| abstract | - There is really no such thing as bad weather; only different kinds of good weather. So it is said, and so it often goes, but those who believe in such optimistic quotations probably didn't write them during storms quite like the one that ravages Fastheld right this moment. Dark and angry clouds smother the skies, summoning waves of light rain to soak the world below, carried upon the wings of winds that blow from light to heavy without any method or reason. Lightning flashes, illuminating the darkness with brief flares of white light, while thunder rumbles in the heavens and people scream and yell in answer, as if the weather itself sought to devour them. At least, this is the standard fare for most of the Empire, and - indeed - most of Northreach, until it abruptly stops without any warning - stopping as if someone just told it to quiet down because it was being rather noisy for this time of year. Though the ominous clouds are still angry against the night sky, and though thunder still rumbles on the horizon, it seems that the weather above the Black Stone Monument has decided to rebel against the weather that rages on above everywhere else; the rain no longer falls, the wind no longer blows, and even the ground itself seems to have dried. On top of that, there's a distinct scent of ozone in the air that cannot be ignored. For a Freelander, the life of an Unmarked, Shadow Touched vagabond is a good one. A perpetual existance of zigging where others zag--standing out from a crowd while blending into it at the same time. Infinite freedom. Zigging where others zag has its downsides, though. On a night, a cold, wet, windy night in the depts of winter, while others would seek a warm fire and a hot meal, this particular vagabond has chosen a late night visit to a monument that is virtually invisible in darkness anyway. Syton Temple stands in front of the Black Stone, leaning against his quarterstaff. He seems unaffected by the foul weather, for as long as it lasts. When the rain stops and the skies overhead grow calm, he simply reaches up to pull his hood off. "Loathsome weather, really," a deep and sonorous voice rumbles through the great Aegis wall to the near north of the Black Stone Monument ahead of one Syton Temple; one that is as deep as the ocean, yet regal enough to put even Emperors to shame. "All indignant and blustering, as if mad at every little thing for utterly generic reasons. Quite droll, too, when you happen to be out in it, would you not say so?" Though there's no body attached to the words just yet, there aren't many that share such a remarkable voice and demeanor. "Aye," Syton replies, turning vaguely towards the voice. "Entirely moody and unpleasant. And you wouldn't believe the state of the roads." His own voice sounds like little more than an feeble squeak by comparison. It is, however, a calm squeak, steadied by a potent combination of experience and a certain nerve-steeling Draconic artifact that rests on his left hand. The young Freelander straightens his posture a bit and ruffles some of the rain from his cloak. Now his quarterstaff leans against him, rather than the other way around. "It is good to speak to you again, Sir Drake. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" "Mental acquisitiveness, for the most part," the Black Dragon known as Zael'tharalax states in a somewhat bored and still quite disembodied tone of voice until, through the very stones of the Aegis, a vaporously wedge-shaped head attached to an equally insubstantially sinuous neck make themselves known. Both are a dark metallic-charcoal shade in color, while ivory horns curl back and sweep gently upwards atop his head from above fan-shaped ears and blue eyes burning with the cold-fires of ceaseless age and intelligence. "Which is somewhat alleviated by the artifact that linger in front of, though not by much. Of all the places in this stretch of land they call an Empire, this would be the last place I would have thought to find you, Syton Temple." "Well," he then muses, "That is, were it not for the obvious fact of being to find you no matter where you might be hiding, and all that." "Well, you see..." Syton begins, sounding nearly like this were a serious explanation. There is, however, a healthy dose of irony in his tone. "I decided that I had yet to see all the lovely monuments that this Empire has to offer. And as I expect to be consumed by acarits, gargoyles, Black Wildlings, or Drakes at a moment's notice, I wanted nothing left undone." Syton smiles and bows to the disembodied Drake's head. "I was trying to find a quiet place to think, Sir Drake, and maybe find some sanity in the day's madness. I've not found much so far." "You should remove the Drakar'ri from that list," Zael'tharalax notes with some degree of mirth as he lowers his somewhat ethereal head to regard the Freelander on a more 'level' basis, "Devouring you is not very high on my list of ways to spend the next few months. However, I would be interested in some of the madness that you preport to have witnessed in your quest to seek sanity - especially in regards to this location." A pause, and the Dragon continues, adopting a slightly more neutral tone of voice, "I hear that this little Empire of Imperials has been the subject of *quite* a few curiosities as of late." "That it has," Syton answers promptly. "Truthfully, I have witnessed little of it first hand. However, I have friends who rush in where wiser men fear to tread, and I have learned much from them." He meets Zael'tharalax's gaze as well as one can meet the gaze of a Drake. "Our Regent saw fit to trade fifteen of our Touched children to an ornery band of Black Wildlings in exchange for a promise of safety. And now it seems that acarits are attacking our citizens to retrieve the Ingress of Sorentir--whatever that is--which is needed to defeat some gargoyle-like creatures that are causing a problem for Crown's Refuge." He shakes his head slowly and adds, "Why couldn't it have been a less menacing sculpture? Like those tasteful nude women without arms." Zael'tharalax dwells on that information for a few moments as only a calculating Black Dragon can, pondering the words and their meaning, perhaps due to the differences between the Imperial language and that of the Drakari'ri. Or perhaps there are deeper things going on behind those deep sapphire orbs. Regardless, after a few moments, Zael speaks once more: "Explain this "Ingress of Sorentir" and these "Acarits" to me." The tone of his voice, though not lined with any malicious intent, still states that that was not a request. Equally, that the Dragon has to ask about them may reveal much indeed about the topics of interest... Syton considers his answer for a moment, sighing lengthily. "Well," he says, "I don't know much apart from heresay. From what I hear, acarits intelligent beasts of the Shadow. I've heard rumors that they feed off the power of the Touched and the Kissed, but I do not know how much of that is to be believed." "As for the Ingress of Sorentir," the young human shrugs his shoulders helplessly, "I just heard the name last night. It is some kind of portal or doorway, supposedly. It may allow the return of Sorentir, who is an ancient trickster Demigod... whatever that means." Zael'tharalax just kind of stares quietly at the young Mage for a few moments, his expression mostly neutral as he stands there, a quarter of his phaseshifted body through the Aegis wall. "An ancient trickster demigod," he repeats, flatly, his sonorous voice dripping with understated amusement. "A portal into another dimension in which this Sorentir is trapped," he continues, as dispassionate as before, "And..." At this point, the Dragon just laughs, openly. It's a rare and perhaps somewhat discouraging sight to see, what with all those teeth on display. "And creatures of the *Shadow* that feed on the *Light*. Syton, Syton, my small and nectarously fragile friend: can you see the obvious flaw in such a woven tale, or must I spell it out for you?" Syton takes a little step back from Zael's many pointy teeth. He motions with both hands, palms upwards, in a "there you have it" kind of gesture. "I promised you madness, Sir Drake, and you see that's what I've given you. Hence, you find me here, trying to make sense of all this." A moment of silent contemplation follows, but Master Temple just ends up shaking his head. "I will need to find better sources. Trying to inform onesself with rumors is foolish." The Black Dragon shakes his head, "I would not bother," he advises, apparently for free, in a voice that is for a moment somewhat soft, "Though these "Acarits" may indeed be real, though under a different name and with substantially different talents of arcane manipulation, I sincerely doubt that they exist - and I *know* that this "Sorentir" is an entirely fictional character. Madness indeed though, and amusing to say the least. I think this alone was worth the trouble of stalking you, but I have another agenda that I need to pursue before I leave you to your quest for sanity in an ocean of madness." However, before he cares to explain, the Dragon instead does something else - he stretches. It's a somewhat languid action; the Drakar'ri extending his forelegs to stretch them out in front of his body, lowing his upper chest to the ground in a manner that is entirely feline in display. Yes, Dragons stretch like cats do, it seems, and this doesn't seem at all out of place. That done, the ethereally half-present creature remains in that stance for a few moments longer. "I would like you to discover what you can about these creatures of animated rock that your kind name as "Gargoyles". Syton takes a moment to curiously observe the Drake's stretching routine. As it comes to an end, he takes a step forward and nods in agreement. "Okay, I will look into the gargoyles," Syton says. "If you could provide me with a good place to start, I would be grateful. Otherwise, they seem to be a problem around Crown's Refuge, so I will probably go there to find out more. Also, are you looking to know anything particular?" "Not really," Zael'tharalax admits, pushing himself back up to adopt a more familiar stance of standing around and looking ominous at the same time, ears perking and falling to every little sound they detect of their own accord. "However, they are somewhat of a curious enigma, and as they hail from the very same location that the Avatar of Xil'varath was contained, it will interest me to see what you can find, and the act of you searching for that information will - equally - amuse me somewhat. "In return," he continues, his deep voice remaining as smooth as silk, "I shall see if I can meddle with this exceptionally uninteresting policy of containment that your onorous leader has decided to impose on the branded Shadow Touched cattle of your kind. Will that please you, Syton Temple?" Syton bobs his head once, gratefully. "That would please me, Sir Drake. This containment is not much observed anymore, which means that it could cause great trouble if it were to be suddenly enforced. Anything to be rid of it would be much appreciated." The little human falls silent, looking expectantly to Zael'tharalax for a moment before asking, "Do you require anything further, Sir Drake?" "I require you to go to Zolor Zahir and tell him to end the containment, or else I will eat him," Zael'tharalax offers in an astutely matter-of-fact tone. There is nothing in his voice to suggest that the Dragon is being sarcastic, nothing in those crystal sapphire eyes to suggest flippancy, and nothing upon his expression as he beholds his Imperial companion to suggest that he is anything but serious. "The Crown Regent is not in the habit of meeting unknown Freelanders, nor do I believe he will respond to a threat made by an unsubstantiated Drake through a proxy such as myself." Syton tilts his head to the side slightly. It seems that he is searching the Drake for any sign of sarcasm or irony. In the end, though, he just shrugs. "My belief is that it is a profoundly bad idea, but if you think it will work, then so be it." "Then offer him a shiny bauble or a trinket or whatever it is that keep your kind entertained these days," Zael'tharalax laments with a sigh, "Or perhaps I should just raze Fastheld Keep to the ground. I imagine that would make quite the statement." And then, at long last, the Black Dragon smiles a deeply and equally darkly devious smile indeed. As menacing as the Drake's smile may be on the surface, Syton seems to find it reassuring. He visibly relaxes, chucking and shaking his head to the Dragon. "Well, I hear that he's completely bald, so maybe you could marshall the arcane forces necessary to give him hair. Long, shiny hair worthy of an Emperor. That might be a suitable bribe." Zael'tharalax ponders that for a moment, but then merely shakes his head a little. "No," he decides, evidently not quite getting the joke, "I believe I shall tap into the base fear that your kind has in regards to my own and threaten to eat him if he does not do that which I demand, or offer to reward him with something that harbors a high refraction index if he does. However, I believe I shall send one of my own agents. An ethereal." He pauses, and then adds, "You need not concern yourself with that. Seek your gargoyles, and then seek me, and between now and then I shall entertain myself in a most delightful fashion indeed." "So I shall, Sir Drake." Syton says, taking a step backwards. He opens his mouth to speak, but pauses abruptly. A moment later, he says, "I'm not sure what would be suitable words of parting for your kind, Sir Drake. 'Light keep you' seems somehow inappropriate." With a smile that is sinister enough to put the Cheshire Cat to shame, Zael'tharalax merely retreats back through the vast bulwark of the Aegis, his insubstantial form vanishing behind the solid structure within but a few seconds. "That would assume," that sonorous tone informs in the wake of his departure, "that you are ever within a substantial distance of seperation for such terms and phrases to become valid..." And on that ominous note, the Black Dragon is gone; with him the scent of ozone vanishes too, along with whatever domination he held over the weather. The mournful howl of the wind returns to haunt the Black Stone Monument, as well as the chill of winter. At least it's stopped raining. Syton shudders with the return of the wind, watching the face of the vast wall for a few seconds more. Turning away, he puts the hood on his cloak back up and takes his staff back in hand. The Freelander walks away from the Black Stone, and after a few steps, begins to whistle.
- Na planecie Mintaki III znajduje się placówka badawcza, która obserwuje z bliska wieloosobową rodzinę Mintakan. Jednak mają problemy z reaktorem i USS Enterprise musi dostarczyć części do naprawy. Riker i Diana teleportują się na powierzchnie udając mieszkańców, by odnaleźć zaginionego naukowca. To jest jedynie zalążek artykułu. Pomóż Memory Alpha rozszerzając go.
- Een observatiepost van Starfleet op Mintaka III krijgt te maken met energie uitval waardoor deze een korte tijd zichtbaar wordt voor twee bewoners wiens volk in ontwikkeling op de Vulcans in het Bronzen Tijdperk lijken. De Eerste richtlijn wordt geschonden door dit voorval en Jean-Luc Picard moet het met zo weinig mogelijk invloed op de ontwikkeling oplossen...
- "Who Watches The Watchers?" is the 51st episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and the fourth episode of TNG's third season, airing the week of 16 October, 1989. The story dealt with a planet where the primitive inhabitants mistake Federation observers for gods.
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