<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong>10 ASCENDING AIR, RY 778</strong></span><br/><strong>Location:</strong>The borders of Cecylene<br/><strong>Tags:</strong>Everyone<br/><br/>There is neither day nor night in the Demon City, save for the passage of the Ebon Dragon over the Green Sun, and the Dragon has not seen fit to fly these skies since the company's arrival in the demon city.  The monotony of this perpetually-daylit existence over the past many days is a startling contrast to the skies here: hazy green behind, shading slowly to black as pitch ahead.<br/><br/>It is here that Chorgath has determined is the best place to complete the summoning he needs, and it is here that he has been working the past several hours, maneuvering ritual implements and chanting in a low voice to call the Whim of the Winds.  Ruby and Cerulean are nearby, watching with keen interest and a certain sort of trepidation.  This is, after all, how he will be calling them when it is their turn.  Iori is sitting against a purloined cushion, obviously still in pain and having issues moving on a non-casual basis, though she's bearing it well; Samaro is watching the crack from which you all emerged into this twilight place, hand on the hilt of his blade, just waiting for a chance and an excuse to draw it against interlopers.  Suicides is sitting cross-legged, meditating, waiting with the patience of the dead.<br/><br/>After many hours of this monotony, alert eyes might notice a speck on the black horizon, a little tiny thing that nonetheless grows larger by the minute against the endless silvered dunes.  For a time, it might be mistaken for some of the strange spirit-things that have surfaced in the intervening time, but this one seems... vectored, in a way the others are not.  It doesn't stay stable before veering to one side.  It wobbles a bit in the distance, but nothing more than that-- getting larger minute by minute.  Getting closer, minute by minute.<br/><br/>Soon, it's visible for what it is: a land ship, sailing on the breezeless desert.<br/><br/>The captain of this vessel swings wide for a bit, only to angle back, riding the boundary between the Desert and the City; with a reactivity no sailing ship ever built my mortal hands could match, the vessel skirts the edge of brass and basalt, remaining within the sands, where its captain strides forward, wolfish head cocked at a jaunty angle, white wings spread wide, clawed hands folded against his furry chest, with nothing but a brown leather loincloth to preserve 'modesty'.<br/><br/>"HO, sorcerer!" Florivet Whim-of-the-Wind roars, grinning inhumanly at the assembled crowd.  "You have called!  I have come!  Shall ye try to best me, or have ye more visceral pleasures in mind?"