A small robed unicorn stumbles out of the cave, following a beam of light which vanishes into the brightness of the day. Beside him, a familiar lizard stretches full-length on the flat top of a stone, eyes closed, breathing evenly.

Rory blinks, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight. "Are you all right?!" he squeals as he sees the lizard, and clip-clops rapidly over to take a look at Reece.

The lizard stretches his arms over his head, and blinks his eyes at Rory, their slits oddly alien. "Yes. Am fine now, but tired."

Rory practically smacks himself in the face with a floppy sleeve as he wipes away at his eyes, then throws his arms around the lizard. "Master Koshiro healed you!"

The lizard blinks again, and awkwardly struggles to a sitting position, patting Rory on the back clumsily. "Yes, Mother healed me. Must rest now, then leave soon." He draws an amulet out from beneath his shirt and shows it to the unicorn. "See? Mother fixed talisman."

Rory obligingly peers at the dragon-scale amulet, though he doesn't really focus on it, since it's not something he really understands anyway. "Yes … Mother. Right. Well … We have to get you away from here. There's something called 'radiation' here. Maybe that's all fixed, but I … I really don't … don't understand." He bites his lip, and gives Reece another look over as if to assure himself visually that the lizard is whole again. "How … how long do you think you need to rest?"

"Little while. Mother said to rest until sundown, then go." Reece cups the talisman in his palm, holding it close to his chest, then lays back against the rock. "Feels good to be here, now."

Rory nods several times. "All right. Ko – Mother said he … er, she … uhm … Mother said that I was to go find Silhouette's house. Mother said something about giving me directions … but I think I did something stupid and didn't actually get any. If there's a while until sundown … then maybe I should find this house. I don't really know if I'll ever be able to come back, you know."

The reclining lizard tilts his head to one side, opening his eyes. "Mother mean that house?" he asks, shifting to half-sit once more, and pointing down the path to the cottage visible halfway across the valley.

Rory blinks several times, and then his ears blush visibly. "Uhm … maybe. I was … sort of expecting something a little more complicated than that. You know … like a quest? Like, you have to find the rock that looks like a screech-bug, and count twenty-five paces past that until you reach the stream that looks like a Naga, and then you have to say the magic word, 'Oompapa', and this bridge materializes, but there's this guardian on the bridge and he asks you a riddle, and you have to answer, or else the bridge will vanish and you get dunked in the stream and have to start all over again. You know? But … this will work."

The unicorn's adult friend merely gazes at him, with ablank, uncomprehending look on his face. When Rory finishes, he waits a few moments, then nods without a word.

Rory breaks into a smile and gives Reece another hug. "You get some rest – I'll be back as soon as I can!" And with that, he lets go and dashes off in the direction of the cottage, holding his robes up so he doesn't step on the hem with his rapidly-scampering hooves. "I'll be BAAAAAAACK!" he calls out as he runs.

"Runningrunningrunning, I'm running all the wayyyyy! Runningrunningrunning, oh I can run all DAYYYY!" sing-yells Rory as he dashes toward the cottage. He's a bit too distracted to come up with any more verses that rhyme, though, so he just keeps repeating that over and over. "Runn- (pant) – running – Joggingjoggingjogging! I'm jogging all the wayyyy!" And then, a bit further, "Loping … loping … walking … walkingwalking … I'm (pant) … walking all the way… "

Rory reaches up with a floppy sleeve to wipe his brow, then gets the sleeve snagged on his horn, and frowns in frustration as he blindly walks along a bit further, tryingto get the hem freed without tearing it.

When he finally untangles himself, he finds his eyes drawn to the flat stones of the path. They are roughly shaped, and stalks of weedy plants poke through here and there. As he watches his hoof clop down onto one, he has a sudden flash of memory: black legs dancing along the same track, but before the stones were laid on it. The dance is frenetic yet controlled, with ritual steps, and the tall grasses surge and fall before the tread of black hooves as if each touch of flashing feet, pacing to and fro, beat them further down, into the ground. For a moment, the insect buzzing sounds like chanting in the young unicorn's ears, and then the memory fades, leaving the little unicorn disoriented.

Rory shakes his head, as he tries to make sense of this, pausing a moment. "Silhouette? Are you out here?" he calls out, then resumes the way, occasionally skipping or hopping in an attempt to better recall the sensation – though having done such a good job of tiring himself that he's not inclined to do more than just a few half-hearted steps now and then.

Trying to imitate the moves from his memory stirs an odd sensation in him, as he finds himself, even tired, able to step through the motions with surprising precision. His body seems to remember the moves, even though he cannot quite recall where he learned them. And it feels … powerful.

Grasping onto anything the least bit familiar where he can find it in an alien land, Rory tries to see if he can pick up the pace with a little more enthusiasm, and tries to think up a sing-song to go along with the dance.

Words – or at least sounds – leap to mind as he tries to think of something to sing: "Faraset, loravie, carvasbet, staereonia-mi," he finds himself half-chanting, half-singing, as he picks up the pace and the rhythm of the dance. "Jorin-my, korin-fi, torvis-try, oliana-bi!" The air crackles around him as he moves, and he has a strong sense of gathering magic – an unfamiliar magic.

Rory casts a worried glance about … but if this was something Silhouette was doing, it can't be something bad, right? He continues along with the dance and the nonsensical song as best he can.

The grass ripples around him, and his mane prickles, hair standing on end, as he continues after faltering. In that place in his mind where he works magic, he finds himself straining to remember the how of it – the mental state he needs to control a spell. But the spell doesn't seem to be turning the way it ought to for shadow magic. He has a sudden feeling that he might be able to get partway through this spell, but he won't know how to finish it.

Rory's sense of danger overcomes any desire to just follow things to their completion. He slows his dance and his words … trying to wind the spell down to an impotent fizzle, rather than carrying it on past the point of no return.

The magic eddies around him, stirring his robe like a teasing playmate while he winds down, then dissipates harmlessly, leaving nothing behind but an added acrid smell to the faintly smoky air of the valley.

Rory stops in place, his shoulders sagging as he lets out a long, disappointed sigh. "Sorry," he says, though not entirely certain to whom or about just what. He wrinkles his nostrils at the odd smell, then resumes padding down the path, toward the cottage.

The little house, as he comes closer to it, doesn't look at all impressive. It appears to have been deserted for a long time, with whitewash flaking off its facade and from the little picket fence that surrounds its yard. The fence seems somehow to have kept the tall grass at bay, but the garden that surrounds the cottage has been overgrown with weeds of a different sort. Rory feels an odd, sorrowful pang in his heart as he looks at it.

Rory swallows hard, then pads up to the fence, seeing if he can manage to push the gate open … or find a good place to climb over or under or in between some gaps in the fence.

Only a simple latch keeps the waist-high gate closed, and the little unicorn easily reaches over and undoes it. With a creak, the gate swings open, and Rory has a sudden thought: "Sil will want that oiled."

Rory blinks at the thought … then carefully closes the gate behind him and pads toward the house carefully. Even though the creak was loud, and he had been sing-songing most of the way down, now it suddenly occurs to him to try to be stealthy. Toward that end, he starts chanting a spell called "Blot" under his breath … He's gotten good enough that he can chant it as if it were a cantrip, and his intent right now is for it to cover the sense of sound for right now, so that he's not making an undue ruckus.

The chirping of crickets seems loud in the otherwise still world around him as he approaches the cottage. Since he's watching his feet while trying to make them stealthy – no mean feat when you have hooves on a stone path – he notices the outline of the hoe, a shadow half-hidden beneath a loose covering of dirt, lying diagonally across the flagstones.

Rory pauses at the hoe, sensing that this is something out of place that could hurt someone if they step on it unawares … and stoops over to pick it up so he can find somewhere proper to put it away.

The young Aeonian brushes the dirt off and lifts it, feeling a tingling sensation in his palms as he straightens, holding it.

The unicorn snorts, grasping the hoe in his hand, as a sharp pain runs through his right side, reminding him that he hasn't fully healed yet, and should be more careful when stooping. Since it's the most convenient crutch at hand, he instinctively rests some of his weight on the now upright hoe and casts a glance across the garden. "All right," he says to himself, wincing slightly, "now what was I doing before my ribs decided to try to come out and play?"

The garden, it seems to the white unicorn, regards him balefully in return – a blighted expanse of dry, hard soil that defies him at every turn. At the nearest corner is the ground he has hacked and churned at the soil, in the hopes that it might submit – and to his inexpert eyes, that patch seems a little more promising than the rest of the land.

The unicorn lets a long and disgusted exhale of breath escape his lips. "I won't give up that easily." He limps over to the defiant soil, prepared to take the battle to the earth once more … and stubbornly applies his hoe, though trying not to put so much strain on his injured side this time.

As he hacks mercilessly at the ground, he hears the door to the cottage swing open, and the familiar clop of a hoof dropping onto a paving stone. "Corwin," a pleasant female voice calls out.

The hoe handle lowers to touch the ground as it becomes a cane for the unicorn. He leans against it, using his free hand to wipe his brow. "Yes, m'lady?"

The figure at the door turns from the other side of the yard, and smiles at him. "How does the work go, Corwin?" she asks, stepping out from behind the door. "I brought some lemonade." She's a black unicorn with a flowing brown mane, dressed in loosely fitted tan pants and a plain off-white shirt.

Corwin quirks a faint smile despite himself in response to the smile offered by the lady, but then sobers as he regards the ground. "The earth is stubbornly resistant, and the battle goes poorly, but victory will be ours … eventually."

One hand holds a platter with a pitcher and two glasses on it, but the other goes to her face to smother her giggles. "Cory! I suppose this is what I get for telling you to hoe instead of letting you climb back into your armor and fight." She shakes her head, walking over to him, then almost spills the lemonade as she sees the work he's done. "Cory!" she repeats, bent over the tray as she tries not to drop the pitcher while laughing.

Corwin has an expression of mortally wounded pride, but he does his best to smother it as the other unicorn approaches. "I … am open to advice, m'lady," he begrudgingly admits.

Still shaking her head, she sets the platter down on the ground. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she apologizes around swallowed laughter, trying with no success whatsoever to calm her smile. "It's just – oh, Cory!" She gives up the fight and holds her sides while she laughs, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

Corwin, at an utter loss as to how to maintain any shred of dignity in the face of such an assault, just stands as tall as he can, chin held high, at attention, both hands resting on the top of the hoe as if it were the grip of some noble weapon.

At length, she wipes her face and sobers at last. "It's just … ah, Corwin, may I?" She holds out her hands for the hoe.

Corwin's eyebrows raise as he is snapped out of his "guard" stance. His chin dropping a few degrees, he surrenders his weapon to the lady unicorn. "Of course, m'lady."

"You don't need to hack the ground to little pieces, Cory. It's not an army of foes to be subdued, but an ally in your efforts to produce life," she lectures. "All you need to do is stir it a bit, and it will respond. Like so." She thunks the hoe into the earth, then stomps on the end with her hoof, once, to drive it deeper. She then pushes the end of the shaft upwards, causing the tip of the hoe to overturn the hunk of dirt against it. "And then you move on. That's all." She offers the instrument back to her fellow.

"That's all?" queries Corwin as he takes the hoe back, and tentatively tries to mimic the other's demonstration.

"That's all." She smiles approvingly as Corwin follows her example, then frowns a bit as she looks at the earth. "It is pretty dry now. Maybe we should wet it down a bit more from the well." She bends to fill a glass of lemonade for the other unicorn, and offers it to him. "How are you feeling?"

Corwin reluctantly pauses in his more delicate conquest – or, that is, tilling of the earth, and frees a hand on his better side to take the glass. "I am doing well. I forgot myself earlier when I picked up the hoe, but it was nothing. Your ministrations have worked wonders, m'lady. I am confident that it will not be long before I am fully recovered."

"I am glad to hear it," she says with a smile, filling another glass for herself, but there's a note of uncertainty underlying her tone, or perhaps fear. "Please, call me Sylvan, Cory – or is it my informality that's out of place, and I should call you 'm'lord'?" Her eyes twinkle.

Corwin tests the lemonade, puckering his lips slightly, then smacking them. "A fine concoction, m'lady. Call me Corwin or Cory if it pleases you, but even if we are on this forsaken world, I do not wish to dishonor my code by not showing a lady proper respect. But if it for some reason makes you uncomfortable … " He looks askance to the other unicorn.

"A little, at times, m'lord," she admits. "Sometimes I just want to hear my name. It's like I'm afraid I might forget it, if no one else ever uses it." The dark unicorn looks to her cottage, her brown mane rippling as a rare breeze stirs, and she closes her eyes, enjoying it.

"As you wish, Lady Sylvan," Corwin says with genuine solemnity, "Heaven forbid that your name should ever be forgotten."

Rory staggers, stumbling down to his knees, and just kneels there for a bit, blinking in a disoriented state. "As you wish … Lady Sylvan?" he repeats quietly.

The door in front of him bangs lightly on its hinges, in response to the breeze, but no living thing responds to his words.

Rory sighs and gets back up, dusting his robes off, looking at the ground … then trying to square his shoulders with a little more resolve as he continues toward the doorway … now holding the hoe diagonally in front of him as if to defend against potential bogeymen.

Nothing jumps him in the handful of yards it takes to reach the house, although his robe does get caught on some weeds for a moment. The unicorn stands before the door. It is slightly askew on its hinges; the bottom screw has come loose from the hinge plate, causing it to sag, and no longer go back smoothly into the door frame.

Rory wonders at a moment for the strange contrasts here … this little oasis of civilization – or a remnant thereof – in the middle of the wilderness and general weirdness. And then, he reaches timidly for the door to open it, ready to use the hoe to pry it if need be.

With a creak the echo of the gate, it opens, revealing a dark, dusty interior filled with shadows. The contrast between the sunlit day without, and the darkness inside is so stark that Rory cannot, at first, make out any features at all within.

Rory sighs loudly, as, though he may be a mage of Shadow, he doesn't happen to be able to do a thing about dispelling that of the non-magical variety. He pushes the door further open, then leans the hoe against it, trying to wedge it to prop it open … half to let a little more ambient light into the entrance … half to make it easier to escape, should a slavering blatcatcher beast from the dimension of Xarfon happen to be lurking in the shadows, awakened from its year-long slumber by the intrusion of a little apprentice.

With the door propped open, and his eyes starting to adjust to the dimness, he can make out more of the features. There's a fireplace against the far wall, a little wooden table with two chairs to the right of it, a simple padded bench in front of it, and a row of shelves set into the wall on the left side of the mantle. A few streaks of light fall across the shelves, from a shuttered window in the wall next to the front door, while three doors lead into other rooms of the house, one in each wall.

Rory clip-clops into the house, walking over to the shelves, curiously peeking at them – and anywhere else he passes – to see if there might be any knickknacks of any import … or writing.

The shelves are sparsely filled, with the remains of moldering blankets and sheets on the bottom shelf. On the second tier are two wooden plates and a set of two chitin glasses and a pitcher, so filthy with dirt and dust that it takes him a moment to realize, with a shock, that these are the implements, just minutes ago, from which he was drinking with Lady Sylvan.

Rory gasps, then cranes his neck back, looking higher up on the shelves.

The third shelf holds three books, bound in leather, and a pair of crudely carved wooden unicorns – the shapes are more suggestive than detailed, but the wood has been smoothed and polished to a sheen that's evident even under the layers of dust. On the top shelf rests a porcelain tea set on a tray, lid on the pot and two cups turned neatly upside-down beside the cream and sugar pots. The tea set has a refined look to it at odds with the other plain items.

Rory ponders pulling over a chair so that he can reach the tea set … but then images fill his head of all sorts of horrible accidents, invariably ending up with at the very least the pretty tea set being shattered in the process. Further, he can't help but feel a little guilty at prodding around in a strange house – "familiar" or not – quite so freely. The books, however, are beyond his ability to resist, and he carefully sets about trying to reach the books without causing a commotion – not to read now, in such dim lighting, but perhaps once he has a chance to take them back outside to look at under the sunlight.

The books, being only a little above his eye level, are easily enough reached. The leather crackles under his fingers as he slides them, oh so carefully, off the shelf and into his hands.

Rory hesitates uncertainly for a moment at the condition of the leather … how long have they been here? … such that he doesn't try to crack the books open, but he still gives the dusty covers a good blow and a sweep of the hand so that he can see if there's a title to read on the spine or cover, or perhaps some sort of important symbology.

One volume has the symbol for the Life Sphere – the Tree – embossed on its cover. The second reads, "Nature and Plants: A Treatise of Plant Lore, Usage, History, and Growth." The last bears the inscription, "Legends of the Faerie Castle."

Rory raises his eyebrows in interest at a recognizable magic symbol on the first cover, even though it's not his Sphere. But then … who knows? If this was what Sil… Sylvan practiced, then maybe it would be worth him learning a bit about it, too. However, sensing that his time is limited and reading books is not something to be done quickly, he clip-clops back to the entrance, reverently setting the books down near the doorway, though still inside … After all, there's no telling if it might suddenly start raining outside.

The hot breeze through the door isn't strong enough to even shift the cover on the top volume as Rory sets them down.

Rory, satisfied for the moment that the books are as reasonably safe as he can manage, heads back … this time to pick one of the doors at random to inspect. Picking doors at random, though, is serious business, and requires a certain special procedure. "Eekle, teekle, dreekle vo. This is how I choose to go. So I pick a special door, let's see what you have in store! Mama wants me to pick the best one and you are it!" He points at one of the doors, having selected it, and goes to see if he can actually open it.

The door he has chosen swings open at a touch, and he peeks through it into a kitchen. This room is a little brighter than the front room was, because the shutters on two of the windows have come loose. As a result, though, it's been more exposed to the elements. A wood-burning stove squats against the inside wall, with its chitin stove pipe leading out through a hole in one of the outside walls. A big raised wash basin with a hand pump over it sits beneath the far window, while next to it on either side rest two cabinets, with cupboards mounted over them. Another row of shelves are built into one of the outside walls.

Rory frowns at the state of disrepair, and is almost inclined to just leave immediately … but he peers in a little more, searching for anything that might somehow say something to him about the nature of the people who lived here. Perhaps some hand-made crafts? But then something occurs to him … If there's anyone who really ought to see this … and who might be able to tell him something about it … well, he ought to give it a try. He closes his eyes, and starts chanting, trying to summon Silhouette.

In the back of his mind, Rory feels the effect of the chant, but there's something odd about it – different. With a sudden start, he realizes that Silhouette is resisting him – is trying not to be summoned.

Rory abruptly stops. "Sorry, Silhouette. I just didn't want to leave you out, if that's … " He lets the sentence trail off, making a raspberry noise as he exhales through his lips. He gives the kitchen another quick look-over, then turns to head back out and to check the other doors … bedrooms, perhaps?

As he turns to leave, he notices that there's a second door, standing open, in the same wall as the one he came in through, on the other side of the stove. Next to that opening, half-hidden behind the shadow of the open door, is a large chitin bathtub.

Rory alters his course, checking out the previously undiscovered room … hoping that there hasn't been water sitting in the tub all this time, and sniffing the air before he heads in there, just in case.

The air has much the same dry, acrid tinge to it that it does everywhere in the valley. The big tub appears dry, though it looks as if there might be something hidden in the shadows at the bottom of it. The room that it's in has two more doors leading out – one opposite the kitchen door, and one in the wall in between the two, that should lead back to the front room. A narrow bed rests against the far wall, and a small table – a vanity, perhaps – with a few loose items on it and a cracked mirror on the wall above it is placed opposite the bed. Also on the wall hangs a painting, but from Rory's current vantage point, the image on it is obscured by shadows.

Rory tries to see if he can shed a little more light on the subject, finding something suitably heavy or sturdy to prop open the door between this room and the kitchen, and the door back to the front room … and then tries to see if he can find some shutters to open up.

The little unicorn's efforts succeed not only in opening the room to the light, but to the gentle breeze as well, and with air flowing through it and sunlight on the walls, the room seems almost cozy. The painting's still not in a great position to catch the afternoon light, however, and Rory would have to walk up to it to get a good look.

Rory doesn't feel particularly averse to investigating the painting more closely … but he has a nagging feeling about the bathtub. What if there is a slavering slimeslurper lurking in the bottom of it? Not that he'd want to find it, but best to know before one turns one's back. He gives a quick peek in the tub to see if there's anything of concern inside.

Closer examination confirms that there's something at the bottom of the tub. It could just be an encrustation of dirt, but it might be a hideous slime monster disguised as innocuous dirt by putting a layer over it to hide its true slavering, slurping nature.

Rory wonders for a moment at just how devious monsters can be … but he's smarter than that! He looks around for a suitable implement – such as a scrub brush – to poke at the encrustation, just to be thorough. One has to take monsters seriously, after all.

A suitable scrub brush – with most of its bristles missing – is readily located on the floor beside the tub. As he leans into the tub to poke at it with the stick, he has a curious sensation of dizziness.

Corwin lies on the floor, next to the tub, face down, letting his breath hiss through his nostrils in a low grumble as he ponders the options for getting himself out of this predicament without causing any more pain or injury, or calling the attention of Sylvan. It suddenly occurs to him that his latest mishap may have caused some noise, so he'd best think fast, lest Sylvan be concerned that he might have hurt himself. Never mind that he has, of course. He flails about with his good arm in search of a towel within reach … or failing that, a bed sheet would be just fine at this point.

Happily, he stowed his towel on top of a stool earlier, within easy reach from the tub, and while no longer quite so convenient, he does manage to snag it off. Muffled, through the door, the white unicorn hears Sylvan call, "Cory? Is everything all right?"

Corwin throws the towel around himself, just in case Sylvan doesn't agree with him, and takes a moment to say, in his best not-pained voice, "There is nothing that you should be concerned about, Lady Sylvan."

"Are you sure, m'lord?" she asks, anxiously. It sounds like she's standing right outside the door. "I thought I heard something fall over."

Pride would demand a dismissal of something like this, but Corwin is an Aeonian, after all. "Yes … yes you did, Lady Sylvan," he answers, in as nonchalant a manner as he can compose. "You need not concern yourself."

"All right," she says, sounding unconvinced, but he hears with some relief her hoofbeats retreating back to the kitchen.

Corwin lets out a sigh of relief … then carefully sets to the task of trying to roll himself over so he can grab onto the tub and use it to wrench himself back off the floor to at least a kneeling position.

Rolling over hurts, but he manages to accomplish it without too much difficulty. His first effort to get to a sitting position is foiled by intense stabbing pains from his ribcage.

A pained gasp wrenches itself from Corwin's lungs despite his best efforts, and he just collapses there on the floor, contemplating the ceiling for a bit.

From the sounds of it, Sylvan is puttering around in the kitchen fixing dinner and singing to herself. Mercifully, her own noise apparently covers his gasp, because she doesn't come back to the door or question him again.

Corwin, unable to think of any truthful or rational explanation for his current predicament should Sylvan check on him again, is compelled to risk the inevitable pain, and tries – again – to get himself to a sitting position, leaning against whatever is convenient, be it bathtub, stool, bed, or wall.

With a good deal of grunting, pain, and shifting around, he finally manages to achieve a seated position, with his back against the tub, and the tub's lip bending his neck forward at an uncomfortable angle. But that pain is nothing compared to the spreading red fire in his side.

Corwin closes his watering eyes tightly against the pain, mentally gauging the distance between himself and the bed, and whether he might be able to make it there beforeexpiring and dying un-heroically in a heap on the floor. "Not … the way … I … would think … of going," he wheezes.

Corwin carefully weighs the options. Mind-numbing pain by sitting here … even more mind-numbing pain beyond description that would come with a masochistic attempt to reach the bed … or the unbearable humiliation of having to seek further assistance from Lady Sylvan. At long last, he rationalizes that his heroic effort to get a bath is not likely to earn him the praises of balladeers and bards. He takes a moment to regain what fragment of composure he has, and tries to make a dignified call of, "Lady Sylvan, might I please request your assistance?" Instead, it comes out more like, "Lady Sylvan, mi – AAAAAAARGH!"

There's a clatter from the kitchen, and a rush of hoofbeats before the door is hastily slammed open, causing it to bump against the tub. "Corwin?" Sylvan asks breathlessly, casting wild glances over the room for a moment before spotting him.

Corwin coughs in a vain attempt to try to gain some control over his voice, shifting his jaw around in the process. "I seem … to have underEEEEST-imated … my predicament."

Sylvan kneels down beside him. "Cory… " She touches his side, and hisses in a breath, shaking her head. "I think you may have broken your ribs again. Does it hurt to breathe?"

Corwin shuts his eyes tightly, and nods faintly. "It seems … you are correct."

"Oh, Cory… " The black unicorn's voice seems tinged with pain as well, then she returns to business. "Let's get you flat against the floor again; that'll be safest for you, then I'll get my equipment. We'll have you fixed up yet, my lord." She smiles bravely at him, then adds in a murmur, "… no matter how hard you keep trying to break yourself… "

Corwin slouches in resignation … prompting even more pain … and does his best – for now – to be as obedient and un-troublesome a patient to Lady Sylvan as he can manage.

With considerably less difficulty then he had getting himself to a sitting position, the two unicorns maneuver Corwin back into a prone one, and Sylvan rushes to her room again, leaving him some time to contemplate the ceiling once more. It looks like there might be a thin spot in the thatch on the roof.

Corwin dearly hopes it can wait a little while.

A light drizzle patters onto the roof as Sylvan clops back into the room, carrying her bag. "At least the ground will be softer for hoeing tomorrow," she says, smiling again as she kneels down next to Corwin, and starts setting out candles from the bag. "Not that you'll be hoeing! But I will," she says, talking the way she often does, to cover her nervousness and the silence.

Corwin frowns. "That's not the sort of work a lady should have to do."

"And it's not the sort of a work a brave knight is trained to do, either," the dark unicorn replies, her purple eyes sparkling, "So who will do it? I know!" She snaps her fingers with sudden inspiration. "We'll get the crickets to till the yard for me! And the birds to plant it!" The female unicorn meets Corwin's gaze as she starts lighting the candles.

Corwin looks incredulously up at Sylvan. "You have a spell for that, too?"

The unicorn giggles at his apparent sincerity. "Not yet! Maybe I could make one. I wonder who will harvest my crops – the wind, do you think?" she asks whimsically. She takes a pouch from her bag, and undoes the ties on it, then begins spilling a small line of powder from inside it, and moves to a crouch, shifting around Corwin's prone form as she draws a pattern with the powder around him, chanting softly under her breath.

Corwin mutters to himself in an attempt to distract himself from the pain, "I suppose magic can do most anything … but if mages could solve problems so easily … what would the rest of us do?"

"Make problems for the mages to solve?" Sylvan suggests, teasingly. "I think some of you have a real aptitude for that."

Corwin lets out a resigned breath. "Touche."

The black unicorn ties up her pouch, and smiles down at Corwin. "Sorry, m'lord," she says, and her apology sounds heartfelt. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

Mercifully, the thin spot in the thatch is keeping out the light rain. Apparently, the fates have shown some pity for him after all.

"No fear," Corwin says, then, after a pause, but before Sylvan can leave the room, he adds, "and … thank you, Lady Sylvan."

"You are welcome, Cory." She hesitates in the doorway. "Don't forget that." Then she clip-clops to the kitchen.

Corwin closes his eyes, doing his best not to breathe too deeply, listening to the patter of the lightly falling rain.

A few moments later, she returns with a smelly bowl of some poultice, and strips of linen. Briskly, she anoints the white unicorn's ribcage with the ointment, then smears more over the scar and bruised tissue on his injured thigh, moving the towel aside just enough to reach the damaged areas. The liniment has an almost immediate soothing effect – just as well, since it hurts more when she has to move him to bind up his ribcage.

Corwin does his best not to bite his lip hard enough to have yet another injury for Sylvan to have to deal with when she's through with the larger ones.

Finally, the smaller unicorn settles the white one back to the floor. "All right, now, m'lord, this is the ritual," she tells him as she gets to her feet. She ties back her mane with a purple ribbon that matches her eyes. "You may fall asleep during it – I'll be a few hours – and that's fine. But if you've got any questions for me, ask now, before I start chanting."

Corwin grunts, "Yes … why do you put up with me?" He wheezes with a pained half-laugh.

Sylvan pauses, her fingers still entwined with the ribbon in her mane, looking at him. "I wouldn't know what to do if I didn't," she answers softly, and the expression in her eyes as she regards him is almost uncomfortably gentle. Then she lifts her head and begins to chant, while her body sways, at first just from side to side, then in the precise, ritual motions of a dance.

Corwin looks a bit relieved at the distraction provided by the start of the ritual. His rhetorical question hadn't really called for an answer. His eyelids slowly get heavy as his senses are lulled by the susurrations of the chanting. The last thing he recalls seeing before drifting off into slumber is a multitude of dancing silhouettes of Sylvan, painted on the walls by flickering candlelight.