. His eyes filled with triumph, he began to motion his hands toward the human for the killing blow, when suddenly his foot caught on an unseen loose stone in the road.

He stumbled.

The human's reaction was fast and furious, he uttered a deep, powerful word, a single word, loud and clear, pointing straight at Finnicks. A bolt of black energy launched from his finger. Finnicks frantically grabbed at his belt, pulling a curious blue gem from a pouch and thrusting it up in a desperate attempt to defend himself against the killing Power Word.

As the Power Word struck the gem, a brilliant flash of purple light filled the square, temporarily blinding Mara. She stumbled backwards, tripping over a cart and tumbling to the ground. Her vision still swimming from the flash, she looked up in time to see the human wizard vanish on the wings of a teleport spell. Scrambling to her feet, she looked around for Finnicks, but he was gone. The blue gem lay smoking among the shattered tiles of the road.

* * * * * *

It was like sliding down a tunnel of water. He couldn't breath, he couldn't speak. Is this death? he wondered briefly. But no, it couldn't be. He'd taken steps to prevent that. If Aerin had killed him, he would know it. Then, with another blinding flash of light, he felt his feet slam into hard rock.

* * * * * *

That area of the cave was empty, filled only with the distance echoes of dripping water. Suddenly an explosion of light rent the air, and a pale, white-haired elf in black robes appeared, uttering a cry of pain as his legs collapsed under him. Water splashed around the cave as he hit a puddle, and his staff clattered away, coming to rest at the entrance to the tiny chamber.

[Arcadia Caughey]

There's no better place than deep in the wild to hide and procrastinate from a task one is dreading, which is why Arcadia was here. Today the skies were blanketed in low grey clouds they couldn't seem to shake, and there was reason for that. It was rare that the weather worker cared to risk the venture out during the lighter hours, but her restless mind needed to release its energy through the wandering of her body and she just couldn't wait until after sunset. She took it as an opportunity to hearken back to her 'old self', dressing in her faded and worn olive green khakis, a grass stained men's white dress shirt, her tried and true black boots and her indigo black hair up in a messy ponytail. She carried her worn cotton drawstring bag with her as always, strapped over her shoulder.

During her first foray into the Eastern Woods she hadn't ventured long before she came across the river, Madeline and Sky. Because of her needs that evening, she'd thought it best to leave the surprisingly populated woods that night and return another time. Today was the time, and she had spent a number of hours here already in blissful solitude. The quiet allowed her to venture deeper, and had lead to the discovery of the caverns.

It was only a few short years ago that she discovered her affinity for the underground. But as she stood in front of the mouth of one of these rocky entrances she told herself the chances that these like the caverns of the Alliance were an interconnected maze of tunnels was slim. Still, no better reason to explore to see the answer for herself. It was something this child of nature was suddenly looking forward to. An excuse to get nice and dirty.

One last glance about the surrounding trees and brush, her violet eyes turned thoughtfully up to the sky. It wouldn't be long until evening now, and these caverns were a perfect means to pass the time safely in the dark. Perhaps she could lift the cloud cover, then, and allow the living to enjoy their rightful light?

She got no farther than that thought when she heard a cry, spinning her around to face the sound. It didn't come from the cavern she was ready to enter, but from manner in which it sounded upon her preternatural ears she knew its owner was in the near distance, rather than a great distance. Injured? The possibility of it brought a furrowed brow and a pensive frown to the healer's features.

The stoic Arcadia had only one choice, then, as she saw it. Leaving the cavern behind for now, her feet tread in silence towards the direction of the cry. While the air was unneeded for her body, the deep breath she took in through her nostrils would with any luck provide her with a scent to help guide her to the appropriate location. And it would tell her if this potentially injured person was bleeding, a rather nice perk to the olfactory senses of her kind. Used normally for a far different reason, of course, making it a bit ironic.

As her ears also perked up to try and pick up the sound of a heartbeat, she spoke calmly but firmly to the surrounding area. "Are y' injured?" A pause, and she added, "The one who asks is a healer." Perhaps that bit of information would cure any reluctance they might have to answer.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

A groan echoed through the nearby caves.

Finnicks reached out for a handhold amongst the rocky terrain, but his arms were reluctant to lift, going weak in response to the damage of the spell that struck them. With a measured twist of his waist, he mananged to roll over onto his back. As he became accustomed to the cool of the cave, and the chill of the water soaking through his robes, the throbbing, searing pain on his face leapt to the forefront of his awareness.

Slowly, he reached up a quivering hand and touched his left cheek, feeling a ridge of putrefied tissue where the green ray of Aerin's Prismatic Ray had grazed him. It was then that he heard a voice echoing through the caves.

"..y'injured?" He couldn't tell where it was coming from.

The next sentence was so drowned out by its own echoes that he could only catch the first two words, and he was sure the word "healer" was in there as well.

For the first time, he opened his eyes. Nothing. He was in total darkness. Based on the dripping noises echoing around him, he judged himself to be in a cave. How did I get here? he thought. Where in Ansalon am I?

He considered the voice he heard. Should he answer? No. Best to discern more about his situation. First... light. Surely his staff was nearby. Only one way to tell:

"Shirak."

He hissed the word of magic into the air, and several feet away the head of his staff, lying on the floor near the mouth of the chamber, flared into light.

Damn it! Why did it have to be at the mouth of the chamber? The light could be visible for miles now!

"Dulak!"

The staff went dark.

[Arcadia Caughey]

More caves. That's what she found as she moved in the direction of the initial cry. A collection of them in this area, if her thoughts weren't lingering on the possibility of a potentially injured individual she would surely have strayed from her path to poke around. As she neared, she caught the scent of something that was a bit off. Flesh when unwell could emit so many unpleasant scents, perhaps what she smelled was the state of the man's face.

It was enough to make her pick up the pace of her steps as she followed her nose. Just in time to hear a hiss and watch the cave ahead flood with light. She stopped short in her tracks, watching the light snap off as abruptly as it snapped on, and right on cue it seemed - she was close enough to hear the word he exclaimed, though she wasn't familiar with a language. A magic worker.

Arcadia shifted slightly in her posture as she mulled this over. Magic was something she was rather well versed in, she'd spent a lot of time teaching its various schools over the past few years. And she recalled well her advice to her students in her Defense From Magic class - better to be safe than sorry. If the one within the cave was injured and possibly disoriented he might be fearful and rash as well. Best not to enter, not yet.

She moved closer to the cave. She kept out of the entranceway, however, pressing instead against the cool rock of the cavern's outer wall where she'd be out of the line of any potential fire. Just in case, she spoke softly under her breath to the currently invisible tendrils of wind that always surrounded her. Their course immediately changed from their lazy, erratic movements to a more particular flight pattern. Weaving in and out of each other to make a shield.

Precautions taken, she'd try this again. "You're injured," she spoke in clearly in her smooth, controlled brogue. Perhaps the person within was so disoriented they didn't realize it yet. She would walk that path this time, speaking what were quite obvious things to her but that the one within might not realize, "You're in a cave, in the woods, and it's nearin' sunset. Can y' walk? I'm Arcadia Caughey," a slight face as she gave her name, the suppression of a sigh. She wasn't one who enjoyed giving that particular bit of information lately, in one of her more reclusive moods. "I heard your cry and m' here t' help if you'll allow it."

If the person would allow it. That was the key. Arcadia was not the sort to force her services on anyone, as she was a creature who didn't like services forced upon her.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

Though the various magical experiements he'd conducted in his life had taken more than their fair toll on his appearance, his elven ears were not damaged. He could hear the subtle tremors that coursed through the rock as footsteps crept closer. Heard the mumbling like a gust of wind echo from the stranger's lips. If it even has lips, he thought wryly.

The mumbles were still too incoherent to make out.

As the voice spoke again, he focused his attention sharply. Female. Right outside the cave. She must have seen the light. He'd have to deal with her now. He tried his arms again, raising them as they trembled weakly, the muscles flexing with protest. Not painfully, but quite reluctantly. They felt like mud. He cursed silently.

"You're in a cave, in the woods, and it's nearin' sunset. Can y'tamblar? Y'trin Arcadia Caughey."

A pause.

"Yl embris hu fyir uj y'hav nubla' ui ho peus'ki."

Damn! What lousy timing. The universal translation spell he'd been using during the meeting with the minotaur priests had worn off. Halfway through her speech had shifted into utter gibberish. How perfectly fantastic.

He tested his arms again. Still too weak to work the spell. As if he had another memorized... he'd only planned on needing it once.

He mulled over his options. Where was he? That was the most important thing. If he was in the middle of Solamnia, this woman might call the Knights and he would be summarily executed: A Black Robed Wizard, evil by definition, trespassing in Solamnia, whose people disliked all wizards, even those of White robes. Perhaps he was in a cave near Karthay, where he could be found by any one of several groups, all equally disreputable, all equally power-hungry, and all equal in their contempt of him, the one who defied their every attempt to recruit him to their causes. They would leap at the chance to remove him from the face of Krynn.

...from the face of Krynn. Had not the High God created more than one world? Archmagus Aolewynd, while widely understood to be quite senile, had an uncanny if not demented knack for acquiring powerful magical artifacts. He'd taken the gem as his reward for solving Aolewynd's insane puzzle. He had never had time to properly investigate it. He had no idea of its powers, or what it could do when struck by a powerful spell like the deadly Power Word: Kill. For all he knew, he wasn't even in Krynn anymore. Anything was possible.

Reasoning that he was injured, and that the stranger was going to intrude on him sooner or later regardless or what happened, he decided that an extension of trust was in order.

Reasoning that anyone who knew the Common tongue of Ansalon would have used it to converse with a stranger, and that thusly she likely did not speak it, he dared to speak in his native tongue: the language of the Qualinesti elves, the only other language he knew.

"I do not know who you are, and I cannot understand you, but so long as your intentions are friendly, you may enter." He tried to infuse as much gentleness and friendliness into his tone as he could muster, but he'd spent so long as a bad-tempered, cruel being, he wondered if his effort was worth the trouble.

As a further gesture of invitation, he spoke the word of magic again, this time softly: "Shirak."

The crystal orb at the of the staff, still lying directly within the mouth of the chamber, slowly eased into a gentle glow, suffusing the chamber and the cavern network outside with a soft, bluish light.

[Trindala Do Sant]

A low yet audible growl fallowed by the shifting of eight paws drove the Ancient from her meditation with a look of mild discontent.

Trindala shifted that tall posture to a disgruntled slump of annoyance while hazed vision looked about for whomever thought it wise to disturb her in this time of seemingly peaceful composure.

Only to come across Sky's two prized wolves standing at the most eastern exit arched tall in the hunches and their backs bristled on edge aggressively.

"Oh what is it now?" Asked a males voice though the only being capable of speech in this chamber was that heap of rags known as Trindala.

Standing with the help of the cold damp cave wall the black clad woman started in the direction of the two wolves in warning.

Dragging a black gloved hand over sharp features Trin approached the two."Go sit down..." She said in four equally different tones to the animals and they backed peddled and sat aside watching Trindala's tall form get enveloped by the darkness she strolled toward.

The tunnel traveled would progressively incline as the woman walked on unpronounced steps. Upon seeing a gentle blue illumination at the end of the tunnel patrolled Trindala paused and pulled that over sized hood up to cover all features of that ghostly pale face.

Reaching the tunnels end Trin looked down at the Elvin man who was a convenient twenty feet below where she was stationed and canted her head to one side.

Peering over a few extra inches that serpent tongue slid past her red stained lips and lapped at the damp air which passed at a snails pace through the caverns. Well honed taste buds would sense the arcane aura the male below admitted and a delighted twitch of a smile was fallowed soon after.

Hearing the man speak in elven the Ancient crouched down like a lurking vulture awaiting on it's pray to pass on. "Must be another close by." She thought as the roll of careless onlooker was appropriated.

[Arcadia Caughey]

While she had known a handful of elves over the years through her service in a few organizations in this area and as a result of her infamous wanderings, she did not know their language as so many did. So when he extended his invitation, at first it was falling on uncomprehending ears. Until, "...so long as..." At that moment, something entirely unpredictable happened. A connection she had to a rather unique relation of hers ignited, most likely stimulated by the struggle of her mind to understand what the injured man was speaking to her. Once that switch was flipped, so to speak, she could understand what the man said just fine.

Her lip curled into one of her trademark cryptic little smiles. "Thank y' brother," she murmured under her breath. She didn't send that thanks telepathically to him, though she could have. Even though the Doctor had nothing to do with the mess on Beltane with her Da about Archer...Arcadia just wasn't ready to deal with any sort of family yet. Part of her wondered if the Doctor would show up here anyway, simply because the connection flared up. Only time would tell.

Having not traveled with the Doctor to a distant time or planet where she had to converse with the natives, Arcadia didn't know that the other side of this fancy connection through her brother's ship was that anything she spoke would be translated for those she was speaking to so that they could understand her as well. This would make for some interesting confusion in a few minutes, perhaps. For now she had to deal with the man inside the cave, and the light from his staff.

She was almost entirely positive that the light would not burn her. She'd had years to do such tests, after all. But still. Perhaps it was because this was one of the rare times she'd clouded over the sky so that she could venture out during the daylight, or perhaps it was because she was just cautious and careful by nature, she thought it best to check and make sure. So if the man was looking towards the mouth of the cave now lit by his staff, the first thing he'd see of her was her hand. Tips of the fingers slowly reaching out, when Arcadia didn't feel the tell tale itch within her that warned her of light that could burn like the sun she stuck her hand entirely into the light. All the bluish hue did was illuminate her pallor in a rather ghostly way, there was no pain or burning. Good. The man earned a small bit of trust. Enough that she would come into the cave.

Arcadia looked rather unimposing. Appearances could be deceiving and certainly were in this case, but she was so reserved in nature few actually saw the layers beneath her outer later of calm detachment anyway. And she was never one to reveal any of her abilities unless it was absolutely necessary. A smart move strategically, it was also part of what she was taught by the Elders of her home - as all things are connected, one should never use the magical energies unless there is no other solution available. While she wasn't as Orthodox in following the teachings of the Elders as she once was, she still made the effort to follow the ways of her homeland. Especially points like that one which she agreed with.

So she was simply a woman. Five foot six, she looked approximately twenty years of age - one of the deceptive parts of her appearance. Dressed down as she was, she probably looked like she was hiking through here or something like that. Her skin was pale, but still had hints of its former richer olive complexion. Her violet eyes had a depth to them that tickled those who looked into them with temptation - lulling, bewitching. The hue of her skin and the pull of her gaze were the two parts of her nature she couldn't control. All the rest she downplayed, not because she wished to hide that part of what she was but simply because she saw no need to draw attention to it.

As she made her way deeper into the cave towards him, her eyes adjusted much like an animal's would so that she could see just fine, and the light from his staff helped. Her gaze was on him at first, and only him. Looking him over. Spending the bulk of the time studying his face, a curious injury that hearkened to a burn. "Your face," not realizing that he'd be able to understand her, she was pointing to her face as she said that. "How did y' injure it?" How was a hard gesture to do, and she pretty much did it with a questioning shrug. If she knew how he'd been injured, it would only help her when it came to treating him. The cause was just as important as the effect.

Her other senses were quick to tell her that she had to deal with more than just an injury, however. There was another here, a sudden development since Arcadia had sensed no others when she'd first approached the cave. As she awaited the man's answer, her violet eyes strayed from him and looked into the darkness of the cave. Then she tilted her head upward in the direction of the scent and her preternatural eyes could easily spot the one hooded and crouched above. Hm. She let her eyes linger, perhaps to let the crouched one know that she knew they were there, and then her eyes turned to the injured one. The shield she'd bid the invisible tendrils of her wind to form, she bid it widen now to enclose not just herself within but the injured one as well. Just a precaution, in the name of better safe than sorry. As a healer it was her duty to protect the patient as well as herself.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

Finnicks eyed the "woman" waryly. She spoke again, her language still utterly foreign, sounding kind enough, but as an elf who had conspired with his fair share of foul beings... illithids, liches, and more... he knew that such beings were often more than capable of making themselves look "safe and inviting". It was how they snared their prey. He wouldn't give her the chance to get under his skin.

As his mind raced, mulling over the situation, he concluded that he'd never heard the like of her language. He was confident that, while he didn't understand Solamnic or most of the other tongues spoken throughout Ansalon, he would at least be able to recognize them. And this one... it was just utterly, utterly unfamiliar. Definately not Solamnic or any of the elven languages, certainly not Dwarvish or Dewar (he knew some Dewar words, they were harsh and grating and excessive use led to sore throats amongst most races).

Her lack of significant adverse reaction to his black robes was also conspicuous. He must be somewhere that Wizards are not well known. Or, again, she was simply a creature of darkness trying to ensnare him.

Deciding finally on a course of action, he adjusted his body, supressing a cry of pain as he felt the poison working in his joints. He stretched out his arm, trembling rebelliously, and pointed at his staff, his eyes boring into hers without expression.

[Trindala Do Sant]

That Pilgrim shadow didn't retreat nor advance upon being seen but took a seat on the edge with it's legs dangling over, with gentle kicks from time to time to keep from becoming overly board.

Trindala's carefree manner was much like she knew something the others did not. Some little bit of info that put her ahead of the game but she didn't boast or try to stand out. Content with watching and waiting over the two below from her aloft perch.

Sky's wolves soon came into the picture and sat along side Trin peering down at the small crowd with as much interest as the ancient, after all this was the first bit of company for sometime to these parts.

[Arcadia Caughey]

Clearly he still couldn't understand her. Strange, perhaps her brother's technology was experiencing a glitch. A rare occurrence, it would certainly be enough cause for worry - perhaps for even alarm - but as Arcadia did not have the knowledge that her brother's ship seamlessly supplied party to party translation, she did not realize that this man's inability to understand her pointed to anything amiss. Otherwise the implications would have been enough for her to help this man with haste so that she could seek out the Doctor immediately.

As it was, she remained. Watching him carefully with her deep violet eyes. His sounds, his expressions, his movements and even smaller things like the pace of his heart beat or the nuance of his scent, all of these were revealing things. She knew a person's reactions ran much deeper than their words - such was the case with her after all, a woman who took the concepts of reticence and privacy to a new level. Most of her reactions and opinions were always carefully tucked under her outward veneer of calm composure. So her response to his black garment, if any, was one of many that she was keeping private. Her outward behavior was that of a healer towards a potential patient, nothing more.

She knew he was pointing out without needing to turn and see for herself. That in this moment of great pain and injury his staff was of the greatest importance to him was illuminating. She had hopes that his concerns rested on the conduit because it was within his power to heal himself using it, though her suspicions about his desire were something other.

After a moment of inward thought, she chose the following as her course of action. Arching her brow faintly at him, and spoke with emphasized, clearly enunciated syllables. "If you try to harm me, I leave you both." As he didn't understand her, she spoke with gesture in time with her words. A point to him, a slice across her throat to convey harm, a point to him, a point to the exit on leave, and a point at the injured man and then above him to the hooded figure above. It was a purposeful decision on Arcadia's part to let this man know that there was another here in the cave.

That was when she noticed the wolves. It stirred a memory within her - Sky had told her there were wolves here that served as protectors to the Eastern Forest just as he did, told to her the same night he had said she was welcome to walk here and tend to this earth as was her duty to Nature. Their appearance now had her curious as to their relation to the hooded figure and this man before her, but she didn't linger her attentions upward for more than a moment.

For it was time to see how events would play out after returning this man's staff. She did not move from where she stood, and she would not touch the enchanted object. Instead she sent out her wind to fetch it, the invisible tendrils curling around the object and pulling it over to its owner, where it settled on the floor of the cave within the man's reach. Normally Arcadia wouldn't even show that much of her abilities, but she had her reasons. Right now, until she saw this man's intentions, she chose to shift her state to one that was less than solid in case of attack. Not as ethereal as mist, a shift much more subtle than that, but enough that it would make quick travel as easy as a blink.

Ever the cautious one. It was this man's choice if he wished her help, or not. Arcadia wasn't one to force things on others.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

He reached out without further ado and gripped the staff tightly. Feeling the gnarled black wood of the handle was reassuring, as well as feeling the staff's meager conciousness. The instant he came into contact with it, he instantly knew something was amiss.

The staff's gently thrumming thoughts did not flow into his body. He felt them apart, in the staff, as if the staff's thoughts were... trapped, in a fashion. Not that the staff was truly alive. In the history of High Sorcery in Krynn the number of such powerfully enchanted staves as this were numbered within a few dozens. Most wizards never bothered to devote the years of study and years of toil that it took to craft such a weapon, but Finnicks, as an elf, had had little reason to balk at such an investment of his years.

When enough enchantment was laid upon a staff, the staff would develop a rudamentary conciousness. It would recognize its master, although loyalty in such staves varied and even the most learned loremasters disagreed on how such loyalty is truly determined.

The inabililty for his staff to truly connect with him indicated at the Magical Weave was not present here, so its conciousness had no medium to connect through. He could feel arcane energies permiating the air around him, but they were disordered, chaotic. Raw. No matter, he reminded himself. At least I can feel a connection to the Weave, even if it does not suffuse this place.

He realized that the possibility he'd briefly, if a little sarcastically, considered, that he was no longer in Krynn, was a little more probably now.

He closed his eyes, and mentally listed all the enchantments he'd laid on the staff. Using the familiar mechanism, he extended his thoughts to the staff, speaking the key to one of its powers mentally.

Nothing happened.

Damn! He glared momentarily at the woman. This place was becomming infuriating. Without the Weave as a medium, he had no way to communicate with the staff short of speaking aloud! He would have to reveal one of the Keys to his staff.

"Sohtra."

The word was strong, sharp, and crisp, with a slightly rolled "r".

And through his fleshly contact with the staff, he felt strength permiate him, flowing up his arm and through his body. A simple spell (relative to his experience), and one of the many he'd laid into the staff as a precautionary measure. He couldn't deny that he felt a secret thrill at being able to use it.

The Strength spell was enough to return his still injured arms to their normal ability, and so, with a grunt, he planted the sharpenened mithril tip of his staff into the rock, and hefted himself to his feet, moaning as ice cold water, soaked into his robes, flowed down his back and legs to the puddle.

He leaned on his staff, allowing the strength spell to fade. He must look quite impressive, he thought sardonically. An elf with matted, wet hair in dripping robes gripping weakly to his staff must look quite awe-inspiring.

[Trindala Do Sant]

Trindala made no attempts to greet the mage who was just made aware of her lurking, but instead tried to look busy by diverting her attention to a stalactite that clung near by on the cave's dome. This absent-minded expression held but for a moment before that hood shifted towards the woman's magic. Amused by Arcadia's ability to will the wind to do her "Heavy lifting." "Well at lest the meal comes with a show." she thought while being observant for anymore tricks.

Though Trin was trying to be on her best behavior, she found it painstakingly hard to remain silent after hearing the word from the elf. Unable restrain her impish nature she chimed in with "Wefbene." That single word failed to echo off the slate walls and the style in which it was spoken made it seem spun from fine silk. It's meaning was meant for good tidings, ["Depart in peace and walk in light."] but it failed miserably give-in it's sarcastic tone obviously directed towards the mage's robe color and injuries.

Like a clap of thunder the old bag of rags broke out into metallic laughter. The sound of which seemed like there was three individuals laughing aside from herself. This sent the woman teetering backwards and clutching for her seams. While the wolves that sat along side her gave each other a wary look, failing to see Trindala's humor as so many often did.

[Arcadia Caughey]

Poor Arcadia. Or poor Finnicks. It really depended, perhaps poor both of them. If only she wasn't still sore from the less than savory news she got from her Da on Beltane, she might be approaching this situation with a different humour. But she was still moody, and so she found herself inwardly sighing when she watched what this clearly injured man chose to do with his staff. He stood. All that energy to just....? She resisted the urge to shake her head. Patients. Needless to say, sometimes patients took a lot of patience.

Now they were eye to eye, for the most part at least. She was five and a half feet tall, not at all impressive when it came to inches and feet. As he stood before her, Arcadia kept her gaze upon his eyes, or his facial features should his own gaze stray. She always looked directly at those she spoke to, and some found her calm, unfaltering gaze unnerving. And that wasn't even taking the thrall within her stare into account. Though she rarely ever capitalized on that power.

There was one simple favor she could grant to him, the curmudgeon's gesture of good faith or kindness perhaps. He had seen her command over the wind already, after all, so it would be no great reveal to send it forth as she did now. So she did. The invisible tendrils swept around him like a brief cyclone, with speed enough that the resulting wind would chill him, yes, but also dry him. Not all the way, maybe, but unless he fought off the wind with another spell from his staff he would find himself no longer dripping wet. When the wind was finished, it returned to waft around her at its usual peaceful pace.

She didn't remark on the word he used to work the magic through his staff, nor the word that came from above from the laughing one. Were they words that would stick with her? Certainly, even though she didn't know the language. But as for the one word, the man need not fear. She had no desire to work the energies through another's chosen method.

What was of far more concern to her was his injury. Which is why she gestured quite plainly at his cheek, her eyes still fixed on his as she said quite plainly, "Will y' let me tend t' your wound, or not?" Hopefully he would get her meaning. She could ask the one above to translate for her, but she wasn't quite sure that the cloaked one could be trusted to translate honorably. So she would see how an exchange between her and the injured man went first even with their language barrier.

And if the man chose to decline her examination and treatment, then Arcadia would let him be and continue on with her wandering.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

He glanced up into the darkness. His elven eyes could see the radiant heat of the two animals sitting side by side, but between them... there was something there. But whatever it was, it was completely invisible in the infrared spectrum. No body heat. Foreboding.

He returned his gaze to the woman as she spoke again and the air around him whirled into a frenzy. He raised his staff defensively, but felt the cold dissipating. The air slowed to a stop, and he was relatively dry. He did not miss her lack of vocal intonation. Her power was silent one.

He forced a smile as she pointed to his cheek. She needed to know exactly the kind of poison that was in the wound. This was no mundane bugbite!

Scanning the floor, Finnicks locked his eyes on a small puddle of water, fed by a slow drip from the ceiling. That would do. He drew a small, leather bound book from a pouch on his belt, flipping through the pages until he settled on the spell he wanted. It was a simple spell, second circle, and easy to memorize.

"A spell to transmute water to glass"

Thus read the heading of the page the spell called home. He'd transcribed the spell from a scroll he'd located as a magic shop. He saw it as a perfect opportunity to ensure himself a nearly limitless supply of a fairly common spell component.

Closing his eyes and gathering himself to work the magic, he weaved his hands in the appropriate pattern and uttered the spidery, harsh words of magic. A quiet cracking sound echoed softly around the chamber as the puddle turned to solid glass.

Sensing the woman's growing impatience, he opened the book again. Turning to another page deeper into the book. He spent two minutes running a finger back and forth across the page, committing the incantation to memory. He tapped his finger momentarily at the bottom of the page:

The theory being, of course, that a piece of glass represented a window to understanding.

He closed his eyes to gather his wits for the spell, then gazed into the woman's reflection in the glass puddle and uttered the spells.

A ringing silence followed, before Finnicks turned to her and spoke, and she heard his voice in her own first language:

"My name is Archmagus Finnicks Darkmoon. Where am I?"

[Trindala Do Sant]

All though Trin was absent a face while wearing her hood up anyone could tell by the way her head canted backwards that a great bit of eye rolling was tacking place. Failing to see the entertainment in the events to come Trindala jumped from the cave mouth she sat in and down to the level where the populous was.

Crow hobbling along like an old crone the mass of black rags looked far less menacing giving its posture was a lumpish four and a half feet tall. This was the great evil from above? Lethargically the shadow moved toward the newcomer the tails of her robes slithering along behind. Clearly she had no respect for personal space as she took up most of Finnick's to try and poke and prod at his effects.

Curious as a child she looked him over discounting his wounds, After all she was no healer. She was more interested in collecting information from his appearance. Able to see greater detail then that perch prior. She gathered such categories as the make of his clothing, the fabrics used to weave it, how many items he had strung about his belt and of course that staff with the sharp mithril tip.

Wise enough not grab hold of a strange weapon, Trin's spidery fingers wriggled about the air inches from it, as a soft hissing sound was herd deep with in that hallow hood.

[Arcadia Caughey]

Through the connection that had sparked to life between her and her brother earlier, she had been able to understand Finnicks even though his language wasn't familiar to her. It was the reverse, that he couldn't understand her, which had remained the problem on Arcadia's end. Still, there was a swell of relief when she heard him speaking in common - hope that the communication problem had come to an end.

What he said, however, that was a different story. Once more he avoided her question about healing, and the nonsense of her past few days left her with a short, rather impatient fuse. It made itself evident only in the purse of her lips as she spoke, the rest of her frustration locked inward. Even the tone of her voice steadfastly remained in her usual calm, even brogue. "An area o' Rhy'din called New Haven, inside o' a cavern which is within woods that are a handful o' miles t' the shoreline." Needless to say, she was rather proud that she was able to bite back what she really wanted to remark, something akin to 'do I look like a bloody tour guide, laddy?'

She was quick to change the topic back to the one that was of more interest to her. She understood that he had clearly come to be here by less than savory means and was concerned about his wereabouts, but in her opinion if he had a look into a looking glass he might see eye to eye with her about what she felt was the greater concern - his injury. "Now," the began with a firmness to her tone to try and suggest that he best not avoid her question again, "are y' goin' t' tell me about the manner o' your injury, and how y' acquired it, so that we might get t' settin' it - "

This was when the one above decided to join the party below. Not only that, but the draped figure stepped up to her patient [if he could even be called that at this point] at such close proximity that the figure had stepped right between them. A cluck of her tongue escaped before she could stop herself, and the whispers what would have been a rather deep exasperated sigh if she'd let it out colored her words, "I don't wish t' make demands, Cloaked Dweller, but the nature o' his wounds may not be the stort that it's wise t' stand close to..." Not to mention if she ever got to treating them it would be rather difficult with another person right up against him like this one currently was.

When Arcadia first heard the scream, this was hardly the sort of events she thought would unfold! Had things transpired in a different manner, she would have remarked on the manner of the man's magical craft. It had interested her, though she made no comment, the road he'd chosen to conjure in order to made communication possible. Different than any method she'd seen before.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

Finnicks' face remained utterly impassive as she relayed his location to him. Rhydin. He'd never heard of such a place, and he was intimately familiar with the geography of Krynn. The idea that he was no longer in Krynn became more likely.

He smirked when she demanded to know the nature of his injury. He turned momentarily and glanced down into the mirror-like glass of the former puddle, and examined his face for a moment. He began to raise his hand to touch the wound again when a black form dropped before him and filled his vision.

Stepping back sharply (and almost losing his balance, gripping the staff wildly to stay upright), he glared at the newcomer, then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Another potential creature of the dark lured by the prospect of fresh meat, perhaps, or just an old hermit.

He drew back from its gaze and reaching hand. "Whatever you are, I suggest you step back! And I know you can understand me! If you take one step closer, I promise you that there will be nothing left of you to bury!"

He raised his right hand menacingly toward her, then suddenly twisted at the midsection, gasping in pain and suddenly drawing ragged breaths. "Damn... poison..."

Refusing to lower his open palm from the cloaked one, he glanced at Arcadia. "You... the wound... caused by Prismatic Ray... green... poison... strongest antidote... or cleric..."

And then he collapsed, his staff this time coming down with him in the iron grip of his left hand.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

((Removing Trindala with permission of owner))
The strange hag peered down at Finnicks' motionless form for a moment, gave a throaty, mad chuckle, and then, apparently uninterested in that turn of events, tottered back out of the small cave and vanished from sight, her slow but steady retreat evinced by the slowly dimishing volume of her cackles.

Finnicks continued to lay motionless, his breathing shallow and his pallor darkening from his pale, almost white sheen to a sallow, altogether unhealthy gray.

[Arcadia Caughey]

[ apologies if this process seems rushed, i figured you'd like your character in good health and moving forward. cheers, m. ]

Arcadia's brow lifted and a slight smirk curled her lip when she saw the manner in which Finnicks addressed the cloaked figure. Certainly not a man who made the feelings of others a major concern. Though, to be fair, the cloaked figure didn't seem very concerned about his feelings either. While Arcadia's expression remained passive, there was a marked amount of relief within that the third party had grown wise and left. There was no place for overly curious voyeurs during a healing process unless they were being trained in the art themselves.

The smirk was quick to disappear when the man's pain returned and he finally described to her the cause. "Down lay down all the way, on your back," was ordered of him. She didn't really give him time to accommodate her - he'd feel the wind that did her bidding wrapping around his limbs and torso and pulling him down and onto his back. Those tendrils, he'd be able to see them now. Perhaps she was allowing them to be seen simply so he'd be calm about what was assisting her as she healed him. Thin silvery grey tendrils were strong but pulled at him with a pace that would allow as much gentleness and as little pain as this moment could afford. Once they did their duty they wafted away to their usual place of 'rest' - drifting lazily around Arcadia like a breezy aura.

"And stay calm," was her next firm command. By then she was down on her one knee, yanking the top of her worn cotton drawstring bag open and thrusting her hand in deeply inside. "Breathe easy, relax your muscles. Any tensin' up or lettin' your heart race through your veins is only goin' t' speed up the ill effects." Hand sifted around the bottom of her bag feeling the various bottles. Each was different, and she knew the feel of them by heart. Made things easier found in an emergency. "So just think on how you're lucky. Could o' been a ray that turned y' to stone." Was that...her attempt at humor?

The bottle she pulled out of her bag was not one she needed often. And it was a bit more chemical than this herbalist cared for - two ingredients to be injected in the event of being poisoned. A syringe was unwrapped and stuck in the mixture, pulled back and loaded. That in one hand, she pulled bottle of rubbing alcohol out, pulled the cork with her teeth and spit it to the side, and drenched a piece of gauze. She pushed his sleeve up. His upper forearm was swabbed, the gauze tossed to the side, and then the needle was injected and the antidote released into his blood stream.

Then Arcadia tossed the needle on top of her bag to clean up later and sat on the cave floor with a thunk. Arms were outstretched over him, one over his face one over his heart, approximately four inches above his body with her palms facing down towards him. A single deep yet unneeded breath on her part to steady herself, and then the channel was opened. Healing heat flowing from her hands, that healing energy was quick to press deep into his body as the tendrils of wind stirred from her and cycled through the cave as a formidable wind - collecting energy that she was channeling through her and transforming as healing.

Like a stone thrown into a lake, he'd feel the energy enter at the two points where her hands were and then quickly spread outward throughout his body. It was on the search for any signs of the toxin within him, and once found the energy would pull said toxins apart and out of him with a level of discomfort similar to stretching all of one's muscles a little too deeply at once.

Let it not be said that Arcadia did not work fast when healing was the need.

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

Though barely conscious and unable to direct his eyes well, he was still alert enough to pay attention to her actions in his peripheral vision.

Fully paralyzed by the spreading poison, the pain in his face and chest still pulsing angrily, he could make no response or protest as she laid down her expectations and used her strange power over the air to rotate him to a back-down position. When she pulled out the needle, however, the muscles in his eyes spasmed hard enough to defy the poison for a moment, widening in shock.

A needle? He was not so much afraid as fascinated by her unexpected choice of tools. A normal "healer" would have cut open his veins to "bleed off" the poison (one of the chief reasons for his relunctance to accept her help: human healers usually dealt in superstition and unfounded, useless rituals rather than employing effective medical or magical techniques). Though paralyzed his mind raced through the implications of her choice even as she withdrew a bottle from the bag, and then with another jolt of shock Finnicks noticed the strange empty chamber that the needle was mounted to.


What possible purpose...

But when she inserted the needle and drew the unknown antidote into the syringe, the elf's mind understood. In a blinding flash the vast possibilities of such a device spread through his brain like lightning. A hollow needle to deliver potions directly into the body with minimal damage -- no! Completely negligible damage -- to the skin. With enough knowledge of anatomy and a steady hand, such a needle could be inserted directly into the bloodstream. Finnicks' brain reeled as it realized the sheer potiential of such a technique! Where was this place?

Then she was hunched over him, working some kind of magic. He tensed (or would have, if he'd not been paralyzed) as the heat spread through his body. A wave of intense fatigue shot through his body. As the poison was drawn out, he felt movement returning to his limbs, and finally was able to release an intense moan of pain as his muscles screamed for the procedure to stop.

As the entire procedure ended and he was left aching even more than he had been before, he breathed deeply and slowly, with some effort. Clutching his staff beside him for comfort, he slowly turned his head and locked his eyes on the woman.

"Well... I suppose I must thank you, then."

No gratitude was evident in his tone. Only a wry, begrudging acceptance of a vocal custom he clearly thought was patently useless and resented greatly.

[Arcadia Caughey]

Once the energy finished its passage through the patient to fuse with the injected mixture and the poison was pulled from him, Arcadia sat back and dropped her arms to her sides. Eyes still closed, the wind in the room slowly died down, shortening and thinning to its silvery grey tendrils. These blew their way back to her, collecting and swirling around her at their slow, peaceful pace. By the time she opened her eyes again a full minute later, those bits of wind faded from view - still present and certainly felt by those who stood near Arcadia, but simply hidden from sight.

She watched him start to move long enough to be confident that he needed no further attention. Then her violet eyes averted, and she began to clean up the minor mess she'd made in the name of being swift to heal him. Bending forward to reach out and grab the cork she'd spit aside, clean it off, recork the bottle. That sort of cleaning. All items once properly sealed and dealt with were returned to her cotton drawstring bag. Drawstring pulled, she slung the bag over her shoulder and stood.

Now she took a better look at him than she had before. Well, not better necessarily, but the manner in which she studied him was no longer a healer to patient relationship. It was a stranger to stranger relationship, and all details spoken between them that were not injury related came to the forefront of her thoughts. It shaped her answer, which quickly waved his thanks aside. "Must, no. One thanks or doesn't thank, it doesn't affect the shape or quality o' what was done." Which was duty. With a background like Arcadia's, she believed there was no need to thank one for doing what it was their greater responsibility to do - because they're supposed to do it.

"So," she was quick to continue and the subject was changed as a result, "Can I be o' any further assistance t' ye before I continue on to m' nightly business? Y' seem surprised t' be in the land that you're in, can I provide y' with any directions or information on that account?" Arcadia was in these woods, after all, on a mission to find her nightly meal. While hers was and had long been a will of iron well before she'd been pulled into her present state, that did not mean there was no itch of thirst. And the sound of his heart, the smell of his life, and the ache of her teeth were rather plain reminders. Easily ignored if he needed assistance, however, for a short time longer

[Finnicks Darkmoon]

He narrowed his eyes and glanced around slowly, the aching beginning to recede. He felt his face, the still-puckered ridge. Would it scar? More importantly, did it matter?

"My only real question is this," he began silkily. "Where in Krynn am I? I've never heard of any place called Rhydin in Ansalon, and by what you've stated so far, I infer that this Rhydin is a fairly large country. I find it patently impossible that in all my years of study and learning that I could fail to read of such a place."

Planting his staff in a crevice, he used it to pull himself back to his feet, once again muttering the key word to unlock the spell of Strength in his staff.

"If you were to go so far as to tell me I'm in a completely different world I would not be the least bit surprised," he continued wryly. He glanced around the floor again with narrowed eyes, and then slowly shut them and took a deep breath. "The magic here is so wild and untamed. Utterly, utterly alien. I've never felt its like, for the arcane forces in Krynn were tamed and ordered by the gods of magic thousands of years ago."

[Arcadia Caughey]

By the time he was finished speaking, the man was treated to one of her ghostly, cryptic little smiles. A display of none of her teeth, as was most common for her. There was no need to bring what she was into the conversation when it had nothing to do with his current concerns.

"Then I've no worry o' puttin' you into shock with m' words. Where y' are has nothin' t' do with Krynn or Ansalon, as far as I know. You're in the woods of a city called New Haven which is in the country o' Rhy'din which is located on a planet of the same name. Where this land is located among the rest o' the stars and planets," a shrug on her part. "That's not m' forte, and if that knowledge is of importance to you it would be wiser t' ask me brother who dabbles in that sort o' thing." The Doctor, 'dabbling' in matters of space. It was a classic Arcadia understatement.

"As for the magical energies o' this land, it's not surprisin' that y' find them helter skelter just as it isn't surprisin' that y' haven't come across this place in your readin'. I have a feelin' that t' the rest o' the universe this is a forgettable place, or at least one o' little concern. For one reason or another, this planet is a nexus for a shockingly large cross section o' cultures, races, creatures and so on. Many, such as yourself, find themselves here within a blink of an eye and have no idea how they got here. Others flee here through portals between their land and this one, and still others are natives."

"So," she said in a tone which indicated her various points were about to be tied together, "with such a conglomeration o' creatures, cultures and methods it's no wonder that there's no stable unified sort o' energy, aye? In general, Rhy'din is a very haphazard, untamed, piecemeal sort o' place with none o' its leaders or deities takin' up the task o' creatin' a solid structure or order. A planet o' microcosms.'" The entire air of her answer to Finnicks had the feel of a lesson. This was something Arcadia couldn't help, as she'd served as a teacher on many an occasion in many a classroom.

Perhaps that her answer seemed rather didactic and less than personal did not escape her attention. For after a pause, she added with a faint touch of reluctance, "It's right opposite the environment I was raised up in as well." She wasn't one to delve deeply into her personal business with others, but at the same time she offered that small slice of her own experience to attempt to give him a sliver of comfort or camaraderie. Rather awkwardly, yes, but at least she made the attempt.

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