<font color=teal>The winds have borne them again into the storm clouds and again his eyes find hers. He is listening now to distant echoes within the wind and his face darkens. “There is much we must face,” he says, a grim resoluteness in his voice. “Yes, it is difficult to see what lies ahead," a smile breaks through his hardened features as he looks at her, "But, for now at least, hope is all the foresight we need.” He falls silent then, holding her hand and setting his face toward the storm. The wind builds in intensity around them, feeding upon the strength of the storm itself and they ride swiftly along its currents to the tavern.</font>

[ 03-01-2002: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]</p>

<font color="skyblue">She agrees silently, and kisses him quickly on the cheek. She turns her face towards the wind.....</font>

OOC: AHHHH! the finger cramps....too much typing....*LMAO*
btw, *swoon, swoon over Cyril* *L*

OOC: I am mostly on here during the weekend, so Cyril if you see the need to take control of my cjaracter please do. I do enjoy coming back to find my character still alive.

ooc: Fair enough, Shadowhound. Cyril and KayLisa will be arriving back at the tavern sometime within the next couple of posts -- you're more than welcome to join them or to continue along after Neb. Feel free to PM me with any instructions for handling your character when your not around.

THE TAVERN

<font color=skyblue>Bartleby

It has been terribly grim work, this wrapping of bodies in bedsheets from the rooms and wiping of blood from the tables and floor. He did not know a man’s eyes could allow so much water to stream from them, but the tears have not stopped their movement along his cheeks since he re-entered the bar area. The two remaining patrons, one of them an adventurer of some sort, have helped him – desperate, it seems to do anything, even this grisly work, to avoid listening to whatever whispered terrors still lingered within their minds. “Horrible ..... just ..... horrible,” he mutters to himself, repeating over and over again the only word that seems to make sense.

He is worried about Maria. He has checked upon her twice and she has grown so very cold – Even her breath is cold.

He forces himself to be strong. “Ye’re doin’ fine, boyo,” he says, walking over to the adventurer and placing a reassuring hand upon the man’s shoulder. “Don’t know what I’d be doin’ without your help.” Turning to the other, he says, “Why you’re the blacksmith’s son – Tim, is it? Lucky I am he raised such a fine lad as yourself ..... Aye .... a comfort ye are, the two of ye.”</font>

<font color="lime">The Fay're rides the ley lines of the forest, stopping now and then to listen to the wind, and smiling...if such an evil thing can smile. waiting..............watching...........sooon..... ......oh so soon..................</font>

<font color=teal>“Ru’ah hamot’tah,” he spits the words, “The Devourer, has been here – the very air is still thick with the poison of its passing .....” A deep anger coils just below his speaking. He stands very still upon the roof, listening and feeling. “And there has been another ..... another as terrible in its own way .....” Noting the flash of recognition in her eyes, he asks, “This Fay’re?”

“If the poison of the Devourer still taints the air out here, inside it must be ......” He turns to her, “Those inside will need healing and .... comfort .... but we can do nothing for them until the air itself is cleansed.” He opens the door to the upper floor and stands before the entrance, an axe clutched tightly in each hand, surrounding himself with the anger of the storm and chanting softly in time with its movement.</font>

<font color="skyblue"> She steps off the side of Cyril, and removes her gloves, holding in one hand her dagger and the other nettle and cowslip dipped in Belladonna..........her eyes glow a fierce purple as she softly starts chanting.....

beannaich sibh, spiorad de am teine agus am deas! Mise thir sibh am falt seo do mo aigne!</font>

ooc: I promise the tavern won't be destroyed ..... Honest!

<font color=skyblue>Bartleby

At first he did not notice the mounting noise of the winds, now, finding himself suddenly surrounded by their swift and violent gusting, a worried expression stretches itself across his face. The two men working with him stand stiffly, exchanging worried looks with one another as the building itself begins to shake with the noise and movement of the winds. The fresh and living air surging past their faces seems to pull the caustic stinging from their throats and lungs. Still the intensity of the wind mounts, upsetting chairs and scattering small objects and violently intruding into the narrowest corners of the building. “Wait!” he cries, “I be knowin’ this wind! ‘Twas just the other night I felt it .... right before .....” His eyes widen in recognition and he turns to the others, “Lads, if ye be knowin’ what’s best for yourselves, ye’d best be duckin’.” He hits the floor himself as the tavern door begins to tear free from its hinges.

The dead and stale air left behind by the Devourer is gathered up and expelled by the winds -- hurled out into the storm on the heels of the tavern door.</font>

[ 03-02-2002: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]</p>

<font color=teal>He stands chanting, head turned skyward and his black hair dancing wildly in the winds that surround him. The storm swirling around him builds in intensity and pours violently into the building as his face takes on an ecstatic cast. The purging is relentless – the living air displaces all settled air from the building to the point of snatching half finished breaths from those still alive within. He must be careful now, he must not allow himself to finish the song – to allow this to become a killing storm .....

..... There is also another with him who trusts that what he does will not harm her ..... I have never sung the storms with an outsider present – she is no longer outsider – still she is unschooled in winds like these ...... I must not forget that I no longer walk alone ...... The intensity of the winds builds as he thinks. He can encourage the violence of the storm no more. With an abrupt choking off of his own breath he ceases the chant and brings his outstretched arms suddenly inward, the collision of the axe heads sending a small thunder clap echoing outward from the roof.

The air of the building has been purged of all taint of the Devourer. He stands unsteadily for a few long moments, gasping for breath in an ocean of wind. “It is not often a stormwalker uses his songs for something other than combat,” he says softly.</font>