May I direct your attention to the dire situation that Valera's character is in?

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(k, here goes...)

The dragonman preying upon Dyr'a reacted badly to the storm of lightning and magic roaring up the cliffside. Very badly. Wheeling panicked in the sky, it sought to shake off the shvat as its cohorts were picked off, one by one. But its talons were buried deep, enmeshed in her ribs, and she screamed again and again as the brutal claws disentangled themselves from her anatomy.

Then finally she was free of it, but still entrapped in a tide of agony and nausea as she fell - and fell - and fell -

There was a sick crunch, and she heard things snap, not unlike proverbial twigs. But she heard them only; suddenly, she was blissfully, gloriously pain-free. She couldn't see anything - it was all grey - couldn't hear anything either. Couldn't move, but there was no pain; her thoughts were the only things present, sharp as the forged edge on a blade.

Was this what it was like to be dead? Did one exist as the sole being in a nothingness? Dyr'a floated there, just a thought in an absence of the concrete. Things were getting muddier and muddier now - when the creature had her, its claws must have penetrated far into her body; it had probably punctured one lung or both. That would explain the cloudiness - she was suffocating, drowning in the blood pooling in her lungs. And the fall - her spine must be broken, so she could feel nothing. But that didn't matter, did it?

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

((*hint* If someone would like to somehow jolt our resident healer (aka Adellis) out of unconsciousness, she could be of much assistance to Dyr'a))

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The return of the mages' powers was a crippling blow to the dragonmen, both mentally and physically. The sudden surge of magic could be felt in the air, thrumming with energy. They shrieked their dismay and gained altitude in retreat. That is, before they caught sight of a single druid separated from the others, still battling for dear life on the mountain path.

Cirron had heard Adellis's cry and had looked up, hopeful, eyes scanning the rocks below for the shrine, when - oof. He'd hesitated a second long enough for two dragonmen to jump him from behind. They took their pick of appendages, and two pairs of talons dug into both shoulders in effort to carry him away. A hunting knife in one's chest and a staff strike across the other's talons dissuaded the notion. Their claws loosened. The result? A fall of ten feet, scraping against the side of the cliff, and a lost hunting knife and one bleeding shoulder and another previously injured shoulder ground to pulp.

The positive side was that he did make it to the bottom of the palisades. The negative side was that the rocks were a bit sharp. And the fall hurt. A lot. His cloak had snagged on the side of the cliff, somewhat cushioning his descent, but not enough that it didn't leave a wake of bloody scores down his back. However one glance at Dy'ra and Adellis told him that he could have suffered far worse.

He staggered to his feet and warily scanned the skies, but the dragonmen were gone. The shining crystal atop the shrine burned in his vision. Right hand groping forward - he couldn't force the other one to obey him, arm and shoulder in the state they were - he started forth, tripped over a few dead dragonmen, picked himself up, and started again. His hand tingled, as though brushing a haze of bubbles, and closed over the crystal, warm and pulsating to the touch.

It was like waking up.

Power flooded into him, filling that empty void in his chest, streaming into his fingers with a small explosion of white sparks. And suddenly he knew nothing but the joyous hum in the very fiber of his being, as though united at last with a beating heart. The throbs of pain seemed muted now, and he could even imagine feeling the wounds stitching themselves, the flesh closing in.

A fresh burst of blood poured down his arm, and his grin dissipated. Optimism didn't serve him well. His druidic magic offered some healing, but not rivaling those of the currently unconscious cleric. It was the cleric in question all of them needed if they hoped to continue their journey. Recalling their savior's dying wish, he dropped a hand to his pocket and fingered the emerald ring. Ammarindar. The prosperous port city was halfway across the continent. What did it have to do with anything?

He shook the thought off for a later time. There were members in their party who needed attention.

First he knelt beside Adellis and gently turned her over. His fingers where they contacted her forearms came away slick with blood. He cleaned them on his ripped green cloak and placed them on her forehead, fanning them across her temples. He dove into his reserves of power. A light touch first that sent ripples across the cool pond of magic. He gradually stroked it into a wave and brought that wave surging through his fingers to spread like cool spring water through Adellis's temples and soak into her mind....

He withdrew with a sigh. The simple act of reviving had drained him more than he'd anticipated.

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The return to consciousness was quite different from losing it. Where Adellis had clung to the barest thread of coherence, now she was gently coaxed back into a sea of blurring colors where there was no disorienting white haze. They melded slowly - ever so slowly - into images.

Adellis only had to blink once to bring the scene into view - overcast sky directly above her framed by jagged rocks. Shouldn't there be something else? Something in the sky...

She shot bolt upright, eyes already spinning around the scene. Cirron beside her - likely he'd woken her - but no monsters, winged or otherwise, though reaching to push herself upright brought twin stabs of pain in her forearms. She hadn't even noticed the wounds. An involuntary sigh of relief made her realize just how taut with anxiety - and fear, to be sure - she was, but a mere glance at Cirron revealed that Adellis would have work to do. Unsteadily she got to her feet. "I thank you - but you look in need of healing. I -"

And she caught sight of Illaria kneeling over Dyr'a, who was ominously still. Thought of anything else flew. Adellis could feel the familiar rush of urgency welling up in her and, forgetting Cirron altogether, fairly flew to Dyr'a's limp form. Even the memory of the frightening rush of magic she'd experienced earlier was nowhere near enough to keep her from dropping to her knees, fingertips already glowing faintly. She felt it every time - a stoic determination that if she had to utilize every drop of magic in her, no one would die. No one could. The thought of death scared and confused elf-raised Adellis far more than anything else she could name.

Closing her eyes, she let the magic flow from her. Without moving a muscle she cringed inwardly at the extent of damage here, but there was little time for cringing - only time to try and decide with all haste what needed to be fixed first. Magic targeted the base of Dyr'a's neck, where Adellis could feel the spine snapped in two, and then rebuilt the awful mess of broken ribs before restoring her collapsed lungs. Adellis could feel herself panting for breath, as disturbed by the damage as she was concentrated on the magic. There were myriad other injuries, most of which the magic targeted quickly and efficiently with minimal direction from Adellis.

She opened her eyes to find the shvat's limp form just coming to rest on stone again, seemingly having been suspended in air due to the sheer amount of magic Adellis needed to use. Her next breath was a gulp for air, and only then did she realize how long she'd been holding it.

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Threng grinned as his earthly power returned. It felt like rain after a long drought, or bread and cheese after nearly starving. He clentched his hand tightly, commanding palm length shards of earth to rise. He sent them hurtling at a dragonman, dropping it instantly. A dragon man above him was flattened under a slab of rock: Threng likened it to a fly swatter, only much larger. With all imminent threats desroyed, he looked around anxiously. There were still people on the cliff trying to get down.

"Hold on!" He shouted, hoping that he was heard LIke all his ideas, past, present, and future, this one involved daring and the very possible chance for someone getting hurt. He slammed his power into the cliff face, dragging a ledge (and its occupant) to the ground. It was a small ledge, and only one person occupied it at the moment, but the sheer strength needed to accomplish the task stunned Threng. The moment the ledge was a safe jumping distance from the ground he let go of the magic. He would be able to that again. The earth elementalist wobbled slightly, showing the fatigue the magic caused him. To his right he saw two mages tending to a fallen one. He made his way over. "Can I help?" He asked. The woman on the ground looked pale and ill, but he saw no injuries.

OOC: Sorry for not posting earlier for today, but now I've come up with a reason for my absence in the fight in the RP.

IC: Vos groaned slightly as as consciousness decided to worm its way back into his head. How the heck did he end up down here? The elf thought back...


Someone had just shouted 'Run!,' and Vos looked wearily up at the sky. Winged, scaled men-thingys, just perfect, he thought. Which was exactly when one of them decided that he would be a good candidate to pick up and drop onto the hard rocks below. The beast's talons went straight into his back tearing skin, muscle, and a possibly little bone in the process of lifting him up into the air.

Elexorien was of little use in fighting a creature behind him, so he dropped it to the rocks below, knowing it would survive the fall and he could retrieve it later. If, that was, he was still in the realm of the living. He lashed blindly out with his dagger behind his head, at the legs that were connected to the talons digging into his back. But...it was getting harder and harder to move his arms, the blows comming weaker and slower.

Now, the dragonman decided to drop Vos, but liuckly had too swoop lower to avoid a lightning ball that subsequently killed one of its fellows. Then the ground rushed up to meet him and the darkness envelped him

That ball of lightning probably saved my life, Vos mused, keeping the fall from being far enough to shatter his spine. However, it did break my arm and did something to my leg. To pull himself up, Vos grabbed onto the altar and managed to almost fully rise before his hand actually touched the crystal; sending his magic flooding back through him and causing him to fall back to the ground.

Darkness came with the waves of pain from his arm, but the return of his magic too his breath away so he couldn't scream from the pain. Then, so slowly, ever so slowly, the darkness crept back from his vision. Vos then pulled himself up on the altar once again, but this time using a bit of the wind to steady himself. He looked at his right leg, it twinged when he put weight on it, but it could hold it. The useless appendage that used to be his right arm had a compound fracture in the forearm, nearly a 90 degree angle towards his body.

Vos saw people crowed around someone's body, but he couldn't tell whose it was. His eyesight wasn't so good at the moment, the world was swaying back and forth, almost like he had just stopped spinning in circles for an hour. The elf would have walked over to them if he was not so weak from blood loss and just regaining consciousness that it was all he could do not to fall over onto the ground once again. "Who're you all around?" he tried to ask, but all that came out was an incoherent mumble. He tried to speak once more, and failed a second time. The third time was the charm, as this time the question came out lound enough for someone to hear it.

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Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.

Carlina had let a gasp loose through her mouth as she saw Dyr'a, the mage who had helped them escape, tumble off from a cliff. She rushed towards her, dodging fallen dragonmen. She reached her just as she hit the ground. Illaria was already there, kneeling over her. Carlina merely stood over her. If Dyr'a was really dying, there was one way Carlina could help her. But she couldn't do that. She couldn't force someone into the same existence as she was in.

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I was cured all right.

The dark cloudiness grew, like floating silt increasing in density, and Dyr'a let herself sink in. After the trauma of the dragonman's claws, nothing would be more welcome than death. It washed over her... and began fading.

No, this wasn't right; by all the gods, just take her! Let her go, let her enter that eternal darkness where there was nothing, as long as there was no pain.

But the stifling blackness bled away, pushed out by sweet, cool streams that reminded the shvat of life and clarity. She let them flow over her, beginning to revel in the sharp, vibrant chill. There was distant noise, and a sensation of slow turning, as if she were suspended by a thread in the midst of a crystal-clear stream.

The rotation stopped, and there was ground beneath her. But that was of no concern - her chest heaved once, then twice, and she fell into a deep sleep, breathing evenly.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Methadox observed silently as Adellis worked to heal the shvat. He was well aware that Dry'a's wounds were fatal and needed to be healed immediately, but nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease as the moments ticked away. Even with their magic restored and the creatures gone, he suspected that their problems were far from over. "We need to move," he said abruptly, the moment the shvat's limp form returned to the ground. "We're all wounded, but I somehow doubt the Wyrmlord will wait for us to be fully rested and healed."

Adellis couldn't help but take note of injuries received, and what she saw made her less than willing to move on as they were. "We - we won't move very fast if we're all hurt," she said timidly. "I have strength left to heal more than only Dyr'a."

It reminded her of the stinging pain lancing through her own forearms, which were staining her indigo tunic crimson. It took a curious sort of skill to heal oneself, one Adellis did not possess, but her wounds were insignificant compared to what others had suffered. She doubted that a vibrantly bruised back and two slashed forearms ranked among the most serious injuries taken. In any case, there was nothing to be done about it now.

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Cirron watched Adellis heal Illaria with something between admiration and envy. Would that his healing skills rivaled hers! But he was young, he knew, with still much to learn. From the tell-tale delicate features and pointed ears, Adellis was a half-elf with decades behind her. He doubted his current healing capacity in any case, as deprived of rest as he was. Discipline in body and mind, his old master had always lectured. Well, his body didn't feel its best, and his mind was reeling from recent events. Which translated to mean the magical capacity of a squirrel.

At least his shoulders seemed to have staunched their bleeding, a bit. Even if healing was beyond his reach, he wasn't an ingrate. He could find a way to help. He picked his way through the rocks to Adellis's side and placed a hand on her shoulder - more than mere gesture, but a channel for his own vital energy flowing into her. The cost drained him more than he'd expected. His knees gave way. Black spots dancing across his vision, he clutched his staff for support and slumped against a boulder.

"Ammarindar," he managed to gasp out, once he'd regained control of his panting breaths. His gaze roamed over each of them with a tinge of desperation, as though hoping for them to comprehend his own words - because he certainly didn't. "When Arant Gorm... when he..." He shook his head and reached into his pocket for the emerald ring. "He left me this and said something about the city Ammarindar."

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((please forgive me of my absence...I have not been able to get on b/c of school and my "job" for the past week and I am debating on whether to drop out of this RPG or not.))

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Just became a college freshman; be on sparingly

Adellis stiffened visibly at the unexpected and welcome infusion of newfound strength, and nodded to Illaria. "You will be a little sore, I think, but it is better than it was." Her accent, less pronounced but still audible, made contractions a thing seldom used but was still somewhat lilting, not entirely unpleasant to listen to. Her knees didn't threaten to give way when she stood, a relieving circumstance, but she couldn't help but notice that Cirron's seemed to be giving out on him. "Are you - hurt?" she ventured somewhat cautiously, taking into account his words about Amma - Ammarin - the city he spoke of, but not quite comprehending them fully. Her natural instinct, which prompted a strong urge to heal anything that was possible and ideally everything, was making her acutely conscious of how heavily he was leaning on his staff.

Briefly she twisted to look at the others anxiously, hoping she had the resources of power to heal or at least ease all of them. It wasn't primarily worry that made her feel she must, nor was it responsibility, but more an inborn urge to see that everything worked as it should.

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(*inserts post that doesn't move plot forward*)

Dyr'a was sleeping; yes, and she knew it, but there was a chillingly fresh undercurrent affecting everything. It had begun when she had first breathed easily again, and now it gradually cut through her rest to shape her dreams. It was power, she realized, magic that must have immersed her as she was somehow healed. Being a sorcerer, she'd never done any healing, but she did know that great amounts of power were used, which might lead to residual effects, especially with extensive wounds. The cool tide surged again, and she knew only what it gave her:

A stone chamber, circular in form, capped by a dome, through whose apex streamed particolored shafts of light. The hues settled on the white marble floor, changing as the sun's position changed, but ever reflected in the glass of the round table at the center. Around the table, evenly spaced as if in their rightful positions, sat a council; who, she could not tell.

There was scarce time to note this before one of the group rose, his robes falling in heavy folds to his feet. "And thus," he declared, "it has begun." As he spread his arms in a gesture, firey green glinted from on of his fingers, the jewel momentarily dazzling her. At his signal, two of the council lifted tall silver urns and poured their contents onto the table, pooling in the middle of the concave surface until the colored light danced in the ripples of the water and the table was filled. Vague shapes began to take form in the depths as the liquid stilled.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Oh, shoot. I suppose it's a little too late for someone new to join...?

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"Who are you?"
"I am the Sage-Child, bearer of wisdom past and hope for tomorrow.
Join me and see what was and must be.
Youth and age can conspire, if you just believe..."

I flew all the way from Texas to New England to spend two weeks with miss Nienor. 5 of those days were to survive on an uninhabited island. Booyah.