The northern lights play a delightful pattern across the sky as Chrysofar dozes on a cloud. Life is mellow, easy, trouble free . . . until just about the moment that Chrysofar has the thought.

A woman’s voice cries out in the back of Chrysofar’s mind, “Time was, Chrysofar had no gold card abilities.” And instantly, before Chrys can react, the focused force of four Gold cards slam into Chrysofar in unison with a man’s voice, “THAT TIME IS NOW!”

Chrysofar is shorn of Dust, a Rose, and is without Windchimes. Although she is forced into a d-state adventure at this moment in time, Chrysofar has no power to call on the Compact for Gold Card Dust, a Rose. It is as if there was no ability to call upon. Although Chrys is technically in possession of a Gold Card Windchimes at this moment in time, Chrysofar has no power to call on the wild magic. It is as if she had no gold cards, now or ever before.

Immediately Chrysofar begins to fall through the cloud. Red Light falls in Crosswinds. Chrysofar’s favorite hockey teams begin to lose. The constellations turn to Almitra’s stars, and the hard unforgiving surface of New Dolbadarn appears below Chrysofar’s falling body, coming closer.

A bright flame appears suddenly below Chrysofar so swiftly that she falls into it and is engulfed almost before Chrysofar knows it is there. Soft arms cradle Chrys in the heart of the flame, then hug her tight.

Chrys instantly transforms into her Wind Wolf form, tears at her captor, rends his flesh from his left arm, and tears half of his face from his skull before initiative dice are rolled. “Oush. Be shtill,” slurrs Dylan Llyr, his teeth and jawbone appearing pink from blood and Red Light between torn lips, his remaining eye staring without a lid. “Sa Sefenser of Thrroy is nava forsasen.”

Llyr glances downward, and almost loses his remaining grip. “Shih! Hole meh tyar!” He clasps Chrysofar harder with his remaining arm, and whispers fiercely, “hooman form, push your arms arouns my nesh. hu mah armsh arouns my nesh! lisheh goo me!!” He lifts her but loses more grip than he gains. "Armsh arouns mah neg!" He tries to blink but has no eyelid.

Chrysofar transforms back into a woman, but smells of blood and fear remain in her nostrils. Even with her fingers laced behind Llyr’s neck, she nearly tears free as the pair snaps upward, the end of a bungie cord. Chrys sees the bones of Llyr’s ruined arm crack and fall away. Black objects approach from below.

Llyr is now looking up into the heavens, leading with his good eye. The force of passage cleanses his face, spatters his blood behind. Flames trail behind with the force of their passage. Chrys looks behind to see a black dragon and a black horse in close pursuit. Each leads an army of similar creatures. Pursuit vanishes behind a pink cloud, like cotton candy. Chrys is not certain they are in Crosswinds any more.

Inside the cloud is hot and muggy. Chrys and Llyr remain sticky as he burns away the cloud. Visibility reurns, but it’s still Red Light, and the clouds extend from horizon to horizon.

Llyr flies up, faster, faster, until the wind whips Chrysofar’s hair painfully. Llyr is now losing more flesh to the winds than to Chrysofar's claws. “Looo hell ha!” cries Llyr. “Naaaaaooooooowwww!”

Chrys and Llyr are washed in a wave of cool clean water. The Wave passes by, but hovers, as if the flood waters had risen above the clouds. Dylan Llyr has a face again, and two arms, and two eyes. His grin is so vicious, Chrysofar still sees all his teeth.

Dust, a Rose returns to Chrysofar’s hair. Chrysofar grins now, too. Dylan Llyr stops his wild ascent, and holds position. Llyr and Chrysofar look down on their pursuit.

Only the black horse silhouette rises out of the cloud behind you. It turns to look behind, and falters visibly, as if waiting for the black dragon. Llyr whispers the name “Typhon.” and then there is a sharp crack, and Llyr’s head snaps forward.

Chrysofar begins to fall again. She turns into a wolf and Llyr tumbles, pinwheeling across the sky. A man in a white jumpsuit and helmet has smashed Llyr’s head from behind with a black obsidian grapefruit, but the white man now simply hovers, staring at Chrysofar instead of pursuing Llyr across the sky.

Xcalis Regence removes his helmet, staring at Chrysofar, holding his 8-ball in one hand, holding it between him and her like a weapon or shield. Chrys screams at him, “Why? Why!”

Xcalis uses telepathy back at Chrysofar: They . . . didn't tell me. Dira never mentioned your name. Greyson said it was unimportant. Kiera looked amused. Morgan and Salt Peter didn't seem to know or care. Now I know. You are Dust. Forgive me. I'm sorry.

He bows with folded hands over the eight ball in front. Then Xcalis is gone. Before a minute is over, Chrysofar has the ability to wield her Gold Card Wind Chimes. There is no sign of black horses, or black dragons.

Chrysofar recovers full control of Crosswinds. Llyr recovers his balance. Llewella appears. The three are joined on their cloud by The High One, bleeding from a slice across her robes, from left hip up through right breast and into the right underarm and elbow. The High One winces, but waves and nods in greeting to the others.

Llyr summons a diamond disk with a picnic table and benches to sit on.

The High One blinks and quickly clasps a large book to her chest. After a brief but direct gaze at Llyr, returned with much amusement, the High One Wishes the party has, “no physical or mental or inspirational damage resulting from the recently thwarted attacks from Voidcastle or Elidor.” She then restores her immaculate white clothing to perfection with a lesser spell.

“That dream of Blacksword is going to be trouble until it’s been repealed or dis-enfranchised.” says the High One. “Too many people are using Kolwynia, and all of them are Blood Dancers. Gods, I hate this Compact.”

“It saved your pretty ass . . . from Lady Luck? or was it Flamelife?” says Llyr, rubbing the back of his head. "Didn't use magic on me, so I couldn't reflect it. You're still in one piece. They have to pick Dira up in seven pieces, neh?”

“Eh!” replies the High One, staring at Llyr a few heartbeats longer than polite, with far more intensity than one should use to regard a trusted companion.

Llewella and Chrysofar share a friendlier glance, and Llewella smiles, saying, “Boys! Boys! Cool your jets...”

The High One’s gaze drops to the huge book in her lap. A rough chuckle blurts from her. “Huh. I guess it might be worthwhile.”

She lifts her eyes suddenly to Chrysofar in silence, but perhaps with a question on her face.

no other iahklu reports a Turf-attack before Theseus proposed the Khitomer Accord.