The rasping sound had begun within mere hours of breaking camp but, initially, it had been indistinct enough that it was dismissed as wind through the boughs overhanging the road or the dry whispering of dust and gravel kicked up underhoof. When, hours later, the rasping turned to grinding and the carriage had begun to sputter at speed, Senator Olsta’s driver was unconvinced that it was solely tricks of environment and air that troubled his senses. By the time the Imperial Way had bent north and west, bringing the caravan out of the forested foothills and closer to the craggy cliffs of Ellisbraud’s coast, the carriage’s right front wheel had begun to develop a noticeable wobble. Jiverio sighed in irritation and reined the team back a bit, slowing the carriage as he called out to one of the outriding guardsmen.

“Ho, Darollus,” he shouted, beckoning the soldier to come closer.

Darollus turned his horse, cantered up alongside the carriage, and fixed the driver with an inquisitive look. “Trouble, Jiverio,” he queried.

The teamster gave an uncertain shrug and inclined his head toward the trembling wheel. “Not sure it’s trouble just yet,” Jiverio returned, “but I reckon that wheel could use a lookin’ to. Any splits or the like ya can see on the hub?”

Darollus leaned over in his saddle and inspected the wheelhub as best he could without having to call the caravan to a stop. “Don’t see no cracks or anythin’,” the outrider reported, straightening in his saddle again, “but it don’t seem to be ridin’ on the axle quite proper.”

“Figured as much,” Jiverio spat, “How far we got ‘til Skalkbluff?”

“Another twenty-five, thirty miles,” Darollus estimated, “Think it’ll hold that far?”

“Mm… maybe,” the driver shrugged, flicking another skeptical glance at the wheel, “if we don’t push it too hard and the road don’t get too rough, anyway.”

Darollus gave a nod in reply to the teamster’s assessment and cast an eye toward the steadily misting skies that hung over the Sea of Daranjaya. “Looks to be some rain in the making before long, too,” he considered, turning his gaze back to Jiverio, “Don’t reckon the Senator’d fancy standin’ out in the wet whilst we had the wheel changed.”

“Prob’ly not,” the driver agreed, “Mind droppin’ back, givin’ him a report, and askin’ his preference as to what to do?” 

“Ayup!”

Darollus disappeared from sight and, a moment later, Jiverio heard him rap respectfully on the carriage door. An indistinct exchange of words drifted to his ears, then, and after another couple of minutes the outrider trotted back up beside him.

“The ol’ man says he wants to make The Scarlet Griffon before nightfall if not before the rain,” Darollus reported with a shrug, “If the wheel ain’t fallin’ off, right now, keep pushin’ on and we’ll get a wheelwright in Skalkbluff to tend it in the overnight.”

“Gods forbid we disrupt his schedule fer somethin’ minor as a wheel,” Jiverio chuffed, giving a nod of annoyed concession, “Push on it is.”

“Yeah,” Darollus snickered softly, “he’s got that pink-haired point-ear’s head in his lap, again, too. I reckon he ain’t lookin’ to have that interrupted more than he’s worried about the schedule.”

The teamster rolled his eyes and smirked. “Be a shame if the wheel come loose and caused him to get his wick bit off, wouldn’it?”

“A damn shame,” the soldier chuckled, peeling away from the carriage to retake his position.

I see her logged in on Discord fairly often but I haven't actually talked to her in a bit.

I like the SHALL NOT BE NAMED label... just sayin'.

By the Ancestors, we hope that's not a case of worms!

I'm assuming that Peregrine is only carrying the standard load-out of Mk XXV photon torpedoes and not any quantum torpedoes, correct?

Nicely done on stretching the repair-time and feeding some plausible deniability, there, Meri!

And, hey! That's what us uber-nerds are for...  Always happy to help.

Insomnia and the entirety of Tochi's first 'command' being spent in spacedock aside, I guess he did okay.

Wonder if he'll leave the Fleet and head out to explore the galaxy on the Angel before he actually gets a true command of his own, though. I suppose we'll see.

Glad to know the post was okay, though.

...Cheese and rice! That might be the MOST 'in command' Tochi's gotten in the last few runs Peregrine has been on... at least as far as 'on screen' goes!

Olan - If I overstepped anywhere or stepped on anything you might have had planned with that, let me know and I'll edit ASAP.

If not... soft-tosses all around, I guess?

Enjoy!

We kinda did!

Stardate 2365.05.15 - Impact minus 73:12
USS Peregrine, Deck 1, Officers’ Lounge - 1630

In response to the Captain’s summons, Tochi and Zhay-la swept through the door to the Officers’ Lounge together. After returning Dr. Veen’s greeting with a cordial nod and a restrained but friendly ‘Good evening, Doctor,’ the XO saw the TAC Chief to her seat and, then, took his customary spot to the right of where Silas sat. “Captain,” he said, offering a clipped but friendly nod to the CO but, noting the look of concern on the man’s face, said nothing more as he settled into his chair. Zai sat in silence, fingers laced together atop the table before him, and his gaze slowly panning the room as the remainder of the senior staff filed in. When the last of them had arrived and everyone was in their place, the Trill turned his eyes back to Drake.

“Thank you all for coming on short notice,” Silas began, his voice husky, “I apologize for intruding upon your leisure hours. Unfortunately, it could not be helped…”

Here comes the proverbial ‘other shoe,’ Tochi sighed inwardly, not failing to miss the rather dismal tone of Silas’ voice that often followed complications of Admiral Harding’s orders, We might have anticipated this.

“Lt Ch’ronnoss and his team have identified this asteroid as being on a collision course with Calican II,” Drake continued as the holoprojector sprang to life, displaying the object labelled ‘2365 C41A3 DN17’ and its calculated trajectory, “In just over seventy-three hours, it will impact the surface of the planet and cause and extinction event. All life on the planet will be extinguished. Seven billion sentients will die.”

Frill… A soft but heavy sigh shushed over Tochi’s lips as he slumped back into his chair, his hands coming off the table, fingers steepling before pursed lips, and his eyes narrowing a bit as he studied the projection with more than a little intensity. His mind poured over numerous calculations regarding distance, trajectory, intercept options, and other concerns as the Captain continued with the briefing. 

"The asteroid itself is challenge enough.  It is more than thirty-two kilometers in diameter, and rather dense.  We cannot simply tractor it away, for instance.

But I trust that there are likely several viable solutions to prevent this catastrophe.  The problem, though, is the complex question - CAN we do anything?"

Silas sighed as Tochi continued to scowl thoughtfully at the holoprojection.  "The Prime Directive is very clear.  All of us have sworn on our lives to uphold it.  We cannot interfere in the natural course of a primitive planet's development, no matter how terrible and grim that development may seem to be.

That said," Silas said, coming to the end of the actual briefing portion of the meeting, "I am not willing to let seven billion lives end when I could have prevented it.  My ideal scenario would be to come up with some way to save the inhabitants of the planet and still uphold the Prime Directive.  So I have called you here to help me figure out how we can do both."

As the Captain’s gaze started ticking around the table and requesting time-tables, data dumps, and likely options from the various department heads, Tochi leaned forward, again, and with a few taps of his cool fingers, began to overlay probable and discrete approach vectors for the Peregrine along with other variables atop the display. The Trill had dismissed several options and plotted in a handful of others by the time Silas wrapped up his directives to the others and sat, now, still in rapt consideration of the modified display, the fingers of one hand stroking thoughtfully at his stubbled chin.

"Again, though, the big question remains,” Drake intoned, wrapping up his assignments, “Tractor beams, weapons, shuttles, engines... none of that matters if we cannot figure out a way to make this work with the Prime Directive.  So let's start talking."

“I believe we might have an angle, of sorts, Captain,” Zai offered, his gaze flitting to Drake after another moment’s consideration of his review of the holo and its overlays, “at the very least where operating within the Prime Directive is concerned…”

Rising from his seat, Tochi cued the display to zoom out and show a system-wide representation of Calican wherein a number of Starfleet and UFP markers were highlighted.

“...Other than the nav-beacon we were tasked with repairing, there are a number of Federation assets within the system and at its fringes that bear consideration. We have semi-permanent culture study probes in these locations,” he said, a few markers flaring brighter at his gestures toward the display, “trained not only on Calican II but, also, a planet or two in neighboring systems…” He tapped the console before him and another marker lit up, “...This is a dilithium processing and transfer station which might be adversely affected depending upon the magnitude of the asteroid’s impact with the planet; and these…” Tochi stroked a finger over the console, once more, to display a handful of trajectories through and around Calican, “...are trade routes which might feasibly be disrupted should the planet be destroyed in its entirety, resulting in a far-reaching debris field that might be troublesome for decades, if not centuries to come.

We’ve plotted a number of intercept vectors that could possibly keep Peregrine and any support craft out of view of anything Calican II’s technology is capable of picking up on…” The holo shifted, again, to show the results of his initial calculations, “...but I’ll need further input in several areas to ascertain the effectiveness of any of these scenarios.”

His eyes turned to Callie at this point. “Commander Kennedy, we need to know the impact and ramifications that a combined tractor-tow and pressor-beam push from the Peregrine and our full contingent of Heavies might have where altering the asteroid’s course is concerned.”

“Lieutenant,” his gaze ticking to Zhay-la, then, “I need to know what sort of yield your department can coax from a controlled spread of torpedoes in order to assist and/or enhance such an effort.”

“Mister Ferraro, Mr Ch’ronnoss,” Tochi’s attentions went to the OPS and SCI Chiefs, “estimations as to what sort of visibility and ramifications all of this might incur planet-side, if you please.

And, Doctor,” he finished, a sigh escaping him again as he turned eyes to Veen, “We imagine this might get touchy, so if you could have Medical prepped for quick response and triage if required?”

...ideas are coming!

I would think that should be extremely doable, Ody. Probably have to compensate for some interference and such, maybe do some calibrations to be able to pick up on those older VHF/UHF/RF style frequencies but, given "our" tech versus "theirs," it shouldn't be a difficult task.

Edit: A Class VI Comm Relay/Emergency Beacon probe or a Class VII Remote Culture Study probe would probably come into play in this sort of thing, actually. You can check the specs for those here.

“Oi,”  the burly, dark-haired half-elf barked as he jerked one hand away from the bowl he held, “Mind whatcher doin’, Rin!  I a’ready got my arm scorched, last night, an’ now yer tryin’ ta scald my thumb off? It’d be awful damn hard ta take down camp with just the one arm, would’n’it?”

“S-sorry, Bon,”  Rinril blinked as a scowling Bon sucked the porridge from his thumb. The cook-elf tipped his ladle over the other man’s bowl, again, making sure not to splash any more onto his hand. “Guess I’m still just a bit jumpy after last night.”

“Yeah,” Bon snorted, taking a wooden spoon from the table and plopping it into his bowl before trudging away with his breakfast, “ain’t we all?”

“I would say so,” said the sel’thanni girl who followed Bon in the serving line, “All but the senator, at any rate. I’m sure he slept through the whole thing.” She smiled soothingly as she held her bowl out over the pot; “Good morning, Rin.”

Rinril offered a small smile of his own when his gaze turned to the girl. Her long, golden hair had been braided and wound into a tight bun at the back of her head and her bright aquamarine eyes glittered in the flickering torchlight. “Morning, Ghilly,” he returned softly, carefully ladling a serving of porridge into her bowl, “Nothing too bad happened to you, last night, I hope?”

“No,” she gave a slight shake of her head, “unless you consider having to chase down Olsta’s oversized knickers and give them a second washing after the line snapped is too bad.”

Rinril chuckled and shook his head, too; “I wouldn’t want to think about his knickers, let alone have to wash them; but, no, I don’t suppose that’s too bad.”

She giggled softly, a light tinkling sound much like rain-drops falling on glass bells. “Well it’s certainly a better chore than that for which he originally bought me,” she smirked, a finger absently tracing the bright pink scar which chased from her right cheekbone toward her upper-lip.

“I wouldn’t want to think about that, either,” he muttered almost apologetically, his smile waning a bit…

 When Ghilly had initially come into Olsta’s service it was as a body-slave and, given the tales he’d heard from others over the years, he was sure that he would much rather have to wipe the senator’s arse thirty times a day rather than have to endure entertaining the fat pig’s carnal desires. Mercifully, Ghilly had only had to serve in that capacity for a couple of years before that facial scar appeared (some said it had been wrought by her own hand) and ‘marred her beauty’ to the extent that Olsta struck her from the harem. Given the price he had paid for her, though, Olsta was loathe to sell her off for a lesser amount and, so, Ghilly had been reduced to serving as a chamber-maid and a laundress ever since.

… “I saved you a crust,” Rinril smiled, again, producing a heel of well-browned bread and placing it atop the girl’s bowl, “I know how much you like them.”

“That’s sweet of you, Rin,” Ghilly smiled brightly before turning to take her leave, “Thank you.”

“Ghilly,” he called after her in a coarse whisper causing the girl to pause and turn back. When she stood on the other side of the porridge pot, again, Rinril’s eyes darted about to ensure that no one else was in earshot before continuing in an almost conspiritory tone, “You’re not expected to ride in the carriage today, are you?”

The girl’s brow knitted in mild confusion at the question but, all the same, she shook her head. “No,” she replied, “I think I’m either to be on the supply wagon or riding the line to tend the guards. Why?”

The cook-elf’s gaze darted fretfully about, once more, and then he leaned closer to the girl. “It was him...” he whispered, “...last night... It was him!”

Ghilly’s eyes went wide and her gaze, too, began to cast about somewhat anxiously. “The assassin,” she hissed softly, “are you sure?”

“Saw him with my own eyes,” Rinril nodded, “I think it’ll happen today. You see to it that you avoid the senator’s carriage as much as you’re able.”

“I’ll do my best,” she nodded in return, “Do the others know?”

“I haven’t had the chance to tell them, yet.”

“I’ll see if I can’t spread the word, then,” Ghilly offered, poking the crust of bread into her mouth in hopes of masking the hopeful smile that threatened her lips. She strolled away from the table then, the mouthful of bread unable to stifle the almost happy tune she’d begun to hum.

That's what I wanted to know!

• What kind of satellite network is in orbit around Calican II? (I'm assuming something akin to latter 20th century Earth but just want to verify.)
  
  
  
  • Has the asteroid had any impact (destroyed, disrupted, etc) on Calican's satelites?
  
  
  • How close can we get the Peregrine to the planet before we risk detection by one or more of those satellites and/or, given the doomsday scenario, are they even bothering to monitor?
  
  
  
  


• What's the maximun effective range of Peregrine's tractor beam?

I think that may be all I have in advance of the meeting but, we'll see.

Now we just rig the holo-emitters to make Peregrine look like a dragon and we can fulfil a prophecy! I mean, surely, fulfilling a prophecy doesn't violate the Prime Directive, does it? Sisko did it, after all!

...we were a bit slow in getting our collab started (differing schedules and such, you know) but it is in the works, anyway.

It's pretty much fluffy stuff, I suppose, so nothing you have to wait for, boss. It can always be backposted.

Nicely done, little sister. 

Crouched behind the scrub, Nyx watched as little things in the sprawl of the senator’s camp began to show signs of Cayrimisa’s meddling. First, a canvas that served as a roof for one of the lesser wagons broke loose of its moorings and flapped madly in the wind. Next a fire flared wildly, coaxing shouts of surprise and, maybe, even pain to lift into the night air…

Well done, Nyx chuckled to himself, imagining what other bits of mischief Cay might be visiting on Olsta’s entourage, Very well done.

...The guards’ patrols had already begun to stutter and stagger in reaction to the witch’s initial meddling. When the horses broke free and galloped from the camp, though, the circuits broke from the established routine altogether as Olsta’s retainers abandoned their routes in order to investigate. This was the opening Nyx had been waiting for.

He slithered from his blind and made quickly and quietly for the edge of the camp. As the shouts and scurrying of the senator’s entourage increased, the assassin rolled beneath Olsta’s own carriage, hauled himself up onto the frame between the axles and, then, slid himself forward, nestling between the leafed springs that held the front of the things body aloft. His fingers dipped into a pouch on his belt and came back out with a generous handful of coarse metal shavings and rough bits of gravel. Stretching himself across the fore-axle, Nyx liberally packed the abradants into the grease where the axle extended into the hub of a wheel. That done, he slid back to his original position, and worked at worrying a bolt loose from the bodyspring and, finally, bent an axle-clip into a wider arc than was entirely secure.

He was satisfied that his sabotage would produce the desired effects at some point on the morrow, of course, but, for good measure, still considered slipping toward the rear axle in order to mirror some of the actions there, as well. The flurry of flustered activity in the camp had begun to die down, though, and, if he tarried any longer, he might have a more difficult time exiting the camp than he did slipping in. This will have to do, he decided, wriggling his way from between the support springs and preparing to roll off of the bit of framing that stretched between the axles, I’m sure it shall be plenty. If not, an arrow or two should help things along. He lowered himself to the ground, then, and, just as he was about to roll himself from beneath the carriage, a clatter and thud from the camp-side of the thing begged his attention and sent a hand to a weapon hilt.

“Pach,” an elven flavored voice hissed as Nyx’s gaze fell on the scattering of dropped utensils and earthenware which had prompted the curse. Holding his breath, the mith’ganni watched as Rinril, the very slave he had visited to secure this contract, dropped to his knees and began to gather up the spillage. 

When the dur’manni cook-elf’s eyes chanced in Nyx’s direction and went wide in recognition, Nyx simply gave a slow shake of his head and pressed a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. Rinril managed a vague nod in answer before quickly turning his attention back to gathering up the items he had dropped and, even before the guard who was returning to his patrol route could chastise the clumsy Wood Elf cook, the assassin had been reclaimed by the night and was gone.

==============

A while later, a suitably satisfied Nyx strolled rather casually through the wood that fringed the meager camp Cay had set up for them earlier in the afternoon. The closer he got, though, the more he sensed the tension that emanated from that tiny clearing. He was in earshot, now, and though the ranting was still indistinct, he had enough experience to know that the irate ramblings were most certainly Cay’s and, as his searching gaze swept the brush and undergrowth ahead, the sparks of wild magic that flashed before him left him with little doubt that the witch was absolutely furious over something.

Concern over what might have upset her bade him hurry but, at the same time, practiced caution in the face of her fury slowed his steps a fraction...

“Stupid!  It would be a paching di’thang adanedhel!”  Her voice rang out high and clear.  “It was all going so well, and then you… mane caele lle umien!?  Not that it matters… lle mereth en draugrien!”  Her stomping steps veritable crackled through the night air. “N’uma, all that matters now is that you’ve gone and botched it all.”

What is she on about? Nyx wondered, his fingers toying at the hilt of the khukri sheathed at his hip as he crept nearer to the edge of their camp. His worry had apparently caused a misstep that had caught Cay’s raging attention as, when he stepped tentatively into the clearing, it wasn’t just the whirling wild-magic that confronted him but, also, a (scarcely) controlled blue ball of fire.

“Tampa!” She snarled, glaring at him from the other side of that threatening orb.

“Melamin…” he started softly, his voice tinged with concern and his hands drifting away from his weapons as they spread, unthreatening, out to either side.

“N’uma!  You daren’t start that… another adanenhel botching everything up.  You said I should stay here… pach!  Mayhem, a little mayhem… observing… I apparently wasn’t ready, and you… you… and look at what I’ve managed to do this time!  And again… again… I’m left at your mercy to clean it up… I paching hate this!  So don’t go melamin-ing after me… I don’t want your sympathy or… or....”

Nyx stopped in his tracks at that and, even though he was loath to take his eyes from her, he let his gaze make a quick sweep of the clearing even as he raised his hands a bit higher in an attempt to stave off her ire. The nervous nickering of their horses snatched at his attentions, first, but immediately thereafter, his eyes framed the scourged and shattered eleven body heaped at the base of a tree… Pach! What happened, here, he didn’t dare ask aloud, What have you done, Cay? I thought it had all gone well and… now… this?

“Cayrimisa,” he said as softly as he could, his hands stretching even further from his sides as he slowly bowed his head in acknowledgement of her raging, “This… all of this… is manageable… please…”

The ball of blue fire sputtered, then, and while the light seemed to leave her eyes, recognition seemed to take its place. The fire dissipated into a puff of similarly-hued smoke as her hands fell weakly to her side and, as he took his first hesitant step toward her, the angered expression playing on her features melted to one of submissive disappointment. “Amin hiraetha,” she veritably whispered.

“No, melamin,” he reassured her, taking another tentative step or two toward her, “it’s alright… I am here… It will…”

“Pach!!!” Her scream shattered the night along with whatever words Nyx might have planned to say next, and she crumpled to the forest floor.

He wasn’t able to reach her quickly enough to keep her from thudding into the dirt but he was only a second of so short. Now, as he knelt beside her, brushing her hair from her face, he sighed heavily, almost ruefully.  “Amin hiraetha, Cayrimisa,” he murmured, his lips brushing her cheek as he scooped her into his arms, “I should have insisted you stay here…” His gaze flitted to the broken body beneath the tree, again, “...You are not a killer. You’ve told me as much before. This was... too much…”

He carried her to the tent, lay her down on the bedrolls, and freed her from the confinement of her clothes before swaddling her in the various blankets and furs. “Quel kaima, Lady Shyndyn,” he whispered in the wake of a tender kiss to the scarred tip of one of her ears, “and do not let this follow you into the light of day, yes?” On his knees at her side, Nyx spent the next few moments simply watching worriedly over her and, then, once assured she’d not be waking soon, kissed her again, and slipped from the tent to tend to the mess she’d made.

=============

A couple of hours later, Nyx whispered through the tent’s flap, again, and, as he stripped himself from his own clothes, muttered into the air. “Fear not, Cay. It has been made to appear that the elf fled in the wake of your mischief and was trampled in the road as he tried to escape. The tracks left by your dragging the body have been erased as best as I could manage. We should be safe until morning.”

He slipped himself beneath her blankets, then, and curled himself against her back as his arm slipped around her to cradle her against him. “Rest now, lirimaer. Tomorrow is another day, yes?”

It hadn’t taken the raven long to locate the Olsta encampment; not even a full hour had passed since it had taken wing from Nyx’s shoulder before the bird had sent its vision back to the elf. The senator’s caravan had laid claim to a small meadow that flanked the Imperial Way only a few miles behind where Nyx and Cay had pitched their own tent.

The nobleman’s site was far more elaborate than theirs, of course. An ostentatious pavilion had been erected in the meadow’s center. The carriage and entourage of carts, set at defensibly distant intervals, defined the perimeter between the pavilion and the forested foothills, the flanks and front of that boundary were sketched out by the smaller tents and trappings of the soldiery and servants, and the rest was given over to makeshift outdoor kitchens, laundries, and other accoutrements meant to show status by means of money and station. The senator and his personal attendants had retired to the pavilion some time ago, it seemed. A number of the remaining servants and slaves, too, had disappeared into their own tents for the night; those who had not now busied themselves with tasks such as banking the cook-fires, tending to the horses, and servicing the tented privy. The only movement of concern, at this hour, then, were the patrols and watchposts of Olsta’s guardsmen around the campground.

Crouched at the crest of a tree-dappled hummock some distance from the camp, Nyx watched as a pair of guards, patrolling in opposite directions, passed one another in the lee of the carriage. “...twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine,” he counted quietly, stopping only when the guards had their backs to one another again. There was a faint nod of his head when the count stopped and his yellow eyes ticked skyward for an instant and he rubbed thoughtfully at his chin as he regarded the stars. “They are consistent,” he murmured to the woman standing in the shadows of the oak behind him, “Their routes cross every ten minutes, give or take twenty or thirty seconds. Timed properly, I shouldn’t have any trouble slipping past.

Truly a shame that the contract says it needs to look like an accident,” he smirked, rising out of his crouch and glancing over his shoulder at Cay, “I could kill Olsta and everyone else in that pavilion and be out and away before anyone knew better.

Shall we get closer, melamin?”

Cay tossed the small twig that she had been lazily digging pits into the dirt while she watched Nyx watch the camp and then joined him in rising.  “Yes.  I’ll fall behind a little, I don’t need to get as close as you.”  She pointed down into the grassland on the side of the camp closer to the road, near where the furthest cart was positioned.  “I was thinking I could slink down there, create some of that havoc we had discussed.  Nothing too big, I promise.  Just enough for you to see how quick the camp is on their feet.”  Leaning in toward him she placed a soft kiss on his lips.  “I’ll meet you back at the camp, we never did get dessert…” she winked.  “Tenna’ san’.”  Pulling back she pulled her fingers down across the brim of her hat as she pulled it down over her eyes and began to slink toward the field.  

“Tenna’ san’, a’maelamin,” he smiled against her lips before she pulled away, “Tira ten’ rashwe.” He watched her steal down the hill and into the shadows of the field where the light of senator’s camp fires could not reach. When he determined he’d given her enough lead time, Nyx skulked along his own path toward the encampment’s rear.  He moved swiftly and silently, the shadows clinging to him as he crept ever closer to his goal. Once he had gotten close enough, he secreted himself behind a patch of scrub that the light of a passing patrol’s torch scarcely kissed and let his gaze scan the complex camp as he awaited Cay’s distraction.

My youngest and her BF are visiting at the moment but I'll get a doc going for that collab soon.

Nice post, C2P!

That should give C2P plenty of time to wrap a Zhay-la post that plays into our planned collab and, following that, for Meri, C2P, and myself to get said collab wrapped and our respective characters bound for the meeting.

They had been pushing their horses hard for the better part of an hour and, had Cay not reined her piebald pony back, just then, Nyx might have seen fit to push them a bit further. As it stood, though, when Cay dropped back, Nyx tugged on his own pony’s reins, too, and the black reared up, whinnying and whirling in the road.

“Aiya,” Nyx exclaimed, one hand firm on the reins as he leaned forward in the saddle and gave the colt a reassuring pat on the neck with the colt’s neck, “Easy, there, you little rauko! All is well; it’s okay. Shh-shh-shh!”

The black settled his forehooves back to the road and, at another whispered word from the mith’ganni astride its back, wheeled around and trotted toward where the witch sat atop his sister. “Good boy,” Nyx murmured to the colt, still gently scritching the animal’s mane, “Well done.”

“Sorry… I need a bite, and…” Cay grinned apologetically as Nyx approached, fixing her with a curious gaze,  “...well… I’ve been waiting for a decent sized tree to align itself with the road just right…” Without another word, or scarcely a glance, for that matter, Cayrimisa sharply raised a hand to the sky and, just as cuttingly, let it fall to her lap. At that, the crisp morning sky spit forth a crackle of lightning which struck an oak near the roadside and set the onyx colt to nickering and spinning, once more.

“Aiya! Whoa, you devil,” Nyx found himself soothing his horse, again, while Cay’s piebald filly stood unfazed even as the tree came crashing across the road, “Whoa!”

“Better,” Cay smirked, briefly tipping her head at the fallen tree before turning to rummage through her pack for a sack of dried fruit, “Much better.” She poked a piece of apple past her lips as Nyx guided the black to her side and cast a faintly facetious gaze in her direction. 

“I do love this Cayrimisa Shyndyn that has replaced our Ettelenya. I really do,” he chortled softly, his yellow gaze lingering on the felled oak a moment before ticking back to the woman beside him, “but she can be a bit unsettling.”

The bridge of Cay’s nose wrinkled in amusement and, again, she flicked a wink and blew him a kiss as the small sack of fruit was plunked to the saddle between her thighs.

“For the better of it, though,” Nyx chuffed after blowing his ‘wife’ a kiss in return and continuing with the soothing strokes on the colt’s neck, “she has helped me to name this horse.” With a couple of quick pats, he abandoned his assuasive attentions to the black and murmured, “Isn’t that right, Devil?”

The feisty colt shook its mane and snorted in response, causing Nyx to chuckle. “Sinta’amin,” he said, crossing his arms over the saddlehorn and turning his gaze back to the freshly felled oak, “she is a mad woman. That’s why we love her, yes?”

 As the Twilight Elf lifted his eyes to regard the road beyond the tree, Devil bobbed his head in agreement and Nyx massaged the colt’s ear as a reward. “I think we’ve put enough space between us and Vadim’s hawks to afford a rest,” he said after a moment, reaching an alabaster hand out to run fingertips over the filly’s neck, then, “and these two could use a tip into that creek. No doubt, they’re thirsty.” 

“Okay.” Another bit of dried berry disappeared between Cay’s lips as she rolled her shoulders in a faint shrug and, at the same time, offered a conciliatory nod before turning the piebald toward the brook beside which the tree had once loomed. 

Nyx followed her to the banks of the creek and helped her from the saddle before freeing the ponies of their bits and bridles so that they might drink unhindered. He snatched the bedroll from between Devil’s saddlebags, too, and, after dropping the horses’ accoutrements, spread the bedroll out on the ground to give Cay a softer place to sit. His eyes ticked back to the road then and, following the release of a breath that she imagined to be more relaxed than she’d heard in the past hour, said; “There is time, too, melamin, for me to cook you a warmer breakfast should you care for it. We’ll be on Olsta’s caravan well before our shadows catch up to us, I think.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Cay grinned hopefully, sinking to the spot he had prepared for her, her fingers probing the sack for another dried piece of fruit, “I haven’t had a decent meal since before we left the city.”

“A moment, then,”Nyx chuckled, already gathering a fistful of tinder and kindling from the ground, “I managed a few eggs in my dealings, yestermorn, and a rasher of bacon, too. That should tide you over for a time, yes?”

“Absolutely,” she agreed over the rumbling of her belly, “as long as you’re sure we have time.”

“We do,” he assured her, crouching down before her, now, and clearing a spot upon which he piled the tinder and kindle before setting it alight.

Cay watched him in silence for a while, continuing to nibble on dried fruit as he raised the cookfire. Once he had the coals going and an iron hook with a skillet hanging over them, though, she twisted the sack closed and, leaning back on her elbows, tipped her head and regarded him with a knowing curiosity. “Ithilamin?” she cooed.

“Yes, love?” Nyx replied, not looking up from his tending of the cookfire.

“How, exactly, did you know that we had other shadows on our heels?”

She almost giggled when his shoulders stiffened, causing his mane to bounce against his back.

“A… uh… a raven told me,” he said, his answer being the only delay in his cracking a few eggs into the hook-hung skillet.

“A raven told you,” she repeated quizzically, “Do tell.”

Nyx chuckled softly as he rose to standing and prowled their surroundings to gather a few spires of wild leek and a handful of mushrooms. “Difficult as it may be to comprehend, melamin,” he chuffed, “I did have a life before I became the Edge of Prien’s Axe.” He stopped and bent down to kiss the top of her head before moving to crouch before the fire, again,and, as he set to slicing the leeks and mushrooms, he appended; “In that life, I discovered that I could speak with some animals.

It was an ability that I might have forgotten during my time in the cities,” he shrugged, stirring the onions and mushrooms into the eggs, “Gulls and rats haven’t much to say and even when they do it’s loud and abrasive.  Were it not for horses, cats, and dogs, I might have lost the ability altogether.

This morning, though, I found that it is a gift that returns easily once the noise of the cities of man are removed from the equation, yes?” He banked the coals and raised the skillet a link or two higher before turning to face her. “There was a raven above the tent, this morning, that told me of and then showed me our followers through its eyes,” he explained with an uncertain shrug. “I have been too long from the wild and yet the wild has awaited my return, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Cay smiled softly and simply, loathe to keep her ‘husband’ from returning to his cooking as her stomach was already growling in reaction to the smells wafting from the fire. “Does this korko speak to you even now?”

Nyx’s mane stroked softly across his back as he shook his head in answer. “No,” he said, gathering up a set of tin bowls and scooping a helping of the scramble into each, “but he is close…” He paced off the distance between the fire and the bedroll upon which she sat, handed her one of the bowls, and settled himself down at her side before continuing; “...I feel it.”

“...there is  hera here, that is stronger than anything I have come across,” Taellyn’s voice echoed in her memory as Nyx’s yellow eyes went black when he spoke those words, “Do not fear it... use it!”

Cay smiled knowingly as she let go of his face and scooped a bit of her breakfast from the bowl. “Stay open to that,” she suggested before poking that sampling into her mouth, “it may come in handy.”

“Mmmm,” Nyx nodded around his own mouthful, “The farther from the city we get, the easier it is to remember, elen en cormamin.

Are your eggs alright?”

Cay grinned and nodded, helping herself to another scoop. “Best I’ve had in at least a day,” she said.

“Good,” the mith’ganni nodded faintly as his eyes went yellow again and lifted to the north and east, “finish, then, and I shall fetch the horses. Barring complications and if we keep our pace, we should manage Olsta’s caravan by morning.”

“I’ll leave my trust in that to the experts,” Cay tittered softly, licking the flavor from her latest mouthful from her fingertips as she turned a suggestive eye toward Nyx, “Are you sure we don’t have a moment or two to play?”

For the first time ever, she saw him blush - a flush of hot pink spread beneath the bruises that still marred his pale cheeks - and she couldn’t help but giggle as he turned an uncharacteristically bashful eye her way.

“You are incorrigible, Lady Shyndyn,” he murmured.

“And you love it, milord,” she purred playfully.

“I do,” Nyx confessed,blushing still deeper and, yet, casting a rather lascivious eye her way, “I must admit.”

“Hurry up, Ehman,” Mahdi called into the trees that speckled the roadside, “If we don’t get to Drasnia, soon, we’ll have to spend what’s left of the night in that flea infested inn outside the gates! Last time we stayed there, we were missing three casks in the morning, if you care to recall!”

“Don’cha go bawlin’ at me, woman,” the vintner shouted back from where he squatted behind one of those trees, “I’m makin’ enough thunder o’ my own, over here, ta have ta listen ta yer’s, as well!”

 As if prompted by those words, Ehman’s guts rumbled and, once again, his bowels let loose. “Ye gods,” the man groaned miserably, gathering the hem of his tunic higher and trying to widen his stance, “I think I got me breeches with that’n.”  He scowled at the thought and called back to his wife who awaited him on their wagon; “B’sides, we’d like ta’ve already been there, by now, if ya hadn’t tried ta poison me with that stew! What in Zaris’ name did ya put in that slop? It’s turned m’guts ta puddin’!”

Gathering her cloak tighter against the quickly cooling night, Mahdi rolled her eyes and gave a reproachful shake of her head. “Don’t you dare blame my cooking for your bubbling belly, Ehman Shanne,” she shouted back, “It’s the same stew I always make you - beef, parsnips, potatoes, a bit of the red - you’ve never had problems with it before!”

“Well, mebbe th’ beef was bad!”

“It was not,” Mahdi returned, “Maybe you should check the casks of red before we sell them off so you don’t end up giving half of Drasnia the trots!”

The mules brayed anxiously, then, and the creak and clop of an approaching cart sounded from the road behind. Mahdi turned on the bench to try and catch sight of it…

“If I can’t blame yer cookin’,” Ehman grunted in protest, “you best not go blamin’ my wine!”

...In the distance, the cart Mahdi had heard emerged from the night. It was pulled by a pair of rather weary looking horses, appeared to be missing its driver and, even from this far away, the vintner’s wife wrinkled her nose at the ungodly stench that preceded it. “Ehm!” she called out, her apprehensive gaze flitting back toward the stand of trees, “I think someone’s coming! There’s a cart on the road behind!”

“Well pull the wagon ta the side an’ let ‘em pass, then,” Ehman chuffed loudly, “An’ then bring me a rag er somethin’!”

At his back, he heard his wife goad the mules and, then, the clatter of the wagon over the animals’ fretful whinnying. Soon enough, the clop and clatter of the approaching cart reached his ears and a stink even more powerful than the one he had just made stung his nose. “Oh! Inna name o’ all’s holy,” he winced, “what’s that smell?”

Mahdi’s terrified scream shattered the quiet, then, jarring Ehman swiftly upright. As the hem of his tunic fell past his waist and he fumbled to haul his breeches up, he came to the horrifying realization that, in his hurry to get himself behind the tree, he’d left his cudgel on the wagon-bench. If they were being beset by bandits, he hoped his wife had had the sense to grab it before she ran. “I’m comin’, Mahdi,” he shouted, still bungling with his breeches as he ran, awkwardly bow-legged, for the road, “Grab my club! I’m comin’!!!”

He had gotten his breeches passably fastened when another scream split the night but, this time, it was strangled short by the sound of retching. Simultaneous waves of relief and confusion washed over him when his eyes fell on the scene at the roadside. He was comforted by the fact that there were no highwaymen present to molest his wife or his wagon but perplexed at how the sight of the driverless cart that now flanked his own could have evoked such ear-splitting shrieks from Mahdi. The only thing that did make sense to Ehman as he approached was Mahdi being doubled over and puking into the grass - the reek wafting from the road was utterly disgusting. Gah! Smells like death warmed over, he cringed, shielding his mouth and nose against the smell with the collar of his tunic.

“Mahd? Darlin’,” he mumbled through his makeshift mask as he drew up to the wagon, making sure to avoid the rapidly spreading pool of vomit his wife was creating, “are ya a’right? What happened?”

Mahdi could give no reply other than to gag and heave, again. Instead, she simply shook her head, waved him weakly toward the abandoned cart, choked on a sob and spewed into the grass again.

The winemaker lifted a hand to push his wife’s hair back over her shoulder, patted her sympathetically, and then reached past her to snatch his cudgel from the seat. Duly armed, he rounded his own wagon, then, to investigate the driverless one that had stopped in the road. Minus the absence of a driver, the wearied appearance of its team, and the gods-awful stink, though, nothing seemed too out of sorts with the cart until Ehman found himself peering into its bed…

“Mother o’ mercy,” he croaked, his hand and tunic falling away from his face as bile rose in his throat and his complexion went ashen, “What inna nine hells?”

...The bed of the cart was almost fully given over to a pair of dead men. No. Not just dead. Butchered. One of them had been completely split up the middle, it seemed, and both had had their heads hewn from their shoulders. Those heads, nestled amidst the slick spread of innards that spilled from the one man’s belly, stared sightlessly up at Ehman, their faces frozen in rictuses of agony and their foreheads branded with markings that appeared to depict a crescent moon and a rose.

Ehman’s stomach lurched at the sight, his bowels protested, and his knees went to water. The cudgel slipped from his slippery palms and clattered to the road just an instant before he did. “Mother o’ mercy,” he swooned, now on all fours behind the cart, a sour taste filling his mouth, “Mother o’ meEEERRRRRRRRRRGHHH!!!”

-----------

“I still don’t see why we have to be the ones to do this, Ehman,” the woman protested through the folds of the cloak that she’d wound over her nose and mouth.

“What were we s’posed ta do, Mahd,” the man on the wagon seat beside her sighed through his own makeshift mask, “just leave ‘em there in the road?”

“Yes!” the woman nodded emphatically, “Someone else would have found them eventually.”

“Aye,” the man’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head, “an’ s’posin’ that someone were a child er somesuch? Ain’t no call ta suffer children a sight the likes o’ that… B’sides,” he added, glancing back at the fetid cart that trailed behind theirs, “them horses need tendin’ an’...”

“Ho, dere!” Kylo Bensington called out from atop his horse when the couple's eyes found him and his crew blocking the road. “Who’re ye an’ where ye headin’?”

The wagon-driver’s gaze ticked warily over the troupe of armed men that had called him to a halt and, now, cantered closer. “I’m… uh… I’m Ehman Shanne; a… a winemaker,” he answered as his eyes fell back upon the brown-skinned man, then, tipping his head to indicate the woman at his side who seemed to be shrinking into her cloak, “This’d be m’wife, Mahdi. We’re headed ta Drasnia ta sell off a few casks an’... well… an’ ta mae a report ta the Legion regardin’ somthin’ we... found on the road. “

“Yeah,” Kylo’s brows lifted as he reined up next to the wagon and eyed the couple with a vaguely menacing curiosity, “an’ wha’d ye fin’ dat’d be o’ int’rest ta da Legion, den?” His face screwed up in disgust as a putrid stench caught his nose, then; “An’ whut’s dat pachin’ stink?!”

Ehman chanced another quick look at the faces of the other riders that now practically surrounded his wagon, wrapped his arm protectively around his wife, and, swallowing hard, turned back to Kylo. “See fer yerself,” he offered, jerking his head toward the cart and horses tethered to the back of his wagon. “Yer welcome to it,” he added, “just leave m’wife and m’wine be… please?”

“Gregorum,” Kylo barked, sending one of the other riders to investigate the cart with a wave of his hand.

“If whut’s in dat cart’s more int’restin’ den a barrel o’ whut’s in yers, mate,” Bensigton leered past Ehman at the still shrinking Mahdi, “Yer wife’ll be jus’ fine, eh?”

“Well f**k!” 

The curse and the gagging noise that followed snatched Kylo’s attention back to the cart. A green-faced Gregorum stood near the back of the thing, holding up one corner of a tarp and blinking mournfully at what was hidden beneath it. “Well,” Kylo demanded.

“It’s… uh… it’s Pet an’ Cres,” Gregorum croaked, “er what’s lef’ of ‘em, anyhow. Gah! I t’ink I’m gonna hurl!”

“Don’chu pachin’ move,” Kylo warned the vintner before trotting back to the cart to get his own look. 

Once he did, he echoed Gregorum’s curse and cantered back to the front, pausing just long enough to cut the rope that tethered the cart to the wagon on the way. “Where’d ye fin’ ‘em,” Bensington demanded as Ehman blinked worriedly at him.

“On… on the road,” he replied, “‘bout half’n hour back er so.”

Kylo scowled and sighed heavily; “Don’ reckon ye seen no horse-pachin’ point-ear an’ a woman on de road ‘bout half an hour back er so?”

“No,” Ehman shook his head, “only folk o’ any sort we seen since we left the winery were them in the cart.”

Kylo chewed on another curse, glaring at the winemaker and his wife for a long moment, before he let a breath hiss across his clenched teeth. “It’s yer lucky day,” he rumbled, “We’re gon’ take dat cart off’n yer hands. You an’ yer missus c’n go.”

Ehman nodded his gratitude and, as the remaining Hellkites broke their blockade, he flicked the reins and set the wagon moving again.

Bensington and the rest of his crew gathered around the malodorous cart then.

“Wha’ we gon’ do, Kylo,” Gregorum asked, “Cap’n ain’t gon’ like dis.”

“Ye think?” Bensington snapped, stopping just short of backhanding the other man out of frustration. “Pach!” he spat. 

“A’ight, Gregorum,” he ordered the flinching man, “You take dis back ta da nest, send a coupla more men after us, an’ get a message t’ de Cap’n. De res’ o’ ye, come wit’ me!” With that, Kylo and the others spurred their horses and galloped off to the east, leaving Gregorum alone with the cart.

“Figgers,” Gregorum said, spitting at the tarp covered corpses, “Ol’ Greg always gettin’ da shyte end o’ da stick. Onna bright side, Petrick won' be cheatin' me a' skulls n'more.”

C2P informs me that a Zhay-la post is almost ready to go up. That should lead into the Zai/Kennedy/Taissud interaction and, at the end of that, I imagine, those three will be heading for the meeting.

Also, a peek at the Prophet might be fun, if you're so inclined... and I always love to read NPC posts.

I can work with either option. I kind of think Tochi, Zhay-la, and Kennedy (and her plant) are all going to be hanging together in the Aerie when the meeting notification comes through. If we three don't get that collab post done beforehand, we can always backpost it.

...beats my idea of replicating hundreds of thousands of pinwheels, beaming them onto the surfaces of the asteroid, and everybody aboard blowing really hard. *nods*