Shen works idly in the city streets surrounding the palace, with his mind quite elsewhere. This is unlike him, in a way. His meditations and contemplations, while many and deep, are usually relegated to parhen, or at least to moments of rest. Here, he is expected to a task, a time during which he would either converse, or merely focus on the matter at hand.

Despite his philosophies and disciplines, he cannot, and if nothing else, this fact serves to distract him further. There is a force in the wind that drags at his core, pulling it taught like loose wild reeds caught on a sharp dead stalk. His gut inclines him away from this moment, this mindless wandering and burdensome companion. Things are gathering up to turn the skies around; he silently recounts his fellows' bold moves of late, like gusts before the gale.

There are critical things happening here in Amber. Beyond the twisted duels of hateful lovers, beyond the schemes and stumblings the group has endeavored upon to right things, something stirs. It rolls like a storm's first distant thunder, deep below the earth, in the invisible sea that connects all worlds.

Out, beyond the Golden Circle, the universe spins around its center, a maelstrom of Shadow curling ever more deeply and sharply inward. And further, beyond that, the dark endless rain of Chaos, the boiling writhing unblack canvas upon which all order must be drawn - or so sayeth the Amber cosmology.

And somewhere, out beyond that, barely discernable in all of the din, is the Ni. Shen can hardly see it anymore, even in his mind's eye, for all the cloudy dust of worlds between him and it. His memory grasps at it, the simple and familiar infinite that came to him morning after wet winter morning in the Rheari, and it breaks and shrivels like whisps of cobweb at his thought's gentle sweep. Like the sticky grey-white pills that remain, so persists the universe of Chaos, and Shadow, and Amber, and the dirty road upon which he stands, irritating and unshakable from the hand.

The beast recalls that which is forever, and now forever gone, as he stares at the ground. Somewhere under a starry sky, just beyond the edge of an abandoned village, an unfinished structure stands, a forgotten monument in a lonely night. Its twine lashings blow in a silent breeze. Or do they? He grits his teeth.

'I have not your faith, Leiko,' he speaks internally to the other life he carries in his memory, 'we have eyes in common, but I am not of you. I am not an Eyrian.'

He feels his roots rise in him, defiant.

So this is impatience. This is exasperation. This is the moment he had observed and questioned in others, where action without complete understanding is so desparately better than more waiting. This is the agony of the passage of time.

What shall be your downfall, Shenrakari? Do you fail if you collapse into the human way, forget the teachings of your people and embrace the swift and dark devils of the storm, overturning thatched hut and tree and soil and helpless life in your rage? Or do you instead find that in patient consideration lies only the pain of watching the storm happen around you, and to you, and you, like the bamboo, bend yieldingly to its whim, and, if it calls you to, break, and die hoping for peace in knowing it was the will of the wind?

Which of your bloods shall destroy you?

He glances briefly at his companion, the one they call Rook. He is one they cannot leave alone, the veracity of his origins, claims and intentions unknown. They have reached and understanding, the two of them. Which is the mistake: giving in to fear, or giving in to trust?

Shen lets himself think. He could immobilize the man. In a turn of a grassblade he could rip his skin and sinew to shreads with sickening precision, and leave him until he cared to return. Perhaps instead he could just kill him. He could swiftly and mercifully incise across his neck, he thinks, or merely snap it, whatever value he holds as a potential asset be damned. And if he is wrong and this man holds some powerful surprise for him, well, perhaps better it be known and open. Why take risks? Be expedient. Work with what you know.

There are those who decide their actions in this light, and if nothing else, they survive.

Shen pauses and stretches up, breathing deep and taking in the late afternoon sun. This is no time for such a decision, not this instant. There is just a bit more to see of this gathering storm.

He puts down what he is doing with an uncharacteristic abandon.

"Night will fall soon," he ponders aloud, perhaps to his companion, "and let us see what it brings."

He makes for the castle.