TheGreenHell(continued from Past Sins) The storm lashed the jungle in whips of rain. Blue-grey clouds stained the sky, casting everything in muddy light. Stones and metallic ruins of complex design were overgrown with scarlet vines and choking roots, as if they were merging with the living hell. A path of dead leaves and clay slashed through the foliage like an old scar; untouched by the ever-consuming forest. Torches burned in the distance, illuminating the stairs of a crumbling temple. A beacon in the night. Another lash of rain brought Gillian to her senses. How’d she arrived here? The last thing she recalled was leaving Gerard’s room; intent on finding the Hanging Man Trump. Now she didn’t even know what world she was in. But the hyena giggles from the underbrush showed she wasn’t alone here. A part of her was surprised to find that she felt more curious than scared--It was amazing what surviving a near-apocalyptic event could do for one's perspective. Regardless, she had no desire to be some beast's supper before she discovered who had brought her here and why. Gillian whispered the words to Sylph's Blessing, wanting to rise above the treetops and fly toward the temple. Where there were torches, there were people. And where there were people, there were answers. If nothing else, the temple was shelter from the storm. Flight became a mixed blessing. It removed her from the mud and choking fronds. But it exposed her more to the lashing rain and wind. By the time she reached the carved stairs, her body shivered from the penetrating chill – her skin blue as the religious paintings that adored much of the entrance alcove. The temple stank of rot, but after the storm, its warm interior felt like a blessing. The dimly lit interior revealed numerous frescos and carving devoted to Knowledge and the Mysteries – each god and goddess uniformly worshipped and honored in kind. Pilgrims had left offerings, food, parchment, hand-made jewelry, to their favored deity. All were moldered by the humidity and time. A singular stairwell led down into temple, much larger than one might expect. Claw marks had left a notable trail. A sickly scent rose up from below – like an unattended bird cage, masked in dead flowers. Gillian sniffed. She most certainly was NOT going down there. So why was she here? The Hanged Man represented sacrifice, and this temple certainly represented sacrifice as well, and maybe there was even something at the bottom of the stairs that people sacrificed to. But how did this all help her find the trump she was looking for? She positioned herself against the temple wall as far from the open stairwell as she could get, then sat down and brought up a Lens. The entire temple radiated with dormant Trump and Pattern energies. She suspected the building – indeed, the entire Shadow – had been woven with protective barriers against the core Powers; Trump, Logrus, and Pattern. Not only from cross-Shadow communication, but movement as well. It was, in effect, a trapped Shadow. One could not exit without fulfilling certain requirements. When she directed the Lens downward, she sensed a labyrinth of tunnels and passages. At its center was an emptiness. Not in the physical sense, but a blind-spot. A region protected from Scrying of any form. Yet, seeing the temple’s interior, she felt a sense of déjà vu. She hadn’t just been here before. She’d built it. And she’d populated it with. . . something. Something hungry. Hunh. Gillian dredged Cybele's memories for anything related to this place before she became a sacrificial snack. Specifically, what requirements needed to be met in order to leave, what hungry beast was downstairs, and how this related to the Hanged Man trump. For whatever reason, the memory of whatever lived down there remained. . . clouded, vague. No, more than that. Cloaked. Every time she tried to snag it, the memory slipped away and she became distracted. Someone had locked that memory away. It took only a moment for her to realize, she’d done it herself after creating this place. The Hanged Man Trump – and perhaps more – had been hidden here. Rather than risk someone stealing the memory/key from her, she’d erased the memory entirely. . . relying on her own smarts to survive the ‘Test.’ Worse, the Shadow could not be escaped without completing this test. Fail the test and die horribly. Refuse the test and die of starvation. It was the perfect vault for her darkest secrets. Gillian stood and smiled to herself. "Very clever. It appears that I'm to go down there after all! Let's see if Dworkin made a good choice when he melded us together." She modified her Palm of Flame cantrip on the fly to become a ball of white light that would float along beside her, then headed down the stairs. Carefully. And quietly. Her exploration revealed a litany of horrors. The temple’s interior resembled a three-dimensional maze; turns, rises, descents, and backtracks. And around each corner, she discovered some unfortunate’s end. Corpses in various states of decomposition. Burnt. Crushed. Impaled. Bisected. Entombed. In the flickering spell-light, she noticed a hand emerging from the wall. Its gaunt fingers twitched. A single eye – terribly alive – darted back and forth, unfocused. Gillian shuddered, the food in her stomach souring. She turned away and vowed that if she survived the Nyx, she would come back and destroy this place, true trump be damned. And the avian-filth stink intensified with every step. Fortunately, whatever instinctual memories remained, Gillian moved through the labyrinth without incident, avoiding traps and dead ends. She turned a corner and found herself in the center of the maze. Bone dust and feathers and bird shit covered the floor. Skulls and cracked bones were scattered and moldering. And squatting in the middle of this detritus, a thing of legend and nightmares. Mammoth in sized, it possessed a leonine body covered in rancid pigeon feathers. Blood and filth encrusted its obsidian talons, the claws more raptor than feline. Mold grew in patches on its broad chest. Broken wings were curled against is flank, moving in obvious pain. And at the end of a long, sinuous neck sat a woman’s head – raven-haired and beautiful. But her blue eyes were filled with unspeakable hatred as they regarded the intruder. The Sphinx flexed its claws, “You’ve come so far, only to die.” Although Gillian felt sorry for the pitiful creature, she didn't want to underestimate it. For all she knew, the sphinx's appearance was just part of the master plan of this place. So she stayed in the doorway. "I thought you were suppose to talk in riddles." The Sphinx shifted forward, causing a fetid plume of dander. “If I adhere to the traditional rules set forth for me by lazy fantasy writers, perhaps,” she said in a voice like strangled ermines. “But I’ve long since learned there are other Tests, which avoid antiquarian clichés.” She cocked her head, “What prize do you Seek? Other than continued existence?” Gillian chewed on the inside of her cheek as she searched her memory for everything she (and especially Cybele) knew about Sphinxes. Sphinxes were generally believed to be the creation of forgotten gods to guard sacred areas. They were extremely intelligent, outclassing most mortals, and knew several languages, myths, and logic games (considered unbeatable at most). They were remarkably cruel and malicious, playing with their victims. However, they could not attack unless provoked and kept their word; although they distorted their promises as much as possible. After a moment she exhaled and replied, "I'm seeking the means to stop the Nyx from destroying Amber, to be frank. Do you know of either?" The Sphinx snorted, derisive. “Amber is the True City, built by the traitor Oberon. The Nyx is She Who Waits Below, Guardian of Achlys. One does not stop Oblivion. So, yours is a fool’s errand.” She crept closer, licking her chops. So Oberon was a traitor. Well, that showed what side of things the Sphinx was on. Gillian held her ground as the creature advanced, her ball of light shining still and bright above her head. As long as she made no untoward movements, she was in no danger of being eaten. Probably. "A fool's errand?" she replied softly to the sphinx. "Maybe. But hope remains. I wish to make a pact with Sacrifice, which you guard, on behalf of Amber." The Sphinx towered over her; its body stink choking, all sores and filth. It regarded her with too-human eyes. “The True Trump, then? Yes, I hold them in my guardianship. But only the Artist holds claim to her Work. You do not wear her face or her manner. Yet, you have her scent. A quandary, indeed. “You must prove your Right to hold the Trump. You will Invoke the Magician Reversed for me, as a demonstration of your Power over the True Trumps.” Quickly, Gillian realized the trick behind the request. Invoking the Magician Reversed resulted in a spirit or daemon becoming unbound and loosed upon the world. From its smug grin, it wasn’t difficult to realize what creature would be ‘unbound,’ as a result. Gillian smiled faintly. "I can do that, and then we shall see what we shall see. But be forewarned, for I am capable of destroying you if you attack me. Give me Sacrifice and take your leave--I will not hinder you." The Sphinx regarded her with unknowable eyes. “Indeed, should you prove yourself, then we shall see what is in our natures. But first, perform the task I have set. Or face the consequences for failure.” She flexed her grimy claws, unintimidated. Gillian held the Sphinx's gaze--a warning--then focused her sight beyond the Sphinx to her mind's eye and brought forth her perfect memory of The Magician, reversed. Gillian began to invoke the Trump from mind into Reality; a cool, calming wave of energy flooding her veins. The Magician, a hooded figure, lacked any facial features – only eyes glowing like foxfire. Initially, he appeared benign, unimposing, little more than man. But as she twisted the Trump energies, the body beneath the figure’s cloak flexed and buckled and shifted – as if unspeakable horrors were emerging from his flesh, yearning to be set free. The Magician shimmered into existence beside her, towering over her by a foot. Power radiated off him like a heat-haze. His scaled hands moved in time with her own, mimicking the summoning ritual movements. “You have Called, and I have come. Do you accept my Pact?” he said in a guttural voice. “And free this beast from its bonds of servitude?” Gillian held up a quelling hand to the Magician and turned to the Sphinx. "I have aptly demonstrated my Power over the True Trumps, fulfilled all that you requested, and proven my Right to hold the Trump you guard. Give it to me now." The Dark Magician turned its burning gaze on the creature, “Do as she asks.” With a dip of its head, the Sphinx crouched onto its belly, submissive. With its talons, it reached up and scissored open its feathered chest, peeling back flesh and bone. Yet, no blood poured out – only a soft light. Within the cavity, a small deck of cards floated. “Mistress, take from me this burden. For I have carried it too long. Release me.” Gillian frowned. Ideally, she wanted to take the cards without having to make a pact with the Magician. Would she be allowed to do that? She reached forward. Her hand passed through some form of membrane – sticky and humid. Her fingers settled up in the cards, which were cool by contrast. The Magician watched silently, while the Sphinx made a cooing noise, a gentle sigh. The cards resisted for a moment, but a quick tug and they slid free from their fleshy moorings. They filled her palm with a comforting weight. Also immediately, the Sphinx exhaled happily. Her body began to discorporate, sloughing away in muddy rivulets that fizzled and popped like lard. The foul steam rising from the sludge burned the eyes and nose. And when it cleared, the creature had left little more than a greasy stain as a reminder of its life. The Magician regarded her, “It is done. You may now accept my Boon.” He extended a ebony hand. No such luck, then, with avoiding making a pact with the Magician. Feeling resigned, Gillian wiped her sticky hand on her skirts and took his hand in her own. The Magician smiled; a cruel twist of the mouth. Gillian felt his energy flood into her, dark and hideous magicks she’d only dream of in her worst nightmares. Killing magick, corruptive and hideous, the poison of primordial horrors. She felt the Light in her retreat deep inside her, fearful of this presence. But the Power. Unicorn bless her. It tasted so sweet, a rich midnight nectar that left her heady with its imbibing. And she knew that Power would reemerge at her beckoning. One cataclysmic blast, which would strip away flesh and bone and soul at whoever – or whatever – she wished destroyed. She barely noticed she was alone again. Alone in a lifeless world. What. Just. Happened? The Magician's words floated back to her: "It is done. You may now accept my Boon." Then... Sweet Unicorn... She looked down at her hands. Had she already made a Pact with The Magician when she released the Sphinx? She didn't remember agreeing to anything per se, but he implied she had. And just what did The Magician get out of this? Gillian finally remembered the Trump she held in her hand, The Hanged Man. She blinked, still feeling a bit dazed, and brought her ball of light closer to study it. The upright card depicted a young man with bloodied rope marks on his wrists and ankles – eerily similar to Seabhac when the light shifted. If she stared at the card too long, the man’s hand appeared to extend toward her. A shiver passed through it each time. Somehow, she knew that the Hanged Man desired her blood. This sacrifice could only be made when her life was in true jeopardy. And once unleashed, it would create a blast of incredible power – an atoning flame. When she flipped it over, the card grew colder. The man transformed into a woman hanging from barbed chains, her flayed face locked in a scream of agony. Even through the mask of blood, she recognized her own face. By invoking this power, she would condemn herself to eternal suffering. But in return, the sacrifice would cleanse any ill, any pain, any corruption. Gillian stared at the card, her gaze unfocused. This was what she sought. This was what would save Amber. Despite what she told herself, it didn't dispel the sudden hard knot in her stomach. Giving her life was one thing—she was already dead, after all—but to condemn herself to eternal torment was more than she could bear. She closed her eyes. God, Seabhac... Gillian took a deep breath, tucked the card away, and brought up the Pattern to take her back to Amber. The Pattern leapt into her mind, blocking out all other thoughts. Silently, painfully, she mentally walked the scintillating construct – replaying a thousand memories, reliving two lives. It was, in short, like being reborn, both liberating and exhausting. Then, with a flicker, she stepped forward through Shadow; the barriers of time and space little more than mutable constructs to her. The temple’s dank recesses disappeared. And she stepped into an inferno. Perhaps, playing on recent memory, she’d Shadow-shifted into Castle Amber’s Great Hall. But now, the once-beautiful chamber of royal splendor had become a battleground of screams and blood. Gunfire rang out – a swarm of bullets nearly cleaving her head from her shoulders. Somewhere behind her in the smoke, a woman shrieked and died. Swords and shields clattered, men and women shouted and howled with rage. Castle guards and black-clad soldiers clashed in tight melees while bullets buzzed through the air. Before she could assess the full situation, a man in black combat gear charged at her with a bayonet. Her boon: one cataclysmic blast to strip away flesh and bone...and soul. Sweet midnight nectar. Gillian drew in a breath. No. This was not the time. She reflexively drew on an earlier memory instead and wicked blue flame erupted from the fingertips of her outstretched hand to engulf the charging soldier. The Power eagerly returned to Gillian, flaring out of her fingertips. With hideous speed, the man’s body peeled away like an onion – layer after layer – until nothing remained but a sticky haze of blood and bone chips. Nor did his weapon escape, rusting and crumbling to ruddy dust. She’d simply erased him. Even with the violence around them, this grisly display caught the attention of the enemy combatants. She felt them training their guns on her, desperate to kill this – thing – now in their midst. Bullets streaked her way, only to explode harmlessly some feet away from here – a heat-shimmer wall protecting her. A red-haired woman slid out of the smoky like some terrible djinn; all fire and shadowy rage. Fiona smiled at her, “Come, sister. Let us show them who truly rules here.” Gillian couldn't help but feel a little, well, dirty regarding the way she'd dispatched the soldier. Tainted. Like she'd stepped over some metaphysical moral and ethical line. But only for a moment. She smiled back at Fiona. Not a "gosh, but I'm happy to see you" smile, nor even a "thank you for saving me against the bullets" smile. It was simply a satisfied smile, one in anticipation that not only was she about to accomplish a task, but she was about to accomplish it well. Her ten fingers splayed, each a conduit of searing blue flame, each targeted against an enemy soldier. It wasn’t killing. No. That word failed to encompass the grotesqueries to follow. Murder, perhaps? Still inadequate. With magicks of flame and shadow, Gillian and Fiona simply extinguished life after life; leaving nothing but screams and hollow echoes of people. No quarter. No surrender. No hope. Just pure, heartless death. When it was done, Fiona called the flames and smoke from the burning room to her, shaping them into a thing of feline cruelty. It snuffled through the ashes and wreckage for survivors; putting them to a swift end with its crematory embrace. Gillian watched, and mused on what she'd done. Was it a heartless death? At least it had been a quick death for them. By comparison, a belly wound could fester for days, a lingering and excruciating death. And they knew what they were signing up for when they became soldiers. Besides, if they had succeeded in their attack, who would have be left to stop the Nyx? They would have been dead either way. The guards began to recover, but kept their distance from the Dark Sisters. Fiona nodded with slight satisfaction, “Your timing was welcome.” Gillian sniffed. "Who were these men?" Fiona knelt down, extending her hand. “Let us find out, shall we?” A sickly light oozed from her palm, reaching down the ashen floor. The bone dust and blood began to slither over to her, swirling and coalescing into a human face. Its hollow mouth opened and screamed. The princess snarled, “You are mine, and you will answer my questions. If you do not, I shall keep you on my night table for centuries.” The tortured wraith grew silent. Too alive eyes stared up at Gillian, filled with fear. “Please. Release me.” Although not entirely comfortable with the death magics, Gillian recognized that they needed the information. She said nothing. [Fiona] “Answer our questions, and we shall. Who sent you?” Loyalty made the wraith quiet. A brutal twist of agony from Fiona erased that. “Rindalo!” It howled. "Rinaldo?" Gillian echoed, aghast. "What in hell's name does he think he's going to accomplish, attacking the royal castle? Does he really expect he can win against the royal family, at the seat of our power? It doesn't make sense." “Amber is mobilizing,” the wraith hissed. “Our Great Lord shall not allow his people to be cast aside again. Our Destiny is assured.” Fiona stood up. With a swift brush of the hand, she dispelled the wraith – its screams fading before the ash settled on the ground. “My nephew’s paranoia is only rivaled by his impulsiveness. Otherwise, he would not have played his cards so quickly. Or he wishes us to know he has spies within our ranks, to cause discord.” She turned to Fiona. "Could this be a diversion? Do you know where the King and Queen are?" “The King is disposing of attackers in the lower levels,” she replied. “The Queen, however, was in her chambers.” She paused, then growled. “He wouldn’t. . .” She gestured to the guards, “To the Queen. Immediately.” "I'm going to assess the situation more arcanely," Gillian stated calmly as she brought up a Pattern Lens. She sent it toward the royal chambers. Fiona jerked a nod and hurried from the room. A tingle of consciousness pressed into the back of Gillian’s head – as if asking permission to enter. Who? If it's Fiona, Gillian doesn't let her in. She sensed her sister’s aura tainting the contact. It faded when she refused its connection. The Pattern Lens leapt to her mind, flaring inside her skull. The ruined gallery faded and she could ‘see’ much of the castle. There were skirmishes on several floors – the Kashfans entering through what could only be called ‘living trumps.’ Crude, terrible creations woven into a living person – transforming them into a gateway and fed by their essence. Interesting. Gillian filed the "living trump" idea away for later consideration. Assuming there was a later. Although the damage to the castle was great, she could see the Family and guards had recovered and were repulsing the attackers. Her Sight hurtled through the massive structure in a dizzying display. And with little effort, she found Vaille’s chambers and the woman within. She was blindly stumbling backward, fear clouding her thoughts. Blood speckled her white gown and face. An attendant and a guard lay nearby, murdered. And slowly approaching her, killing blade in hand. . . King Rinaldo. Although the temptation was there because he was such an ongoing annoyance, Gillian figured killing a relative would be frowned upon greatly, especially if there were other options. But even if he was threatening the queen? Gillian brought her Lens around behind Rinaldo so she was looking at his back. She cast a variant of her previous blue lightning spell through the Lens, lowering the voltage with the intent to knock out rather than kill, and aimed it at his heart. She had him dead to rights; the spell flaring through the shadow conduit toward his back. Or so it seemed, at first. But then Gillian felt her stomach lurch, as some form of Trump energy clamped around her body and soul. Like a rabbit in a snare trap, she was yanked ‘forward.’ The world flickered and twisted, as she helplessly slipped between the threads of reality to reappear in front Rinaldo. Her spell construct fizzled, consumed by Rinaldo’s defensive magicks. And stealing a piece of her. That dreadful fact she knew somehow. “Interesting,” he said coldly, looking down at her with a modicum of respect. Then promptly loosened her teeth with a backhand from his mailed fist. Glass and wood dug into her flesh as she crashed through pottery display case. Pain became her world. “Leave her alone!” Vaille hollered. She tried to sound brave, but fear wavered her voice. "I would be more concerned for yourself, Madame," Rinaldo replied, readying his weapon to strike down the Queen. This hurt worse than when she fell into the laboratory. So that's what she got for trying to be nice and not killing him outright. Her mistake was underestimating him--he was a relative after all, and he presumably was adept with Pattern as well as Trump and Magic. Gillian wiped the blood away from her mouth and looked up at Rinaldo. One cataclysmic blast to strip away flesh and bone and soul, she thought to herself. Killing magic. A small part of her recoiled at the thought of summoning that Power. Would it change her? Undoubtedly. On the other hand, he stole a part of her. He threatened the queen. So was this the right time? Yes. Oh hell yes. She grimaced and let the dark energy flow. Rinaldo had dismissed her. His mistake. He turned, sensing the magicks rising within the young woman too late. Frowning, he tried to raise some form of Pattern Shield, but couldn't complete the defense in time. Shadow-blue light bathed him, throwing him back like a rag doll. He howled as killing flames leeched through and blistered his skin. The sound was cut short by his impact with the stone wall - something snapping like a gunshot. Exhaustion poured into Gillian's body like poison, even more painful than the injuries. Even muted, Rinaldo's defenses had drained something from her... drinking deep of her strength. Vaille found her way to Gillian's side. Her blind eyes frantically glanced back and forth. "Are you okay, my dear?" "I...don't know." She struggled to get to her feet. "Are you?" The Queen managed a slight smile, "Nothing worse than I suffered during my days as a handmaiden." Vaguely, she extended her hand to Gillian, "Is he dead?" The answer came swiftly and brutally. The Queen lurched forward, falling on top of Gillian - a low moan escaping her. Crimson bubbled on her trembling lips; a low rasp caught in her throat as she struggled to breath. "No!" Gillian exclaimed. Shocked, she lowered Vialle gently to the floor. The Queen lay very still; her ragged breathing almost imperceptible. The bejeweled dagger sheathed in her back pulsed. Rindalo stood some feet away; his sneer only worsened by the crisped flesh masking the right side of his face. "Tell Random. He took my queen. Now I've taken his." "Go to hell," Gillian spat back, feeling helpless. Rinaldo had survived the Magician's boon--what was left for her to try against him? She frantically searched Cybele's memories for something to try while she talked. "What did you gain? Killing Vialle will not bring back Coral. Instead all you've done is sign your death warrant. You are a dead man walking." "I died long ago, girl," he hissed - the pain in his eyes outshining that from his wounds. "Now, Random will suffer the same pain for his interference." As she studied him, Gillian became aware of the true damage she'd inflicted upon Rinaldo. His wounds went far deeper than the physical. The Magician's Boon had blistered his flesh - yes - but it had also disconnected the King from whatever Power protected him. Indeed, horribly, she realized he was little more than a Reflection of his former self. . . any connection to the Pattern or Trumps invariably severed. He was for all intents and purposes - Human. A fact Rindalo was just discovering. He reached inwardly to summon a Trump... and found nothing. Confusion clouded his wounded face. Then true fear. He whipped around, raising his sword, "What have you done to me?!" "Bested you," she whispered. It wasn't the open field, but she knew Slyph's Blessing wouldn't fail her. Gillian raised her hand and called the wind to slam Rinaldo up against the wall. Rindalo's frown deepened as the winds struck him, tossing him like a ragdoll. The fleshy crunch of him striking the wall offered some satisfaction. His weapon flew from his limp hands, clattering on the floor near her feet. The King of Kasfha slumped to the floor - alive - but grievously wounded. And utterly defeated. Gunfire erupted outside, people exchanging short bursts. Probably his rear guard, now inviting the wrath of Amber's soldiers. Gillian swore under her breath at the sounds of fighting and kicked Rinaldo's sword out of his reach before turning back to Vialle. She knelt and gently cradled the woman's head in her lap. She needed to get Vialle to safety, to someone who could heal her. Could she make a trump on the fly? She had done it once before, transporting herself into the school laboratory during the Dark Hour. Could she do it again, right now? She was just so tired. Damn Rinaldo to all nine hells, anyway. Resolved to try, Gillian brought to mind Random's face. She remembered his wry smile and the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth as he held up a tumbler of whiskey. She remembered his unruly hair, the color of warm honey and pale straw, the bit in front sticking up after he ran his hand through it. She remembered his eyes, the same shade as the sky at midday. "Random," she whispered, naming him. She willed the image she held of him to become alive. "Answer me, please!" The image in her mind solidified, sharpened, becoming increasingly life-like. Even with the repeated cracks of rifles shaking her, Gillian completed the Trump image in her head - draining what few reserves she had left. It took a little prodding, but soon enough the silvery bonds of a Contact opened before her - ghostly and beautiful. "Cerberus's Sausage, girl. Do you even know how painful that is?" Random growled. His face was covered in ash and soot. Blood streaked his forehead - not all of it his. She could barely make out a tunnel and other men and women nearby, all in equal states of exhaustion. He recognized her manner immediately, "What's Happened?" His voice cracked with knowing dread. "Vialle is injured. Rinaldo is unconscious. There is gunfire nearby. I need your help. Can you come to me?" Random didn't answer verbally. One instant, he was in the middle of battle somewhere. In the next, he was beside Gillian. He went to his wife's side in a flash, gently, tenderly pulling her into his arms. "Shhhh," he whispered. "I'm here, angel. I'm here." The King spoke without looking back, his voice resolute. "We shall be in your hands." Gillian's eyes widened. What? SHE DIDN'T WANT THAT RESPONSIBILITY. She didn't know what to say. Anything glib quietly fizzled away before it reached her lips. She supposed "Yes, sire," would be the most appropriate. "Yes, sire." The Jewel around his neck began to glow, as did the air around the King and his wife. As Gillian watched, their breathing and movements slowed, slowed, into imperceptibility. Even the flicker from with the Jewel slowed to complete stillness. Somehow, he'd placed them into a form of stasis - placing them outside normal Time. Screams came from outside and the gunfire ended abruptly. Gillian jerked around to stare in the direction of the scream, hoping it was a good thing and not a bad thing. She wasn't sure she had enough energy left to cast another spell if it turned out to be a bad thing. She placed herself between the king and the door, determined to face whatever came through. (Continued in A Beating of the Minds) |
