When I am young, I go on four legs, then I go on two legs, then I go on three legs, and then I die.

The night winds down and the team retires, glad for comfortable beds, hot showers, familiar food. You sleep and it is deep, restful – the sleep of complete exhaustion.

Dawn approaches, and far away a whirring drone speeds toward a ring of worn and weathered stones. It has detected an entity within and is zooming closer to get better readings.

Its sensors register two humanoids one entering the rough stone circle and one inside, badly hurt. A burst of invisible energy pegs out the drone’s sensors before returning to normal. The information is cataloged, indexed and all relayed back to the drone’s distant master. One of the humanoids is a strange, unfamiliar creature the other quite clearly an elf. It is, it’s him! I found him!

Dogma stirs, sounds and smells begin filtering into his mind. He is alive. Only barely. He senses another standing over him and opens his eyes cautiously. A wild-looking creature, sits on its haunches, it is metahuman, but willowy and long. Elf-like, but feral looking. The creature is looking over its shoulder into the air beyond a circle of weathered stones. A whickering draws Dogma’s attention to the hovering drone, barely visible to the natural eye.

Back at the inn, Gypsy is the first to wake, a pulse of energy tugging at his gut. The link. He felt it. Headed off to the north and west. No mistaking it.

The team convenes for breakfast and has messages from several newspapers requesting interviews with Gypsy. Forms move outside, indistinct through the curtains and cameras try to peek in through the cracks. The formerly kindly proprietor is curt, not at all pleased with the prying attention. “T’weren’t gonna ask where you all came from, oddly dressed as you are. An I still won’t. But I will ask you to leave. Can’t have this non-sense at my place of business.”

He serves breakfast, all the while fielding trid calls from eager reporters. “No sir. My guests’ business is their own. … No sir, I don’t want it to break on my doorstep. I said, ‘no,’ Mr. McGarvey.” He plunks the plates down and a teapot. “I s’pose you lot want coffee?” The trid chimes again.

He wanders off muttering about f’riners. Slinky looks after him, her eyebrows raised as she settles a napkin on her lap – this is different – sausges – and not that soy-garbage – real sausage! She tucks in, “Fo… wha aw we gunna do?” Not the best table manners.

Sylph:
The strangely dressed man is badly hurt, but the circle is warded. The sight of someone more out of place than yourself is a welcome one, and curious too. The ward around the standing stones flickers and you see a way through. Stepping across quickly you feel a deep pulse of magic and a strange feeling of being watched. Over your shoulder you see a drone, hovering, looking. The strange man-elf stirs and as you turn toward him he goes limp again.

The drone circles, electronic eye watching. If you are identified it is all over. But this strange man, he is hurt. What do you do?

Sylph looked down at the strange elf, he looked almost more human than elf, but maybe that wasn't a bad thing, it wasn't like the elves were on all that friendly a term with him. He looked at the drone, Damn... they've found me... Still, Sylph was never one to leave a man in need, and as strange as this creature looked, he was in need. Sylph re-entered the circle, and picked the strange one up, taking him outside the circle, and headed for the woodlands nearby. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed that the drone continued to follow him. With a thought, Sylph brushed the drone aside with the swish of an unseen hand, sending it reeling, though its gyro stabilizers would have it adjusted in moments. He dived into the shadows with his new friend, hoping that the distraction was enough to give him the time to hide.

"I do believe that we're going to have to relocate. Is there any easy way to get off of one of these muta-planes?" he asked Gypsy. For the more immediate problem, he started shifting his body. He'd taken quite a few images of the local inhabitants for reference, and blended several of the old men together to create the sterotypical old timer. His face became seamed, cheeks patterend with burst capilaries. His eyes looked shadowed and deepset. A quick session with a razor earlier that morning had left him without a hair on the top of his head. " 'm gonna head out tha back," he said, the local accent programmed into his vocal patterns. "Where should we meet up? While 'm at it, 'm gonna stock up on camping supplies. Sleeping bags, trail mix, 'n bullets. Less we can hop outta this muta-plane straight back home, 've got a bad feeling we're gonna be back in the past."

Gypsy watches as Jack transforms himself. The elf never gets tired of seeing him do this with technology, as opposed to the, to him, more accessible magical means.

"I'm not even sure that we are on a Metaplane, although if we are, that would explain a lot."

He casts a worried glance at the TV, and then looks back at the group gathered around the table.

"Although this doesn't look good, the exposure might very well give our missing friends some idea of where we are. I just wish I could come up with a reasonably mundane story that would satisfy the gathering vultures, and get them off our case for a while."

Gypsy pauses for a moment and drains his coffee cup. The taste reminds him of his apartment back in Denver. Real coffee was one of the extravagances that the sorcerer indulged in as often as he could. Waving the harried innkeeper over, he apologizes again for the complications, and then indicates the need for refills all around.

"So, anyone got any good ideas? I mean, obviously our future course is clear enough. We're going to have to get to what passes for the Tir. The problem is what do we do in the meantime?

The Team:

The owner ambles over and pours cups all around, clearing away plates and carrying them off to the kitchen.

Rebo nods, “Yeah, we need to get out of here. I checked the tourism terminal there in the foyer and there’s a train to Barlow. Bet we can get our supplies there. Not much business here in this tourist trap.”

Tevos smiles crookedly, “Except us.”

Gypsy nods, “So, first order of business is to get out of here. To Barlow. We can discuss our plans on the way.” Gypsy squares things with the owner of the bed and breakfast, leaving him a sizable tip that seems only to frustrate the man, but he gives the elf a good directions to a back trail that leads to the train station.

Jack, having donned his disguise slips out the back nearly opening the door on a reporter who’s taking a bit of a smoke break. The man’s head snaps up as the door opens, “Sir, sir? Have you spoken with the man from the Henge?” Jack pauses, holding the door open for the crew sneaking under his outstretched arm under ruthenium cloaks. Slinky is trying really hard to suppress an inappropriate fit of giggles. She gives Jack a nudge in the ribs as they shuffle by quietly. Jack starts and feigns a coughing fit.

“Afraid I didn’t speak with him, Mister…?” Jack’s accent is spot on.

The reporter holds out his hand, a small recording device in it, “McGarvey, Leo McGarvey, with the Daily Mirror, can you comment on the man’s strange appearance?”

Jack stifles a chuckle… Gypsy is pretty funny looking… and clears his throat noisily, “I didn’t get a good look at him, Mr. McGarvey. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Jack ducks around the extended mic, remembering to hobble like an old timer as the reporter, sensing his lead disappearing, cranes his neck around to peer through the rapidly closing door. When he turns around, the old man is gone.

Down the street in a narrow alley between two whitewashed buildings Jack gives Slinky a cross look. She shrugs innocently, still suffering from a fit of the giggles. Gypsy ties his bandana over his hair and ears, settling his long coat in a more satisfactory manner. He urges the crew onward towards the town rail stop. Rebo cracks as they buy tickets, “At least our money’s still good.”

No one tries to spend much time wondering what possible bank could exist across multiple dimensions. It’s too mind bending. They hop on the train and are soon headed towards Breckenridge or Barlow or whatever the wrongly-named next big city is.

“I can’t help but think we should try to find Dogma and Sleel.” Slinky says to the others, “Or maybe there’s something that needs done here… something Pale sent us to do. What could it be?” She shrugs and goes back to looking out the window.

Barlow is a bustling town and supplies are pretty easily located. Everyone is finished with their outfitting by lunch. Over pints they discuss their next move. "So, Avalon." Slinky sighs. "It sounds worse than Tir na nOg. Where do you guys want to start looking for leads?"


Sylph:

The man is comatose. In a deep, deep stasis of some kind. He is warm, but doesn’t appear to be breathing or have any sort of pulse. As you carry him to cover you see a thread of energy linking him astrally to the circle of stones. Not good. The drone tumbles away and you can hear it faintly zooming around, in search of you and the strange white-clad man elf. It occurs to you that Anders may know what has happened to this stranger. Last you spoke to him he was running a talismonger shop in Barlow. It would be good to see him again, even if the old man didn’t see you.

Old Blind Anders, there was an image that hadn't popped to mind in a long time. How is it that I'm suddenly remembering his face...? Follow the winds of fate which your instincts guide you upon. Come my friend, I know it's not comfortable to be slung over a shoulder like that, but it's the best I can do I'm afraid. With much care, Sylph makes his way through the woodland area, as he treks towards Barlow. Dogma is lighter weight than he looks, but it's a tiring task nonetheless. Outside of town Sylph finds a decent place to hide the strange one, covering him with brambles and leaves before heading into the town. The smells were less than pleasant, but he'd become use to the stench of man, his time in Arcadia having passed a good 8 passings of the seasons. He makes his way to the little shop in the burbs, avoiding confrontation as best as possible until he arrives at his destination. Old Man Ander's place.

Gypsy is unusually silent as the group discusses their next move in the small Barlow pub. Something had been gnawing at him since he first awoke. Something that he'd pushed into the back of his mind during their frantic escape from the Salisbury inn.

'The Link!'

After having it severed during their latest trip through 'time', the sorcerer had gotten used to not feeling the Astral thread that had linked him to Icewing. Now it was back, returning with a gut-wrenching jolt this morning, and then fading over the course of the day until he could barely tell that it was still there. The elf shifts his perception to the other plane, and strives to make out the weak link trailing off into the distance.

It shouldn't exist at all in this time! There were no dragons, and even if there were, and this was the right time-line, Ghostwalker would not make an apperance in Denver for more than another decade. A less-than-comforting explanation for its presence wormed its way through his consciousness, and after trying to dismiss it from every angle, Gypsy had to admit that it was likely the only answer that actually made any sense.

Looking at his gathered companions over the half-full glass in his hands, he finally breaks his long silence.

"I think Pale-and-Scaly is here."

He pauses, looking around at the surprised faces of his team mates, before continuing softly.

"And I think he's in trouble!"

Jack sighs, and rests his head against the train window. "Good thing I managed to get more bullets. I would've sold my good left lung for some AV, but all that I could easily get my hands on were regular rounds from a hunting store."

"As for the boss and Sleel, they've got to be around here somewhere. If we just keep our ears peeled, I'm sure that we'll hear word of them. Hopefully before we need to go dragon saving again."