Dreams of Creation

Demiurge says "You're in the Marches. Are you just back from patrol, or practicing at something, or relaxing, or what?"

Aron considers. "Just back from patrol, I would think."

Aron says "Just finished carefully slicing distracting elements out of a mildly inspiring dream, perhaps."

A reliever comes fluttering from Blandine's Tower ahead, tiny and gemlike on the wind, and drifts down towards you as it catches sight of you.

Aron clasps his hands behind his back, floating through the Marches. He slows, allowing the spirit to cross his path.

The little jewelled spirit flutters tiny wings, piping, "Taroniel? Taroniel?"

Aron nods, expression wry. He waits.

The reliever ducks its head. "Our Mistress requires your presence at her Tower."

Aron nods. "I come." He exerts some concentration on speed and angles towards the spire that dominates this side of the Marches.

The Tower is swiftly reached: the two Cherubim at the door nod to you as you pass, mantling their wings in recognition.

Aron returns the nod, furling his own bruise-black wings.

The massive tiger on the right growls, "We have instructions to admit you, Virtue. The Lady awaits you upon her balcony."

Aron nods, then flexes his wings. He ascends towards the balcony at a pace somewhere between stately and speedy.

On the ivory balcony stands Blandine, her dark hair shifting round her shoulders in the wind, and her green gown loose on her slender body, giving her the air of a young, innocent woman: it is belied by her eyes, old and regretful.

Aron kneels. "Lady, you called."

Blandine gestures faintly, and the dreamscapes in the distance ripple across the Marches in a riot of colour. "Taroniel, my Servitor. Rise. I have work for you."

Aron rises and nods. "A venture across the border to the lands of fear?" He looks somewhat hopeful.

A touch of amusement crosses Blandine's face. "Further than that, Virtue. To the corporeal lands."

Aron's eyes widen. "You don't say." He winces. "That is, you honor me, Lady."

Blandine nods. "I send you against the minions of the Princess of Nightmares. To be brief, I suspect their presence in the city known as Washington DC. I charge you to deal with them by any means appropriate."

Aron's eyes narrow to slits. He nods. "Have we another details, or does that fall into my demesne?"

Blandine turns away, setting one hand on the balcony. "At the moment, we do not know the location of their Tether, though I suspect that they have at least one. I would suggest that you obtain the cooperation of local Servitors."

Aron nods. "I suppose," he says after a moment, "they don't have much truck with swords down there, these days?"

Blandine shakes her head. "Not as a general rule. I have faith in your creative nature, however." Her eyes shift, following something invisible as it moves across the sky.

Aron nods. "Mm, yes, of course." He kneels again. "By your leave, then, Lady?"

Aron pages: Man, Aron is slow to get used to different leadership styles.

You paged Aron with 'And how did he get away with this with Eli? :)'.

Blandine turns to look down at Aron again. "Go with my blessing, Taroniel."

From afar, Aron grins. "Well, it took him a while. Eli probably despaired for a bit at how uptight Aron was. Of course, Aron is now casual at the worst moments."

Aron lowers his eyes, before pushing into the air.

Long distance to Aron: Demiurge snickers.

Aron pages: But Aron's very nature probably appealed to Eli - an angel who wants to perfect that which is created.

Aron says "With that, Aron will make arrangements to slide down the fireman's pole, as it were, into a certain special bar."

Aron says "Since the seneschal of the Eli-Tether is similar enough to me that I want to catch up with him/her."

The world shifts around Aron, and changes: and he stands, in his human form, in a coat-closet. It is dark, and the smell of spices and spaghetti hangs in the air.

Aron considers his surroundings for a moment, and then decides knocking on a closet door, especially from the inside, is entirely too ludicrous. He simply steps out.

On the other side is a kitchen, in full swing. An amply-built dark-haired woman pivots between saucepans, adding a pinch here, a stir there. She squawks as she turns, flipping a knife up into her hand.

Demiurge says "You recognise her. It's Marath, and you have seen that Vessel on her before. Though it looks like it's getting plump."

Aron reaches for the dustpan.

Aron pauses, relaxes. "Marath."

She squints for a moment. "Okay. I know the route, but who's this using it?"

Aron looks down at himself, then back up. Apologetically. "Taroniel. I suppose that won't much do around here. Aron."

She grins, tosses the knife aside to thud into a chopping board, and runs across to give a rib-cracking hug. "Taroniel! Where the hell have you _been_ the last few decades?"

Aron grins, despite himself, and hugs back. "Hunting nightmares."

She chuckles, releasing Aron. "Good eating on those things, I'm told. All right, find yourself a stool, stir the carbonara, and tell me what I can do for you."

Marath goes back to adjusting the pans, occasionally shovelling the contents onto a plate and through a serving-hatch in the wall.

Aron looks at the pots, bewildered, and finally points. "This is the carbonara?" He does manage the stool just fine. Regardless of answer, he starts stirring.

Marath says, over her shoulder, "

Marath says, over her shoulder, "Carbonara, yup. Turn spoon, distribute contents, make good. Now. Problem?"

Aron does as instructed. "Nightmare's agents are settling here." He continues to stir. "That's an unacceptable state."

Marath fiddles with some pasta. "Absolutely. Any idea where they are?"

Aron shrugs, helplessly. "No." He sniffs at the sauce. "This is very good, you know. Oh, they might have a tether nearby - they probably have one."

Marath reaches out to flip a spoon through the air, and it pivots towards Aron.

Aron catches it, unthinking. "Good weight," he comments thoughtfully. "You're doing well for yourself, here."

Marath shrugs, with interesting harmonic implications for her stomach. "I'm grateful our Lord found me worthy of it." There's something sadder in her voice. "I don't suppose that you've seen him at all of late?"

Aron shakes his head. "But his Word continues," he says like a prayer. "Besides, I'm bad luck. It's probably best that I haven't seen him."

Marath comes out of her depression enough to stare. "You, bad luck? You're not _still_ on that tack, are you?"

Aron sneaks a taste of the sauce. "Well, it's *true*. At any rate, I need to find any others of us - in the broad, not the narrow sense - in the area; see if I can call on their aid."

Marath jabs at the sauce in her current pot. "Well, your local Tether - or rather, that of Dreams - is the Lincoln Memorial. But if you just want angels, I've got a group who seem to have started hanging out here."

Pat smacks his forehead.

Daimon . o O ( We're doomed. )

Aron tries to hide a smile. "Any old angels will do, yes."

Shannen . o O ( This is why I run a coffee shop. I don't have to congregrate :) )

Daimon . o O ( And me! And me! )

Aron says "Can you tell me a little about them?"

Marath flicks her spoon, changes it for another, samples the sauce, and smiles. "Though I haven't got round to telling them what this place is. Still, unless it's a performing circus who gives their mice brandy, there's a Kyriotate in with them."

Pat . o O ( More doom. )

Daimon . o O ( Sephar is cool, though. )

Marath thinks. "A dark young man with an attractive line in angst. A redhaired woman who has to be an Ofanite, the way she twitches. A young woman in grey and white. A medium man who goes in for blandness wholesale. Said mouse. The odd insect."

Marath pauses. "Oh, and there's another young woman who keeps on giggling and hugging people, and an older man who seemed a bit out of things."

Aron says "Giggling."

Aron says "Hugging people."

<> Pat says 'And they were tanked to the gills.'

Daimon . o O ( And there was much male bonding. And guitar playing. )

Aron grins. "Quite a motley, then." He dips a finger into the sauce again, thoughtfully. "Is there a place nearby suitable for residence?"

Marat grins. "And the dark young man played rather a good bass. He might be one of our people too, I'm not sure."

Marath shrugs. "Plenty of them. Do you want pleasant, tolerable, rat-haunted scum, or cardboard box?"

Aron nods. "A Mercurian, perhaps? Oh, pleasant. I expect to be comfortable."

Marath looks thoughtful, while shoving several full plates through the service hatch. "There are a couple of small hotels near here, or I can put you up upstairs."

Aron's smile transforms his face. "Upstairs would be perfect. And, if you'll loan me the kitchen one night, I'll cook you dinner in thanks."

Marath grins back. "You're wonderful. I'll be glad to. Hm." She adds pepper. "If you want to hang around here and lend a hand, I'll let you know when that group comes in again. I suppose I should really tell them what this place is, anyhow."

Aron adds a dash of oregano, stirs. "Oh, let me?"

Marath chuckles. "I thought we'd broken you of that trace of sadism. Sure, whatever."

Aron smiles cheerfully. "Old habits." He adds a sprinkle of crushed pepper and sets about helping in the kitchen.

---

Fiat Justitia