Date: May 12, 2000 (Aether: June 18, 3906)
Place: Beach - Haven
Cast: Alcander, Apollonius, Artin, Claudius, Drusus, Grace, Haishi, Jenean, Kesava, Oriane, Naiadre, Palaemon, Rhys, Riva, Sarojin, SunHawk, Thalia, Tsaruko, Vanora
Scene: The wedding between the Heir and Decemvir of Orman is interrupted by the explosion of an Empyreal ship in Haven's bay.

Beach - Haven:
      Soft sands from years of gentle ocean currents greet the feet of those who explore the expanse of beach that leads from the streets of Haven to the edges of ocean. The hushed roar of the waves can be heard, a lulling sound to the attentive ear. The sand stretches out for about a quarter of a mile and allows for plenty of space for pursuits of leisure. Depending upon the time, you may be graced by the awe-striking sunset, the peaceful glow of the moon, or the comforting rays of the midday sun. Several ocean birds fly overhead as if frolicking around and playing in the air, occasionally swooping down towards the ocean surface to retrieve a tasty morsel.
      The ocean itself seems to be calm and relaxing near the shore for several hundred feet before the sands slope harshly and drop. There, the water is safe only for experienced swimmers and boaters. There is a small path that leads towards the town that is paved with sand and lined on either side by flowers.

One priestess looks away from the platform, watching the approaching wedding party but her eyes occasionally flicker as she studies her counterpart at the other side of the benches. That one seemingly pays no attention to anything but what Palaemon does, standing at the platform only to turn around now so he may see the community for which he is to perform today. The Cyclos' brows are arched up slightly and the Atlanteans near him may sense the surprise within him before he calms himself.

Drusus, two Schola, and Flavius Publius stand on a flat section of rock. The sea breezes play about the party but cease entirely in the immediate area around the Empyrean leader himself: his hair and clothes and feathers are unruffled by the soft and gentle air. He watches the wedding party, his hands clasped in the small of his back in an attitude of Praetorian parade rest, and his expression is inscrutable -- inscrutable but for a faint line between his brows.

Far away from the wedding ceremony, a wave of black and crimson crests the sand dunes. The soft silica keeps the arrival of the Queen-Maharani of the Varati to a gentle rumble as black boots and silken shoes slowly cover themselves with sand.

Claudius soars in from the east, and alights some ways away from Drusus, making sure to choose a landing spot lower than the Emperor's position. Two House Ares guards quietly alight next to him. Claudius watches the proceedings silently, the intensity of his gaze the only clue to his interest.

More shapes gather below the water, the coloration growing denser and indicating there are more present than the numbers on the beach. People slowly settle into place on the mats and benches, some choosing to simply stand and watch over the heads of others.

Toward the west, along the surface of the water can be seen a disturbance, a mounding and thinning of the water and something green and blue and gold within. This progresses very slowly, flowing as if towed rather than swimming. Finally the water at the side of the platform rises in a smooth column of greenish blue and becomes thinner and thinner to finally break at the top and the walls to diminish. Standing in the center of what was a bubble is Riva, dry in the ceremonial passage to the platform by grace of the Ormani water mages. She steps to the platform silently and listens to the whales singing in their unique way. Rising from the water and standing waist deep in water a group of Ormani citizens stand. Conch shells are lifted to their mouths and the deep wailing notes combine and blend into a song of joy, rising and falling and blending with the sounds generated by the whales.

As usual, Oriane left her guard escorts behind. Though Kalypso and others have tried to convince the young woman to take her guards with her -- for her own safety -- she usually forgets and heads off alone, much to everyone's chagrin. So here the darkling stands, near other Empyreans, yet separate. Dark eyes look towards the Emperor and Schola before turning to watch Riva arrive. Her breath catches and her eyes widen with wonder.

One can't hope to raise a disturbance in Haven and expect that it will go unremarked by the city's inhabitants. No few creep out to hover at the edges of the beach, staring on at the unfolding scene and generally milling about and making quiet noises at each other. From them, a few figures break off to sneak close enough to actually see rather than simply speculate on the happenings. Off to one side, well away from anyone else, stands a single figure of Empyrean breeding at first glance. The young girl in threadbare clothing watches on with ill-concealed curiosity. Grace brushes at her clothing self-consciously as more and more well-dressed and well-escorted people arrive.

Among the gathering, a Herald of Atlantean heritage watches and records the ceremony so that word of it might be spread through the city. Her eyes narrow on those in attendance and those who are partaking in this rather public ceremony, especially when the High Priestess has just recently been killed. Atlanteans near the short woman with short ocean blue locks gain a sense of disapproval from the Herald and a couple even return her stare with one of their own.

Rhys reaches the edge of the beach, where the water is. And while it would be tempting to just go out there, he stops, inclining his head to the priests. Against the black color of his hair, the dull coronet of Heir shines dully. Taking a deep breath, visible to those nearest-by, he looks up -- and spots Riva's entrance. Black eyes widen more than a little. While Riva always has Rhys' attention, she's got more than his full attention now. In fact, the priest at his side has to nudge him a little to get him to remember his cues. Oh, yes. He's supposed to walk out over the water now. And so he does, wading to the platform, the hem of his garment not quite touching the water that swirls about him.

Tsaruko looks around at the great crowd forming for the ceremony, and feeling a duty to Decemvir Riva, the young Atlantean begins quietly backing up, offering others seats, and kindly directing others to where the crowd is thinner for a better view.

Jenean walks down the winding path from Haven and steps onto the beach.

Claudius remains where he is. He's got a decent view of the event, but is far enough removed not to be in anyone's way. He remains silent, watching the proceedings and the horizon for any sign of disturbance.

Riva watches Rhys approach, the unblinking gaze of the woman with regal bearing softening for a moment. She does not seem to notice the gathering of so many, not at first. Her peripheral vision slowly takes in enough details to see ones familiar to her arrive.

Riva's entrance is surely spectacular, and if not for Palaemon's trained mind and surprisingly quick reflexes, the wedding could be called off due to the Cyclos having a heart attack. But instead, he moves forward, offering both hands to the bride as he inclines his head in respect to her, speaking no words openly to her. His left hand then lets go of her and instead he offers it to the approaching Rhys, again giving one of the Ormani a nod in greeting and nothing more.

Jenean moves to where she can get a decent view, shaking greying chestnut hair back off her shoulders.

Rhys takes Palaemon's hand as he rises in a small waterspout to the level of the platform and steps onto that platform without having to scramble upward and lose his dignity. Which he almost does anyway with a startled jerk. Apparently, that same mage that aided Riva's entrance decided to aid Rhys as well... without telling him. The effect would have been better if Rhys hadn't wobbled slightly atop the waterspout as he sought to regain his balance. But having gained the platform, Rhys regains his equanimity.

Thalia settles near the outskirts of the crowd with her small Agni-Haidar army. The ocean breeze catches at the loose strands of silver and gold, tossing them hither and yon; the Queen-Maharani looks less than regal with vagrant strands of hair draped about her face like seaweed, but Thalia does not move a hand to brush aside the strands. Instead, her attention remains fully on Riva and Rhys.

Artin glances over toward Tsaruko, and despite a momentary look of unease that crosses his features, proceeds to help in a similar manner, choosing to guide people to appropriate seats with only gestures.

Ayako, the annoyed Herald, finds a bare rock on which to sit, and does so, not with the grace of her kind, but more of a 'why to I have to be here' slouch to her shoulders. Her pale eyes wander randomly over the event and leave it only to inscribe a few notes of the goings-on to her tablet that she had carried with her and now sits in her lap.

Shifting her feet across the sand, Oriane tries to get a better view and realize she probably won't be able to from here. Glancing around, she sees a rock sticking out of the waters, lower and away from the one the Emperor's contingent has claimed. Opening her wings, the girl lifts herself into the air and claims the new perch. It's only then that she sees the arrival of her mother... The Queen-Maharani.

Rocks. Yes. Rocks are good. Perhaps one will simply sit a little bit... behind some rocks. And that way, threadbare clothing and faded dyes won't contrast so clearly with the rest of the gathering -- for they won't be seen. Grace slips around behind a wind-and-wave worn boulder and sets her elbows to it so she might perch and peer over to watch with one heaved sigh. Riva, for all her finery (or lack thereof) receives hardly a second glance as she watches Rhys with a wistful expression.

Tsaruko quietly makes her way among the crowd, always one eye on the proceedings. To those other than Atlantean, Tsaruko whispers softly, and gives simple directions and suggestions. Despite her fine clothing, Tsaruko seems almost eager to make her way to the lesser ranks of the crowd. After all, all peoples should relish the joy of this ceremony.

The two priestesses speak up, turning their faces towards the crowds on the beach so the land-dwellers too may hear what is going on, "The Cyclos greets the bride and groom and will soon lead us all in prayer to ask She who Shines on All to give her blessings to this ceremony."

One falls silent while the other adds, "So that they may convince him that a marriage between Orman Riva and Orman Rhys is worth Pasiphae's Blessings." Her eyes fall upon some of the Atlanteans who oppose the idea of the two 'siblings' joining in matrimony, while several land-dwellers clearly look surprised. Is there a chance that this ceremony won't end in a wedding after all?

Claudius pays little attention to the ceremony itself. While it's always good to see two people who love one another join in marriage, he has other concerns. Two low-flying House Ares guards unobtrusively join his group, and the two guards who were with him fly off low after receiving some quiet words from Claudius. Once again, they fly low as they leave the area and do not seem to do much to call attention to themselves.

Riva does not let her gaze drop from Rhys for more than is what is needful. She looks toward the Cyclos. Her gaze is intent and the faint hint of expression asks 'what next?' as loudly as words would.

Rhys, for his part, cannot look away -- and even the reminder that a good segment of Orman's own citizens oppose this marriage staunchly cannot cast a shadow over his mood. His face, as usual, shows little to no expression except that same masked serenity that Riva too wears.

Sarojin approaches the beach from the open sea.

Palaemon smiles at the young couple whose hands he still holds before dropping them, letting his hands raise above his head towards the sky. His own voice isn't strong, but his words are echoed by the priestesses upon the beach. As they did with Riva's words in case others could not hear. "We will ask for Pasiphae's light, my child," he replies to her question before his eyes seem to close.

The priestesses speak up now all Pasiphaeans seem to fall silent, "Reach out to the Goddess with your thoughts, so that She may bring her attention here."

Tsaruko quietly stops her mingling, to drop her head and close her eyes, as if praying along with the priestesses.

The couple standing on the platform gazing at each other as the ancient rituals begin. Riva lets her glance slide up toward the sky and lets her thoughts extend outward, seeking.

Artin looks up to the sky, pathway of the moon, offering his silent thoughts to the goddess at the urging of the priestesses.

Rhys, on the raft, directs his face skyward, eyes shut, even as his hand reaches out, unerringly, to grasp Riva's hand. The expression on his face does not change.

A solitary voice rises in a broken phrase "He's what? No, surely..." The voice is hushed by one adjacent. The feel of the Atlanteans present is about half of approval, and half who have reservations about this.

The waves crash, heads bobbing among the sea swells. Between one crashing boom and the next, dripping figures rise out of the molten grey depths off to the side. Sarojin and two dark-skinned attendants stride onto the busy strand, where they then pause. Water laps beseechingly at their feet as the pale gaze of the Decemvir skirts through the gathered group. With a nod of mute satisfaction, he strides towards the perimeter defined by the guard. A shared glance with the trident bearing men and he steps past, but no farther, content to remain on the edge of while events proceed. Eyes fixated upon the rise and fall of the platform as a frigid stillness defines the rest of him.

High in the sky, the clouds are adrift, slowly parting from one another. It is an even pace, not too fast nor too slow when suddenly the first beam of moonlight reaches down, falling upon the dark waters of the bay. Then more appears as the Moon herself appears to all around, illuminating the platform and the ones upon it before it extends its light to those on the beach. Pasiphae Herself has come... or so do many Atlanteans think, sighing deeply as they see the orb above.

Palaemon opens his eyes the moment he senses the change of light around him, he looks up at his Goddess, a sense of devotion most noticeable within him before he lowers his arms, this time placing his hands upon the shoulders of Rhys and Riva. "She has come," is all he says, faithfully echoed by the priestesses who add, "Open your eyes and watch."

Dark eyes widen as Oriane watches the proceedings. Delicate hands stained with the ink of her scribe's work twist in the fabric of her chimere, losing themselves around the breeze that spirals around the rock she has perched upon. As all the Atlanteans lift their eyes to the moon above, she does as well.

Claudius is glad of the moon's light as are many of the others. His reasoning, though, is quite different, and he only pays the ceremony scant attention as he continues his vigil.

Tsaruko opens her own eyes, at the Cyclos commands, and lets out a soft gasp as she puts a hand to her chest and her eyes drift upwards to the moon in the sky.

Artin dips his head slightly, acknowledging the honor the goddess bestows upon the couple on the platform. Just in case, he makes a small sign of the moon as he turns his attention to the platform.

Rhys's eyes slowly open, and he stares full at the moon, glimmers of its pale light catching in his eyes. A shift in body language, now -- not so tense as before. Pasiphae Has Come. She has not hidden her face. His hand grips Riva's more securely.

The gems and pearls on Riva's garments seem to trap and hold the light before releasing it in almost a glow. Eyes open and flood with light that beams down from that bright orb. The touch of the hand on her shoulder sends her smile of joy fading into the somberness the seriousness of the ceremony to come requires. She lets her thoughts extend to a few of her friends. *Pray I shall be eloquent enough to convince the Cyclos to permit this...*

Riva lifts her head and faces Rhys. Carefully, she shields her mind from others save the amount of which the Cyclos must be aware to know the rite is done. She sways toward Rhys as she begins, expression calm, yet intent.

Behind the boulder, where shadows still fall, there is movement. Wiggling, actually, although little sound accompanies the odd movement. Grace rubs her temples and then scrubs at her arms as if trying to subdue all the fine hairs that have risen to attention. The moon in all its glory (for doesn't it look a little wan and pale, anyway?) holds little interest in comparison to the honored couple.

The wind snaps at the edges of Thalia's sari. Except for the crack of silk as it whips, all about the Queen-Maharani is silence. Except for the tangled tendrils of gold and silver which continue to sway like sea kelp about her face, all of the Queen-Maharani is still. Her eyes catch the light, but take in the greater view, of sea and sky spreading to the horizon past the floating platform.

Rhys stands tall, only because he thinks it's expected of him. Were it up to him he'd probably grab Riva, jump in the water, start swimming until they found some deserted desert island, and go pretend like they got through this part already. There are only a few things keeping him from doing that: first, Pasiphae's appearance, which has soothed his nerves somewhat. Second, Riva's reaction to such an action. It'd hardly make for a happy home life.

There is only silence upon the platform though those Atlanteans close by may pick up the thoughts broadcasted by Palaemon, thoughts which go beyond that which is told by his 'voices' on the beach. The first priestess begins, "Pasiphae has gifted our people with a beautiful gift. The gift which allows us to share our minds with one another." Her tone is ecstatic as she continues, "This allows us to witness the true soul of the other one, as is done with such marriage ceremonies."

Now the other priestess breaks in, her voice more stern and sober, as is the content of her words, "Orman Riva and Orman Rhys will share the depths of their minds with one another so they will know the other more than perhaps they even know themselves. This is to prove themselves and Cyclos Palaemon that this union is one worthy of the Blessings." She stops speaking, turning her attention away from the land-dwellers. People who gasp in shock once they realize the closeness of such an action.

Again, Oriane blinks, pulling her eyes down from the moon towards Rhys and Riva. As a non-Telepath, she doesn't quite understand the significance of what's happening, but it's still an occasion worthy of rapt attention and interest.

The first priestess speaks up again, watching what is going on even though she may not share in what is shared between the couple. "We are a private race," she admits to all, "but marriage is a sacred union. Nobody must come between them, they must know one another to know they are worthy."

Naiadre walks down the winding path from Haven and steps onto the beach.

Haishi approaches the beach from the open sea.

Jenean runs a hand through her hair, and pads over to a spot near Grace, smiling down at the younger woman for a moment.

Oh, that's right. Way to be inconspicuous. Just gather a flaming redhead of Haven's best (and most widely-known) cyprian to your side and stand there looking dumb. Looking dumb? Quite, as Grace clings to her handy not-so-concealing-now boulder and stares at the pair out on the raft as if trying to pierce their silent communion. Oh, heck. Only as she is about to topple over does the halfbreed remember that breathing is an excellent idea most of the time. Her pent-up sigh explodes from between pursed lips. Only then does she realize that she's gathered a companion and glance over to give Jenean a tremulous smile.

Accompanied by a peanut-brown teenage girl with a painted face and scarce clothes, a big man slowly comes closer to the crowd without making a single noise. The cloth that covers his had slightly waves in the warm breeze and a smile is on his features. Close enough to see what's happening, he folds his arms over his broad chest, where the tattoo of an octopus stretches, and holds, watching the ways in which Ormani marry.

Rhys's normally dusky-dark blue skin turns paler. Old patterns reassert themselves, mind too busy to make the choice to breathe with lungs instead of gills, and Rhys' gills too slit open, straining for oxygen, an angry pink against the color of his skin. "Aye," he manages. "It is done."

Jenean drops to a crouch by Grace, as unobtrusively as she can (surprisingly so, perhaps), and rests a hand on the girl's shoulder, squeezes and murmurs a few words.

Another figure paces over the sand dunes from the direction of Haven to join the group observing the Ormani marriage, a slender Atlantean woman bearing the tokens of Pasiphae in her hair. Pausing at the edge of the group, she folds her arms over her stomach slackly, watching with an impassive face. Naiadre, always apart, even in the crowd.

The wind continues its absence around the Empyrean monarch, skittering nervously away from him as might a puppy from a master too fond of giving kicks. It toys with the crimson plumes of his two Schola guardians; it plucks at the immaculate toga worn by his aide, Flavius Publius. But it leaves him alone, as if the air itself were watching with the same fixed-and-yet-distant attention with which Drusus observes the wedding's particulars.

Palaemon, too, steps back, his hands letting go of the two lovers as his gills and eyes are both widened due to the force of what is shared between Rhys and Riva. His hands fall to his sides where his fingers find the religious knife placed against his hips. He draws it and, inhaling deeply, holds it up above him to the moon, both hands holding it up.

Now the priestesses break the silence, echoing what was said before, "It is done." They begin to move, closer to one another, "In honor of their joining, they are to present gifts which are precious to them. Each will destroy that what the other holds dear."

As the rite progresses, there is a swirl in the water, a disturbance and one of the guards approaches the water to stare into it. The waters soon become still again except for the gentle undulation the water-mages permit. What has happened might be open to conjecture, but backs stiffen and those amid the crowd who talk from mind to mind perhaps may be more aware... and affronted.

Rhys indulges in a land-dweller mannerism; licking dry lips, he inclines his head to the Cyclos, bringing forth a shiny black spear-blade, made of obsidian and holding it across his palms.

Flavius looks a bit confused; he tilts his head and stands up on his tip-toes, wings stretching back for balance, to get a better look. Destroying something precious belonging to the other? It's such a strange concept to him.

Tsaruko gazes at the water with a slight frown, then turns toward the crowd, remembering Artin there.

Artin's eyes had been latched upon the sharing couple, blinking far more than necessary. Something in Tsaruko's gaze, or perhaps a thought, turns his attention to her, then the water.

Claudius's guards return, and a new pair is sent off again. The older Empyrean man spares the proceedings a brief glance. Interesting way to perform a sacrifice, he thinks. It fits.

Riva reaches to her belt and removes a circular disk. This is the emblem of office she was given so long ago and wore for years as Captain of the Korallion guards and protector of Kai. Fingertips slide over the shell and pearls on the surface in a familiar gesture. This is laid on one palm and extended, willingly giving up her past to her future.

Always confused and fascinated by the Atlanteans, Oriane rises up on her toes from where she stands, trying to get a better look at the ceremony and the significance for what it means to these people. A glance is spared backwards towards the Emperor's rock, but otherwise she stays where she is, framed only in the wayward breeze that dances around her.

Naiadre observes the ritual in silence, her gaze directed only towards those of her Order and the pair they join in marriage. Her head tilts gently to one side, the coral in her braids clinking together musically as a small smile comes to her face.

Palaemon now lowers the knife, nodding to both Riva and Rhys as he extends the knife right in front of them, threatening to sever the line which, symbolically, binds them now. The priestesses speak up again in another explanation, "With the gifts, vows will be exchanged. If they do not please the Cyclos, he will not be willing to give Pasiphae's Blessings."

Tsaruko looks at Artin with a frown, not necessarily directed at him. Looking around, Tsaruko quietly, yet quickly weaves in and out of the people separating them, and makes her way to Artin's side.

The distance from which Thalia observes the ceremony obscures the details from her view, but she spares a glance for the space of water which gains the attention of a guard. As nothing rises from the spot, Thalia's attention returns to the pair and the priests, waiting for the exchange of vows.

Rhys takes up the guard badge and offers up the spearblade to Riva, placing it into her hands. While those ashore might have trouble figuring out how best to destroy such a thing without calling, say, Khalid into action, the obsidian is brittle, easily broken. Riva can destroy it merely by breaking it in half.

Almost losing her balance, Oriane's wings flare open suddenly, keeping her from falling into the surf that laps around the rock she's claimed as a perch. Dark eyes are wide with surprise as she stares towards the couple joining themselves together. Raising a hand to her mouth, she does smile slightly as she regains her composure.

Riva drops to one knee and braces the tip of the blade against the white platform, the contrast startling. She looks up at Rhys as if to say, 'are you sure? You will give up this?' Yet she knows, and does not wait for his reply. The hands press down and the 'POP' of the shattering carries across the water to reach those on the beach. She stands, holding the pieces in her palms.

"Of course he does, my child," Palaemon speaks softly, but again his words are shared with the audience.

The sound seems to break Drusus' concentration; where he has been focused on the pair and only the pair, he now spares a quick glance across the audience. Perhaps he is checking their reactions. There's a hesitation as he sees Thalia and, closer nearby, Thalia's daughter, Oriane. Then he looks on towards the two Empyrean Praetorians that Claudius has sent to carefully skirt through the edges of the crowd. Finally, he looks back to Riva and Rhys in time to see Rhys' comportment with the cherished emblem of rank which Riva has offered up to him.

Rhys shares a long and silent glance with Riva, the vows passing between them mind to mind and thought to thought. As the lower-ranked in this relationship, it was Riva's place to destroy Rhys' treasured item first, and Rhys' place to make his vows first.

Tsaruko watches the ceremony, almost half-heartedly, she seems distracted, but by what, none may know.

A strange backdrop for such a joyous moment. In the distance, like a flower blooming in the shroud of night, a red orange glare rises up. A pall of heavy black smoke skitters across the face of the moon before the fickle wind directs it elsewhere. Perhaps a lamp had fallen during a boarding of a merchant ship. Or maybe it was set afire on purpose. It stands as a mute reminder that not all is tranquil, despite the ready illusion the happy couple have brought to the gathering. Soon, the hungry seas devour the charred corpse of wood and sails. Sarojin spares the event only a passing glance before returning his attention to the proceedings with careful silence.

Riva looks toward Rhys, breaking ceremony enough to let her fingertips brush against the back of his hand before she in turn expresses her vows to Rhys silently, yet knowing these will be echoed. Words cannot express the nuances of the feelings that lace through the exchange, meager and colorless in comparison.

No sound comes from the platform, but the stern priestess speaks nevertheless, echoing the vows spoken by the Ormani Heir. "I will help you raise your children. I will honor and cherish you forever. I will be loyal and faithful all of the days of my life. I will lay down my life for you."

Rhys takes a breath, his fingers passing over the shell and pearls. The badge Riva wore for years. A part of her life. Nearly a part of her skin. Fingers flex, slightly, and the badge breaks, almost crumbles apart into several triangular shaped pieces.

Jenean winces, just a little, at that, with a soft sigh.

Alcander soars in from the skies above.

Drusus, however, spares the explosion more than a moment's worth of attention. He watches, and then with a silent gesture sends one of his Schola up into the sky. The man's shadow races across the beach, across the tranquil water, across the bay towards the source of the explosion as the soldier wings thence.

Alcander has apparently gotten here just in the nick of time, were he interested in seeing something occurring. That's good, really, because it's known that the Acesian bores easily, even when excruciatingly late to something he was supposed to attend.

Watching the ceremony with rapt attention, Oriane is one of the many that remains oblivious to the red plume of smoke that marred the night's occasion. Perched on her own rock, high enough to watch the proceedings, the young woman has an almost wistful smile on her face at the sacrifices each of the newlyweds are making.

Like the rocks upon which the waves lap, the Agni-Haidar remain stoic and still about the Queen-Maharani. The rise of heavy black smoke is noted, but none leave the side of Khalid's fair Queen, who continues to watch the exchange of vows.

There's a muttering among the crowd, low-voiced and restless, even as a telepathic stir of consternation/anger goes up. One older Atlantean woman says, in a voice that carries before she's quickly hushed, "Some Blessing from Pasiphae. Seems more like a bad omen to warn us of an evil union..."

Claudius frowns at the sinking ship, as well. Two guards return from their sweep of the beach, and the next two are sent off in the direction of the fire.

If the priestesses notice the explosion, they show no sign of it. But the one who spoke last turns her eyes towards the woman who spoke, eyes darkening, yet no words are exchanged... vocally, at least.

Tsaruko snaps her head towards the older Atlantean woman who spoke to brashly and frowns gravely at her, with all the noble demeanor she can muster, offering a very stern mental warning about speaking out of turn at any wedding.

The Schola would find nothing much left to investigate. The stink of burnt flesh. The distinct haze of dark ugly smoke. A body or two bobbing in the water, their race uncertain through the wan light and the blackened skin. Bits of wood. Whatever the ship ferried was highly volatile. The perpetrators long gone beneath the waves, leaving only an eerie quiet. As if the world is much chagrined for disturbing the quiet moment with its awful truth. That one moment of distraction is all Sarojin gave for the display, for he came here to watch the wedding and not think about such things, his crystalline stance unmelted by the momentary flare up.

The Herald who had remained silent, at least vocally, during the ceremony, perks up as the crimson bloom curls through the air, chased by the ebony smoke that rises upward. Quickly, she begins scribbling more notes to her tablet as a faint smirk brightens the thin line of her lips.

In point of fact, the Acesian known as Alcander lands noiselessly, drawing in his wings whilst perusing the collection of Empyreans and lesser beings scattered about the beach. He, of course, noted the explosion and eyes its aftermath with a wry sort of upturning from his eyebrow. Then his hand waves about his nose, idly, to dismiss the acrid remnants of the noisome disturbance.

The priestess who doesn't pay attention to anything but the ceremony now speaks for the Decemvir, ignoring the fire within the scope of their sight to offer her own. "Respect, honor, trust, love. All these do I vow to you. Your children I will gladly bear, if possible, and nurture, love. You are part of my life and I will work to keep you there." Those are Riva's vows.

The Schola flies low, unsheathing his sword as he glides to pick up what souvenir as he might from this catastrophe. He circles around the mark on the surface, seeking a clue as to the name of the ship. Then, successful or no, he powers back towards the shore. His wingtips pull delicate splashes out of the black and oily water for the first handful of beats and then he is up and clear and angling back towards the Emperor.

The two House Ares guards follow the Schola's suit, then return as well. They fly low over the water, dark shadows over darker waves, then return to land.

Grace isn't going to pay any attention to anything but the ceremony, either. At least, not until it whacks her upside the head with significant force to jar loose her fixed stare upon the taller of the honored pair. She chews absently on her lower lip as she watches the strange ceremony continue to unfold.

Palaemon now lowers the knife, sheathing it once more before his hands reach out to touch the hearts of Riva and Rhys, palms flat against them as she looks up at the moon above, "May Pasiphae Bless your union and the children it will bring you. Joined together you are now, complementing one another. May anyone who will intervene between you," he still doesn't look anywhere but the moon, though his two priestesses do look at the Atlanteans in the crowd now, "know Pasiphae's Anger."

Artin does not look over toward the wreckage, choosing to focus on the ceremony. Though he does motion just a bit to a scout waiting nearby. Without a word, the scout hurries away from the group and slides silently into the water to investigate the wreckage from below.

Anger, schmanger, where is the food? Alcander folds his arms across his chest, leans against something sturdy (and preferably someone sturdy, but one can't have everything) before giving the blessing's enunciation a vague smile.

Marcus Omnium, the Schola sent out by Drusus, lands delicately on the rock before his lord. He bows and holds up his trophy from the blasted remains of the ship: it is a feather, an Empyrean feather, half-burnt and sopping wet. The Emperor goes absolutely still. The wind on the seashore dies -- all of it, entirely.

Tsaruko turns back to the ceremony, though her eyes flick slightly towards the scout's movement.

Feeling the breeze around her stutter and halt, Oriane blinks and pulls her attention away from the newly-married couple to turn and stare at the Emperor. Concern etches her features as well as a certain amount of confusion and helplessness.

And it's done. Rhys lets out a sigh of relief, gripping Riva's hand again, even as every third Korallion guard breaks from formation and heads for Artin and Tsaruko. He is, at least outwardly, not appearing to take any note at all of the explosion.

Thalia's attention has left the ceremony with the priest's concluding words. Instead, her eyes watch Drusus and Marcus Omnium. Within the Queen's entourage is some hidden movement, then a shudra boy leaves the protective wall of Agni-Haidar and begins to wend his way toward Drusus' rock. In his chubby hand is clutched a piece of paper. Almost desperately, the boy tries to present the paper to Drusus, only to be ignored by Emperor and Schola.

Naiadre smiles widely at the conclusion of the vows between Rhys and Riva, finally allowing her gaze of pale jade to fall away from them. It is only then that she notices the remains of a plume of smoke, the angry murmur of a man beside her, and her eyes turn to the Schola landing upon the rock, radiating surprise and consternation.

Flavius Publius looks up at Drusus, a concerned look on his face. But Drusus' attention is on the pillar of smoke which is even now being tugged into dainty lace by the sea winds. He takes the feather from Marcus. Then he turns his gaze on Rhys and Riva. His expression is utterly without emotion; his eyes are soulless.

Alcander can't really yawn. Not really. But his jaw muscles tighten despite his focus on that feather being passed like a Kronian gift from the Schola to the Jovian ups--Emperor. "Is it over yet?" queries he, to whomever may be close.

Tsaruko turns from the end of the ceremony, and waves over a younger Sentry. Without a vocal command, the young guard runs off as fast as he can towards the Korallion.

Attention pulled away from the wedding for the moment, Oriane watches Drusus and sees the Varati boy attempting to hand over a note. Eyes glance towards her mother and Oriane opens her wings to lift over and land behind the boy and the Emperor's entourage. Crouching, the dark haired girl holds out a hand, "I can pass it along." Eyes again shift towards her mother, hoping this is the right thing.

Riva turns to Rhys, and for once lets her expression show. Her smile grows wide and her expression softens, eyes gleaming in happiness before circumstances and events in progress seem to erode it away till only her usual demeanor is left. She turns and her thoughts follow her glance as they find Sarojin and his group. It is rather clear there is a question hanging in the silent exchange between them.

Claudius and the two guards with him leave their rock and make their way down to the dark stretch of beach where the two others who went to the wreck are returning with a dark, limp form in their arms. They appear to speak quietly, and rapidly.

Following silent orders, many of the Korallion guards take their leave of the ceremony, diving into the water. Diving but not disappearing, for occasional glints of armor or arms or pale skin can be seen in the silver moonlight.

Jenean runs her free hand through her hair, eyes on Rhys and Riva.

One glance towards that blackened pinion, and Sarojin nods his head, deciding perhaps a contingent of two guards would not be enough should more than passing annoyance birth itself within the breasts of the gathered. Steps are unhurried. The regal stiffness still remains, but what anxiety is lacking in the silver-haired Decemvir is more than made up by the focused stares of his dark-skinned entourage. The retreat, silent but for the crunch of sand between his toes, is halted and he tightly beams an answer to a query only he can hear.

Rhys presses a kiss to Riva's forehead, solemnly, before standing at her side, fingers still linked with hers. Black eyes do not so much look the question at Sarojin as accuse. Where Sarojin is cold crystal, Rhys is fire on the water, a blazing heat that spreads and cannot be quenched by mundane methods.

Tsaruko turns towards Sarojin and the retreating enterouge, allowing a brief, saddened expression on her face, before her attention is directed elsewhere.

SunHawk walks down the winding path from Haven and steps onto the beach.

Riva looks toward Rhys for a long moment then back to Sarojin and then Drusus. One of her Guards approaches Drusus to murmur, "Not Ormani's doing."

The shudra boy looks at Oriane, uncertain as to keeping or dispensing his charge. He glances over at Thalia's entourage. Finally, he bows to the Empyrean girl and says respectfully, "Princess Oriane, the Queen-Maharani bids me to present this to the Emperor with all possible speed." He asks, respectfully, but almost tearfully, "Princess Oriane, if you could present this message to the Emperor before he leaves, I would be most grateful." With that, his chubby hand holds out the paper to Oriane.

Offering a gentle, furtive smile to the boy, Oriane takes the note and nods, "I will be sure it is received, child." An ink-stained hand takes hold of the note and pulls it back to herself, glancing at it quickly before once more looking at her mother and then towards Drusus, her concern growing.

Drusus turns his attention from Rhys and Riva to Sarojin and his group. He simply watches, impassive, distant, with the wet Empyrean feather gently held in his coarse fingers. There is a moment of intensity around him, an aura, a buzzing sensation that raises the hairs on the forearms of Drusus' entourage. And then it is gone. The breezes start up again, carefully fingering their way across the beach where they had been denied, regaining their gentle, playing confidence.

With the haste owed following a hurried summons for help at a large gathering but with the stalwart steadiness that dignity lends movement, a commander of the Hounds and eight of his lower-ranked brethren appear at the beach with purpose about their steps and posture. At their lead, said commander, one called SunHawk, glances about him with quick, attentive flickers of his pale blue eyes and waits to see what calamity may have manifested and thus required the Hounds' presence.

Naiadre takes a few steps towards the shoreline, her eyes darting amongst those gathered. They come to rest upon Drusus, and then Rhys and Riva, and follow their gaze towards the somewhat familiar form of Sarojin. There her eyes narrow contemplatively, a spark within their depths. The knuckles of her fists tighten into paleness.

One of the Ares guards takes wing again, flying with his burden away from the gathering. He'll loop around and return to Haven, but won't intrude. Claudius and his remaining three guards move closer to the gathering, approaching Drusus but not intruding on events; they are merely close enough to be noticed, if one should look.

Tsaruko turns back to Artin, and arches an eyebrow.

Head cocked to the side to listen to voices that only he can hear, a slow nod of Sarojin's head meets Riva's request. One should not deny the request of a new bride on her wedding day. A face that shows nothing turns towards the flurry of activity centered around the feathered Royalty. A decision is made and he begins to wind his way through the crowd towards the grouping, careful dignity defining the precision of his steps. One last glances towards the newly-joined couple, and then his attention centers on his destination. Pausing on the edge in wordless expectation, Sarojin waits for the indicator to approach. Perhaps an explanation will accompany him.

Jenean murmurs something to Grace.

Flavius nervously nods to the Orman sentry and says, softly, "Ah, thank you, dominus." What else to call them? He wrings his hand and looks up at Drusus.

Tsaruko gives a slight nod towards a silent comment from Artin, then looks back to Riva and Rhys.

Reading the note quickly, Oriane takes a step closer to Flavius and Drusus. She's a known quantity among the Schola because she has worked with the Emperor often, so hopefully they will let her approach. Either way, she stands back and waits to be noticed, her demeanor seeming agitated.

Artin shakes his head slightly to Tsaruko at some unspoken question, watching the water. The first scout to leave comes to the water's edge, saluting Artin and giving his telepathic report. Whatever the news, Artin is not pleased, gills ruffling in the night air. The scout vanishes quickly once more between the waves.

Thalia remains away from the center of activity, though she does make her way closer to the water's edge. Yet, her many guards are too numerous to impose upon the crowd, and thus she keeps her self-imposed isolation. Her steps have brought her closer to Drusus and his rock, so that she might overhear what Sarojin says to the winged leader of the Empyre.

Drusus simply waits where he is. He watches Sarojin. And, in an absence of orders from him, the Schola remain still as well, though they occasionally cast glances hither and yon to check the Emperor's immediate surroundings. Flavius is more or less still -- the pudgy clerk is still wringing his hands and the feathers of his wings are ruffled with his agitation. He glances from Atlantean to Empyrean and back again.

Efficient servants of the Ormani file out of the water, wet, yet bearing trays of food and drink that has been sealed against passage through the water. These are set up for witnesses of the wedding to share. The mood of the gathering is disrupted, some gathering around the Empyrean contingent and Drusus, Sarojin and some of the Pandions moving toward him. Others watch the smoke lingering where it would seem a ship went down. Whispers spread from person to person, scattered snippets audible. "Empyrean? But who would? How dare they!"

As the Hounds pick their way, with painful discretion, through the assemblage what brought them here, what inspired the request that they appear, is quickly noticed. SunHawk's brow furrows as he pauses, eyeing the bay and the destruction therein, then he looks toward Drusus. The frown deepens.

Tsaruko stiffens at something, and draws her mental shields tighter for those who would notice. She turns to Artin, concentrating through her barriers.

The Empyrean feather, burnt and waterlogged, remains carefully held within Drusus' coarse fingers. It is almost as if it -- more than he -- were demanding explanation.

Swallowing nervously, Oriane glances past Drusus towards Sarojin. A shadow behind the Emperor's contingent of Schola and Flavius, she waits patiently, unobtrusive and quiet. A breeze seems to flicker and dance around her ankles, rustling the fine silk of her chimere.

Naiadre stands beyond the main grouping of Important Personages(tm), standing on tiptoes, trying to see and hear and understand. From the frustrated look upon her pale face, one can surmise she's having a difficult time of it.

Small and silent, a lithe figure detaches itself from Jenean's side and slips a bit more firmly into shadows as the Hounds arrive, the presence of the diminutive Grace little more than a shadow itself. Yet, she is clearly reluctant to leave as the scene is not fled full-speed. Instead, the girl remains, an unheard and hopefully unseen spectator.

Tsaruko gives Artin a slight bow, as a subordinate would to a commander, then turns and moves towards the Ormani servant bringing trays of food and drink to the guests of the wedding. Quietly directing them where to go as to cause the least commotion.

Riva makes a faint gesture to some of the water mages. The fountains of water ornately splattering and arching die down. She starts to wade toward the shore, signaling all on the platform to leave.

A sudden splash of water can be heard for those few who care to pay attention to the platform of the ceremony. Palaemon no longer lingers there -- instead, he has disappeared beneath the surface. Swam off, no doubt, to a place where it's less dangerous for those who abhor violence, like the Pasiphaeans. The two priestesses also move forward to the shore, about to enter, but they wait... wait for the Cyclos to reappear, helping him up before they move towards the gathering.

Rhys waits until Riva has taken the first step forward; an Heir's deference to his Ruler. A husband's deference to his wife. A man's deference to the woman he loves. And then he, too, wades into the water, a half-step behind the Decemvir, face impassive as only an Atlantean's face can be, as the two head for shore, political events supplanting the joy of their union.

Like snowflakes, words fall from Sarojin's lips. Each uniquely formed. No inflection. No emotion is allowed to define the coherent sound. "If I might be allowed to link with the Emperor, this shall be explained." There is no deference for the man, just the unwavering, unblinking lock of Sarojin's empty gaze upon Drusus' mien. The skull mask of his features betray a delicate tightness that is softened, barely, by the light of the moon as he awaits the answer to his request. "There are things that need said that are not for all the ears of the gathered. Besides, what is said in thought is beyond doubt. You will know the truth." He then allows his body to run slowly, to grace all those gathered with his stern visage, before returning to his original target.

Claudius stands near the others, looking weathered and grim in the moonlight. He holds up a wet, scorched badge in his hands, bearing a simple pattern: a bisected circle, half black, and half purple. The symbol of the Pandions.

"You have killed mine." The thing that is not Drusus speaks fact with the calm assurance of the endless march of time. There is nothing in that baritone but the breath necessary to carry the words through the air. He turns the feather in his fingers; its unburnt edges glimmer in the light, accusing. "If you are content to kill mine before the eyes of all who are here, then be prepared to explain before the ears of all who are here."

As the platform is deserted, it sinks beneath the waves. A faint, pale blur can be seen as it is towed to the west. Some of the gathered Atlanteans below water follow along with it to the Korallion and the gathering areas there.

Thalia's lips twitch and she ventures even closer to Drusus and Sarojin, finally ignoring the horror of imposing two dozen Agni-Haidar and Atarvani upon the crowd in closer quarters.

Skin prickling at the sound of trouble, at the sense of something about to go heinously awry, SunHawk leads the Hounds toward the Emperor, no longer worrying so about looking unobtrusive. He just wants to reach Drusus before something dreadful transpires.

Tsaruko frowns towards the grouping of people around the Emperor and the Pandion Decemvir. Quietly, Tsaruko directs servants away from that area, as the Empyreans might not take kindly to any Atlantean. Instead, she sends them elsewhere, to the other masses.

Behind the Emperor's contingent, Oriane shivers. A painful look crosses the girl's face and she looks towards the Ormani's whose time this should be, and a joyous time at that. Instead there is death and darkness as well as the threat of violence. White wings open and close nervously, the rustling of her feathers audible upon the nervous twitches of the breeze that surrounds her.

Naiadre steals several paces nearer to the knot of tension broiling down near the waterside. A slim, pale shadow, she, like others, attempts to draw close enough that she might hear what is being said, jade eyes darting between Drusus and Sarojin.

Tsaruko catches one servant on the arm and directs her back under the waves. Wine and strong drink are not what this situation needs.

"I think it is time, too," comes Palaemon's voice who walks towards the Pandion Decemvir with an expression of anger in his eyes, anger at Sarojin at that. "You know she would never have allowed this to happen, for no reason at all." He comes to a halt, close to Naiadre, to whom he nods before his attention is given to the two rulers once more. Something in his voice gives away he's not speaking about the Goddess with the 'she.'

"Later. Then. I will give you an explanation that will suit you, but there are certain things contained in that explanation that would cause a fervor, I fear." He allows his shoulders to rise and fall in imitation of the sea swells he so readily rides. Then Sarojin continues on in much the same vein, "We shall set an appointed time to meet and all shall be revealed, but this should be an occasion of joy an celebration. No answers will ease the pain of those deaths now. Let us dance and sing, and tomorrow we shall cry." With that said, he makes to turn for the sea, and continue away from the tragedy his pride has wrought, not daring to glance at Riva and Rhys.

SunHawk, in his strides in Drusus' direction, pauses and raises a hand to halt those black-garbed Hounds on his heels. His glance moves from Drusus toward the Atlanteans, then, drinking in a deep breath, he stays several yards away from the Emperor. Attitude, however, has become guarded, even for this man.

Naiadre glances at the Cyclos as he draws up beside her, giving him a respectful nod in return. A brief flash of understanding and anger flickers across her face as she listens to his words, eyes following Sarojin with the intensity of needles.

"I. Think. Not," says Drusus. "I am the master and servant and protector of my people. You have killed them without notice, warning, or permission. Do not ask me to make merry with you while their families wait for them who will not be returning home. Explain now. It is my right to know why you have done this thing to me and mine."

Flavius touches Marcus' arm. "Perhaps the crowd intrudes," he suggests. The Schola is still for a few moments as he ponders this and then he and his fellow step forward and to the sides, using their wings and presence to keep back some of those who seek to creep forward and intrude on the conversation.

Claudius's face betrays nothing but watchfulness, and alert waiting. It takes all his years of discipline and training to stop his reaction to Sarojin's words to his Emperor. At Drusus' response, Claudius almost nods in approval, but stops himself as well. It is not his place, yet. His steel-grey eyes scan the situation, rapidly considering courses of actions should violence break out.

Rhys, water lapping around his ankles, reaches -- and finds the strength that Kai bred into him. "Stop, Decemvir. You dishonor her memory, her beliefs, and her goddess. Will you break us all with your pride?" His voice is deep, soft, burry with anger. "This is no time for laughter and feasting. Turn and give the Emperor the explanation he deserves. Make reparation for her sake, if not for ours." There is threat in the way he holds himself, and he gathers a strength he did not know he had, ready to force Sarojin to turn by sheer strength of thought if he has to.

Sarojin turns back then and allows a sigh. After a quick glance and nod at Rhys. "They were searching your ship for Okalani. The mother of my child. The heir of my people. If you wish to apportion blame, do so upon the shoulders of Delphi. It is they I believe who have kidnaped her. Her body has not been found. For whatever reasons, they staged her death and now they hide her from me." A touch of anger does entreat his voice now. "This, I believe. Who am I to trust? Who dances by their strings? So I merely searched all outgoing vessels in the hope that they would attempt to smuggle her out." That said, he stands stiff shouldered and awaiting the response to his accusations.

Alcander's eyes move their regard from the litter-strewn sea to the Jovian Emperor and the Pandions he is accusing. A frown follows, since this is definitely killing his mood and appetite, but what can one do? Drusus is from Jove, for the love of Aphrodite and Adonis.

Riva acts with her customary bluntness. She speaks both verbally and to her men by a telepathic thread. "Once all have had a taste, disperse. There is too much trouble, too much anger, too much pain and sorrow to celebrate. The emotions taint what should be rich with joy. We will do something appropriate later."

Tsaruko starts to direct guards to intervene themselves between curious onlookers and those who are truly involved in the situation.

Thalia's slippered feet crunch to a halt near the outer edge of Drusus' Schola. She does not make any move to venture onto the Emperor's rock, but there is a glitter in her blue eyes that do not speak of merriment and laughter. She does not speak, but the tilt of her chin suggests that the Schola and Claudius will only invite trouble if they attempt to shoo her away with the rest of the crowd.

The Schola do not shoo Thalia away. But they do impede her progress towards the small circle of space inhabited by Sarojin and Drusus.

SunHawk is certainly not going to be shooed away. This is Haven's land, this is Haven's beach; the Hounds have the privilege of being Haven's guardians. Thus do the Hounds keep their place near Drusus and Sarojin, though one of the Sentires of Atlantean blood is dismissed to swim toward the ship and thus inquire if assistance is being rendered. Another is dispatched to bring healers, should survivors be floating around that horrific scattering that once was a proud Empyrean ship.

Tsaruko turns to Riva, as her words ring in the air. With a slight nod in the Decemvir's direction, Tsaruko begins to direct the servants beneath the waves again, telling them, vocally, to leave their trays of food on the beach, as if it were rotten.

The Cyclos' eyes widen and he reaches out for Naiadre's arm in shock at Sarojin's words. He inhales deeply, his complexion whitening as he realizes what is said. But after one minute, he speaks up again, hoping to be heard. "Who says it is Delphi? Have you spoken with them telepathically? Haven't you seen the sorrow within its walls like others did?" He grows angry, "And why would Delphi..." he gulps, looking sideways at Naiadre for a moment before extending his gaze to the Ormani.

Again, Oriane shivers, holding the note in her hand as she watches the scene before her. White wings shiver as she witnesses the anger that ripples through the people surrounding her.

Rhys stiffens, suddenly glaring at Tsaruko, his attention torn from the scene at hand as he strides forward, towards the noblewoman, at a rapid pace.

Tsaruko steps backwards, eyes wide in shock, as if suddenly hit with some invisible force. Quivering, Tsaruko brings her hands up to her head, as if trying to relieve pressure there. Eyes narrow, and close in agony as tears start to form. Tsaruko's head shakes back and forth. "No... no. Leave... me... No."

Thalia passes by Alcander, and that smile of self-indulgent boredom the Acesian seems to bear through most of his life is twisted into a more malicious expression. Were he interested in seeing his entrails wrapped about the rocky coastline he would call a greeting owed to her, but, alas, he cannot. Not with those trained Varati wombats known as Agni-Haidar scurrying behind her at all times. So all he can do is THINK a few things at her. So there, nyah.

The food surely is not rotten, and at least one tray is not going to be left to rot upon the beach as the rest of the wedding guests are slowly enthralled by the unfolding conflict. From the dark curve of her hiding-place, Grace darts, merely one more shadow slipping across the sand to the water's edge and back again. And while she eyes the first tiny curl of shrimp with dubious expression, after the first bite, the morsels disappear one after another as she watches the milieu avidly.

"You ask me to trust you," Drusus says to Sarojin. His voice is low; it is likely that those who are not within the immediate area cannot hear it. All others are ignored. "And yet you did not trust me. You did not come to me to lay out your dilemma and ask for my help. Without word to me, without trust in me, you search my ships, you impede my trade. This, by itself, forces me to react -- my merchants look to me to resolve this impedence; what could have been private becomes public. And now, before my very eyes, you kill my people and ask me to trust and believe that you were only 'searching.'"

It is unlike a groom to forsake his bride so soon after the wedding. Yet Rhys has left Riva's side, and is advancing on Tsaruko like a tsunami towards the shore, threatening with body language. Lips peel back from his teeth as he stares at the noblewoman.

Naiadre places a hand upon the Cyclos' arm in return, steadying him. Her presence is a quiet but palpable force beside him, eyes darting still between Drusus and Sarojin, darkened in anger.

Claudius's eyes flicker from Drusus, to Sarojin ... to Rhys? Something odd is going on, and Claudius would give Khalid's left arm right now to be able to know what was going on in the telepathic exchange between Rhys and Tsaruko.

Tsaruko falls to her knees, quivering, crying, her face contorted in pain. "I... hide... nothing... No. Leave me!" Desperate, Tsaruko struggles to move her hand to her side. There it clasps the knife she has carried with her even since coming to Haven.

Rhys does not fall to his knees beside Tsaruko, instead trying to grab her arm, roughly, and yank her upward. Whatever his reply, it is not aloud. In his anger, he does not see the knife.

Riva notes Rhys moving to the side, but her own attention is focused on another cluster of people. Ormani Ephor come within communication range one after the other and head off to perform various tasks that are not communicated with others. Veil is removed and passed over to one of the guards for safekeeping.

Thalia appears content to remain on the ground, rather then ascending the rock, at least as long as Drusus and Sarojin speak loudly enough for her to hear. She crosses her arms over her chest. Her blue eyes continue to glitter, like the shiny edges of hail. As Tsaruko pulls out a knife, Thalia's Agni-Haidar do not move, but a subtle shift of their presence suggests that the Atlantean woman has been labeled a possible threat.

SunHawk will intend to intervene, in a pacific fashion, if the guards ringing Drusus will allow him past. Tempers are rising, and a need for calm and reason is building rapidly. "My lords and ladies, please," calls the Commander in an authoritative, basso voice which has a tendency to carry, "please. This is a time of celebration for the couple. Those involved should withdraw to discuss matters peaceably elsewhere."

"I know not what faction does what or who within that ugly spire. I know merely that they had the access, the opportunity and the reason. They know I wished to take her away to my home so that the child might be raised a proper Pandion. They skitter like bugs atop the ocean with their political machinations. I do not doubt that many are sorrowful at her death, but I suspect some within wish to use her for their own purposes. I do not trust Delphi. I could not trust others with this information. Who knows what ears they have." Silver strands fling back and forth in the air in a vigorous shake of Sarojin's head. "My people, too, died." An accusing finger is flung towards Claudius, where the damp remainder of one time life drips. The Pandion badge. "Their bodies mingle with your own. An accident. I can have the images presented to you from the memory of those who watched." And that said he quivers for a moment. The cool calm has returned to sheath his voice, the volume dropping to match that of the Emperor.

Screaming, Tsaruko pulls the knife and lunges it towards Rhys. All her secrets exposed to the man, she cannot see the evil of what she does.

A sudden cry from behind the Emperor's contingent signals that Oriane has witnessed the woman lunging at Rhys with a knife. The winds kick up and the dark-haired girl finds herself lost in shock at the way this joyous occasion has twisted.

Naiadre flings her attention away from the Cyclos and towards Tsaruko, wincing at the sudden violence of unleashed emotions. Her breath catches in her throat at the glint of the knife.

Hand to mouth stops as the scene continues to unfold and with the silver flash of knife in moonlight, tiny shrimp are scattered across the beach with an accompanying screech as Grace flies out from behind the rock, scrambling for the pair. It is, unfortunately for all concerned, not a particularly graceful scramble, nor coordinated -- but clearly the little girl won't stay still to see that knife reach its mark. She flings herself at the knot of Rhys and Tsaruko both without a thought.

Drusus ignores SunHawk. He does not see Rhys and Tsaruko. He does not see Riva. He trusts his Praetor to guard his back; he trusts Claudius to keep tabs on the rest. He says to Sarojin, "Lest there be more accidents, Decemvir, we had better make some mutual agreements about this searching. You will cease your searches of my vessels immediately, until an agreement has been reached. This you owe me in return for what you have done." And then the shrill scream cuts through the air. He looks over sharply, his expression one of stone. He sees the attack: he sees Tsaruko and Rhys. "Hold," he says to his men, and the blast of air that comes out of Oriane picks up speed: it courses over the heads of the onlookers. If Rhys does not subdue her shortly, the suddenly hard air drives sand directly into the face of the screaming woman who seeks to run Riva's groom through.

Claudius watches the unfolding scene only partially; the bulk of his attention is on the situation near Drusus. He's seen people seek to take advantage of such diversions before.

There's a certain sound that a knife makes as it enters a hunk of meat. That knife scores a gash down Rhys' arm, flung up at the last minute, and then sinks into his right side, across from his heart. Rhys looks down, disbelieving, and then he sits down abruptly on the sand as the wind begins to blow.

Tsaruko blinks at Rhys, sanity coming back to her, then she looks at the knife in shock. Suddenly, sand is buffeted into Tsaruko's face as the wind picks it up, then knocks the Atlantean woman backwards.

Palaemon's attention moves away from the two sovereigns at that loud cry and he turns his head, eyes widening in shock at the sight. But he doesn't move, instead his hand grabs Naiadre's arm with more force than before. The emotions felt by her are fierce, but the sight of the groom being stabbed by the mad woman is even worse. He isn't a young man anymore and the ages begin to show at such times.

SunHawk may be ignored, but he is not about to stand around idly as tempers spark a blaze within what should be a serene gathering to celebrate love. Nodding toward the commotion about Rhys, since he cannot see what precisely is transpiring there, the commander dispatches the rest of the Hounds to investigate and lend aid as he presses forward toward Drusus and Sarojin. The man has a calm attitude, but he is one who does not take no for an answer. Not like this. And from all indications, the Sentire dispatched to bring others is arriving with two more squadrons of Hounds.

Artin moves forward belatedly, apparently distracted by telepathic reports.

Only now does Thalia speak, her sweet, melodic voice floating up towards Drusus and Sarojin, "Emperor, Decemvir, there are more than two races in Haven. All races have suffered from the Atlantean's forced search. Now, the Decemvir has proved that his people cannot search without death, without killing. His mad passion must end here, for all of Haven's peoples, be they Atlantean, Empyrean, Varati, Sylvan or Mongrel."

"Domina Oriane," Drusus says. "Make the air heavy. Hold her down." She knows what he means; he's talked with her about this. He shows her how, lets her feel how the air coalesces on Tsaruko and how he controls it, and she is able to begin to bear down herself, to use her superior power, following the example of his control.

Tsaruko is limp as she lays there. She really doesn't need to be held. The young Atlantean makes no attempt to move; instead, she lets the tears roll down her face.

Kesava approaches the beach from the open sea.

Naiadre is pale with shock and looks none too steady herself, yet she does do her best to keep the Cyclos upright with her support, both of them clinging to one another. The skin about her eyes is drawn tight as she gazes up at him, sorrow lining her mouth.

But, naturally, Oriane does not know that. Her wings bate in nervousness once, twice, before she settles into her concentration. Her fingers ball into fists. She's so pale. She swallows, her dark eyes wide.

The note, still held in Oriane's hand, is crumpled. But she keeps hold of it.

"Agreed," comes the terse reply, a snow-bled wind making its way down a winter mountain. "We shall talk of..." His sentence finds its end with the sudden wind that takes life from out of nowhere, whipping his words away. A quizzical frown turns to accost Tsaruko, with whom he has had a few conversations. Uncertain at this sudden suicidal bent, Sarojin shakes his head. It is as if the ship was an omen for the evening, as event seems to take on the chaos of fire and smoke. A turn of his head finds source of another set of accusations. "This is not the time or the place for such discussions. I have given my explanations. Now I must go. An emissary shall approach you both to request a talk." Though he does spare a moment to delve into the thoughts of the now-unconscious Tsaruko, curiosity awakening momentarily.

The Decemvir is not in visual range of Rhys as she communicates, giving orders regarding the situation, yet she is very attuned to the mood of the beach and the emotions that roil so thickly. She gives a howl of mingled rage and grief that can only come from an Atlantean throat in its resonating tones. The same notes that can seduce with melodic softness can reverberate in odd ways from persons who seldom speak. Riva darts toward Rhys and does not bother to mask her thoughts as she demands a healer NOW.

Claudius notes Rhys on the ground, and frowns. "Davus," he says, and nods towards the fallen Atlantean. The Ares guard known as Davus detaches himself from Claudius' retinue, and begins moving towards Rhys. He holds his empty hands wide, so all can see them. "I'm a medic," he says. "I can help him, somewhat."

Scoured by the edge of the blast that tosses Tsaruko aside, Grace falls on Rhys with a shriek, wings spread over him protectively. In the moonlight, the red blood is only black, washing over her pale skin in an inky flow. The girl presses her hands to the wound with a low moan, almost folding over his body.

Rhys just sits there, for quite a while. And then everyone in the immediate vicinity hears the same thing. *Oh, have I done the right thing?* There's grief/tiredness/regret, even a little remorse. Should Sarojin ever admit to feeling emotions, perhaps these are what he feels in regard to the searches and bloodshed, the accident that just occurred. The knife, still stuck in his chest, prevents too much bleeding. But his chest hurts. He puts up a hand, touches the skin above the knife, and then abruptly passes out.

"Very well," is Drusus' short reply. He, too, is concentrating -- he helps Oriane ensure that Tsaruko does not suddenly become a threat again. He sees Claudius moving forward; this is a good thing. He hears Riva wail. But Sarojin is not entirely forgotten for he, too, is a threat. Just not quite an obvious one as Tsaruko at the moment.

Kesava ambles along the beach towards the crowd and the gleaming platform, but stops short, well beyond the perimeter of armed guards, frowning curiously at the scene.

SunHawk goes home.

"Should I..." Oriane begins tremulously. She is shaking.

Drusus shakes his head. "No, Domina," he says gently. "Just hold her. Someone else will kill her if that is what the Atlanteans wish to do." He, of course, thinks it's the most logical action where Tsaruko is concerned.

Apollonius walks down the winding path from Haven and steps onto the beach.

The Cyclos' eyes move towards Naiadre and he nods slowly before he moves away, still holding the girl close to him however. He is unsure what to do, as his ilk can tell from his emotions, but he decides to stand aside first so as not to bother anyone else. It is to Sarojin that he looks in the end.

A slow shake of silver and then the Pandion Decemvir is moving once he has Drusus' assurance, the assumption being that Thalia will agree as well. Perhaps something was planted within the unmindful head of Tsaruko, or something caused him to pause at least, but for only a moment. With that done, Sarojin continues towards the ocean and wades in, flanked by his two attendants. Swallowed by the roiling seas, he slithers away from the entropy left in his wake.

Naiadre supports the Cyclos, moving with him, her own eyes following Sarojin into the sea with anger held at bay. Her mind and voice are quiet, not wanting to contribute any more to the madness.

Riva drops to her knees beside her husband, her touch gentle. She hisses as her thoughts echo the words verbalized. "You will NOT die! You will not die, not now, not like this." A ring of her guards appear in a protective ring round the small group. After the brief lapse, Riva's thoughts are her own again. A murmur can be heard as she issues orders. "Guards... move to quarters... healer... cancel plans... notify council," and the like can be picked up as instructions are overheard.

Grace whimpers softly, wings fluttering. The shadow of Riva is enough to make her look up for one brief instant with pain-filled eyes and then she reaches out and takes the woman's wrist with her own blood-stained fingers and pushes her hand over the slice on Rhys' arm. "Squeeze hard. That's later." That said, the gaunt girl turns her attention back to the knife, laying her hands around it with infinite care.

Tsaruko struggles for the tiny breaths she takes, using gills instead of lungs. The expression on her face is so pained, that one might not dare look at it. Still, the young woman does not move, nor try to, nor does she try to speak.

The glitter in Thalia's eyes do not fade as Sarojin once again shuffles off responsibility, but she does not demand that the Decemvir remain to bring about more grief and tragedy. Instead, she stand in the lee of Drusus' rock and sweeps her head from side to side, taking in the burnt feather in Drusus' hand, the wreckage at the sea and the bleeding groom.

Claudius' man Davus stops outside the circle of Riva's guards. His eyes are locked on Rhys' bleeding form, his mind running through what he must do. "I am a medic," he repeats, more loudly this time. "I can help him." He does not try to force himself past the Atlanteans, however.

Drusus keeps watch in the direction of Tsaruko, but still holds the feather gently in his hands. Assurance? Drusus made no assurances to Sarojin except that they would talk. As to the outcome of that talk, he has made no promises.

Riva reaches out toward the girl touching the knife and stares hard at her. The warrior in the woman is obvious in the way muscles tense and she positions herself protectively round Rhys. It is several moments before she relaxes.

Standing far back and apart from the general confusion on the beach is a solitary Empyrean -- his putty-like face slackening as the import of the scene before him gradually makes its way into his conscious mind. What disaster might have caused this scene of bloodshed and horror is not evident to the narrowed grey eyes of the portly playwright, but the sight of the white-haired Empyrean with the dangerous expression on his face is enough to force Apollonius to cast his eyes cast downward. This is not a place for him to linger.

Sarojin vanishes along the rocky westward shoreland and out of sight.

Any Atlanteans approaching Tsaruko would find their progress impeded as if they were trying to wade through molasses -- the air is actually denser over her body, a column of weight holding her down. The weight remains until Riva's guards apprehend or kill her, whichever they choose to do.

Kesava cautiously, curiously, eyes the fat little Empyrean who's just arrived close by, but doesn't seek to draw attention to herself.

Artin looks around and realizes he should do something. He motions to the man who said he was a healer, finally speaking aloud in a soft tenor, "Please come forward." At his words, guards part.

Tears run down her face unchecked as Grace places her hand on Rhys' chest and the other on the hilt of the knife. It is with agonizing slowness that she withdraws the blade from his flesh, breath whistling through distended nostrils in tense, panting breaths. Amazingly, no rush of blood follows the growing inches of blade, only a slow, dark trickle across his bare chest.

Davus folds his wings behind him and quickly steps through the circle of guards. Kneeling down close to Rhys, he frowns when he realizes that Grace is withdrawing the knife ... then raises his eyebrows in amazement. "Magic," he says quietly. It's not something the ex-Medeor often sees. He waits and watches for the healer to extend her abilities before stepping in.

Artin moves toward Tsaruko as well, preferring to take her into custody himself, even if he is shocked by the whole turn of events. One eye blinks oddly, a sign of his discomfort as he slowly reaches toward her arm, unnaturally slowly due to the magics in play.

Palaemon sighs deeply and finally lets go of the acolyte's arm. "I think I will try and follow him so we may discuss things about... recent happenings." His eyes grow dark, "As Cyclos of Pasiphae, I should know all about the possibility of the High Priestess being alive, and I do not like that at all... a knife."

The Korallion guards approach Tsaruko. There must be more to what happened than is obvious because when they approach, it is with bindings, not with blades, though from their expressions, there is not a doubt in their minds that Riva will gladly slit this one's throat without blinking. "Don't kill her yet. I want to know what and why this happened and see if she is acting alone. Rhys first, her later."

The breeze whipping up from the shoreline flutters the folds of the bald playwright's toga, and causes him to squint. His curiosity, however, does not allow him to leave outright. He stands, his sandals sugared with cool night sand, and turns away from the scene of hushed, anxious voices. A spill of red hair upon strong shoulders and a shapely neck encircled in bronze captures the playwrights attention, and he stares at the woman, half-hidden in darkness. Her form and race are not clearly distinguishable, and so he has some trepidation as he slowly approaches.

Naiadre nods to Palaemon, casting another glance at Rhys and company. "It might be a good idea. Be careful, though. The Decemvir is not completely... stable these days, it sometimes seems. I should be getting back to the Temple."

Kesava swiftly notices the approach of the portly pureblood, but declines to acknowledge him for a few moments, hoping that she is mistaken in thinking that he has chosen to speak to her.

Tsaruko is bound, in an uncomfortable manner, of course, and is made to stand. Still, the young woman makes no complaints, no sounds, nothing. She appears a broken woman and keeps her eyes on the ground, watching her tears fall, and disappear into the sand.

Artin frowns at the bloodthirsty note in Riva's voice, though it is not his place to speak against her. "As you wish." Despite himself, a hint of disapproval at the idea they would execute a prisoner, even one such as this, out of hand, creeps into his voice.

Palaemon turns his head to watch Tsaruko, a sad expression crossing his features before he resumes a determined face, shrugging deeply, "He will not dare to harm me, Naiadre." Again, he speaks out loud before he moves off.

Palaemon walks down the winding path back to Haven.

Naiadre casts a last glance at the others and then paces her way up the path, heading back to the Temple with a heavy weight upon shoulders and heart.

Naiadre walks down the winding path back to Haven.

Drawing near the woman with the noble bearing, Apollonius risks a question in a whispered voice. "Ave, Domina," he says, his face lowered, his chins multiplying. "Can you tell me what has happened here?" His tone is respectful, and his eyes move back to the grim, silent figures silhouetted against the shifting waves.

Claudius watches the Atlantean contingent prepare to leave, making note of everyone who is moving in the vicinity. His thoughts on the matter, he keeps to himself for the moment, though the ramifications of this day are surely going through his mind.

Kesava looks round, brilliant eyes flashing in the moonlight -- though they are widened in shock. Taking a hasty step backwards, she offers a deep bow. "Not domina, dominus. I am unfree. A possession of House Acesius."

Riva looks down to watch the woman working on Rhys. She does not interfere with what she is doing, just holds Rhys's hand as she kneels by his side. To the guards she says, "Do not harm her. She is to remain in good condition till I see her." She knows her men well enough to know how threats to the heir of the Decemvirate are usually treated.

As the woman steps away from him, the clouds part to reveal a moment of moonlight across the sand, then Apollonius sees clearly she who stands before him. It is a slave, and Apollonius feels a moment of queasy indecision. But his desire to have his question answered overcomes these considerations. And, also, her bearing seems to belie her social status, and this appeases him somewhat. "Then, I hope you will not feel compelled by your obligations to your House not to answer my question..." He frowns, deeply, and his eyes move again to the knot of figures on the sand.

The pressure around Tsaruko eases as Riva's guards take hold of her. It vanishes in a whisper of breezes playful that belie the force which had been held to bear against her just moments before. Oriane relaxes, still trembling, and some of the concentration leaves Drusus' eyes as well. "I think," he says to Flavius. "It is time to leave. We'll make our regrets and congratulations later."

Oriane suddenly gives herself a little shake. "Deus -- ah -- Deus, excuse me," she blushes. "I have a missive for you. It's from -- " well, she might as well admit it, yes? "It's from my mother. Queen Thalia," she adds.

Drusus accepts the note. He looks it over, paper crinkling in his rough grasp. "No," he says. "Not now. There is too much to deal with at the moment." A grey glance is given to the spot on the sea which is now a gravesite to Empyrean sailors. He hands the note back to Oriane. "Please tender your mother my regrets, Domina Oriane, if you would be so kind. Perhaps another time when more pressing matters are not demanding my attention." Perhaps his expression is gentle, perhaps it is harsh: he steps back and takes to the air with his Schola and Flavius following after. They rise up into the sky and bank north towards the Palladium.

Oblivious to all other activity, Grace concentrates only on Rhys. She withdraws the blade, finally, and tosses it away onto the sand with a flick of her wrist. The blade spins in to moonlight and thunks into the ground with a muffled thump and a small spray of glittering grains. That hand falls back to Rhys' chest, unfinished with her work. For while no visible change happens, it is clear that the halfbreed continues to spend pain and effort in healing something... something within.

Claudius watches Drusus leave briefly, then gives a small shrug. He walks down towards the beach, where Rhys is circled by a large group of guards. Silently, he watches Grace's actions.

Drusus leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky above Haven.

Kesava deeply inclines her head. "Certainly. I arrived only a short time before yourself, dominus. The scene appears to be one of a wedding, though whether it was completed or not, I cannot determine. There is blood in the air, however, and a young woman has been made a prisoner, while at least one individual appears to have been forcibly struck down. To judge from the rings of guards, the stricken individual was not an insignificant one."

"Certainly, that is a true appraisal," Apollonius remarks, in a judicious tone. He clasps his hands at his waist, and thrusts his chin forward in an attitude of analytical observation. His chins recede, but his shoulders hunch slightly in thought and unease. In this moment, he resembles a sea turtle, jutting its head out of the shell. "I have heard tell of a fleet of Atlantean ships," he says, his eyes moving out to the darkness of the waves. "It is said that they send parties to do mischief for unknown purposes. Surely a better location could be found for a wedding." The last words are spoken softly, as if he is cautious of the dangers inherent in such talk being overheard.

Artin watches Rhys and Riva for a moment longer before taking Tsaruko's arm once more and leading her toward the sea. No sense in the drylanders seeing the prisoner being marched to the Korallion.

Kesava shrugs. "The scene is well warded by land.... I have not endeavored to assess its seaward defenses -- though I believe that I sighted some Atlanteans among those attending the wedding."

Tsaruko follows where Artin takes her, limply.

Artin and Tsaruko enter the waters of the Delphic Sea.

Claudius merely watches Grace's ministrations to Rhys for a moment, then his ever-changing gaze sweeps elsewhere over the beach. It seems that not much is happening now. As they say, it's all over but the bleeding.

Vanora walks down the winding path from Haven and steps onto the beach.

"Ah," is all that Apollonius says. He stands, beside the red-haired slave, as if it is the most natural position for him, and speaks to her as a general might speak to a trusted advisor. "Of course, they know their territory better than we," and with this he casts his eyes upward, as if regarding the 'territory' of his own race and contemplating his own knowledge of it. "There seems to be no public act that is not harried by foul circumstance." He grimaces.

Riva watches the completion of the healing silently. Her people are ready to convey Rhys home once it is done.

Done might take a while, for Grace is clearly flagging, her wings drooping to the sand in slow increments. She groans and turns her attention to the cut in his arm, pushing Riva out of the way. The flow of blood starts once the Atlantean woman's fingers are out of the way, and slowly stanches once more as Grace sets her fingers to either side of the slash. It closes upon itself inch by painful inch, leaving a small puddle of Rhys' blood on the sand and covering the girl's slight hands.

Claudius turns part of his attention to Grace, and quietly wonders about the girl's dedication to healing Rhys' wounds that could be tended to easily by mundane means.

Kesava chuckles quietly, nodding to Apollonius's comment. "I am afraid that my experience of such events has been... limited, of late, dominus."

Vanora moves slowly past the perimeter of Ormani guards, two Korallion guards of her own shadowing her steps. The new head of the Pasiphaean temple pauses to observe the rather somber gathering, her brow furrowing as her gaze shifts from one individual to the next. Then, with a ghost of a shrug, she begins to move closer to the others.

"Mine as well," answers Apollonius, a faint smile touching his lips. "It seems that I have not been invited to many weddings in the past... oh... five years or so. My presence has not been required at any gatherings... of any kind, actually." This realization seems to surprise him, and his brow rises in thought. Where had the time gone? Five years... He forces his mind back to the present. "When I first saw you, I assumed you to be one of the nobles attending this ceremony." His words are hushed, and thoughtful. "I, too, am more, and less, than I appear." With this cryptic remark, the playwright falls silent.

There are scattered signs of a gathering that has mostly parted. Some fragments of burned wood and debris is beginning to wash up on shore. The Decemvir kneels in the sand beside her unconscious husband and blood and healing wounds seem to indicated something bad (tm) happened.

Kesava pauses, mid-way through shaking her head, to cast a decidedly curious glance at the little Empyrean by her side. "I apologize, dominus. I do not understand you."

With a final tremor, Grace lifts one hand to her face, dragging it across her mouth in a tired gesture and then recoiling as she realizes the blood she has smeared there. She licks her lips and then blinks blearily at Riva. "That's.. that's all.. I.." Her eyes roll back in her head as the halfbreed crumples to the sand alongside Rhys without another sound.

The fat little Empyrean shakes his head. "No need to apologize. I descend into self-serving pathos occasionally." He turns to her, the tall erect figure at his side, and offers her a smile. "It's part of my charm," he adds. Then, he straightens slightly. "I am Apollonius Lychenor Thucydides." This last is spoken without voice, and barely distinguishable. His eyes are fixed upon the flotsam being carried ashore by the tide. The knot of figures some distance away are still swallowed by shadow, their forms mysterious, their identities unknown, but these bits of charred wood are intriguing, closer at hand. "Something has capsized...?" he wonders aloud. "A vessel?"

Vanora gently pushes her way closer to Riva, her ornate headdress gleaming like silver fire against her dark hair. As Grace collapses, the priestess sinks to the warm sand beside the halfbreed and rests one slender hand against the girl's cheek.

Kesava frowns, deeply. "You may well be right.... But... I doubt that it would be my place to investigate...."

Davus, the almost-forgotten Empyrean medic, stands, nodding to Rhys. "I can be of no further help to him," not after Grace's healing, of course. He turns to Grace, to see check on her condition, only to find Vanora holding her instead. Davus shrugs.

Claudius walks over to the group, and nods to those present, most of his attention on Grace. "Ave," he says grimly.

Riva seems most reluctant to let go of Rhys for a long moment. She lets her fingertips slide along his chest and arm as if to reassure herself that he truly is healed, then lets her touch withdraw. "Take him home, please, and see he is not left alone. I will be there when matters permit. " Over to Grace she moves and lays one hand over her forehead. To Vanora, she responds, "Much has happened. The Cyclos completed the ceremony. Whales came to sing to Rhys and attracted more of a gathering than would have ordinarily occurred. Your Decemvir was here. There was an 'accident' during one of his searches of an outgoing boat. It exploded, loss of his men and of the crew, Empyreans. Emperor Drusus was here." Now that explains a whole lot in just a few words. "There was a confrontation. More talk to come. You should know, it was announced Okalani was not one of the women killed, a goodly chance she is still alive. The searches are for the missing woman and the Pandion heir she bears."

Not her place...? Apollonius' frown at this comment has the air of bewilderment in it ... as if the idea of a mystery whose particulars are only available to the privileged is a concept wholly alien to him. Yet, he does not immediately reply. His narrow grey eyes have fixed upon the small shadowed group beyond the line of sentries, on their solemn forms and hushed voices. He speaks, at length, with quiet conviction, and the tones of his basso profundo voice seem deeper with the assurance of his words. "Perhaps if we all felt more free to seek the truth, there would be fewer surprises to spoil a public gathering." He falls silent, and his bearing is grim.

Riva shakes her head as she assesses Grace and her condition. With a glance around the area to see if any come to claim her, she comes full circle back to her own people. "Put her to bed in my room. Like as not, she kept Rhys from dying. Let her sleep in peace there, and serve her meals when she wakens. I want to see her before she leaves."

Kesava chuckles softly. "A slave could not possibly comment on concepts of freedom, dominus."

Vanora's lips curve into a brief frown as she glances up at Riva. "I am almost sorry I could not be here," she murmurs. "It sounds quite exciting." The priestess hardly looks excited, however. If anything, she looks to be more than a little tired of all this 'excitement.' "We can keep her in the temple if you wish, Riva. A Mender can look at her there," she says quietly as she settles back on her heels. Glancing up, she gives Claudius a slight nod as she realizes the Empyrean was addressing her, among others, but then returns her attention to the Decemvir.

Again, the startlement at her status as a slave forces Apollonius to adjust his thinking. "Yes, yes, I am sorry," he murmurs, apologetically. "Forgive my foolishness." His manner immediately shifts from the quiet dignity he had assumed beforehand to a more customary furtive and cautious demeanor. After a long pause, he looks at Kesava again, from the corner of his eye. "Would you be offended if I asked your name?"

Claudius watches the two women 'fight' over who will tend Grace, and nearly smiles. But there is another matter to be taken care of first. Turning to Riva, he asks, "Were any survivors found from the damaged ship? My men did not see any earlier, but I assume your guard would have conducted a much more thorough search."

Kesava smiles slowly, gentle warmth evident despite the night's gloom. "No, I would not. Kesava, dominus."

Riva looks up toward Claudius, somewhat distracted. "If they survived, they departed before my men got there. We found both Pandions and Empyreans in the water. A report since then has not come to me. I would have been told had survivors been found." She then looks toward Vanora. "Perhaps can be roused enough to ask her and let her rest either place."

Prone and silent, Grace rests in surprisingly peaceful repose, considering all that has transpired in the last hour or two. However, the dark smear of blood on her hands and face give lie to the serene expression forced upon her face by unconsciousness' weight. She makes no move as if to wake or to resist any that would move her, likely only to waken at a much later time...

FIN  

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