"I think I know someone that can help us get set up with a guide..." At least that was what Jonathan claimed. He's lead you both through the twisting streets of Urgrup. In an open air bizzare, on a small tent selling Crockery. Oh it's nothing fancy but it's pretty functional. Turning to look back to his Tourist seeming entourage he says, "We're going talk to Usef... He should be able to help us out... Don't let the noise bug you.. he's ok...." Noise what noise? In any event the burly Ottoman (well he looks kinda Ottomanish at least) leads them booth and Jonathan leands forward against it. "Hey there Usef... I'm wondering if perhaps we could pick your brain a minute." He looks up slowly. An ageing turkish man with a weathered face yet rakish smile. "Oh.. of course.... What can I do for you?"

     It's a bright day and Soldekai has dark glasses on. It must do something for those hazel eyes. He shakes his head as Jonathan points out Usef, grinning at the idea. Well, at least someone's on the case.
     "You sure about this?" he wonders, needing reassurance apparently. Today the camera is gone, and tan slacks and jacket replace heavier khaki. With a blue shirt underneath, Sol almost seems the picture of fashion. "We could..." he twists to speak behind his companions, "...try and find the one from the carpet store?" Just an idea.

     There is not much to this business of the Valley. I can find it at night...
     When the old men and women dream...
     But maybe it is not mine to find. It is a journey for the others. I do not yet know what I am to do here on this earth, in this old form that is still so unfamiliar to me. A life I had lived somewhere much colder, much newer, much louder than Urgup.
     His vestments have not changed so much. Or perhaps he has two or three of everything? Sandaled feet upon heated earth. Robes and coverings of some sort of linen. The air moves through them as he walks. White and tan. His head covering is, however, new. Something from one of the women of this village. Blue and purple dyed silk, the head wrapping captures the curls, dark ringlets escaping here and there. Light, the air flows through this as well.
     Kit moves more slowly than the other two, his grey eyes, uncovered, easily discovered by the onyx, brass and jewelry nearby. O, I have been looking for one of these -- O, but this is much finer...
     And so on...

     I tell yah.. give a celestial a powerful word and a make them an Archangel and all of the sudden the think they know it all. Ok so they probably do, but that's not the point. "Well if you really want to ask the tweedle dee, dum, dimple and doofus back at the carpet shop by all means." Ok so that's a bit harsh perhaps. "I just know if there's anyone in this city I trust to find us a guide it's Usef..." Looking back to the haggard man, the burly fellow cocks a thumb over his shoulder. "My friends here want to do some sight seeing. I was wondering if you could help us get a guide.. They want to go to the..." he then turns and looks to them, "What was it again? The Valley of the Shriners or something like that?" He asks them looking for confirmation.
     Usef for his part sighs, "And here I thought I was going to part you from more of your money.." he points to the weapon slong from Jonathan's hip. "I still think you should replace that relic with something more modern."

     There's no comment on on Jonathan's exposition on the carpet shop from Soldekai. He turns and looks about the open area, listening half-attentively to Jonathan's and Usef's banter. "Valley of a Thousand Churches," Soldekai notes eventually, the only correction. But he's sure Usef knows the place. Only then does he turn to see the scene fully, hidden gaze landing upon Kit.

     Grey eyes have lifted to the coversation. No small endeavor, for all the brass that surrounds him. It is amazing that he hasn't fallen into some trance. Fingers pause above one piece in particular, and seizing upon the moment to sell, the merchant and her two daughters slip some of the brass onto his hands, another something around his neck...
     "O see, sir," comes their Turkish light with smiles. "...how this brass favors you..."
     Oh indeed...
     As Kit is summarily covered and draped in bits and pieces of brass, his eyes lift past dark curls to Soldekai and Jonathan. "The Valley of One Thousand Churches," follows the Turkish from his lips...
     And yet the woman and her daughters continue their sale, to close their deal: "And fitting tribute you will make, yes? You must take the bracer and the amulet..."
     And then Kit is lost to it. He looks away from Soldekai, just for a half moment. And that's all it took. His fingers begin moving over the brass that now adorns his throat, his wrists...
     But you, Soldekai...
     Though the attention was brief, you saw glimmers of Kit Remembering Himself. Maybe it is the brass and jewels that do it. Or the violet and blue silk turban. So easy it is for you to see the Herald in the guise of Man...
     And the warmth that grey eyes held show their love, and most of off their appreciation... for you being with him... as he attempts to...acclimate?

     You can see behind Soldekai's dark glasses. A wink. A brilliant angel trying to hide behind tiny shells of plastic. It fails miserably, really. But anything he did, would.

     The wrinkled Usef looks to the Soldekai and then to Kit. Kit gets a bit of a inquistive look but he eventually just shakes his head. "Yeah I've heard of it. I know an archaeologist that goes there from time to time.... I appraise pots that he finds sometimes... I can put you in touch with him..." And with that he slowly looks to Jonathan, "Well I can for a prize that is..."
     Jack mumbles under his breath and reaches into a hip pocket for a billfold.. "You really are a cheap bastard.... Now before we close this deal you're sure this guy isn't just some nut that'll try and take us out in the desert and leave us for dead?" Well ok it wouldn't work.. but well you know. Usef starts to say something but Jonathan raises up a hand shushes him... "Wait....." And the burly man grows very silent.
     As he does he turns and looks. Five men walking down the center of the street. The crowd is giving them a birth. Their heads are covered by black turbans. Their faces rapped. Their hands in volumnous black robes. "Usef! Down... Kit." he says looking to the distracted young man, "Get behind me...."

     Note to self: I have to talk to Jonathan about his sense of humor. That is going to get us in hot water one of these days.
     And clearly Soldekai thinks too soon.
     But Soldekai was as distracted as Kit seems to be. He does not catch the approaching men early, but instead about the same time Jonathan gives it voice. "Wha--?" he begins, narrowing his gaze and removing his shades.
     Familiar faces. Soldekai moves himself and a woman aside, sending her behind baskets. "You have to be kidding," he murmurs, reaching into his jacket pocket...

     It is amazing how quickly jewelry can be packed and removed...
     Such graceful hands. So well practiced. But even though it happens quickly, there was much to remove...
     The bracer is gone, likewise the bracelet, the belt. All but the torque. The torque is left. And the fingerprints of one of the daughters speaks: No, you keep this for luck...
     For luck...
     Praise be to the One True God...
     Praise be to Allah...
     The word was heard late. Kit, turned this way and that by the hands of the women who were attending him. Turning, now ... in white robes and sand colored linen. Just in time to see the black robes coming. He turns, he glances for the humans around him -- first, to them. But they have already hidden...
     And in the intervening moments, Kit begins to duck...
     This is not my battle-line...
     Here, I am powerless...

     They might be kidding, but it's a great cover for a quick slash and burn team. Make yourselves look like a bunch of religious fanatics. Then just open up until your target is dead and not give a shit about the collateral damage. The vessels are even expendable. "Hrm.... They seem to be friends of his... Kill them if they complicate things." Hands come out from beneath their robes. A smattering of guns of Russian and Israli make are revealed. Bolts are pulled back and rounds are chambered. Guns are leveled...

     "There's a gun beneath Usef's stand. Grab it and Shoot anything that gets to close Kit." And with that the sawed-off and sanded down shotgun starts to come out of its hip holster. "You guys are only getting once chance to give up..." He says to the men. His only answer is the report of their weapons as they open fire.

     Bullets. Thunderous noise. Cacophony of insanity. Chaos. Some might revel in this.
     Some.
     Not this one though.
     Alabaster skin makes stoney expression. Almost literally. Thin-line mouth speaks of annoyance. Brow furrowed in concentration. Focus. Ignore the chaos. Don't hear their screams. Don't feel their deaths. Innocence shattered on whitewash and cobblestone.
     Stone skinned hand reachs out, from where Sakir stands. Where he stopped on his leisurely stroll. Hand touches shoulder of teenager. Male. Shocked, and immobile. Pulled back and away. Into safety.
     Plaster and stone splinter. Shatter and explode in graceful arcs too fast for eyes to see. Bullets pass through the air where the boy was. This one saved. So many lost already.

     It was just to be a search for a guide. No, really. As gunfire begins to scatter the patrons of the square, Soldekai reaches out for Kit, dragging him to the edge of Usef's stall. "Down," he says calmly, peering around as one of HK's finest comes parallel to his face.
     There's too many around. What are they thinking?
     "This is out of hand," he says quietly before peering around the edge of the stall again to return fire.
     This noise. It sounds like sound between sound. A bullet from Soldekai's weapon. And another. And a burst. All aimed cleanly at the individuals in black.

     Why am I seeking cover? I am in the light of the Lord...
     Why do I run? I am in the goodness of My Lord...
     Why do I cower? I am in the rightness of the Lord...
     What is there to fear, but the almighty power of the Lord Himself?
     And so Kit has started to move, at the sight of the guns, he begins to kneel. And grey eyes fix upon the black robes. And lifting sand. And the sound of inhumanity...
     The women are in baskets, and he kneels before them. No thought to his own physical safety. For what has he to fear when he knows where he will be going...
     But then he feels the world move. A hand on his clothing. A cooling breeze and then a mouthful of sand.

     "No." Not a plea. Not angry. Simply flat. Like how stone might sound if it could talk. A command, perhaps, but the one who speaks it lacks the power to change the course of events. The single word speaks more of a decision.
     Somewhere behind him a rolled rug lies on the ground. Dropped. Yet another artifact of the historical footnote that this day will become.
     Remember to write about this. he reminds himself. Never forget atrocity, regardless the smiling face it puts forward.
     And he steps into the maelstrom, though few would notice. No more remarkable than a streetlamp, or postal box. To most people. To those this fight centers around, however, he is certainly there.
     A simple do not see me does not work on such people.

     Witnesses... plain as day.... Sometimes, it might be said, there is no better place to hide than in plain sight. Dress up like religious nuts and gun a man down in the streets the papers read 'man gun down by fanatics' the next day and it's forgotten about quickly. Those that might say, "No man they were demons maaaan." are frequently ignored. The black garbed men lay down a suppressing fire scattering the humans. Noone's watching but save from closed doors. The mission is simple. Take the target but do it as mundanely as possible.
     Trying to quickly get under the gun fire, Jonathan slides for the side of the booth with a baseball style slide... The report of his shotgun rings out like a clap of doom as two twelve gauge slugs barrel into one of the gunmens chest. The impacting tearing the cavity open. Even as Jonathan settles up on the side of Usef's stand and opens the breech on the shotgun to reload, a slight.... distrubance can be heard. The supressing fire has started to kick up dirt and plaster into the air causing a thick haze... As the distrubance from Jonathan is felt the wind mysterious stops and the haze of battle grows thicker and hangs in the hair..... thick enough at the edges that it hides the view of what's going on from those that have fled the scene. "Shit!" one of the black clad men says...

     Someone walking into the middle of this. A man. Soldekai's weapon quiets a moment, not so much of a worry since he's shielded.
     Who is that?
     "Get down!" he calls to the man, walking into the midst of this. How can he defend him, if he walks into plain and open view?
     "Cover me," he says to the man beside him, crouching as if he is to dart into the open fray...

     Unconcerned. As uncaring for personal health as the rain might be, beating itself against a cliff face. The dust haze settles around him. Family of sorts.
     Stepping from the smoke screen, kicked up by flying bullets, he is certainly in the center of things. He has stopped though. Someone has seen him, and this one thing has brought a reaction to his stone features. Surprise. They aren't supposed to be able to do that.
     For a moment, his expression speaks of the worry of the bullets. But that banishes. Someone has brought violence to his home. To his heart. And this is something he doesn't abide. Not here, where he can make a difference.
     Steady steps, assured. Determined. Walking straight through towards the black robed men. The first to draw weapons in his home.

     If I do what I do best, we will be running for nights, my brothers. They will chase us by the light of the beacon I would create. Though... at night... I would be at my best...
     There is nothing I can add to a battle of this type. But let them sleep softly, my brothers, let them sleep softly. I will see them there...
     Kit presses himself against the ground and in the shadow of Usef's shop. White and sand colored robes become sunlight and desert floor. Dark hair blends into shadow. Grey eyes close, so that they do not reflect the light too well. If only the brass torque wouldn't shine so brightly...
     He cannot help the words that leave him, something like arabic, something of that flavor. Be careful, my brothers...

     Cover me? An archangel just asked him to cover him... wow... In any event Jonathan calls out, makes a sound.. as if trying to speak but fumbling over the words. Sakir and the black turbaned man hear but a sound. Kit and Soldekai hear something different. They hear: "No one outside the haze can see... I'd suggest dispatching them as quickly as I can. Galadriel. Under the counter. Usef keeps a Desert Eagle. Get it an take the saftey off and shoot anyone in black that comes around that counter top..." In the celestial tongue all that can be said in little more time than it takes to make a sound. A little trick Michael teaches some of his boys.
     Now for that cover. As he speaks Jonathan reaches into his pocket and produces two more shells and slides them into the breech. With a snap of his wrist it comes close and he moves out to take aim. A few slugs plant into his chest, bleeding slightly, but his dense vessel seems only slightly phased. The remaining attackers are splitting off and charging now, wanting to close some distance, knowing a little more about what they are up against..... Another loud thunder clap and two slugs find their way into an black turbaned chest. This one keeps coming though and is quicky atop of Jonathan as the other three rush for Sakir and the now closing Soldekai.

     A knife? Soldekai blinks at Jonathan, he already making his way towards the man.
     A barrel here.
     A stall there.
     If he noticed the man's startled expression, it does not show. But Soldekai's eyes do widen as he recognizes the individual.
     The person from the carpet shop. The one he was thinking of earlier.
     A last glance is given to Kit, almost lingering. Then Soldekai yelps something, advancing quickly on Sakir and the three that approach him. Weapon that was once held to crafted shots now is held boldly forth, a Heckler-Koch MP5 brazely pouring bursts at the three's direction.
     While he quickly crosses sand to arrive near Sakir, yelling, "Get down!"

     Eyes rest on the lead of the three. They rush towards him, he slows. Let Mohammad come to the mountain.
     He does not hear, or does not care to hear Soldekai. Strides of lesser length, he walks towards them. No weapons on his hands. A look of determination upon his features.
     Lady Luck must walk beside him, for no bullet has hit him.

     Of course.. this Mohammed comes to the mountain with very little fear. The Russian-made rifle is raised up and the butt is brought crashing towards Sakir. With all his force. Aimed for where the shoulder meets the neck. If it connects, one thing might well become apparant. This zealot is stronger than any man ought to be...
     As the lead runner engages the two that flank him quickly move around to come for Soldekai. Unfortunatly for them they will not reconize him until it is to late. One levels the gun for the youngish looking man, ready the empty the clip. The other seems to take advantage of the smoky haze that conceals them from prying eyes. A long, serpentine tongue flicks forward out of it's mouth. It is prehensile, moving with calculate precision. The edges of the thing tongue lined with razor sharp barbs and coated with a sickly yellow icor that gives an acidic hiss. It surges forward and starts to encircle, as if intent on wrapping around Soldekai's kneck, Garrotte style.

     Unstoppable force and immovable object. Why do people always test the limits of the metaphor? In this case, however, the immovable object is far from immovable. Sakir is forced to his knees by the blow. He looks quite surprised. Hand flicks to the back of his neck, finger tracing along the line of the impact.
     Then he begins to stand again. He shouldn't be able to, but many odd things are happening here abouts. Who will notice?
     The barbed tongue is ignored, it snakes for his aggressor anyways. Let the dogs kill each other, then he will mop up the rest. Perhaps one will even learn a lesson from this.

     Fingers curl into the sand...
     And dark curls of his hair shift, dusted, as he lifts his head.
     And his eyes focus on the attackers in their black robes, their black turbans and kaftans, their black guns...
     Such a sound. Such a sound...
     That leaves his lips, and his fingers curl in the sand again, and from the earth they lift him to his knees.
     Such a sound... such a sound...
     And those in black...
     With their robes...
     With their guns...
     It is directed toward them. And that one there, the one whose tongue is lashing out. Suddenly his tongue moves only with the slowest motion. Slowing until it nearly stops. He will go no further...
     Kit sits upon his knees and from his throat there comes a song that Allah understands. From his Being, the song moves felt as much as heard. So, we will have to leave this village brothers...

     Oh, this has gotten too visible. A lack of humanity shown. Soldekai's attention is split immediately -- to the tongue heading towards him and the raised weapon coming down towards Sakir.
     And then, Soldekai almost vanishes.
      It is a blur that moves, something of fiery orange and brilliant white. Somewhere in the Symphony, chimes ring, resonating fully and brightly across the spectrum.
     Soldekai finds that the one with the tongue has stopped. It matters not. The other with the gun, he too is halted by the beautiful song. But it matters not. They have found themselves set upon by an archangel.
     Within smoke and the flashes of yellow-white gunfire, something transpires. Two bodies lie at Soldekai's feet, in the sand, he a full 180 degrees from his last position and some ten feet away opposite Sakir.
     In the same instant, something white and orange blazes from the back of the one assailing Sakir, growing in intensity.

     The Rifle shatters as it bears down on Sakir's shoulder and drives him to the ground. As he stands the look of suprise comes to him as well. But he quickly seems to have his mystery solved (or so he might think) "Fuckin' Remnants!" he exclaims loudly and reaches out to grab the standing Sakir forceful by the chin. Even as he starts to reach for him Sakir can feel something... the very fiber of his being starting to tear apart at it's basest levels. A line draws across his forehead and check, almost growing to a tear.. but then he feels it.. that orange and white brilliance rising up behind him... In that instant whatever he is doing to Sakir stops and he turns to what he knows will be an impending doom. You see... he's figured out what he's stumbled upon now, "Holy shit...." he says. The tone almost quiet and reserved. Resigned to his fate would be more like it.

     It comes with such force. It comes with the force he can give. It comes without dissonance. It comes without discord. It comes as purely as he is. As beautiful as he. No, more pure. More beautiful. This, this comes from God. Call him Yaweh. Call him Allah. Call him Krishna. It is all The Same.
     The vestments and the vestiges of the simple, wandering tourist fall away. Brushed away like hand brushing sand from the top of a stone. Carried away, like the wind that has shaped this village, these valleys, these mountains.
     Violet edged curls are dusted with sand, as in the force of his song he has bowed backwards. An arch such as a yogi would appreciate. And silver are the eyes that open with the turning of his head.
      And the last of them will be stopped by it. Charmed to stillness...
     Let there be peace...

     Sakir comes to the realization. He is out of his depth. Before today there was him. Now there are these as well.
     Then his soul being rended. To be destroyed. The Purity Crusade once more. Not that he knows of such a thing.
     Blinking against dust, stumbling away from the brilliant orange. Confusion. His eternity's grace gone. Falling to the sand backwards, looking his most human -- scared.

     How is good ole Jack farring in all this? Well being neither an archangel or possessing the attunement with the Symphony that a powerful word might give you, the answer is, 'as best he can.' The other zealot closed on him quickly.. and with the raising of the smoke screen closed that distance with a speed that should not be natural. Jack has only just gotten the breech of his weapon open when his opponent is at top, tackling him to the ground. And raining down powerful fists on the burly man. Two blows come to Jonathan's head unanswered For the third he gets his hands up and catches the incoming fist. He wrenches with all his might and a sickening pop is heard that arm comes out of it's joints and both the elbow and shoulder...
     In that slim moment Jack has a chance to reach for his weapon. He quickly slides slugs back into the breech. His foe has recovered though and brings down his fist with all it's power. Jack snaps the breech into place but it does not seem as if he'll level the gun in time. It is then that Kit's charm brings the zealot to grinding halt. Jonathan looks up at the creature for a few moments. Suprised. In his own battle he did not hear the subtle song make it's way into the symphony. He taps the fist that almost crushed his skull with a finger. When it does move Jack mere shrugs and puts the holds his gun to zealots chest and gives him both barrels. That problem is solved.

     Charm equals confusion.
     Kit in song. As it should be.
     Jonathan, busy seeing to the last. As it should be.
     The one ahead of me? Soon expired...the path to Hell already lain before him.
     But the one from the carpet shop.
     TThat brings a blink to Soldekai's hazel-hewed eyes.
     And instead of the burn searing through the creature's soul, a calling card for the one emblazoning him, there's a sudden rush of wind. What was to take a painful few seconds instead quickly broils into a blaze of yellow that envelopes a white core. But not a flame. It is a light that burns instantly and then vanishes, leaving ash where the third stood to further injure the man from the shop.

     For you, mothers, who feared to lose sons today...
     For you, sisters, who thought to lose your hearts' desire today...
     For the children, who heard gunfire for the first time today...
     For the old men, who remembered old battles today...
     Essence is what is given. Essence is what pours out of the one collapsing back on the sand, singing today. In sound audible to all ears. In power felt by some more than others -- that is the nature of this song. It continues, with its call and answer to Allah in a tongue that is of no tongue but understood in all nations.
     It has been heard at The Wailing Wall...
     It has been heard at Mecca, sunrise and sunset.
     It has been heard in India behind curling smoke...
     It has been chanted polyphonic in churches of cold stone...

     Two stand still paused. Two lay on the ground with gapping holes in their chests. Most suprisingly though is that they are not dead... but held by Kit's song as much as any of them. Where they able they would stand up again and fight. Two more stand there like erie manaquins. The fifth is nothing more than ash, the sixth.... Well let's just say that two 12 guage slugs at point blank range makes for quite a mess.
     Jonathan wears most of what was his torso at this moment. Pushing the husk off of him he starts to stand. He looks to Sakir, but for whatever reason he seems to leave him be at least for the moment... "Usef... someone ratted you out... You need to get out of town." Huh? No sooner has he said that then does he start the hum in a low pitch. To Sakir is sounds like just that humming some song, allbeit an odd one he's never heard to. Kit and Sol however will here this. "I can keep the smoke screen up for a few more minutes... We should move out while we're still covered by it. I'm not sensing any danger from the one from the shop."
     After all he knows no other way to call Sakir yet. THe breech is opened on his gun again and two more slugs are placed into the barrel before snapping it shut. "I wish I had my side arm.. it's so much neater for this." he says as he walks over to one of the frozen zealots and levels his gun against the back of it's brain pan.

     The photographer's mouth moves, but it may mean little to the man near him. To some, it sounds like, "Let's go..." but to the rest of the world, a series of chimes strikes the air. A nearby bell.
     Soldekai's hand comes out to you, Sakir. Nothing but human. Warm, living, palm up. He manages a smile now, to encourage you and reassure that he is not to hurt you. Yet he can image that such belief may be hard to come by.
     But his voice rings true, sounded like a native. "You're injured...and this is not an ideal place to stay. Come with me..." Soon, the Turkish police and others will fill the square. The photographer looks as if he has no plans on remaining.

     Dignity. Dignity born from millennia of fog shrouded mountains. Sakir stands, dusts himself off. Schooling features back to stone. He touchs the back of his neck once more, hand coming away with a fine layer of dust the colour of his skin.
     A step backwards. He does not know what to do about these strange creatures. These not-tourists.
     Another step backwards. His pose becoming more relaxed, though ready. For what, he doesn't know.
     The one talks to him. A command, or so Sakir interprets. Not to anger this creature, he merely mutely nods.

     He can appreciate that. Hesitancy. Fear. Soldekai's hand drops with a nod to Sakir, and he looks towards Usef's stand. It'll have to do. "This way," he speaks again, feet carrying him back the direction he once was by the wood and textiled booth.
     As he walks, Soldekai spots the Singer, narrowing his gaze. And Jonathan, there he is too. What remains will be left for The World to sort out.

     Eyes that once were grey have gone silver, and the arch has lowered to a sprawl, open armed...
     The song carries upward, a spiral that continues toward God's infinite realm. I can see Blandine's Tower. And the dreamscapes of stars that form mine and My Master's eyes. The flash of images known from the dreams I have given and all those to be given. Possibility and Promise. I hear the bells of my brothers and sisters voices. Pure tones. Like the ringing of the hematite spheres that hang from my waist. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.
     He does not hear his voice stop. He does not hear the Song end in a sigh. Or feel the swallow, or the taste of sand. It will take, perhaps, more moments than he has to move from Realization to Next Action. In white and sand colored robes, Kit lies a moment unmoving and he closes his eyes.

     "Jack here!" calls Usef as he emerges from safe hiding beneath the booth. He tosses the nickle plated Desert Eagle that was hertofor hidden beneath the booth to the dusky skinned mercenary. Jack turns and catches it. His shotgun replaced in the low slung holster. "Yes this will do much better." He holds it up to the back of the zealots head and with a quick double tap he crumbles to the ground. It should be noted that it's the .357 variety of the gun. Not the big many .50AE. But at this point that is purely a semantic.
     He moves to each of the three remaining that are frozen by Kit. Each get's a double tap to the head so that their vessels might expire. That deed done he tosses the gun back to Usef. It is caught and tossed into a carrying case with what else the man can frantically pat. "Just relax.. stick close until someone arrives to get you.. They won't be long..." and with that he looks to Kit. "Are you alright?" he says as he moves to follow Soldekai. There is a look to the Archangel but he doesn't say anything yet. Knowing full well he's going to have to just concede that yes, it would've apparantly been much easier just to ask for a guide at the rug shop. He stops near Kit to offer and arm and supportive shoulder.. the dust is now begining to clear.

     Not so far from Usef...the world shimmers. A ripple of fabric, slicing into The World. An opening -- to not here.

     Sakir is silent. Inhuman. He recedes into the comfort of his own existence, dropping the trappings of humanity. These creatures know better anyways. Not that Sakir changes outwardly, in any physical way. Merely a sense of Intuition speaks of the change.
     Still eyes watch the proceedings. He turns his head to see the tear. No expression.
     Sakir waits for his next order from the not-tourists.

     A small trip, apparently. Soldekai enters the booth, something rather soldierly about the photographer suddenly. He remains a distance from the ripple, watching to see everyone enter while looking out of the booth to see where the police are.
     The answer -- not so far away. Despite only a couple of minutes of confusion, they are already zooming to the square, sirens blazing.

     Last night...
     He could hear a man singing to the sunset. How Turkish itself moves like fire, like the waving of air beneath the heat of the Turkish sun. He heard a woman singing softly as she washed her hair with water from the well and some oil her mother taught her to make. Those songs are reborn upon his mouth, his lips moving. Kit starts with the sunset song, and then sings in a whisper the song of that young woman.
     But as he hears the sirens... the rapid fire of shouts approaching, the song transforms into chanted words: You're going to have to pick me up, Jack.
     Grey eyes open. "I won't tell anyone if you don't..."

     There is a soft sigh, as Jack leans down, "Oh alright." and he wraps his arms around Kit's waste and he hoists him, quasi-uncerimoniously up over his shoulder and draps Kit there like a bag of potatoes. Literalist... Whether or not that's what Kit met, that's what he's getting if he doesn't some how impede him. "Usef c'mon... Michael will never forgive me if I let you get killed.. we'll go and wait for your ride to get here.." and with passanger on shoulder and Usef in tow, Jonathan makes his way through the portal.

     He looks between them. A frown. Then he too steps through. Sakir. Never meant to go where he is going. But no real choice presents itself.

     Northern Territory, Central Australia -- Mewlig Village...
     The horizon remains unchanged, save the outcropping of tin. A small village, rough and tumbled from the winds and heat that can sear this land, stands unsteadily. There are a few huts, watering holes, and some animals that wander the road through town, but more than likely, this is but the remnants of a small station. A series of trailer homes look well-kept; a small sign for the Australian Interior carved in wood rests on a hook near one. Small buildings are perhaps two to three rooms each, and several wells and holding containers are tucked under metal sheds.
     A path wends around one of the tin buildings, and it looks well worn. Perhaps a precious well sits that direction, a source of clean water.

     The four of you get the last image of something Turkish. The ripple in The World is no different Here than it was There. A wave of heat, ribboned in the air.
     The Being who comes through last arrives in cocoa-colored pants, a tan shirt, wearing an Akubra. The weapons in his hands are gone, and when he steps onto the Earth, dust flies around his boots.
     The ripple vanishes.
     All the work there is now in shambles. And there are two more travellers in this pack. Soldekai looks at Usef and then Sakir evenly before letting a smile grow across his features.

     This must be what riding on a camel is like...
     There is not enough in him to laugh at his own joke, or to speak it so the others, maybe even Jonathan, can enjoy it. Kit lies in an unceremonious heap across one of Jonathan's shoulders. Grey eyes close...
     Oh good, more sand...

     A new land. New stone. Sakir bends to the ground, both hands open wide to the australian earth. Unmindful of his jailors, for now, as he communes with the ground.
     Bent there, at first out of place. As apparent as any tourist. Then with ticking moments, he becomes more and more part of the landscape. No phsyical change, once more. Merely the intuitive feel of change. He is now from here as well.
     "What of me?" Questioning, he speaks to Soldekai and Jonathan. He assumes the other is dead. Killed by these strange creatures in some way.

     Now.. there are somethings that don't always go well together. The leave your pallet confused. Putting peanut butter and jelly on your BLT's is one. Gun's and Roses doing ill-concieved covers of songs that were just fine as they were is another. Going from Urgrup, Turkey to a great big dusty, Trailer park somewhere is another that might well make his list. Still if you wanted a safehouse this is about as obscure as it could get.
     Unslinging Kit form his shoulder he sets him down o the dust ground trying to find a part of a tin shack offering some shade to rest his charge in. As he tends to that matter he looks to Sakir. "Are you hurt? If so I can patch you up if you like." This from a man still covered in blood and gore mind you...

     "What about you?" Soldekai questions as much as states. "Well, we wait until things calm down...and then..." he shrugs. You can go. He is no jailer, per se, but he does expect his word is obeyed. That much is evidenced in his stance and expression. "No worry," he says, twisting about, "...when it is safe you can go home...but you shouldn't be in much danger here."
     Well, at least from nothing mortal. The thought of that causes Soldekai's lips to twist.
     He sighs too, but listens as Jonathan speaks of healing, "There's a place to stay around here too, about," and Soldekai's eyes seem to color, "..fifty meters east."
     And indeed, there is a building.
     "Get everyone there, Jonathan," entrusting their safety to him. "I will...check a few things."

     What is that rumbling sound...
     An approaching vehicle?
     A big cat?
     A growl from some hidden dingo?
     Try snoring...
     As Kit is set in what particle of shade there is at the moment, near one of the trailers, his form rolls and then stills. He's out.
     Wherever camp will be, Kit will have to be carried there...

     "I will be fine." Dead even voice. "Bullets do little." He then rubs the back of his neck once more. "Though the rifle did much more than expected."
     In this new location's breeze, his tunic flutters. Revealing for the first time: bullet holes in front and back. No blood. Merely the sifting of more alabaster dust into the wind.
     With Soldekai's words, he bows slightly. His posture speaking for itself: I will obey, you who could end me.

     Christ.
     Not that Soldekai would ever say that.
     He watches Kit fall over asleep, then shakes his head.
     Hazel eyes look at Sakir and Usef in turn, making sure that they are not to follow Kit's lead.
     "Secure something," Soldekai says at Jonathan again, shaking his head as he turns to walk off westward, down a path.
      "Maybe you can explain things to our guests while I'm gone..."

     There is a look to Usef then, "Alright... we'll wait for your ride their. We'll try and get ahold of Nimo and get you set up someplace else." Apparantly Michael has some interest vested in the man... Looking back then to Kit, the burly man sighs and says, "Man.. he's gonna be like this until Dawn tommorow, too." Oh well, he somehow knew this wouldn't be as easy of an assigment as it sounded to be. Kit is hoisted up again, so he might be drapped across Jonathan's shoulder and he then nods to Soldekai, "I'll get them there." He then looks to Sakir, "You coming? I'm Jonathan by the way.. my friends call me Jack." And with that he starts to cross the dusty basin to the building some fifty meters away. A look back to Sakir and a smile, "Yeah.. Arbrahm has always been a brawny son of a bitch..." the name of the man that assaulted Sakir. There's probably more to that story but he seems to think better of finishing it just yet.

     First rule of being a hostage: Never befriend your captors. Never empathize with them. Sakir mutely nods to Jonathan's words. "Sakir." A glance to the snoring Kit. Not dead. That is good. A glance at Usef. He knows? Then finally he sighs. Another turn in the wheel. Another new life.

Posted by rowan at May 15, 2003 09:19 PM