The craft is en route to Abu Dhabi, having obtained as part of its entertainment a bard with an interesting past … but one which is apparently unknown to most of the passengers and crew – except that someone who recommended her claimed that she has the "voice of a goddess". So far, nobody has suggested otherwise.

A slender, almost frail form sits at the edge of the deck, legs neatly crossed at the ankles, her hair tied back in an unruly tail. She's attired as one would expect a young singer headed for Abu Dhabi, in zolks pilfered from her wardrobe in the distant Embassy. But her large, dark eyes don't share the cheer of her colorful clothing, though she hums a quiet tune.

Not far from Brishen is a statue that is posed on the deck, carved from a deep brown material that smells and looks like xocholatl. It is shaped to resemble a gracefully-dancing Khattan, her thick drapes swirling about as if blown by the same winds that bear the airship toward the desert city. Several cubs gather around it, "ooo"ing and "ah"ing, and one of them whines, frequently making it evident that he wants to gnaw on the piece of art.

Brishen smiles faintly, brushing her hair out of her eyes as she twirls about from the edge of the deck, walking with light, soft steps to stand near the cubs. "It looks good, huh?"

The cubs nod enthusiastically. "Good enough to EAT!" says the eager little Khatta who seems intent on making a swipe at the statue the first instant someone's not looking.

Brishen grins, casting a sidelong glance at the statue. "I wouldn't though. There're some things that look good, but they won't sit too well in your stomachs." She adjusts one of the scarves that make up her vaguely scandalous attire. "It could be bitter."

The cubs look thoughtfully at each other, licking their chops.

Brishen shakes her head, trailing a scarf behind her as she walks away, towards her cabin and Degarde. "Don't say I didn't warn you. I should know."

As Brishen trails away, toward the cabin, she can overhear, "Aiee! You have wrecked my masterpiece! It is despoiled, desecrated, no longer fit to present to the Emir of Abu Dhabi! Aiee, wretched children whose parents have no better manner than to permit you to go about groping expressions of the Transcendant Substance which brings Joy to Life! Barbarians! Heathens! You should all be banished from the glorious state of Abu Dhabi, to which I have the great honor to belong!"

Brishen takes a deep breath, shaking her head. "I hope it tasted good," she whispers.

"I, Master Xocholatier to the Emir, shall call down a great curse upon you ungrateful children!" cries the plump Khatta.

Brishen frowns, gathering her scarves around her, then turns neatly in a circle and heads back towards the children.

Xocholatl-stained paws and mouths mark the guilty, as the three cubs that stayed to get into mischief stand with cowed heads before the plump Khatta … standing with cowed heads, that is, whenever he's looking. Behind their backs, they still clutch a few chunks of the precious sweet substance, and occasionally sneak a bite, or smear it into a fellow's fur.

Brishen draws a hand up to her mouth as she quietly stops behind the children. She glances from the statue, to the stained hands of the three cubs and shakes her head. "Oh, my." Then her dark brown eyes rest on the wailing artist.

The Master Xocholatier is working himself up into an apoplectic fit. "In Abu Dhabi, the Master Xocholatier is a respected artist! He is greated like a prince by the Emir! He is welcomed into the homes of nobles! How dare you filthy children despoil his artwork as if it were any common bakery treat!"

Brishen coughs quietly, then bows in a fluid arc emphasized by the zolken scarves that loop around her, by a crescent wing, by the way her voice flows like song as she fixes her eyes on the Master Xocholatier again. "Sir – What has happened here? I could not help but hear the sound of your righteous anger."

The cubs keep their heads appropriately bowed … all the better for sneaking bites of xocholatl … in the face of the tirade.

Brishen almost, but not quite smiles. She can't help but appreciate the chutzpah of these little cubs.

"What has happened? What has not happened?!" screams the outraged orange-colored Khatta. "I am ruined, my art – which was for presentation at the Emir's birthday dinner – utterly destroyed by these demon children! My masterpiece, a beautiful lady carved out of the magical substance xocholatl, to express the joy of life which is fleeting, and cannot be captured in any permanent substance as stone or wood! Now I will have to stand before the Emir with empty paws and hope his displeasure will be mild." He buries his face in his hands, weeping.

Brishen glances at the statue, which could have very well melted given the angst that has been directed towards it. Her voice is a quiet, low counterpoint to the shrieks of the Master Xocholatier. "Sir, I have seen your work – One with skill such as yours, I imagine, could carve a ship in the time it would take for you to repair what has been done to this statue."

The Master Xocholatier gesticulates wildly. "The divine, ineffable xocholatl is not to be pushed about or molded willy-nilly as a child makes sandcastles," he tells the singer. "If I were to attempt to blaspheme the spirit which lives in xocholatl by adding more to repair the damages, the lines would be obvious! It cannot be repaired, I tell you, only melted down to the xocholatlina and reformed into a new shape, and I lack both the model, the immortally beautiful Nemisha, and the mold into which I cast the xocholatlina, for I have broken it that it shall be one of a kind, never to be repeated. Aiee, I had meant to give the Emir a uniqueness, and instead I have only rubbish, I, Gefiilt, Master Xocholatier!"

Brishen takes a handful of light steps around the ruined statue, drawing closer to the Master Xocholatier in the process. She smiles gently, her voice carrying more than a hint of the song that has earned her several different names. "Surely, such beauty can never be recaptured, for as you have said, the mold has been destroyed. But does this not show, though tragic, the transient nature of the material from which the divine is crafted? Surely, you shall find another – Not as Nemisha, for her beauty is without compare, but the ineffable in someone else?"

Gefiilt, the Master Xocholatier, peers at Brishen. "What are you suggesting? That in the meager time we have left before we reach Abu Dhabi, I somehow find another Khatta lady whose beauty rivals Nemisha, whom I can coax to sit through the long and arduous modeling sessions in which I can create a mold? Aieee, I am surely ruined," he moans and begins wailing again.

Brishen glances towards the children, shaking her head, then turns to look out towards the sun. Her zolken scarves catch trails of light and shadow as she begins to sing. There are no words to the notes that catch in the sails above, that dance along the deck like motes of flame twined through the shadow of something else; of grief, of loss, of hope. A song that spreads her wings and lets her float for an instant above the deck, before her toes brush polished wood and she smiles.

Where did that come from? Wires – A lock of hair tumbles down to tickle her nose as Brishen fixes her eyes on the Xocholatier once more.

"Aiee, I shall lay a curse upon the filthy children who have… have… " Gefiilt trails off, listening to Brishen. "Ah! Such beauty, so fleeting, it approaches the immanence of the xocholatl… No, what am I saying? Nothing can approach its immanence," he mumbles to himself. But nevertheless, he listens, as if transported by Brishen's elegy.

Brishen smiles, taking a step towards the Xocholatier. "My name is Brishen." The smile turns radiant as she brushes a lock of hair from her eyes.

Gefiilt starts. "Eh, what? Ah!" He makes a strange formal bow to Brishen, clasping his hands forward and inclining himself forward by thirty degrees. "I, O Singer of the Nine Degrees of the Heavens, am Master Xocholatier Gefiilt of Abu Dhabi, he who expresses the spirituality of the magical xocholatl in the form of artwork that in one place shall be united the delights of the eyes and the delights of the mouth." Raising himself from his bow, he adds, "It appears that you are not familiar with the customs of Abu Dhabi, if you introduce yourself so shortly, but no matter. Such small details can be dealt with, I am sure."

Brishen bows in return. "As am I." She smiles again, "I would be honored to speak with you of your new work." And with this she glances at the three cubs again. "As for the three of you, I think I hear your parents calling. Go on."

"You have the manners of a diplomat," Gefiilt observes, but smiles. He motions to a turbaned tiger-striped Khatta who was standing in the doorway behind him. "Very well. Hasan! Carry the remnants of my Nemisha to my quarters, we shall need every bit of the blessed xocholatl we have left to carry out my next project. And as for you, esteemed Brishen, perhaps you would care to aid me with my work? I am not so wealthy as the Emir, of course, but his esteem of my services have left me a man of some substance."

The cubs are eager to make their exit, and scramble off before the Master Xocholatier has a chance to protest.

Brishen casts a radiant smile upon the Master Xocholatier. "I would very much like that, Master Xocholatier Gefiilt."

Gefiilt muses to the bat, "Indeed, what more fitting accompaniment could there be to the presentation of an icon of a lovely Eeee, carved from the transcendent substance that is xocholatl, the beauty of taste and sight, but the beauty of the hearing as well, as sung by the very Eeee whose image is so depicted?" He offers her his arm.

Brishen takes the offered arm, carefully. Well, Degarde is going to faint when he hears about this. I guess we'll meet the Emir after all! She rests a hand at her breast, smiling. "You would grant such an honor to me? It would be a tragedy not to accept."

"Ah, out of tragedy may yet be born the seeds of greater art," Gefiilt exclaims. As Hasan lugs Nemisha's image out of the room, bits of chocolate dropping off to litter the floor, the Master Xocholatier escorts Brishen away. "It may well be the start of a whole new movement in the art of Xocholatry!"

Some time has passed since the disaster with the children and the statue, in which Brishen has gotten to do some modeling in exchange for the promise of payment from Gefiilt. Degarde initially raised objections, seeing a potential violation of ambassadorial dignity (he still has to stop himself from calling Brishen the Madam Ambassador every now and then) but after observing that no improprieties were carried out, he settled for instructing her on the etiquette of Abu Dhabi.

Now the ship has reached the shining port of Abu Dhabi, joining a covey of brightly colored trading ships over the golden sands, and Master Xocholatier Gefiilt has invited Brishen to sing at the presentation of the Emir's dessert at his banquet… So it is across the dusty streets, between buildings that grow from dirt-streaked adobe homes to ornate temples and mosques to columned palaces and verdant gardens irrigated by a masterful system of aqueducts, that the party makes its way, servants carrying layers of silk and even a mage creating a cooling breeze to make sure that the Dessert reaches the Emir's Palace safely. Of course it is concealed beneath layers of zolk prevents the public from seeing what it might be, but still, crowds gather about to witness the Master Xocholatier's return to Abu Dhabi.

And in the cool shade of the palace, Brishen is brought to a side wingand given a surfeit of refreshment so that she will be ready with the rest of the entertainers and adjuncts (though the Master Xocholatier himself eats with the rest of the noble guests of the Emir). Such delights as fried eeps in honey sauce (the explosive sacs carefully removed, of course) make their way to the tables and the leftovers are given to the entertainers. The moment comes, the bat sees the heavy-built servants lifting the gigantic plate on which the Dessert rests, and then Gefiilt himself beckoning her to follow him… "Your costume, it is all ready? You are called to perform before a great ruler today, O Singer of the Nine Degrees of the Heavens," he whispers. "Think not just of yourself, but of my career too! All depends on our presentation!"

Degarde watches rather anxiously, wringing his hands. "Oh dear, oh dear," he says to himself, nibbling on a fried eep.

Brishen steps lightly alongside the Xocholatier. Her scarves are neat, her hair curled and tied to spill over a slender shoulder. She even asked Degarde about the color of it all, just to make sure. Her eyes are bright pools of xocholatl, with an eager curiosity she felt she lost in Rephidim. She has never been to Abu Dhabi, but something about the dusty city makes her heart race. She smiles at the Xocholatier, though her mind is on a song she started in Rephidim. And there's an impish twist to the corners of her mouth.

The bat steps out into a place of shadows and soft lights, the cressets' flames diffused through layers of silk. In the center, several jugglers toss squealing creatures whose multitude of tendrils wave in the air, then after a flourishing exchange of twelve of the furballs between the three lean, scrawny, tuft-eared cats, take their bows. They return the weird creatures to their owners, one of whom is a female poodle with elaborately braided tresses; she places her pet, a 'kooshkie', into her lap and begins petting it.

The Dessert is brought forth, still covered by a thin layer of shimmering golden zolk, and Master Xocholatier Gefiilt takes his place next to it. "To the Emir of Abu Dhabi, Lord of the Fallen Sword, Ruler of the fair valley from which all wealth flows and to which all traders must come, whether across the trackless desert or through the infinite skies which are bordered only by the faraway Procession… " He continues through a lengthy introduction, and then with a flourishing bow, presents Brishen. His whisper urges her to introduce herself as well while the musicians take their places behind her. They have met the bat before, just long enough to acquaint themselves with the music she wants, but seem rather bemused about the idea of singing for one's dessert.

The Emir looks distinctly unimpressed, reclining upon his throne with a scantily-clad Khattan across his lap feeding him deviled eep eggs. He tilts his ears forward, and that is the only acknowledgment he makes of the Master Xocholatier. Gefiilt looks like he'd start sweating if he could.

Next to the Emir is a bone-thin white Khatta wearing a veil over her piercing black eyes; she keeps by her a staff from which a crystal orb of some sort dangles – she must be the Emir's Oracle. On the other side of him is a tall, Vartan-eyed sort of Khatta, perhaps some sort of second in command. 'Wasir Ruhkim', Degarde had explained to Brishen earlier, spoke for the Emir in matters of state.

Brishen stands amidst the shadow, a flame that wreathes a slender young woman the color of xocholatl. Her smile, the way in which she seems to barely touch the ground, all are focused on the note that builds about her, a resonant mirror to her voice that, in the fashion of the Eeee, appears to come from many places, like drops of rain that gather along bright zolk. "I am Brishen Kara. Of Babel. Of Rephidim. I have traveled far along the arc of the sun, along the soul's march of the Procession to be here." When she bows, it is to draw her hands beneath the figurative earth, to sing the sun above the horizon, to cast it to the blue above.

The Emir raises an eyebrow; his servant pauses, knowing not to interrupt his listening. In the audience, no one moves, everyone seems attentive… Except perhaps for a few kooshkies that wiggle and tremble their tendrils.

The sun traces its zenith at the fingertips of the young Eee beneath, it casts notes as rays of light to a city below, to Babel where the bright edges of her voice carry the hint of discord, to Rephidim where they gain the resonance of the Temple. Thus the journey of the sun is described, thus the golden orb illuminates the bright clear notes, the cry of the Eeee who rise from either city to embrace within the light. They spiral, like candles, until the sun draws down beneath the earth, carrying one spark with it to darkness and leaving one, alone between the darkened cities. Bree. She has fallen to her knees, but as she opens her eyes there is fire within and her voice twines with the stars she casts above her. "The sun falls, but does he not, in his home beneath the earth, wait for the dawn?" And with that, she is silent.

Silence reigns in the feasting hall.

Slowly, clapping begins as the Emir raises his hands, followed by the courtiers, and then the rest of the hall's guests. The Emir gently eases his servants up and then stands, bestowing his smile upon the waiting singer and the Master Xocholatier. "The song is beautiful, Gefiilt, as is the singer. Can your delicacy do as well to grace my hall with the blessings of beauty?"

Gefiilt beams. "Of course, Great Emir." The musician begin a drumroll as he motions to his servants to take up the ropes which will whisk away the cover… and then with a clash of gongs, the statue is unveiled, the very image of Brishen in mid-song! The audience bursts into cheers.

Brishen stands, slowly, smiling. Tears trail as dark as kohl along her face, but she stands and bows – Then with a swirl of scarves she stands at Gefiilt's side. Dark brown eyes cast a quick glance towards where she saw Degarde last, amidst the audience.

The Emir beams. "A remarkable resemblance, Master Xocholatier." Gefiilt practically bursts into tears as the Emir continues, "Wasir, my purse!"

The Emir counts out eight shining golden coins, an accolade of significant financial size. but then his eyes rest upon Brishen, and his hand stops on its last, ninth coin from the purse. "Brishen Kara of Babel, of Rephidim, Singer of the Sun crossing the Procession, would you have the favor of the Emir and live in his palace, to grace his feasts with your music as a Master of Song, or will you take your art with you across the trackless sands?"

Brishen's eyes, still bright with tears echo her quiet words. "I am honored beyond words, Lord of the Bright Jewel, of the Garden in the Desert. But I cannot." When she bows, a tear trails down to fall upon the palace's ornate floor. "For my love is trapped beneath the horizon and I've yet to sing the dawn."

The Emir pauses. "Very well, Singer of the Sun's Procession. Go from here with my thanks for your song. As the Sun rises in the morning, so may you find your love." The eight coins are delivered to Gefiilt, who practically sobs with joy for the confirmation that he is still the Master Xocholatier to the Emir, and the ninth is Brishen's, delivered by the lean, dangerous-looking Wasir Rukhim.

The Wasir whispers to Brishen, "It is odd that so bright a star as Babel's Ambassador should be found singing for her supper in Abu Dhabi, don't you think?" as he slips the coin into her hand. "Do you have… Business in our city?" The audience has meanwhile, slipped back into revelry as a Master Chef wields his two scimitars and has begun to chop the Dessert up into slices for their delights. Gefiilt seems not to mind at all that days of his work have been seen for merely minutes before it is to be consumed.

The first slice is the Emir's of course, and other slices are disbursed according to the rank of his guests, and a finger from the right hand goes to Gefiilt, one from the left goes to Brishen. The remainder of the great bulk of chocolate will eventually, so Gefiilt has told her, be given out to the people of the city as an example of the Emir's largesse.

Brishen bows deeply, her wings held in solemn arcs behind her. Her voice is low and quiet as she answers, "Yes, it is odd." Her hand closes about the coin. "But I am here, in the desert, for now. I will return to the city that was once my home, soon, to seek my love."

"To Babel then," the Wasir says in a low voice. "May the winds speed you on your way, and the sands never give way beneath your feet. For now, you have the smile of the Emir, which is if not a favor, at least a thing which carries no little value. Fare well." He gives his formal dismissing nod to the Master Xocholatier and the singer, before returning to his place by the Emir.

By the servants' entrance, Degarde watches Brishen with worry. He can only wonder what transpired between her and the Emir's Wasir.

Brishen whispers. "Farewell." There is a great deal she will need to speak to Degarde about, when the banquet is over. But for now, she remains at the side of the Master Xocholatier.

Master Xocholatier Gefiilt pats his purse and beams. "What did I tell you?" he whispers to Brishen as he offers her an arm and escorts her back to the side. "My rivals will die with envy when they hear the stories of the Singing Dessert of the Emir! I am a success!"

Brishen takes the offered arm, nodding. A free hand brushes at her tear-streaked face. "And so the wheel turns anew." She holds her wings out behind her in a playful arc. And there's something else. Something – When I see him again, I'll have to ask him what it is like to have a goal, to – know the flight you must follow. Maybe this is what it's like. It feels good. And she smiles.

Degarde asks anxiously, "Did the Emir offer you a position?" as Brishen reaches the side. Master Xocholatier Gefiilt, meanwhile, bows to her and assures her that she will be welcome at his home whenever she returns to Abu Dhabi… Though the Xocholatier gives her a slightly uneasy look, remembering that the Wasir's look was not entirely friendly.

Brishen bows to the Master Xocholatier. "When I return, I hope to see your next masterpiece." Then, to Degarde, whispering. "There's a lot we need to talk about."

Degarde looks surprised as he takes Brishen aside. "Why? Abu Dhabi is a rich country, you could do far worse than to enjoy the Emir's favor. He might even grant you a position! A title!"

Brishen locks her eyes with Degarde, eyes still framed with dark tears. "Shall we retire to our quarters," she whispers, "I'm very tired. And we need to talk."

"Ah? Of course, of course, Madam – er, milady," Degarde says. He escorts her, with the guards watchful that they aren't carrying off the silverware, out of the Emir's Palace, and then it is a long trek back to the airship under the silver-lit night.

Brishen collapses in a heap on her bed when she finally returns to her cabin at the Scimitar. Her quiet countenance jars with her brightly-colored zolken attire. And when the door is shut, the porthole shaded, her hands dart in the shadows. "The Emir offered me a grand position. The best I could ever hope for, here. But I didn't take it."

Degarde, who has gotten better with his Savanite, signs back, "Why not?" He looks dismayed, having been led to believe up to now that their path led to Abu Dhabi where they could try to build a new life.

Brishen slumps, faintly, and for a moment tears rise unbidden, to join the dark paths along either side of her muzzle. "Because Reico is in Babel. Because – I had to give you the chance to come here, to be safe. Because – after here you may want to leave me. The Emir has smiled upon me – It's more than I had hoped for. I will ask for his grace to give you safety, here."

"Reico," Degarde murmurs, looking surprised. Conflicting emotions flash across his face, and then he nods and signs, "It may be dangerous for you in Babel. You abandoned your post and disappeared. Those in power in Babel may think you betrayed them."

Brishen holds her hands still as they begin to tremble, faintly, then continues. "I know. But perhaps there is enough of the legend left to do what I need to do. Do you remember that newspaper you showed me, once? The one we laughed about?"

"Yes?" Degarde signs hesitantly.

Brishen nods slowly. "Legends have power. Names have power. For all that's happened, there are some in Babel who still think I'm a hero. When I return home, perhaps I'll earn that name. Not for killing the Sabaoth. Not for being Ambassador. Not for earning the smile of the Emir. But because I flew into darkness to save a friend. Nothing else is that important."

Degarde exclaims, "But being a hero goes against every tenet of diplomatic training, Madam – " He shakes his head, remembering that Brishen didn't do her schooling in the same place that he did.

Brishen smiles. "I am a lot of things. But a diplomat is not one of them."

Degarde sighs, and nods his agreement.

Brishen starts to sign something, then stops. She holds her hands still as they start to shake again. "There's one more thing I need to tell you. It's important, it's why a lot happened the way it did. It's dangerous and once you know it you may not want to go to Rephidim ever again. Not until… "

Brishen shakes her head. "Until it ends."

Degarde waits. One of his ears has started to droop to one side, an odd mannerism for the usually impeccable aide.

Brishen trembles, smiling weakly. "They'll kill me. The Temple will kill me if it ever finds out, but that's alright. I don't mind. But I can't ask you to hold the burden as well, not unless you want to."

"Ki – Kill you for what?" Degarde signs.

Brishen closes her eyes for a moment, then looks at Degarde. "Before I go to Babel, there's one more place I need to go. The City of Hands."

Degarde's other ear starts to drop so they are both akimbo. He gestures with his hands as if to say, "Why?"

Brishen closes her eyes for a long time, then looks down at her hands. "The slaves at the Embassy. I let them go."

"You what?!" Degarde exclaims. "But – We'd agreed to surrender them to the Temple," he sketches out in painstakingly careful signs, because if he were not so careful, they would be unreadable.

Brishen shakes her head, smiling weakly. "I made the promise a long time before the Temple demanded them."

Degarde nods. "To?"

Brishen squints. "You don't want to know. There's really only so much trouble a person should get into at once."

"You seem to have found a great deal of it," Degarde signs primly. "Did all these things come above your obligation to be an ambassador for Babel to Rephidim?"

Brishen coughs quietly, stifling something that might have been a sob. "If that were true, I could have left with the Savanites. I wouldn't have cared. But I didn't leave."

Degarde sighs, then signs, "You should have come to me before this."

Brishen blinks as tears begin to stream down her face. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I tried to keep it away from you. But it didn't work – I couldn't hold it back."

"That's what… " Degarde points to himself. "We are for. We never stand alone by ourselves. But… The damage is done. You must go your way, for I doubt that civil service is in your nature." His eyes are strangely disappointed, as a father would be in his daughter that he had hoped would succeed where he had not.

Brishen trembles. "I know. I learned that. It – I hope it isn't too late." Her hands flicker, birds caught in shadow, "It won't be long before I go to the City of Hands. I need to see if the eight made it home." She straightens up a bit. "And then I go to Babel."

Degarde shakes his head. "You must not go to Babel. You will be known there. Recognized. I should go to Babel instead, and if I find your… love, I will try to bring him to you."

Brishen gasps. "N-no. No. No, I can't ask that of you. I – I – Oh, Star, please don't make me s-send one man I love to save another I love. Please, stay here, go to the City of Hands, but don't come with me to Babel!

Degarde pales. "But… " Unable to think of the right signs to convey his meaning, he lays a hand over Brishen's hand and says it instead. "Milady, I have always seen you as a daughter. Someone who might… Who might in time be a fine Ambassador, where I had never had the spark that would let me rise beyond a mere aideship."

He continues in sign, "Think beyond your emotions. Brishen, Heroine of Babel, would be recognized. She would be commented on, and perhaps hunted down by those who sought to kill her. Degarde, mere aide… Is not so recognizable. And I have lived in Babel for a long time. Not in the Palace's halls, but in the city itself."

"It is something I can do for you, before our ways part forever," Degarde says finally.

Brishen blinks a few times, her voice laced with tears. "Someday, I hope to be a daughter you can be proud of, but I will never be a diplomat, an ambassador. I – There's something else I have to do." She falls to Degarde's knees, holding her hands in her own. Her voice is barely above a whisper, "You're going to hear a lot about me after I'm gone. Some of it will be true, some of it you won't want to believe, but it will still be true. But when it's done, when the sun rises, I hope you will be proud of what I've done."

Degarde begins to weep, tiny droplets forming at the corners of his eyes, and pulls Brishen into his arms. "Then this is goodbye for a while," he whispers to her. "And I never knew the Brishen who really lived inside her Ambassador's title. So much time, wasted… "

Brishen holds Degarde, desperately. It is a long time before she stops crying, before she can calm her hands and speak, "This is goodbye, for a while." She snuffles, quietly as she tries to smile. "Someday, I'll be able to tell you everything. And you'll know."

(Log stopped Mon Feb 8 1999 10:34 PM by "Brishen" at "Old Mission Street"