After leaving the other keep defenders, Bjorn helps carry in the wounded. Only one rock got through to the battlements, and it was far to the side of Parthipan's magical shield. Beyond that, many more fell in the melee, so the majority are outside.
The other warriors appear to be picking up the example, though -- everyone who's capable at least tries to help bring in their wounded bretheren.
The thought occurs, briefly, that the Dreadmarch is denied this opportunity.
As Bjorn helps carry a stretcher inside the gates, he spots Lammermore sitting against the wall and being lectured by a vassal marked with the insignia of Liene (a cresent moon). Lammermore weathers the diatribe, his eyes occasionally going to the sword that he's no longer holding -- Ekim is carrying it, and standing nearby, looking at Lammermore curiously.
When he's gotten the stretcher to the place it needs to be, Bjorn murmurs his excuses, and then makes his way over to Lammermore and the rest. While not hiding his approach, he does not say anything, listening to the conversation already in progress.
When you approach you only catch the tail end of it. "...better care of yourself, or you won't live to see the siege through," the vassal finishes, patting the last of the bandages into place on Lammermore's torso. "Now, call upon one of our priestesses later. You'll heal much faster after they attend you."
"Aye," Lammemore says, nodding stiffly. The vassal nods back at him, giving him a suspicious look, then turns away and walks quickly to the nearest wounded soldier -- coincidentally, the one Bjorn just carried in.
"Aye," Lammermore growls, grimacing as one hand touches an edge of the bandage. He then looks down at the chestplate that's lying on the ground near him, hopelessly dented by the blow he took. It looks like Lammermore was fighting even though his armor had been folded sharply enough to cut his chest.
"At this rate, Sir Lammermore," Bjorn says, with more than a hint of dry humour in his voice, "you'll have us all thinking you don't want your job back."
Lammermore snorts at that, wincing at the pain. "This is minor, without arrow wounds," he says, shaking his head. Sighing, he adds, "I never trusted Dorian. I should have said something, though."
Bjorn raises an eyebrow at that. "Why didn't you trust him?" he asks, somewhat surprised.
"He seemed too eager. You recall my concerns that he might 'accidentally' strike one of us while we fought the General?" Lammermore asks.
Bjorn nods at that. "His alibi was quite good, unfortunately," Bjorn says grimly. "Solariat has much to answer for."
"And the Archonae," Lammermore says, shaking his head. Sitting up a bit straighter, he feels out the wounds on his chest and sighs. "Bjorn ... I need to ask a favor of you. I know it's not seemly ... but I need to heal if I want to be able to fight tomorrow night. You're one of the only people I would trust with this task ... and I do not think Ekim would be willing to accept it.
"If you're willing to accept it, I would be honored if you would retain Wardenship of the keep until at least tomorrow. I need ... need to see a healer and get some rest." He grimaces. "Forcing myself didn't help, I've learned. But rest will." He sighs again at this, and shakes his head. "Armsmaster Renold would never have forgiven me for allowing myself to be struck so." Lammermore then frowns, and looks around to make sure no one is immediately in earshot. "I blame the blade of seven shadows," he says quietly. "It impairs one's judgement."
"I noticed something of that sort, when Lord Kevin handled it," Bjorn says thoughtfully, at the same volume as Lammermore. "It instills a bloodlust?"
He shakes his head, and returns to a more normal level of speech. "As the healer said, Sir Lammermore, you must rest, for we all need you in the best condition. I'm honoured that you ask me to help you, and I only hope I can live up to your trust."
Lammermore grunts in agreement. "It's a glorious sword for a warrior, but a blade that turns on its wielder if that man is a commander. I owe you my gratitude." Climbing to his feet (and wincing) Lammermore groans. "Ah. Rest for me." A trio of guards approach, and escort him back towards the keep, two walking on either side of him, and the third carrying the dented chestplate. "Fare well in your task, Bjorn," he says before passing from earshot.
"And rest well, Sir Lammermore," Bjorn replies courteously. With that, he turns back to continue aiding the medics, doing his best to project the air of a commander confident with reason.
OOC: Influence to bring PRE up to 14
As Bjorn walks across the field, most of the men there seem not to notice, except to get out of his way when he comes through.
Bjorn is only partly motivated by the need to raise morale. This is a task that needs to be done, of course -- and he needs to give himself time to think. Moving stretchers and helping triage requires sufficiently little of his attention that he can start to digest all that's happened over the past few days, and so he steadfastly continues to work.
After a while, there are no more stretchers to move. Either everyone's been tended and is now walking (if still wounded) or moved into the medical base which is somewhere scattered between the Storm-rider tents and the keep defenders behind the keep. Or their stretchers were taken away by the quiet Interers with their ghostly black cloaks and outfits.
Either way, all that's left in the yard are a few men inspecting the weapons and shields on the racks, and a few more running in from the field with discarded (but usable) weaponry and armor.
Dusting off his hands, Bjorn makes to stop one of the Interers, and inquires quietly as to where Dorian's body is being held.
The Interer actually tries to avoid Bjorn -- it takes almost a full minute for the man (boy, really) to realize that someone's paying attention to him, and then he just blinks in shock somewhat dully. "In ... the hall ... of heroes," he finally says nervously, despite the fact that the gangly youth is a good five centimeters taller than Bjorn.
Bjorn nods at that. "Thank you," he offers gravely, and then makes his way to the hall of heroes.
It takes a moment to remember the way -- Bjorn has only been there once before, and that was to see Breke's tomb.
Once Bjorn enters the realm of the Interers, ghostly cloaks tug at the corners of his vision, Interers seeming to melt seamlessly into the shadows all about. Their charges are never seen, however.
In short order, negotiating a dizzying flurry of corner-of-the-eyes movement, Bjorn finds himself before two guards -- who he has not seen before -- in black armor, standing before the arch leading into the hall of heroes. The guards eye Bjorn, but make no move to stop him.
Nodding at them politely, Bjorn steps through the arch into the hall.
The hallway is about fifty meters long. There's a creak as one of the guards leans around the edge of the arch to eye you a bit more (and continue saying nothing), and then back into his normal position.
Every ten meters of the hallway, which is a good twenty meters long, and at least twelve high, has an archway, about half of which are empty. There's a large slab of raised stone in each of the empty ones, which are all unlit. Candles illuminate the chambers of Breke and Dorian. Three Four of the archways to the left are sealed with stone and mortal, plaques proclaiming the deeds of the fallen. The first two are too faded and worn to be read.
The opposite end of the hallway appears to go even deeper underground ... but is unlit. Dorian's chamber is the second to the right, and Breke's is the first.
Bjorn frowns. Wasn't Dorian's body supposed to be guarded?
Moving cautiously now, he approaches and enters Dorian's chamber.
A quartet of black-armored guards step from the shadows as Bjorn approaches, studying Bjorn, and then melting back seamlessly into the shadows again a moment later.
Dorian's body has been well tended -- he looks whole, if pale (even for an elf). There's no sign of the wound that had severed a jugular and torn open his throat. His clothes have been cleaned, and he's in a state of repose, his hands crossed on his chest.
Methodically, and without any outward sign of any distaste at what he's doing, Bjorn begins searching the body methodically. Unlikely to find anything, he thinks grimly, searching through Dorian's clothes, carefully feeling every inch of fabric searching for hidden pockets, especially if he's already been cleaned. Better safe than sorry.
If he finds nothing in the clothes, he repeats the same careful search of the body itself, particularly looking for any tattoos or markings.
There's nothing on Dorian but clothing in the way of stuff. He does have a tattoo about his right wrist, though. You don't know the significance, but it's a verdant green, two winding vines twisted into eachother.
Bjorn stares at the tattoo for a long second, and then, without thinking, glances at his own wrist. The pattern reminds me...
With that in mind, he concentrates hard on the memory of his bracelet, trying to summon it.
Concentrating causes the bracelet to appear. It flashes on your left wrist, which is where you keep it. The pattern of the bracelet is pretty different from the tattoo, though.
One of the guards in the room (invisible to your eyes, but not your other senses), shifts his feet slightly.
Bjorn does not look up, but simply asks aloud, in a calm, polite voice, "Who was it who prepared the body?"
"Justin," one of the guards says after a moment. "I will fetch him."
The black-armored guard -- you're nearly certain that these are in no way normal keep guards -- that spoke emerges from a shadow, and paces out of the room silently, towards the entrance.
Bjorn straightens, studying the chamber carefully around him with a serenely, vaguely interested expression as he waits for Justin to arrive.
The shadows are disconcerting. You kind of think you can see one of the other guards ... but your other senses tell you he's a bit to the side of where you THINK you see him....
But that fun ends after a moment, when one of the Interers enters the room, seeming mousy and harmless compared to the vanishing-into-shadow-guard behind him. He looks up at you, standing as he is (somewhat hunched over), and asks, "How can I help you?" in a trembling, nervous voice.
"Ah, Justin was it?" Bjorn smiles faintly at the Interer, trying to put him at his ease. "You prepared Sir Shivershaft's body, correct?"
He nods dutifully. "I did," he says. "Was very sore and unhappy to be here, he was. But he is at peace now, no look of hate upon his face." He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably -- you get the idea that the Interers are habitually nervous. "Was something missing? Something he should have, and does not? Something he might need beyond?"
"I'm not sure," Bjorn says, looking down thoughtfully again at Dorian's face. "My concern, I suppose, is more that he had something when he came down here that he should never have had at all."
Lapsing into silence, he uses his contemplation of Dorian's face as a cover while he ransacks his other-self's memories, trying to recall what he can about burial practices -- specifically, how Interers deal with the possessions of the deceased in the course of their work.
OOC: KNO: Upper Kingdoms and KNO: Church of Hammar, hoping at least one is appropriate.
The Church of Hammar (from what Bjorn can remember) advocates burning the dead. The Upper Kingdoms, however, use their own practices, which involve interring them in tombs ... and usually surrounding their dead with their most valued possessions. Or at least what they died with.
From what you know, either way, Dorian should have whatever he was carrying with him when he died with him, unless the people bearing his body down here forgot it.
Bjorn sighs, and turns to look at Justin again. "Were there markings on Sir Shivershaft when he arrived, beyond the one on his wrist?"
"Oh, of course," he says, nodding vigoriously. "A cut across his neck," he says, gesturing to his own throat. "Bruises, too. All about his arm," he indicate's Dorian's right arm. "But no other markings like that," he adds, pointing at the tattoo.
"I see," Bjorn says, nodding. He quickly glances about, looking for Dorian's weapon.
It doesn't come to light immediately. The Interer looks at Dorian for a moment, and then helpfully supplies, "He was said to have a bow ... but we don't have that to put to rest with him. I don't know where it is."
Bjorn frowns, trying to cast his memory back and remember if he'd seen the bow when Dorian's body had been brought down. "Was Sir Shivershaft brought to you here?" he asks, looking at Justin.
Justin nods quickly. "Yes. I'm a Minder, not a Bearer," he says apologetically. "He was brought in by the keep guard, though, not our own." He taps his fingers together in front of him, and shrugs. "But this is often the case ... for those who belong in the Hall of Heroes."
Bjorn nods again. "Thank you, Justin," he says politely. "I appreciate your aid greatly. If you'll excuse me, though, I'm afraid I must be going."
With that, he nods, and makes his way out of the hall of heroes, pondering things. I need to find Dorian's bow, he decides. If it can't be found, then something is definitely going on. Thing to do is talk to Stuarts, and if possible, the guards who found Dorian. Might as well combine that with the whole inspecting-the-troops thing.
And so, barring interruptions, Bjorn begins looking for Captain Stuarts; taking his time to inspect the guards, to be seen acting in the way that Donovan prescribed.
After emerging from the underground area -- the place of the Interers -- Bjorn finds himself in the keep grounds. The guards seem to notice the casual inspection they're recieving (which is, one supposes, the point), and straighten up where they're slouching.
It takes the better part of an hour to actually wander into Captain Stuarts, who is overseeing some men moving equipment from a wagon to the courtyard. He looks up and salutes when he sees Bjorn. "Sir!" he calls. "How may I help you?"
"Captain Stuarts," Bjorn says, with a polite nod. "I've been seeing how the men are doing. The guard all seem to be in fine shape. My compliments to you. Are there any issues you would like to bring to my attention?"
Stuarts hesitates, and then looks at the men carrying bundles of spears to the courtyard. "Nothing that hasn't been adressed," he says, shaking his head. "Your ... companion, Jeff has helped to set the men's minds at ease with the competition of hunter-hunted. There's little more to ask for ... none of it within reason." He smiles at that. "Is there anything I can do for you, Warden?"
Bjorn smiles back. "I was wondering if Sir Shivershaft's weapons had been recovered, in fact," he says. "They were not with him in the hall of heroes."
Stuarts pauses again, as though accessing some mental record. "I'm not certain," he says cautiously. "But ... the westernmost tower detail of guardsmen -- the ones who would have taken, or seen who'd taken the weapons -- are the ones here," he says, gesturing to the men who are jogging about with stacks of spears. "Peter!" he yells, at one of the men, who skids to a halt, quickly handing his spears to another soldier.
"Sir!" Peter calls, jogging up to Stuarts and then saluting both Bjorn and
Stuarts (in that order), before standing at attention.
"Sir Bjorn has some questions about the detail for two nights ago," Stuarts says, nodding to Bjorn.
Bjorn nods at Peter. "Just a quick question. You were one of the soldiers who found Sir Dorian after the end of the fourth night's siege, Peter?" he asks.
"Yes Sir," he says, nodding at Bjorn. "I was on the watch for the towertop that he was on -- where ... where Sir Liandral lost his hand." He grimaces at that.
Bjorn keeps his face still at the mention of the gruesome injury. "Do you know what happened to Sir Dorian's bow?"
He looks thoughtful. "The bow should have been on the towertop ... and, let's see ... we ran up to the tower to take ... Durant into custody." He grimaces. "Ah ... after that was done, Dorian's body was left, and the tower was sealed. I remember that we came back for Dorian's body after handing Durant to John's patrol, in the keep. When we returned...." He frowns. "Come to think of it, the bow was gone -- one of the crew must have taken it. I didn't think anything of it, since the tower was sealed, so it must have been one of us." He looks confused. "Is it still missing?"
"It seems to be," Bjorn confirms. "Can I ask you to take a moment to check with the rest of your men?"
"Certainly," he says, his face become stern as he wheels to face his subordinates, and barks out some commands. They quickly assemble into formation -- two colums -- as he interrogates them on the whereabouts of the bow.
One of the men looks guilty and nervous, and Peter pulls him aside, growling at him in a quiet voice until the man flinches away, bowing his head in shame. Peter yells a command, and the flinching soldier (and two others) run off into the keep. Peter shakes his head, and returns. "My apologies, Sir Bjorn," he says, looking a bit irate. "Jennings thought it would make a good trophy -- it's being fetched now."
Stuarts gives Peter a look that conveys -- quite clearly -- without words that he's not impressed.
Bjorn nods in acknowledgement, but doesn't say anything. His silent disapproval, he thinks, will probably motivate both Peter and Stuarts sufficiently to make sure the same doesn't happen again. While waiting for the man to return, he turns to Stuarts. "Yesterday, I had one of the prison guards relieved of duty to help recuperate his wounds. Do you know how he's doing?"
Stuarts blinks. "Him?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "He had his bones reset by Lord Ekim, and then was healed back to battle readiness by the priestesses. Last I heard he was in the assault yesterday ... boosted the morale of his unit. Not well enough to earn a commendation -- yet -- but he's faring well. Hasn't died, anyway."
Bjorn nods at that. "What was his name again?"
"Brad, I think," Stuarts says. "Is he a friend of yours?"
"No," Bjorn says. "I thought he showed potential."
Stuarts nods. "That he might," he admits. There's a moment of silence before Peter comes back, holding the bow in one hand and shooting annoyed looks at the soldier who took it. He's also got a quiver of arrows with it.
When Peter reaches you (the other soldier remaining as far away as he can, watched by the two who lead him to his room), he offers the bow and arrows over. "My apologies, Sirs," he says, hanging his head.
Stuarts frowns, but says nothing, looking to Bjorn questioningly.
"An understandable mistake," Bjorn says gently, taking the offered weapons. "No harm was done, however."
Peter and Stuarts nod at this, and Peter turns to his subordinate. "Another hour of field exercise," he decides. "And let that be a lesson to you. No harm this time, but mistakes can be ill afforded." The soldier nods eagerly, and runs off to do as he was told.
Peters looks at both Bjorn and Stuarts apologetically. "Is there anything else, Sirs?" he asks respectfully. Stuarts starts to shake his head, but then catches himself and looks to Bjorn questioningly again.
"Nothing else, thank you," Bjorn replies, shouldering the bow and quiver. "Have a good day, gentlemen."
With a polite parting nod, Bjorn walks off, finding a quiet corner in which to examine the bow and the arrows carefully.
Both Peter and Stuarts salute as Bjorn walks away. The quietest place to stand at the moment is the base of the ramp leading up to the wall. Currently, there are teams of five lashing together arrows into large bundles, securing them on pulleys, and hauling them up the side of the wall. There's another team on the opposite side of the courtyard, hauling more arrows up that way.
The bow itself is of a very highly polished (and very clean) light wood. It's nearly white, but very strong, and has a recursed curve. The string is silver-colored, and looks like metal ... but flexes like tendon. The wood itself doesn't flex as much. The bow is compound, and has a very strong heft. It takes quite a bit of strength to pull it completely. The entire length is also carved with vines -- they match the vines on Dorian's wrist tattoo.
About six of the arrows are the same silver arrows that were found in Dorian's room. Another dozen normal arrows (steel arrowheads, feather fletchings) are also in the quiver.
Bjorn grunts to himself, and then shoulders the bow and quiver again. Once again, he makes his way out among the men, performing a casual inspection. At the same time, he keeps his eye out for any of Radagast, Nathan, Mirallia, or the two independents.
None of the people Bjorn is looking for -- except for Derrick, who is loitering near the gate and looking a little unsettled. He's fingering his Star of David medallion nervously.
Bjorn makes his way over, moving quietly. "Master Derrick," he greets the man as he gets closer. "How are things with you?"
He blinks. "Ah," he says. "Well. Well. Except...." He trails off, and glances through the currently open gates. Heaving a sigh, he says, "I must accept the truth that Samson is not a child ... he has his own will. And it is his will that he guard these gates. And he is built well, and strong ... but I worry still anyway." He shrugs helplessly. "Do I doubt my own ability as a crafter?" He shakes his head. "But I am certain you have more pressing concerns."
Bjorn studies Derrick for a long moment with a steady eye. "In fact," he says, almost apologetically, "I must admit that you remain a pressing concern of mine, Master Derrick." He looks over in the direction of the golem. "I know little of you or your crafting, and part of my duty is to make sure that the Keep will not fall from within."
Derrick stares at Bjorn blankly for a long minute. "What?" he finally asks, blinking in confusion.
"I am not sure that we were properly introduced," Bjorn says with a small smile. "My name is Bjorn. I am a vassal of Hammar, and currently serving as the acting Warden of Stormwall Keep. As such, I am one of those responsible for the defense of the Keep against threats internal and external."
"Oh," Derrick says, blinking. "Well. Yes. We met briefly, when Master Qurral and myself arrived. I assure you, Lord Bloom has explained to me the importance of defending this place, and I agree wholeheartedly. I don't know what assistance I can provide, but Samson intends to fight to defend this place alongside the other soldiers."
Bjorn nods slowly at that. "At the risk of being inquisitive, Master Derrick, can you tell me more about Samson?"
"The golem?" he clarifies, glancing back towards the gate. "Well ... I crafted him myself ... but he seems to have assumed a life of his own." He shrugs uneasily. "We're friends. I don't have control over him, but we respect one-another. What did you want to know about specifically?"
"Another of my duties is in the development of tactics," Bjorn explains. "But to conceive of how best to make use of your assistance, I need to have some idea of your capabilities."
Derrick shrugs. "You would want to discuss that with Samson ... he does what he wills ... what he thinks is best. I'm not certain how much he's willing to listen to commands if it doesn't suit him -- for all of his strength, he is essentially a child."
"He speaks?" Bjorn raises his eyebrows in momentary startlement. "You'll have to excuse my surprise, but I've heard him utter no words."
He frowns then, in thought. "You say he's strong -- but how strong is he? And, conversely, how resistant is he to damage?"
Derrick winces. "He's stone and iron," he says after a moment. "And ... he doesn't speak, as such. Except to me. He is able to understand people who speak to him, though. As for his strength, he's now carrying the axe that the ... the Dwarf you killed was wielding."
Bjorn considers that for a moment, and then asks quietly, "What role did you plan to fill in coming here, might I ask?"
"I honestly wasn't certain," Derrick admits, sighing. "But I knew that there had to be some purpose that was better than simply waiting for this siege to be over."
Bjorn nods and makes a thoughtful noise. "A commendable attitude," he says, and then sighs. "Thank you for speaking with me, Master Derrick. If you'll excuse me, I must be off."
Unless Derrick stops him, Bjorn again starts off on his inspection of the men, again keeping an eye out for Mirallia, Nathan, Radagast, or the alchemist.
You don't see any sign of Qurral, Mirallia, or Radagast. Nathan is found participating in the tryouts for the Hunter-Hunted tournaments, though you'd need to pull him out of a game to speak with him.
Bjorn watches the game for a few minutes, but then shrugs to himself and turns away.
Walking slowly through the grounds, he ponders. What do I need to do? Too much. Don't know how to find the assassin, though, and can't find the other people I need to talk to. He nods decisvely to himself. Should go catch up on sleep, and wake up early. Help with the last minute preparations this time.
That plan established, he heads into the Keep and to his quarters.
The quarters are abandoned when you get there, except for two vassals of Hammar you don't recognize watching the door. They nod at you, but say nothing when you approach.
Bjorn frowns faintly as he nods and enters the quarters. How many vassals are there now? That makes, what, ten now? A lot...
Making his way to the antechamber, Bjorn settles himself carefully down to a light, cautious sleep.
<Nick> Bjorn!
<Nick> You are having a dream. You suspect this, because you'd like to think that you'd wake up if someone moved you to the room you find yourself in.
<Nick> The first thing you see when you look up is that someone's plastered a mural involving kittens and multiple Dragon Ball Z characters (most of them seem to be King Kai) across the ceiling, along with a number of smaller pictures of catgirls in various states of undress.
<Nick> The walls to your left and right are invisible, completely blocked off with piles of random gaming books, video-game boxes, and random pieces of paper. There's a ceiling fan hanging just past the end of the mural, at a slight angle, and a clean sock appears to have been draped over one of the blades.
<Nick> At the head of the bed, if you look up, the entire wall has been painted in black, and has a huge yellow glow-in-the-dark smiley face on it. Except it's a smiley face with three eyes.
<Nick> At the foot of the bed, there's a folding card-table, with one of the legs missing. It's currently being supported by a stack of what look like third and fourth grade text books. The table is covered with various collectable card game cards.
<Nick> Atop the cards is what looks like a Tandy, and there's a young man (couldn't be older than nineteen at the most) sitting on a lawn-chair at this desk, typing away at the Tandy.
<Nick> The man's clothing is casual -- blue jeans, a black T-shirt that says, "DOES NOT PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS" in white block letters, and a faded black 'Squaresoft' baseball cap. His hair is black, about twelve cm long, and all over the place beneath the hat.
<Nick> After a few seconds of typing, he looks up, blinks at you, and then says, "Hello, and welcome to the dream world. My name is Nick, and I'll be your Brother of Morpheus for the evening."
Bjorn glances down at himself quickly before answering.
<Nick> You are once more in your original body. Wearing cargo pants and a tank-top.
<Bjorn> 'A sight I've missed -- minus the fashion sense.'
<Bjorn> "Hello," Bjorn replies, swinging his feet off the bed and coming to a sitting position. "I'd introduce myself, but I'm betting you already know who I am."
<Nick> "Sure. You're," he pauses, briefly, and checks his screen, "Durant, right?"
<Bjorn> "No," Bjorn replies, rather succinctly.
<Nick> "Oh." He seems at a bit of a loss.
<Nick> Scratching his head, he says, "Buh...jorn?"
<Bjorn> "Beorn," Bjorn corrects reflexively.
<Nick> "Natch," he says, tapping a few keys on the Tandy's keyboard. "Okay. So, you want to talk to your oracle, right?"
<Bjorn> Bjorn blinks. "That would be nice," he says, a bit dubiously. "I also have some questions for you, I think."
<Nick> "Well, that's cool," he says, shrugging. "But, some good news and bad news. What do you want first?"
<Bjorn> "The bad news," Bjorn replies.
<Nick> "Your oracle's actually kind of busy right now," he says apologetically. "Helping Alan find, uh, Pandora."
<Bjorn> Bjorn frowns at that, rolling his neck to loosen a kink. "Pandora?"
<Nick> "Our oracle," he replies, grinning. "Anyway. The good news is you can ask me questions."
Bjorn snorts faintly in amusement, but then turns serious, and looks steadily at Nick. "The bracelet," he says, without immediate explanation.
<Nick> "Alan sent it to you," he says without skipping a beat.
<Bjorn> "Why?"
<Nick> "Well, actually, it was Alan's predecessor," he adds, frowning. "As for the 'why', he was dying, and needed every ally he could get. The bracelet was meant to protect you until he could get into contact with you again. Unfortunately, he died before that happened."
<Bjorn> "Again?" Bjorn says, raising an eyebrow. "Who was he?"
<Nick> "Alan's just Alan. Not even he's sure who he really is," Nick says apologetically. "And he'll be fucked if he knew who his predecessor was. But he remembers what his predecessor did. At least, some things."
<Nick> "He brought me here after the incident with Sean," he adds, grimacing.
<Bjorn> "Which incident with Sean who?" Bjorn asks, patiently.
<Nick> "Oh," Nick says, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. "Sean was one of the Communists. He killed me."
Bjorn narrows his eyes as he studies Nick. "Why do I think you're not using the term 'Communists' the same way I would?"
<Nick> "The Communists were my roommates," he adds. "That's what Brian called us."
Bjorn blinks at that, a long-ago memory stirring. "Brian... Brian Randall?"
<Nick> "Yeah. He was this guy we knew back on Earth ... all we got in common when we ended up here, anyway." He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "He didn't make it -- he died for good, as far as we can tell."
<Nick> "Wait, you knew him?" Nick asks, raising an eyebrow.
<Bjorn> "I met him online," Bjorn replies, frowning and scrubbing at his chin -- thankful for the absence of beard. "When you say 'we knew' -- who all is 'we'?"
<Nick> "Hey! I know you!" Nick exclaims. "You're the super bad-ass martial artist and brain-surgeon guy he was watching in that AR campaign! Man. That campaign sucked ass." He shakes his head, and frowns again. "Most of the new Brothers of Morpheus, actually."
<Nick> "He knew me, Bryce Ericson, Mike Nickey, Eric Carlson, both of the Patricks, and the Communists -- though, I'm the only Communist left here."
Bjorn raises an eyebrow at that. "I think," he says with reserve, "that I might be considerably less impressive than the campaign character you're thinking about." He thinks for a few minute more. "So, the other Communists used to be Brothers of Morpheus? What happened to them?"
<Bjorn> "And, for that matter -- why are all the Brothers of Morpheus guys from the Valley who used to know Brian?"
<Nick> "Nah, the other Communists were kind of a team. Before the Silicon Valley nuke, Brian sent us all a letter saying to meet him on Mt. Hamilton, at the observatory. It seemed really stupid, but it was his birthday, so we humored him.
<Nick> "While we were there, waiting for him to show up, we saw the nuke get dropped. We kind of panicked, and ran down to Merced, where Wallace had some family. Then we started finding out we had freaky abnormal powers.
<Nick> "What we figured was that somehow, I could open gates to other dimensions. So we thought this was awesome, and we'd go on an adventure, find whatever we needed to fix the world and undo the damage. Of course, since Brian was nowhere around, and he had named our team in that game 'BigFire', we called ourselves that in honor of him.
<Nick> "But Sean killed me before we ever got a chance to leave." Nick sighs. "I'm not sure what happened after that.... Anyway. I asked Alan about why we all knew Brian. Alan seems to think that Brian is somehow responsible for all of the Communists developing abnormal abilities, and all of his other friends ending up here.
<Nick> "Alan thought that he was the Wanderer for a while, but then said no, it was this other guy wandering around the Dream that Alan's been trying to kill for a few years."
Bjorn scrubs at his forehead tiredly for a second, trying to process that.
<Nick> "Some ... what did he call himself ... Charrel, something. Some gay ass name." He shrugs. "That's all I got on that -- though if it turns out that Brian's responsible for our lives getting fucked up like this, I'm pretty sure that Bigfire will kill him, 'cause their lives were pretty fucked up after the bomb."
<Nick> "I mean really fucked up," he adds, shrugging.
<Bjorn> "On the other hand," Bjorn points out dryly, "their lives would be over if they hadn't gone to the observatory, right?"
<Bjorn> He frowns then. "Charrel. Not... Qurral?"
<Nick> "Yeah ... but I'm sure he could have gotten us all out of trouble without making us turn into targets for freaky secret societies." He pauses. "Though, I guess he might not have known about them. Anyway. ...no, Qurral is one of the independents. Charrel's got no body -- he's dead like me."
<Bjorn> "Right," Bjorn nods. "There's no chance that Brian was Alan's predecessor?"
<Nick> Nick blinks at this. "He doesn't look much like Brian," he says. "Or act the same, really. Brian was kind of a lazy guy. Alan has to be the most driven guy I've ever seen. Though, they got the same hair color."
Bjorn cocks an eyebrow. "So being Alan's predecessor is more than having the same job?"
<Nick> Nick leans back in his lawn chair, and chews his lip thoughtfully. "You know ... Alan said that when he got here, there was just the older Brothers of Morpheus. Saul, Lan, and Ezikiel. None of those three were really in charge...." He frowns. "I always assumed that when he was talking about his predecessor he meant who he was before he died. But, anyway, I knew Brian, and Alan is pretty different from him.
<Nick> "The only way they could be the same person was through the Constants."
<Bjorn> "The Constants?" Bjorn inquires.
<Nick> "Eh ... the precepts.... Okay. So, basically, here in the Dream, which is the shell that reality nests in, there is really only ONE constant. 'There is no constant.'"
<Nick> Nick looks thoughtful for a moment, and starts shuffling some random cards.
<Nick> "The two Extensions are 'Nothing last forever', and 'Nothing can be done that cannot be undone'."
<Nick> "From there, the Extrapolations are: 'Will defines reality,' 'What's beneath reality is nothing,' and 'we exist because we will it'."
<Nick> "Then we go on into Alan's whole explanation about how nature abhors a vacuum, and then, the Enemy isn't real, it's just nothing. But it's trying to destroy reality because it doesn't mesh with the uniform non-existence between pockets of reality."
<Nick> Nick shrugs again, pushing the cards away. "The long and short of it is that you're in the Matrix, but we're all in the Matrix, and chicken tastes good, so why worry?"
<Bjorn> "Because," Bjorn says a touch flatly, "I'm fighting in the Contest, and I'd like to know why."
<Bjorn> "For example," he continues, his tone filling with curiosity, "what exactly is the relationship between the Brotherhood and the Contest? Both, one way or the other, are trying to hold back the Enemy, right?"
<Nick> "Of course," Nick says, nodding. "We're in the Dream, fighting the Enemy. Only not too many people know or really understand what the Enemy is. It's ... okay. People are like atoms, right? In outer space?"
<Bjorn> "Very few and far between?" Bjorn hazards.
<Nick> He leans forward on his chair, propping his elbows on the table, and makes a gesture with his hands that could indicate anything. "That's right. So, okay. Now, people are here, like atoms, and they bond together in social structures and stuff. You can say that protons are their physical selves, or whatever. Anyway, the electrons represent their thoughts."
<Nick> "When they make links, those bonds are bridged, the electrons are swapped around ... and the electrons are dreams. Something like that. So a social structure is a molecule, and a complex molecule will often share a dream."
<Bjorn> "All right," Bjorn replies, leaning forward in turn, "with you so far."
<Nick> "Anyway, when it starts to get too big, it doesn't hold up -- it explodes. I guess real atoms don't spontaneously do that, but bear with me," he says, flipping cards over more-or-less at random.
Bjorn shrugs, and watches the cards as he listens.
<Nick> "The thing is, you've got, say, a cloud of gas. None of the molecules are really bound together, but they're all in the same place. This only works if there's borders, like, say, in a tank of compressed helium."
<Nick> "If you try to have a cloud of gas in outer space, it's going to get dispersed by the vacuum. Now, you could, in theory, have an atom or two chilling together and drinking atom beer, and that'd be okay. You could probably have a string of molecules around, and they could party. That'd be cool too.
<Nick> "But when there's too many in a single place, reality intrudes, and then --boom!-- they all get dispersed."
<Nick> He sets the card down and looks at you levelly. "So now, Earth got big enough that it should have blown into separate tiny realities and dreams a looooong time ago. But it didn't.
<Nick> "And here's where we get into a problem -- what happens when there's so many atoms in a single place that they all start clinging together, and not being separated by the vacuum?"
<Bjorn> "Vacuum starts pulling at it," Bjorn guesses. "The Enemy."
<Nick> "That's right." He suddenly sweeps all the cards up into three neat, separate decks.
<Nick> "So." A pile of cards gets spread across the table. "Here's the original world as it started in the Fertile Crescent."
<Nick> "It spread and then grew to encompass the Mediterranean. And that's where Lan came in. So, there were a ton of atoms." The cards multiply, until their weight threatens to buckle the table.
<Bjorn> "Lan?" Bjorn interrupts.
<Nick> "Lan was the first Brother of Morpheus," he adds, smiling, and looking up from the cards. "Then, we also got the Order of Symmetry, which the Brothers of Morpheus created."
<Bjorn> "I see," Bjorn says, and then falls quiet again, listening intently.
<Nick> He holds up his hands and waggles his fingers. "Can't change what's on the cards," he points out. "But can rearrange the way they work." He stacks the cards neatly, and they somehow become a much smaller and shorter stack. "Learn to live with the world you've become a part of," he instructs the cards. "Happy, shiny cards. All holding hands."
Bjorn nods, frowning.
<Nick> "So. This is good. But, hey, tier two, 'nothing lasts forever', and 'nothing can be done that can't be undone'." The cards suddenly spill out across the table.
<Nick> "Then, we've got problems. But this time, even the cards are aware of what's going on, and our atoms take a step before we can guide people again." The cards writhe, throwing the majority of the cards off of the table, where they drift to the floor and vanish. "Problem solved?" Nick asks.
<Bjorn> "Temporarily," Bjorn says, with grim humor.
<Nick> "Exactly," Nick says, grinning. The cards multiply again. "So, we're blocked off, the Order of Symmetry is destroyed, their oracle stolen, and then they make us forget where our own is." He shrugs helplessly, as his hands can now no longer move the cards at all.
<Nick> "Another solution," he says, taking one of the untouched stacks of cards, and tossing it into the air next to the table. Another table appears beneath it (this one of marginally better quality, as the primary table is quite beaten up from the abuse of the weight on it).
<Bjorn> "Created a new molecule, and who cares about the last one," Bjorn states rather than asks.
<Nick> The cards migrate from the table before Nick, and spread their weight evenly across both tables. "And once more, the problem is 'solved'." He shakes his head.
<Nick> The original deck of the second table is all but hidden.
<Nick> "Only now, we've got an interesting new problem." He looks up. "The Dream didn't grow. At all. The world became much larger -- but it wasn't one table -- it was a good dozen. But the Dream was stretched across them in the waking world.
<Nick> "No more mass for the Dream to take with it."
Bjorn frowns.
<Bjorn> "So what does that mean?"
<Nick> "So we've become increasingly crippled as time goes on. We can't FIND the other Dreams to wake them up, and bring them into this place ... legends, cultures, lores ... it's now all part of something ... smaller. And that's not how it should be at all.... But what's really pressing is THIS." Nick frowns, and then the room is suddenly filled to bursting with cards, which form a massive mound between you and him.
<Nick> "What happens when you have so many atoms that they can bond together without fear of being dispersed by the vacuum?"
<Bjorn> "Gravitational collapse?" Bjorn guesses again.
<Nick> "Exactly," he says, as everything around you vanishes, except for the cards, which collapse into a bright star. You're now hovering over a field of nothingness, with a golf-ball sized sun between you and Nick.
<Nick> "Obviously," he says, "something needs to be done before it gets to this point. Killing a whole bunch of people would fix it, but let's be honest, that doesn't help the Dream at all, and it's a fucked up solution anyway."
<Nick> "But then, running away and making the world bigger just guarantees the collapse. Fleeing will only save those who run."
<Nick> Nick snaps his fingers, and his room is restored to its original (messy) state.
<Bjorn> "So," Bjorn says, "each of the created new worlds *should* have its own Dream, but doesn't. So, somehow, we need to awaken the Dreams of the created worlds?"
<Nick> "That's OUR goal," Nick says, nodding. "And what you are in right now is what's left of one of the Dreams -- the Battle-Realm. If you defeat it, and we sponsor you, then we can use your victory to reclaim that much more of the Dream. The real concern, though, is that the world might not LAST long enough. The Enemy -- the vacuum -- is coming soon, and we're about to get exploded by it."
<Bjorn> "So we have a time limit." Bjorn frowns more deeply, crossing his legs. "But that's a trick, isn't it, given we have little control over how long things take in the Dreams? How much time do we have?"
<Nick> "Well, there's nothing like a clock ... the truth of the matter is that it's a force of nature, and it's already working against the world. Remember that will dictates reality?"
Bjorn nods. "Okay...."
<Nick> "Well, this is where the secret society bullshit is really screwing things up -- people believe that change is coming. Almost every person in the real world you meet knows that it's going to happen. The end of the world, colonies on the moon, time machines, or the advent of utopia. But what do people have to believe in most when they look at the world around them?"
<Bjorn> "Materialism," Bjorn guesses.
<Nick> "Well, yeah, they have lost the Dream. But what it is, is mostly that it's going to end," Nick says, frowning.
<Nick> "And while you're doing the Contest, we're going to harness their belief and forge it into the reality they live in. The seeds are there already for massive outbreaks of disease, war, and famine. It's not too hard to believe in the good, either. Maybe hyperspace travel. Remember, it used to be insane to think the world was round.... We just need to remind them that there's more to the world than doom and gloom or escape."
<Bjorn> "Okay," Bjorn says, slowly. "So while the Order of Symmetry tries to repair the fundamental damage -- to awaken the lost Dreams, and to... stabilize the thought-molecule -- the Brotherhood of Morpheus is trying to set-up a positive feedback loop of belief? Take what people believe in, give it to them, and make them believe in it more, so they exert more will, and thus make themselves more real?"
<Nick> "Yes," he says, jumping up and smacking a fist on the table. "That's exactly right! That puts everything into alignment -- people become aware of their world enough to hold it within its limitations without the risk of destroying another Dream, or killing themselves completely off! Maybe it's idealistic, but it's what we've always striven for."
<Bjorn> "All right," Bjorn says, his brow clearing. "That's something I can understand -- and something I can believe in." He frowns, then, again. "Now for the next question. What determines our goal when we enter a Dream?
<Bjorn> "For example," he continues, "imagine if we'd been the first into the -- Battle-realm? -- and not the Seventh Cabal. What would we have had to do?"
<Nick> "Well, my personal theory about that is that it's based on what the Dream is of," he says, righting his lawn chair and sitting down again. "Basically ... I think these Dreams really ARE the other Dreams that didn't join us. Their ... volume or something doesn't match up, which is why WE can't enter them."
<Nick> "So we need to get their attention enough to try and join with our own Dream. As far as what your goal would have been, it's simply that -- to get attention. For what it's worth ... I think the Dreams are reflections of what went on before the world supporting the Dream was stolen from it."
<Nick> "Generally, as far as I can tell, the Dreams like to see what their worlds should have been like. Realistically, you need to fundamentally change the way that the world works, or advance it in some way."
<Nick> "The Battle-Realm is always fighting ... so you'd need to bring an end to the wars -- or at least one of the major causes."
Bjorn nods. "So in this case, we have to stop the Dreadmarch not because that goal is fixed, but because if the Dreadmarch wins, all other wars are eliminated, so we'd have no way to draw attention," he says, half to himself.
<Nick> "Well, actually, if the Dreadmarch wins, the Elder Gods destroy all life and just start the entire thing over again. To really win, you need to either free the Younger Gods, or drive away the Elder Gods."
<Bjorn> "Wait," Bjorn says, looking up sharply. "So it's not enough to simply *beat* the Dreadmarch. We have to make sure the Dreadmarch never happens again?"
<Nick> "Yep," Nick says gravely.
<Bjorn> "What do you mean by 'freeing the Younger Gods'?" Bjorn asks. "Do the Archonae have them bound somehow?"
<Nick> Nick grabs a second edition Dungeons and Dragons Dungeon Master's Guide, and starts flipping through it. "Okay. But this is OOC information, so don't metagame or nothing," he says with a wink. "The Younger Gods are sealed in crystals. If you can wake them up, they'll kick some Elder God ass, and all will be well. Alternately, you need to get the Elder Gods' attention, and convince them to leave."
<Nick> "As far as we can tell, the Dream is not actually capable of imagining the Elder Gods wanting to leave without the Younger Gods making them do it."
Bjorn grunts at that. "The crystals are the Younger Gods? That puts an entirely new spin on what happened."
<Bjorn> He ponders for a long second, and then nods. "That clears up a lot. Thank you. Do you mind if I ask another question or two about the bracelet?"
<Nick> "Not at all," he says.
<Bjorn> "Well," Bjorn smiles faintly, "what exactly is it?"
<Nick> "It's designed to protect whoever wears it from ... the paranormal," Nick says after a moment. "Of course, stretched between five people, it's really only got enough power to be a symbol. Which is pretty powerful in a normal Dream. You can use it as a key, a shield, a weapon, or whatever else you imagine. It won't work that way in the Battle Realm, though, because it's part of OUR Dream, not theirs."
Bjorn nods slowly. "So in the waking world, the bracelet doesn't provide any protection to any of us anymore?"
<Bjorn> As he says that, he looks down at his wrist. If the bracelet isn't there, he imagines it being there -- and once there, he visualizes it becoming a seven-foot spear.
<Nick> This happens as soon as you imagine it. Nick seems unfazed.
<Nick> "Not much," he says, shaking his head. "Unless all five of you concentrate on it protecting one specific person, in which case, there you go. Only problem is it's a really GOOD protection, so it can actually end up blocking you from using whatever abilities you've picked up on your own."
<Bjorn> "I noticed," Bjorn says drily.
<Bjorn> He hums thoughtfully. "I spent some time experimenting with it," he remembers. "And I noticed that it seemed like... I had *two* shields. One I had to concentrate on bringing into being, that glowed, and kept me from moving. The other was automatic, and didn't limit me at all.
<Bjorn> "Were they both from the bracelet? I... don't seem to have either now, though I haven't had people trying to set me on fire to make sure."
<Nick> "It responds to your will to a limited degree," he says, eyeing the spear thoughtfully. "It responds to your perception. If you imagine that you're in serious peril, it'll do what it can to protect you. If you're afraid of the dark, it'll make light."
<Nick> "Anyway," he says, glancing at a wristwatch which wasn't there a moment ago. "Okay. I've got one important bit of information for you, before you go. One of your enemies has cheated -- one of the Generals you're fighting can't be beaten. At all."
Bjorn grunts. "Elric."
<Nick> "Actually, no," he says, shaking his head. "Elric isn't part of the Seventh Cabal plot. Basically ... the Seventh Cabal gave their ward, the ward of this Dream itself, to someone IN the dream. The Jotun."
Bjorn blinks. "That's... okay. Wait. Ward?"
<Nick> "The Dream gives whoever gets its attention a prize. The Ward of Earth amounts to complete invulnerability when combined with the Jotun's heritage. The Seventh Cabal figured this out before they left. So ... you're going to need to cheat BACK to get rid of him."
<Bjorn> "Cheat," Bjorn echoes, slowly. "Cheat by whose rules? And what's the penalty for cheating?"
<Nick> "You'll be destroyed by the Dream," Nick says bluntly. "I don't suggest doing it personally. The trick is to get someone to enter the Dream, pull the Jotun out, and kill it by changing the rules."
Bjorn frowns, again -- the wrinkles will set in soon. "How did the Cabal manage to cheat, then? And how do we do all of that?"
<Nick> "You can return to a Dream after you've earned the Ward. They chose to re-enter the Dream, give the Ward to the Jotun, and then left."
<Nick> "Alan can't enter the Dream for long, but if he's called by enough people in the Dream -- his friends, the wolves -- he can do it. It's about all we CAN do directly, in all honesty." Nick looks a bit glum at this last.
<Bjorn> "Huh," Bjorn sounds. "So we call in Alan, he pulls the Jotun out, and...?"
<Nick> "Kills it between the Dream you're in, and our own," Nick says resolutely.
Bjorn scratches at the back of his neck thoughtfully. "What happens to the Jotun's Ward at that point?"
<Nick> "That's the suck-ass part," he says, shaking his head. "It becomes dissolved back to the Seventh Cabal to take for their own. I kind of suspect that they set it up that way so they'd know, really."
<Bjorn> "Nothing to do about that, I guess," Bjorn sighs, and the studies Nick a tad sharply. "You said this was cheating," he points out bluntly. "Who bears the price for it?"
<Nick> "That'll be Alan, actually," Nick says, frowning. "But he's died once. He thinks he can take it again."
<Bjorn> "One more question, actually, if we have time," Bjorn says suddenly, as a though occurs to him. "Has anyone from this Dream escaped it?"
<Nick> Nick raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, actually. We tried to grab him to ask him questions -- he got past all of us, though. Now he's one of the Wanderer's thralls." He frowns. "Though, he sent his shadow back to the Dream of Earth. Alan wanted us to ask him about how he did what he did.... But I guess from a different Dream we seemed too alien. Either way, the Wanderer told us not to fuck with his thralls, so it's out of our hands now."
<Bjorn> "So his shadow -- a copy of him? -- is still in the Dream with us?"
<Nick> "Yeah -- I haven't figured out who yet, though. I THINK he got killed by Solariat, and his bones were made into Mattias's base."
<Bjorn> "Mattias has some memories of a knight in golden armor with a halberd," Bjorn says slowly, trying to recall. "That seems to be linked somehow to who he used to be." He eyes Nick. "I don't suppose you can tell me how to break Solariat's wards on Mattias?"
<Nick> Nick chews on his lip. "Huh," he says. "Hm." He shakes his head slowly. "Mattias only showed up a little while ago, relativistically speaking. I'm going to have to look into that. For now, I've got no clue."
Bjorn nods, and shifts, uncrossing and then re-crossing his legs. "All right. How much can you help us, anyways? Without breaking the rules of the Contest, I mean."
<Nick> "Quite a bit," he says, nodding. "Basically, the only judges are the Dreams themselves, which we can't usually enter."
<Bjorn> "So how does this work?" Bjorn says, waving a hand about the cluttered room. "How am I touching this Dream from the Battle-realm?"
<Nick> "That's how we're cheating, a bit," Nick says. "You're at the edge of our Dream, and your own Dream. You can't see it, but there's a boundary between us. Sure, you've got your fetish with you ... but it's just a dream. If you imagine yourself to be a car, you will be. This is the weakest level of a Dream. Good for communication, though."
<Bjorn> "I see," Bjorn says -- and he does, too. Stretching his arms, he asks, "So there's no chance of speaking with my Oracle?"
<Nick> "Not tonight," he says apologetically. "We're kind of really pressed to use her help to get Pandora back -- then we'll have two oracles, between the two of us."
<Bjorn> "Pandora," Bjorn says. "Not *the* Pandora, I'm guessing?"
<Nick> "Well, she's OUR light of hope, but no, she's not that old. I think Lan said she was born about 400 B.C. Though, it took me a while to figure the math on that, so I could be waaaay off."
<Nick> "Anyway. You're about due to wake up -- time for one last question."
<Bjorn> Bjorn makes a noise, not quite a laugh. "You say, just as I run out of questions," he says dryly, and then a thought occurs to him. "Actually. Bit afield, but... our Oracle seems to have... forgotten a lot of what she once knew, I think. Is there a way to help her with that?"
<Nick> "That's going to be Pandora's job," he says nodding. "Rest well!"
<Nick> And then everything becomes darkness.
Bjorn is awoken sometime later by a knock at the door.
Bjorn gets to his feet a little slower than normal, running over the dream he's just had and trying to fix all the details in his memory. Only when he's close to finished (which doesn't take very long, vivid as it was) does he make a move to go and open the door.
Mirallia eyes you sleepily from the doorway that's just opened, smiles at Bjorn, and says nothing, heading directly for her room.
Bjorn's not certain of the time, but suspects it actually hasn't been that long yet.
Bjorn closes the doorway, and then turns back. "Mirallia," he calls out in a low voice (so as not to be overheard by the vassals outside), trying to stop her before she gets into her own room.
She pauses at the doorway, and turns to face Bjorn. "Yes?" she asks tiredly. "Is something amiss?"
Bjorn hesitates. "I might be able to return your Bjorn to you," he says, seriously.
Mirallia blinks at this, and frowns. "You...." She trails off, and takes one of the chairs, seating herself. "He's not dead?" she asks, her eyes brightening somewhat.
Bjorn crosses his arm and frowns off into the middle distance. "He probably did die in the ambush," he says, "but that doesn't have to matter." He frowns, and begins to pace for a couple seconds, before collecting himself. Letting his arms drop, he gives Mirallia a serious look. In a voice he tries to make as gentle as possible, he explains. "If I can accomplish his goals -- satisfy his drives -- while I am here, then even if he was dead before, he'll be returned when I leave. To do that, of course, I need to know what he would have wanted -- another reason to speak with you about what sort of person he was."
He looks away, then, though his voice doesn't change. "I think I should warn you, though, that if I don't meet my own goals, then even if I meet his, I will cease to be. I hope that there will be no conflict, and I will do my best to meet both, but...." He shrugs, and meets her eyes again levelly.
"Oh," she says very quietly. "I ... Bjorn spoke very little of his goals, other than eventually earning his freedom." She looks thoughtful. "Actually, he did say that some day he hoped to meet his family ... he told me he had an older brother or sister. He couldn't remember which, though ... he remembered them, and wanted to someday see them again."
Bjorn half-smiles at that. "I may have already earned his freedom," he observes, "which is a good start." He sighs. "I don't imagine he spoke much about his family, though?"
"He didn't know much," she says, shaking her head. "He became a vassal at a very young age."
"He was born in the Upper Kingdoms?"
"Yes," she says. "Near Heath, if I recall. That's a farming community, mostly, but there's a town large enough to contain a slum, and so...." She shrugs helplessly.
Bjorn sighs, then. "Is there anyone who would know more about his past, in that regard?" he wonders. "Perhaps Donovan?"
"Donovan never met Bjorn until he came to the temple in the Wastes," Mirallia says, tapping her fingers on the table. "Answers ... if we had the crystal of Hammar here, we could ask it. The Archonae...." She trails off, and frowns. "The Archonae use it as an oracle. I'm sure if we used the crystal to speak with Hammar, he would know."
"Yes," Bjorn says, slowly. "There's a little more to it than that, in fact." He frowns, and takes a seat at the writing desk. "I... was told that the Younger Gods are imprisoned." He looks up at Mirallia. "Bound in crystals."
"What?" she asks, completely stunned. "How could ... but ... then...." She shakes her head. "Well. We feel their power, but they haven't been seen by anyone living in an age," she finally says. "I suppose anyone is possible. How did you discover this?"
"I had a dream," Bjorn explains, a bit hesitantly. "I spoke with a... sage of my world." He scrubs at his eyes. "That's not entirely accurate," he grumbles, "but an accurate explanation is difficult, and I think I'd need to be more awake than I currently am." He snorts. "The short of it, however, is that my goal is not satisfied unless the Younger Gods are freed, it would seem."
He eyes Mirallia with almost paternal sterness. "If this is true," he points out, "and it turns out that the crystals of imprisonment are the same crystals we're using to ward the Keep, you might very well want to rethink the meaning of what happened at the ceremony."
Mirallia blinks slowly. "That ... is something I must consider after sleeping," she says, shaking her head. "This is ... very confusing."
Bjorn smiles faintly at that. "Yes," he agrees. "Sleep well, Mirallia." He starts to turn to the writing desk, pauses, and then looks back over his shoulder. "The only thing I can promise," he says seriously, "is to do my best. But I do promise that."
Mirallia nods at you, one hand rubbing at her eyes. "Thank you," she says, her voice thick, before she rushes into her room and quickly closes the door.
Bjorn looks after her for a long minute, and then turns back to the writing desk. Carefully, he writes out everything he remembers of the dream in English, trying to get every word and gesture.
Once he's finished, the takes the papers, folds them up after letting the ink dry, and carefully pockets them. Only then does he return to the antechamber, this time seeking a real, restful sleep.
After going back to sleep and enjoying a deep, dreamless, sleep, Bjorn awakens with enough time to get to the pre-battle meeting with his allies.
After checking to make sure that Mirallia is still safe, he steals off to the library.
Bjorn now moves on to Soldier Dream (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=40019#40019).