The audience gathered to observe Rory's spell – by the rules of the College, a creation which must be original with him – waits expectantly for him to begin. Given that watching a mage cast a spell generally falls somewhere between "watching paint dry" and "waiting for grass to grow" on the scale of exciting ways to spend one's time, it's surprising how many people have come. Judging by their robes, almost all of them are graduated mages – Journeymen, college faculty, researchers, and visitors. A few lay people are amongst them – or, at the least, people dressed like the laity. They display varying degrees of attentiveness, some talking to each other or looking at books, others studying the small unicorn on the stage as he makes his preparations. But they all share one thing: they are all here to watch him.

The unicorn mage has his robes freshly cleaned and pressed, and has taken great care to make sure that everything is just so for his ritual today. He has his best chalks, extra pouches, some backup supplies within easy reach (in case a chalk breaks), his best stones (that is, those still around after his misadventure in the lake), fresh candles, and so forth. For the start, he carefully chalks out a magic circle – or, that is, a complex arrangement of geometric designs that might look like, to the layman, a scribbly but very colorful diagram of a world ringed by smaller geometric shapes and symbols, with stick figures here and there standing spread-eagled with big smiley faces, and other features added to the circle that are probably more decorative than functional in the magical sense. Carefully placed amongst these shapes are his stones and candles, arranged in ritual fashion, and lit in kind.

A few of the mages from the audience approach the stage while he's still setting up – mostly shadow mages, looking over his designs with impassive faces. Mage Heather gives a cursory glance to the ritual circle, and with a sniff and a sour look, pivots and returns to her chair. Dean Fyiara of Chaos sidles up and puts her elbows on the stage, leaning over the edge – but carefully out of Rory's way – and grinning.

Rory's memories of his own early life on Sinai are oddly vague, but since he has gained new memories (of a sort) from his journey to Lamu, these have blurred with his experiences in Babel to give him an odd sense of self-identity and concept of "home" … as might be reflected if one were in a position to closely examine the scenes he depicts. Blobs of blue and green form something resembling continents, with puffy white clouds, and waterfalls running off at the edges of the world. The figures represented are a variety of unicorns, bats, shadow-dragons, faeries, a winged ki'rin, kittens, lizard-people, and more. Once he's satisfied with his creation, he takes a deep breath … and starts chanting a mere cantrip.

Spidery words in a child's voice come from the unicorn's mouth, syllables of considerable sophistication that most mouths would have trouble forming themselves around, if not for years of practice.

After a complete minute of chanting, the area around the circle darkens considerably … except for the circle, the white weaving symbols on his face and trim of his robes, and iridescent flecks in the stones, which show very, very faintly.

The unicorn begins moving about his circle, very carefully, very slowly, with practiced steps. It isn't really a dance yet, not in any magical sense. He chants as he goes. Another "cantrip". But the words of this cantrip sound different. Whereas the previous cantrip's words sounded spidery and twisted, these are more sibilant, softer, half-sung in a faintly lilting tone.

The calico-colored Dean extends one parti-colored hand close enough to brush the edge of the area of effect, and she smiles as the white fur on it glows. The murmurings from the audience silenced when he began the first casting, but resume again, a bit louder, when he completes the first simple spell, persisting through the second casting.

Another minute passes, with the darkness remaining. Another minute, and not only is the darkness of the apparent Black Light cantrip still there … but there is a dim purplish-white flare from somewhere within the center of the circle, and the chalk lines flare up with brilliant and colorful intensity, as do the lines of white (which now look more like pale blue) on Rory's face and hands. The flecks in the stones sparkle.

And then, Rory's tone changes again, back to spidery, oily words, dark and whispering, filling out long and complex verses of intricate incantations – and then occasionally, upon completion of a sequence, joined by a brief reprise of his original chant, and then a softer chorus … and then once more into the darker tones of his primary ritual. The process continues, as he continues with greater energy about his circle, his pace becoming a dance, with all the energy his small limbs can provide.

Fyiara draws back to rest her palms on the stage, eyes sparkling as she watches the young mage perform. The audience trades whispers, but seems more intent now on watching than on discussing the show.

This process continues for a while now. A ritual is being cast, and rituals take time – all the more so, at this elevation. Time and time again, he goes through the cycle – new verses in his dark, shadowy tones, a short reprise of the verses of the initial cantrip, then a lighter chorus … and he continues to move about the circle, adding new moves to his dance each cycle he makes, building the complexity of the ritual as the magic of the ritual itself builds. His movements are many and deliberate, complex in their timing and repetition, and not in feats of agility or great speed of execution, nor any extraordinary grace. Nonetheless, at times his hands and face seem disembodied, described only partly by strange patterns of pale blue hovering amidst a dark silhouette of Shadow robes.

The time stretches on, as rituals are wont to do. The primary ritual goes on for an hour beyond the two initial "cantrips" – and their effects are still in play – and then past that. And then … about fifteen minutes past that hour … the light flares again, and the light of the luminescent circle seems to flicker … and then shadows sculpted in the shapes of the smiling chalked figures around the circle begin to rise up, and join Rory in his dance.

The viewers had watched quietly through most of the last hour it took Rory to finish the ritual casting – their attention apparently held by the casting. When he finishes, there's almost a collective sigh, and an initial murmuring of approval for the results.

Oversized cartoony figures, drawn by Rory's own hand, seem to be given magical life and vitality. The Eeee flap their wings and half-fly as they go about. Unicorns prance along, extra shadows for Rory. Shadow dragons weave in mysterious, serpentine motions, their features alternately lithe, then hidden and vague. Each figure has its own slightly varied style, brought out in greater detail by the backdrop of magical luminescence radiating from the heart of the circle.

Now that his ritual is complete, Rory's chanting is replaced by a very simple song – something nobody in the room is likely to understand, and which Rory himself doesn't understand the words to, since it's from some tongue only used in his fragmented memories, from some long-lost world – and the moves of his dance are similarly echoes of that other life. In more ways than one, he dances with phantoms.

Though the figures are fragments of his memories – and those gained in Lamu – they aren't necessarily a realistic depiction of anything. The crayon-ish figures take on more of an appearance of silhouettes – vaguely defined, crafted by foggy memory rather than artistic skill, best looked at out of the corner of one's eye. Bat, Dragon, Unicorn, and others dance together, in a scene unlikely to happen in this world or any other, save in Rory's own imagination.

Fyiara seems to enjoy the show the most, turning her head from side to side, and then circling around the stage to view it from different angles. The others of the audience have started murmuring again, though not loudly enough for Rory to tell whether they approve or not.

The dance goes on for a while, fueled now by the unicorn's bouncy energy, pent-up by an hour plus of ritual casting, and now set free as he's free to frolic with imaginary friends, his singing accented by the percussive strikes of his hooves against the floor with each energetic step.

If there's a story to be told, it can only be guessed at, but at long last, Rory's dance begins to calm down. One by one, his fellow dancers break off from the circle, dipping lord-like bows, making delicate curtseys, roguish flourishes, military salutes, and then bounding, flying or simply walking off in stately fashion, fading into the shadows of the room, until at last, all that's left is Rory.

Rory sings the last words of his nonsense song, and then comes to a stop at the front of the circle, beaming happily, then bowing low to his audience, as the cloak of shadow of his spell slowly fades away first, leaving the unicorn back-lit by the bluish glow of the Lantern spell … and then that in turn fades as well, returning the chamber to its normal state of illumination.

As the spell concludes, the audience reacts in different manners. Mage Heather scowls with her arms crossed, sunk into a chair in the front row. The other shadow mages exchange whispers, heads alternately shaking and nodding. Fyiara turns her back to the stage to watch the last of the shadows departs, and when they're all gone, she mews, and claps her hands together, leading the room into a ripple of applause.

Rory keeps his head bowed low a bit longer, all the better to hide a goofy grin that takes over his face despite his best attempts to squeeze it back into a solemn and dignified expression (or his best impression of one), but when at last he's confident that he can at least repress it into a happy beam, he stands up again, the pink of his ears still showing a blush.

The shadow mages at the front of the room are the first to leave. They stand and nod to Rory, Mage Heather moving with them. She says shortly to the unicorn, "Your performance will be evaluated. You may wait here for word, or return to your business and learn the results from the Dean's secretary whenever they are final. It may take some time."

"Well," Rory says, scuffing one hoof in thought, "I think maybe I ought to just go ahead and pick things up and all that. I mean, if I just stand around, I'll probably just go POP from – you know – being all wound up waiting!" He tries even harder to repress his smile in the face of Heather's stern countenance, giving himself a rather wobbly expression of his own.

"As you wish." She doesn't stay to hear more, departing with the other mages. The rest of the audience starts to melt away as well, though a Naga at the back of the room gives him a grin and a "thumbs-up" sign before he heads out. Fyiara, her back still to the stage, puts her hands on it to lever herself up, scooting into a sitting position on the edge, feet dangling in the air.

Rory lets out a long breath, though his expression still wobbles, as the original flush of pulling off his ritual successfully does battle with his myriad anxieties that he still may have done something wrong, or any number of other complications. He manages a nervous smile to Fyiara, nonetheless, as he starts to pick up his materials. "Hi!" he says. "I can actually talk now, since I'm not casting anything."

"Eek!" the feline mews in mock-anxiety, turning to look at him. "I'd better run off! Star help me if you can actually talk back to me and stuff."

The unicorn pauses as he collects his rocks, his face going through several exaggerated expressions. "Awww! I'm not that bad, honest!" He then stuffs his stones into a collection pouch, and moves on to the business of taking a hand-brush to sweep the powders of his magic circle into a neat little pile.

"We-ell … " Fyiara twists, bending one leg before her to rest the foot against the stage, so that she's sitting sideways, with one leg dangling off the stage, and watching Rory in profile. "If you say so. You did a good job," she adds.

"Thanks," Rory says, grinning, as he sweeps up the last of the powder into a wooden dustpan, depositing it into a disposal pouch, and then snuffs out the candles. "Uhm … " His expression turns a bit more serious. "What you were saying earlier about Silhouette … ?" He ends it in a questioning tone, though he doesn't complete the sentence.

She flicks her ears back against her head, glancing around. "See, I knew I was in trouble," Fyiara mews, off-hand. After she scans the room for anyone else and sees no one, she continues, quietly, "They make us do that crap, you know. Poke at the apprentice's weak spots, see if they crack under pressure."

The unicorn nods. "I … I understand. But it was really scary. I don't really know what all has happened here before I got here, but I'm guessing that there's some trouble with imaginary friends. And … well … " Now that he hasn't any more clean-up work to keep his hands busy, he just fidgets uncomfortably.

"It's not that," Fyiara says, quickly. "There hasn't been any trouble with Shadow's elementals per se. It's … rather more complicated. See, imaginary friends are supposed to be like all other elementals: fragments of the caster's spirit. And that's fine. Not a problem at all."

Rory, however, is too eager to be assured that all is fine to catch anything odd about Fyiara's response. Besides – it's not like he knows her well anyway. He nods. "Okay, then. Well, you just had me worried, that's all." He smiles. "You're a pretty good actress! You had me really scared!"

The feline pauses, scratching energetically at the back of her head with one hand, and rumpling further her disorderly hair. "Well … ummmmm … I had some help on that," she admits, her voice still low. "See, it's summoned spirits we've had trouble with – the ones that are floating wild, that casters only get in contact with, but they really have … a will of their own. And … uh … Canti said some rather troublesome things about Sil … to, maybe, people he shouldn't've."

"Canti?" Rory echoes, certain he's never heard of anyone called by that name before. (Nicknames, after all, to his mindset, are for children, such as himself.)

"You know, Rath'ani guy, pedantic, about yea-tall – " She holds her hand off the ground demonstratively. " – likes to explore a lot, picked you up in wossaname, Laymoo?" Fyiara peers at Rory's blank expression curiously.

"Oh!" Rory nods, registering at last. "Mage Canticle! And that was in Lamu. He picked up me and Silhouette from Master Koshiro, and he also picked up Daughter of Flame from Crucible Rock."

Fyiara snaps her fingers and points. "Right, exactly. Lamu. Any road! Canti wanted to talk to the Dean of Spirit about Sil, but I convinced him that wasn't necessary – or even, um, a good idea. I'm not sure I caught him in time, though. Have you ever met Mage Hymu?"

"Uhm … I'm not really sure, ma'am. I've met a lot of people, but I haven't been really, well, introduced to most of them, and most of them are just 'Sir' or 'Ma'am' to me," Rory replies.

"Itty-bitty thing, white robes, Zerda, ears like plates, has a nasty suspicious look in her eyes half the time?" Fyiara offers. "Well, never mind. Point is, she doesn't trust me, so my jumping all over Canti may've made her suspicious. So I figure we probably ought to have a Spirit Mage give you and Sil a looksee just to put this whole 'free spirit' nonsense to rest."

Rory blinks. "What's Silhouette supposed to be, then, to make everyone happy?"

"An imaginary friend, of course," the feline mews.

"But what if she's a real imaginary friend?" Rory asks. "Does that make her bad?"

Fyiara pauses. "Or a shadow elemental. Actually, it doesn't matter how real she is, just so long as she's part of you. And not just some sorcerous spirit." She rests her head against her chin, ears flattened back, looking troubled. "Sil hasn't been around you while you're testing, has she?"

Rory shakes his head. "No. She's been keeping away, so she wouldn't muddle up any of the testing. I mean, she can't cast any spells, but someone might think she can, or something like that. Anyway, you could check my record with the Guild Hall of Babel. Mage Thsera Esstana is my advisor there. Silhouette never caused any problems, honest."

The Chaos Dean winces. "Uh. No, we can't, actually … after what happened to the old Guild Hall at Babel and all."

Rory blinks at the dean's reaction, thinking for a moment, then nods as he comes to a realization. "Oh yeah. Everyone moved to Caroban now. Well, then, you could look her up here, then."

Fyiara gives a strange look to the unicorn, and opens her mouth to reply, then suddenly freezes. "Oh. My. You … Lamu." She snaps her mouth shut, then mumbles, "No one's told you, have they?" She puts her hand against her forehead, closing her eyes.

Rory nods. "Mage Canticle told me I was being taken back to Caroban instead of Rephidim, because all the colleges got moved here." He frowns at Fyiara's expression, though, since he can't figure out what's so horrible about that.

"But he didn't tell you why we moved here. Oh, Star, Rory … " The cat clasps her hand over her mouth, then she deliberately climbs to her feet and moves to stand in front of the young Aeonian, placing one hand on his shoulder. "Sugar … the House of the Crafters of the Arcane and Seekers of the Mysterious," she begins, drawing a deep breath and giving the Babel Guild Hall its formal name, "is gone. During the war with Babel, a rogue Rephidim captain dropped a boomer on Babel. It destroyed … a lot of the city – including the branch of the College you used to go to." The cat pauses again for breath, then adds, inadequately, "I'm sorry, Rory."

"A … 'boomer'?" Rory pauses, unfamiliar with the term, though the crude word and the context, combined with his imagination, prove more than adequate to conjure up an unpleasant image. "On … on Babel? You mean … gone? But everyone got out okay, right? I mean, you know, flew away … or … used magic or something. Right?"

Fyiara closes her eyes to the hope on his face, shaking her head. She struggles, as if to find some gentler way of saying the truth, then surrenders, saying simply, "No, sugar, they didn't. They didn't have any warning at all. There were a few survivors from the Guild, people who happened not to be in it at the time … but almost everyone who lived there … died there."

"I … I saw … " Rory frowns, realizing that he doesn't even remember the Eeee's name. "I saw someone I knew from Babel. He was here. He was okay. But … but we've got to do something! We've got to help them! I've … I've got friends there!"

"It was years ago, sweetie. Over five years now. It's all over now – we did all we could at the time." Fyiara turns her head away, adding with quiet and uncharacteristic bitterness, "It was little enough." She shakes her head, then adds, "Like I said, a few people got out. And some of the people you knew, they might've left before the disaster, just like you did. Your old advisor might be one of them," she adds, with forced cheerfulness.

"I need to find them!" Rory says. "I need to know they're okay! Can you please help me find them? Please?" He wipes at his eyes with a floppy sleeve. "I don't know … I don't know where to go! I'm lost here! I don't know who to ask! I've been looking for people since I got here, but I don't really … know … much of anybody."

The feline leans forward to brush the boy's forelock from his eyes. "We've got records, here, of all the mages and where they are now," Fyiara offers, trying to sound reassuring. "We can find out where your friends have gone – the records are at the library in the Sphere of Mind. Here, we can go look now." She holds out her hand for his. "I'll show you."

Rory offers his trembling hand in turn. "Okay," he says meekly.

The Library is an imposing structure, much larger than its counterpart at either Rephidim or Babel, but Fyiara slips past the attendants and threads her way through the stacks like an expert. She ensconces the young unicorn in a comfortable chair opposite a rack of thick, dusty tomes. "All right," she says, her voice firm. "Now. Who do you want to check on first? Be easiest if you know last names for them. And … sugar … try not to get your hopes up, all right?" the feline mews, gently, studying the boy's face.

"Uhm … well, first, I've got to check on my second-best friend, Skiree. I'm sorry, but I don't know her last name, but she's either a Chaos or a Scrying mage – I don't remember which – and she's an apprentice under Master Zahirinee, who is a really good Scryer, I think," Rory says. "I still have Mister Porky, and I've got to give him back."

"All right. Skiree. It may be she doesn't have a last name; not everyone does. Do you know if she started as an apprentice to Zahirinee, or if she was originally enrolled at the Guild Hall?" Fyiara asks, turning to the row of shelves.

"Uhm … " Rory pauses at this. "I didn't know her from the Guild Hall. I met her when we were both being transferred to Rephidim. So I think she must have been studying under Master Zahirinee first. We had some classes together in Rephidim for a while, but then when the war broke out and we were in … uh … Himar? … she got called home to Babel because her parents were worried. I don't have any parents, so nobody called me back, and I stayed with the field trip, until I got dropped off in Lamu."

"Gotcha," she says, almost absently, intent on her thoughts. "Wait right here." The feline sprints around the corner of the shelving. Rory can hear her humming quietly to herself, and pulling down books. A few moments later, the humming gets quieter, then stops entirely, and Fyiara circles back around, her ears and tail drooping, an open book in her arms.

Rory blinks, looking at the book. "What's that?" he asks. "Is that the list?"

The feline nods grimly. "It was made as a reference. There – because of the way the boomer works, there weren't any bodies of those lost. So we pretty much just had to infer whether people … died, or not, based on whether or not they checked in later. Some people were initially concerned that the College at Rephidim might've been involved, and didn't want to let us there know they were okay. It's possible there are still people around like that." She speaks as she approaches him, turning the book around to show him the pages. "People who didn't want to say that they were okay. But … this is the list of everyone missing since the boomer struck five years ago… We're … well, at this point, we're pretty sure most of those still missing are gone."

"Uhm … okay," Rory says, hesitantly scanning the pages. "Can I look through it?"

She nods, giving the book over to him and sitting down at an adjacent chair. It is bound book labeled, Alumni, Faculty, and Students Lost in Disasters, 5531-. The ending date is blank, as if it hasn't been filled yet. Fyiara has already opened it to the pages covering the boomer strike, and Skiree's name is right in the middle: Skiree, Apprentice to Master Zahirinee, studying at House, missing, presumed dead.

Rory's lower lip quivers. "Maybe … it's … a mistake," he says. He digs around through his pouches, and pulls out a sheet of parchment. "I … I'll make a list of names I know … I … I'll see if … if … any of them are in here … "

Fyiara covers his trembling hand with her own. "I'm sorry, sugar," she says, softly. "Book's not going anywhere. You can look at it for … as long as you need to. I'm sorry, Rory."

The unicorn's voice wavers. "I … uhm … it doesn't … it's okay … uhm … is it okay … if I … cry? I mean … not … bad for … a … journeyman candidate … and all?"

The Khatta brushes at the corner of her own eye, sniffling. "No, sugar. It's perfectly okay to cry."

Rory does so, hiding his face in his sleeves, body shaking with each choked sob. He tries to cut off the crying, lest he seem the child he is, but he finds that once he's started, it's very, very hard to stop.