Robin opens her eyes once more, seeing the Pattern as it is -- inside of her. A fierce raptor's call erupts from her lips and the Ranger steps forward.

Robin knows what she will find, and finds it. If it is an illusion, then the illusion is complete. She begins walking the Pattern she sees, blue sparks, mild resistance, and the feel that she recalls. Robin knows she could convince herself this was there when it was not, that is certainly a flaw of all those who travel by force of will through the shadows, but wherever she is, it is on the Pattern. Sure in her knowledge, she traverses the Pattern.
            She hits the first veil and forces her way through it, pushing at this early barrier, this gatekeeper that she has been told keeps out those not of the blood. The pressure builds and builds and then eases as she passes it.
            Robin pushes forwards, less by knowledge than by instinct now, she is a part of this Pattern and it would be harder to leave than to stay on it and she instinctively goes where it should go. At one point, just before the second veil, she notices that she is not strictly following the broken drawing on the floor, but she feels that she is correct.         
            The second veil, harder than the first, tests her determination and desire.  Robin fights her way through it, pushing, beating, attacking, advancing, forcing her way on and on and round the curves and arcs of this struggle between her will and the uncaring universe.
            The third veil approaches, most challenging of all and she makes herself continue on. The Pattern is the most challenging thing she has ever done, and she finds that she must force herself step by step through and past the veil, each step a test of endurance and will, each step harder than the last, each moment a new probing of her reserves and desire. It is good that this is a primal effort now, because there is no room for conscious thought, only will.
            And Robin finds herself through the ordeal, standing in the middle of a Pattern ripe with possibility. She can, she knows, go anywhere she visualizes.

The young Ranger pants for a moment, hands on knees, the effort she has just been through making her muscles shake.  However, she can't stop the ecstatic grin that stretches her cheeks.  She did it.  She *did* IT!  A joyful whoop leaps out of her to echo across the walls as Robin straightens and throws out her arms in triumph.
            Standing in the midst of blue fire, art and artifice, Reality and passion all twisted together -- Robin is more alive than she has ever been.  Her heart is soaring, her eyes shining in the flickering lights.  All of the universe is hers.
            And all she wants is... Home.
            Arden.  It calls through her bones, sings along her blood, thrills down her nerves.  Arden, Arden, Arden.  *Her* Arden.  Not the shadow she awoke to.  Not that faded place of shifting paths, of sad strangers wearing their little armbands, not empty... of him.
            She wants to return to where the trees are tall, the creatures mighty, where her blood-companions guard the border of a majestic city in which dwell capricious giants.
            And where her Father waits for his report.

For several long heartbeats Robin builds her mental image, waiting as it makes itself real. It seems slower than she remembers, but one doesn't walk The Pattern lightly and she may not have recalled this from previous traversals.
            At last the image becomes clear and real and Robin steps forward into the Forest Primeval, breathing clean air at last.
            The woods seem full of giant trees, with a canopy far above that lets through golden sunlight. The moist air causes dazzling effects and the forest has a number of streams running through it. It is rough terrain, but there are trees all through it, ancient and imposing and majestic.
            After some hours of wandering and what lower waters would call 'being lost', Robin arrives at a clearing in the woods. The clearing is deep in the forest and she is not sure she could find it again, but it has what looks to be a natural spring of bubbling clarity. It spills out of a fissure in a rock and pours into a natural basin, clean and inviting. The clearing is wide, lush, and pristine.
            On the rock above the basin Robin sees a, no *The* Unicorn. She is staring down at her, as if only the young Ranger can break some spell.

Robin's heart catches in her throat, chills going through her.  The Unicorn!  A silence, sacred and pure, settles over the young Ranger.  Tears form in her green eyes.  So beautiful.  Magnificent.  And so far beyond anything Robin could do or feel.  Like standing in the heart of a sun or amidst a thunderous waterfall.  Yet still.  Peaceful.
            With all her heart Robin longs to reach out and touch... Her.  But she knows she can't.  The Unicorn is beyond her reach both physically and spiritually.
            In a moment of will, but not consciousness, Robin finds that she has gone to one knee, still staring up into those eyes.  One hand reaches, palm curved upward.  Not to touch, but to offer service.

The stillness is profound.  It is not that of a forest but of a painting.  The Unicorn breathes twice, flaring her nostrils, and then she turns and darts back into the forest. Something tells the young Ranger that there will be no catching her, yet Robin is filled with the conviction that she approves of Robin's presence.
            After Robin starts breathing again, she finally notices what is wrong with the forest. The Unicorn is the only animal she has seen in it since she arrived.

A shake tears through Robin as she comes back to herself, and she draws herself to her feet slowly.  Uncertain whether to shout with exultation or cry the tears of the truly lost, Robin does both in an inelegant gulping hash.
            The young Ranger looks around the clearing with blinking emerald eyes, and furiously wipes the tears away with the back of one arm.  Still gulping and shuddering slightly, Robin's feet carry her toward the basin.  She approaches the spring as tentative as a fawn, as tremulous as a chick, to peek into the water at her own reflection.

The water is not still, and the reflected image reminds Robin of a trump contact that she just cannot make clear. The face that stares back at her is clearly hers, although she does wonder if in this place the shadows will lie for her.
            After a moment she notices, in a stiller, shallower part of the basin, that there is a single, perfectly formed footprint in the sand at the bottom of the pool, as if someone had climbed out of the water.

Eyes wide, Robin stares at the footprint.  It passes through her to wonder why it is not a hoofprint.  And also to wonder if it is the same size and shape as her own booted foot.  But these things pass away from the young Ranger fairly quickly.  By nature, she is not so much a wonderer as a doer.
          Robin shakes herself out of her mood and bends down to the spring.  Carefully removing her gauntlets, she splashes some of the crystal clear water over her face.  And drinks from cupped hands.  Feeling for her next step.

The water is cool and clean and refreshing. The footprint is from a bare human foot and small, like a child or a woman's.  Robin is not the first to reach this grove.
            A leaf floats past her, and the sun is high overhead, Giant and Golden and magical through the upper reaches of the Great Trees. The only sound she hears is the patient gurgling of the running water.

The Ranger finds herself sitting on the basin, looking up at the sky and the Trees.  Feeling the wind on her face and listening to water.  Such peace here... and yet, there is a restlessness within her that won't be quelled.
          Reaching inside her tunic, Robin draws forth two things.  The Trump of her father, given to her by his own hand.  And the ocarina that he taught her to make.  After weighing both for a moment, Robin returns the ocarina to its pocket.  And holds the Trump of her father before her green eyes.
            And *calls* to him.  A heart call, like the cry of a raptor.

Robin reaches, reaches, reaches, calling into the vast universe, knowing and not caring that others can hear her call. She puts her self into the call...and falls back, unsuccessful.
            Or perhaps not. She felt...something, even though she received no answer.  She is convinced that no matter what, she did touch him. Somewhere.

The young Ranger slumps back on the basin, tears welling in her eyes as the card remains lifeless in her hands.
            Dammit!  Angrily, she swipes at her eyes.  Obviously, that stay in whatever dismal little shadow of Amber Corwin's black travesty dumped her into has got her all confused.  But he and it can't hold her forever.  She's already gotten out from under the shadows and now all she has to do is get to her father.
            Tucking the Trump away into its interior pocket, Robin stands, energy crackling through her nerves.  With one last look around the clearing, eyes softened momentarily by the beauty of it, Robin cannot help but bow once and a murmur of thanks finds its way past her lips.
            Then the Ranger turns and strides away.  Back into the picture Arden, that Robin somehow suspects was created by the strength of her own wish from the center of the Pattern.  But that doesn't matter now.
            Her heart, her hunter's heart, is set on finding her father.

The forest is vast and primal and no matter how hard you search you find no signs of animal life. The terrain is hilly, with a definite 'watershed' feel to it: all the streams run in one direction. Robin has not yet climbed any of the trees, so she has no idea how far the forest runs. It seems to be noonish. It may be her imagination, but she thinks she detects the faintest trace of the smell of salt water.

So close, so close to everything she wanted.  Except... no creatures, no boon companions - no father.  Yet despite that, this place finds its way deep into Robin's soul.  The trees towering and mighty, the sun bright and golden, the laughing springs, the verdant groundcover, the smell of loam and life everywhere.
            A quirk of a smile ticks at the side of Robin's mouth as she stares up the trunk of one of the Giants of the Forest, a towering redwood whose branches sway gently in the breeze so far above.  Digging in one of her belt pouches, Robin pulls out a climbing belt, and with a quick toss circles the enormous trunk.  And then she's up the tree.  A veteran climber of Arden, Robin shimmies herself skyward.

Robin sees a vast forest of dappled dark and light green treetops climbing to the snowline of distant mountains. Some distance in the other direction, Robin sees the blue of Amber's sea. The forest extends to the water's edge, or near enough.
            The sunlight, the green, the wind all is music to Robin's soul.  The young Ranger takes a deep breath and lifts her face to the sky, her eyes closing in bliss.

How long she remains there in the swaying treetop, she doesn't know.  But eventually the silence becomes... so silent.  Only the creek of trees, the whistle of the wind.  No chirps, no whuffs or bellows.  No bleats, no clash of horns, no buzzes, clicks, calls... No smoke.  No sound of ax or hoofbeat.  No sign of her father.  Or her companions.
            The Ranger's green eyes stare out over the ocean of primal verdant green.  And for a moment, she feels overwhelmed.  But then her stubbornness kicks back in.
           If there are no other eyes than her own to search with, then she had best make some.
            Drawing her ocarina from its pocket, Robin places the wood burl to her lips and begins to play.  A song of searching, a song of the winds, a song of feathers and talons.  Of bright eyes and fierce beaks.  From within herself Robin draws forth the raptors of her desire.  And her desire is to find her father.

Robin finds that, as usual, playing brings her into an almost trance-like state, very lightly she pulls back from it, feeling the shaping power of her power and her music. As she reaches a musical climax, something clicks and she listens in the silence that has held nothing but her breath.
            She sees the shadow on the forest floor at the same moment she hears the call, harsh and insistent. High above her she sees a sea hawk gliding on the air currents. For a moment she seems to have a *painted* quality, reminiscent of much of this forest. But she turns her head and screams again. She continues to fly straight towards the sea.

Good enough, Robin nods to herself and quickly scrambles down the tree.
            With a steady ground eating tread the young Ranger heads for the sea, following the sea hawk's path as closely as she can.  Along the way Robin does her best to quell her wonderings and her misgivings concerning the painted quality of her new surroundings.  The girl knows it's important -- somehow -- but is afraid of losing herself in an existential quandary of mammoth proportions.
            Instead, Robin chooses to live for the moment   She centers herself around the feeling of breath flowing through her lungs, the blood singing in her veins, and the steady drive of her feet through the forest as she runs and leaps through the underbrush, climbs down gullies and splashes through streams.

Robin follows the watershed down enough to find the river, making her travel easier. Its noise eases the stillness and silence of the waiting forest. It almost sounds ... natural.
            Robin emerges from the forest almost at the edge of a cliff, over which the river pours into what must surely be a spectacular waterfall. The view of the sea from the cliff is equally spectacular. Robin can see many miles up and down the shore as well.
            Robin catches sight of the hawk she conjured sitting on an odd rock formation. When she comes to investigate, it flies away, over the sea. The rock it was sitting on is in the shape of three steps.

The young Ranger looks out over the cliff at the magnificent sea.  Remembering the shadow Gerard's hope that Robin would be able to help with the sea paths, the young girl shivers.  Water.  She looks back up the river, remembers the spring - and the unicorn.  In all her painted forest, only the water has seemed alive.  And her guide?  A seahawk.  Something's up here.  Robin's eyes narrow in thought.
          Ah well, thinking again.  Best to just get moving.  Steps, huh.  With a grin, Robin climbs up the stones, seeing what she can see.

To the east, out to sea, Robin watches the waves. It is Amber's sea in color and texture and smell, although the perfectly circular natural harbor below is not a feature of Amber's coast. 
            Up from the harbor the cliff-face is banked in darkness. Unless a moon rises, she doesn't think it would be climbable. There is barely enough light that she can guess that the cliff face is riddled in caves. The river overshoots the cliff and pours down, cascading off the rocks, and spilling into the bay.
            Above the stone steps, Robin sees a darkling sky, shimmering in anticipation of enough darkness to reveal a bejeweled array of stars. A few, which will in the night be called 'bright', are beginning to peek out.
            The grass sward at the edge of the forest is moving in the breeze, but the wind through it is masked by the sound of the falling water.
            The forest behind her is breathtaking, vast acre after acre of dappled greens in the dying red sunlight. Amber's great red sun is about to set behind the far (and foreign) mountain ridge that is the extreme limit of your horizon.
            This place, more than any other she has ever been in, has a feeling of *expectation*, as if it is a background waiting for a central figure to be painted in. <>

Robin looks about herself from where she stands at the top of the stairs, the setting sun painting her in shades of flowing red, fire and blood.  A smile quirks one corner of the Ranger's lips.  Never one to underappreciate a moment of drama, Robin waits.
            As the swollen sun settles further into the rosy and darkening crags, Robin reaches within herself -- readying her song and her call once more.
            And just as the sun dips behind the mountains, in that final flare of fire and life that bursts out over the two seas -- blue ocean, green trees.  Just in that moment before the darkness takes the land and sea to itself where the stars rule in serene and sere judgment from a black sky.  In that moment, Robin lifts her arms to the heavens and the light.  And for the third time, calls for her father with all of her being.

There is no response.
            As Robin waits to see whether, at some remove, her father has heard her, the sun sinks beneath the horizon and the moon rises.
            In the cloudless sky, she sees it: a city of legend, but no longer reachable by men of Amber. The silver towers of Tir-na-nog'th gleam in the moonlight. And Robin realizes what the three little steps must be, though no path springs forth from them.

Already somewhat peeved that her father has chosen - yet again - not to answer, the young Ranger looks up at the miracle of silver and moonlight in the sky.  And then down to where the miracle does not extend to the stairs on which she stands.
          "Well, dung."  She states pragmatically.  And begins measuring the distance for a bow-shot.
            "Okay, fine.  Be that way."  Robin mutters in disgust at the cold uncaring universe as she realizes that not even on her best day could she vandalize that from here with an arrow.
            Crossing her arms, the young Ranger looks up at the negative silhouette of the white city against the black sky and narrows her eyes in thought.
            "Hmmmm."
            Robin reaches into her breast pocket to draw forth the ocarina once more.  Eyes on the silver, Robin places the wood burl to her lips.  As the high clear notes begin to pour forth from what was once a heartwood of Arden, the girl finds her eyes drifting closed.  In her mind's eye, in her heart's ear, Robin weaves the lifting notes into an uprising trill.  Each note soaring above the last, a climbing twirling skirling ascent of joy and determination.
            With eyes still closed, the girl steps forward off of the rock stairs with confidence.

It is her competence, not her confidence, that saves Robin's life.
            She falls too quickly to twist and catch the three little steps, but beneath her, she sees the blue of the deep lagoon, and reorients to land therein in a dive of which Tarzan's best is but a shadow.
            The impact is hard and unpleasant, even with her technique to save her, and Robin hurts like all get-out afterwards. She is able to swim to the shore without difficulty, but she's exhausted, aching, bruised, and certain she has lost some of her things in the dive.

"Aaaaagggghhh!"  Robin emerges from the water following her plunge with an infuriated howl.  Gasping for breath, the young Ranger makes sure that the ocarina is still tightly held in her grasp.  A quick tap is made against her tunic, just over her heart, to confirm that the comforting hardness of her father's Trump is also still there.
            "Son of a bitch!"  Finding breath to swear while treading water is a bit of a challenge for Robin, but one she finds immensely satisfying.  As angry as a wet cat, the girl disentangles herself from her shattered bow and starts kicking toward the moonlit shore.
            A few moments later the truly pissed Ranger is struggling out of the water, fighting against her sodden clothes and towards the shore.  "Owww!  Damn, damn, damn.  OWWW!"  She hates being wet.  Once on dry land, Robin turns and angrily kicks a spray of sand back at the offending ocean.  A sharp obscene gesture is delivered so fiercely that the battered girl finds herself sitting down suddenly from the recoil.
            "OUCH!  DAMMIT!"  Not even her backside has been spared from the indignity of the unexpected plunge.
            Hissing and muttering angrily, Robin looks back up the cliff-face to the stairs above.  And, my goodness, it's a long way back up.  In the dark.  The Ranger's green eyes follow her probable trajectory down to the water.  And widen a little in amazement.  She looks back up.
            A chuckle slowly begins to rumble through her.  Building to an out-and-out laugh.
            "Gee, Robin, how'd you get so wet?"  She asks herself in a mocking innocent voice.
            "Well, self.  I though I'd step off a cliff.  At night.  With my eyes closed.  Seemed like a good idea at the time."  The Ranger shakes her head at herself with a rueful chuckle.  "Robin, you are ssuuuch an idiot."
            Robin winces as the laughter shakes bruised ribs and the head-shaking twitches a tender scalp, but she's still smiling and there's a merry twinkle to her eyes when the girl drags herself to her feet.
            "Okay..." she mutters, dusting off her backside, "Enough of the mystic shit.  I'm wet.  I'm cold... and I'm getting hungry."  Those green eyes look around the beach, searching for driftwood.  "How's about we start with a fire?"

There is no driftwood. The beach is as deserted of signs of plant life as it is of animals. It occurs to Robin that there really ought to be some organic detritus from where the river lands in this lagoon. It also occurs to Robin that the right term isn't "lagoon", but more like "natural harbor".
            Tir still gleams in the night sky, taunting Robin. She can think of no way that she can get to it.
So she sticks her tongue out at it. And turns away.
            The moonlight shows that the cliff will be an easy, if terribly long, climb. It is honeycombed with caves.

But as fascinating as this place is, off into shadow to find her father.  Robin hunts up some dinner and a place to dry off.

---