"You've made a right mess of a perfectly evil tower," Aeron says, leaning back with his hands propping him upon on the stone.

     "When do you get started? Right after Yule? Father Christmas Strikes Back?" Davydd cackles at that and reaches for his whisky. That was so good, he has to drink to it.

     You made me order it, watch it, regret it. You made me kill you. And I can't forgive you.

     Havoc's son rushes at you, its various mouths clamping. It lets loose gargling strangles, like someone choking on blood. Its breath is worse than even Iovis can describe. It smells of chaos, fear, and disorganized guts.

     To defeat the darkness, one strikes a light. The poisonous shadows swimming in his blood cannot bear such light; purity is the enemy of poison. Gwilym cannot see, cannot sense it; cannot hear the howls of terror, defiance and finally, defeat as that light shreds away at the dark.

     He sighs, and then he's dancing like a town fool away from the fired shots of the local gunslinger to avoid your ankles. "God damn it, Fiona. Eventually. Do you know that word -- eventually? Not next fucking week, Christ. Calm down and listen. Shite!"

     So goes the dictation on a busy, busy night. At the borders of the corrupted kingdom lies a great and untamed wilderness. No kingdoms or queendoms hold sway here, but the loose confederation of subjugated villages, villages that now suddenly find themselves free of their dark burden.

     I gave the command. I won my own battle, and I felt the life ebb from her. She was dead before my men ever reached her kingdom. There were losses, I'm sure - it was a battle, a minor war, even if won overnight. How many people are celebrating because of me, today? How many mourning?

     "Your mother has commanded a battle tonight," he begins, no time for endearments or blandishments now. Ramanthus outspreads his arms, his legs also as he stands. "We are raiding the corrupted kingdom of Winter Diamonds. In a matter of hours."

     Sitting in the chair, Iowerth lingers in his unsilent quiet, his weary brain pulsing with conversations and consequences.

     That's the look on his face as you come at him with a sword. He can disarm you -- he's not worried about that -- but he doesn't want you to hurt yourself. "Now, sweetheart... put the sword away and let's talk about this rationally..."

     His hand had already fallen away. If it hadn't, it would now. You receive an astonished green-eyed stare. He doesn't move; not even to drop his jaw. You're kidding, right?

     "I do not have to brag to tell someone to fuck off," Valan chuckles. "I simply say... fuck off. It is less work." A cigarette is in his mouth and it is lit. His lighter and the pack are stowed away along with his gear. He zips up the red and white bag -- Francais Nationale -- and hoists it on his shoulder, puffing out a bit of scented smoke.

     "Oh my god," Hwyll finally says, "... that means we have less than nine months to plan a fairy wedding. I think I'm going to faint.

     His hands go to his neck, lifting a stardust chain. It holds a chime, the sound of his own note within the Symphony, and it bears his sigil etched upon its surface. "You are my dream," Galadriel whispers. "I want you to wear this replica of my heart around your neck. Where you go, Soldekai, I shall always be..."

     "Oh, cheat. You want me to cheat..." Rhodri grins, as if to say: moi? Cheat? The knee comes up with a great grunt and a wicked slant to his grin. "How's that?"

     Do old piers dream? Do they stand in murky water pondering the past days, of clippers and caravels and boxes, ropes and men? With feet at the edge of the pier, Davydd ap Owain reaches into the darkness with his left hand, sinister fingers plucking at the air, and it pulls elastic in his grasp like the skin of a balloon.

     "I would ...respect her enmity and her power, but I would not as of yet worry about it. We will arm as any kingdom should, and prepare as any kingdom should."

     The crowd parts slightly as a figure, rather stocky with blonde hair, is tossed backwards into the throng. A couple catch the victim, affectionally yelled at as Hock, and push him, unceremoniously, back into the central fray. They move around to complete the circle once more.

     "I see that you are without entourage today," Sabine resumes in English, voice cool, expression as remote and detached as if she were offering up a comment upon whether or not it might rain. "How ... tragic. Your arms must be quite cold."

     The being outside, man that he is at the moment, peers at the insult-tossing door. Impertinence. Charming. "It is not so much about what you want," comes the very refined accent back to you. Or the door. Who am I speaking with? "I am here to see Jack. He lives here," he says this as if he knows it for absolute fact (which he does).

     "'Ello luv!" comes that high pitch voice, almost lecherous in it's intent. Perched atop your easel in a feat of balance that should be impossible, is a small old man that could not be more than four feet tall, and most likely a few full inches less than that.

     "Fear'll do that," Davydd smiles and the sun comes with it for those who can see it. For all others, it merely warms and brightens his face.

      And now there is no doubt in her mind that she is not safe with either group of men. "Shite," she curses on a breath, then spins on her heel to run, jabbing frantically at her cellphone's faceplate.

     And so by noon the first half of the running of the state had been done and William Plantagenet unstoppable. When one sought to find him in one place, he had already left. Mercurial as Henry.

     It is the summer of the 1187th year of Our Lord, and in His mercy, He has seen fit to provide a bounteous year thus far, even by Poitiven standards.

     "Y' do me best if you sing well of us here, an' th' man from over th' sea." He is rather serious about this, and moves around the flames to go.

     There is a glance back past the foyer's reach and into the living room, but then he turns with you and heads out the front door. Behind, two sets of bags sitting with the ghosts of bags past all around them. But this time, their destination is the same...

     It was 1942 and it had been two months since I had seen him. Him. That would be Ian Dunross.

     Sakir's eyes widen slightly. You can almost read his thoughts from that expression: Great, lunatics. I'm fucking trapped with lunatics.

     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.

     He cannot hear the gunfire. The tank is far too loud. It rumbles as it halts again, sand scattering as gears are put into neutral. As soon as Kit has it halted and settled, he stands up...his head popping out of the tank. And then his two arms raised, angelic leaving his lips. "If you can get the Chamberlain out, I can blow it up you know..."

     "'K, um..." Edward's French comes, eyes narrowing at the woman, "...this is the part where I ask you who the hell you are and what are you doing here..." the barrel of the Browning shaking violently as Edward tosses his hand lazily in cadence with his voice, "...and whether or not I need to kill you or whatever..."

     Her hand moves. Long the nails, like talons. Claws. And when her eyes open...they are the color of fathoms deep. Unending ocean. To swallow you. To drown you...

     Oh, all of you above who hate me, let this be real. I have not asked for so much, just...him. Stars shine upon the kin silver of Ian's eyes, perhaps twinkling their assent and giving intercession to those higher who hold sway.