The ship was abuzz. Their first planet-- their first-- lay below, sparkling with greens and blues and whites of a habitable planet in every image projected onto the windows. It would be their first planet to actually Search, looking for others who were like them: part sythyn, and part... anything else.

They were a mixed team, in more ways than one. First, most Searcher teams consisted of only three well-trained individuals, plus the trio assigned to the ship to actually do the work of flying, maintaining, and repairing it. This team had nine, plus that actual crew of three, and none of them were more than half trained in being a Searcher. Not a one of them was pure sythyn blood-- a first for Search teams of any kind-- and only some of them actually shared the same species for their secondary parentage. All of their talents and abilities were different-- wildly so, in most cases-- and ranged from magical to physical to technological.

What they all shared, however, was that they were Searched, they were only partly sythyn, and because of that, were often shunned by the people who had supposedly rescued them.

Sythwyr Ruvanon, self-named as a priest of death, the unofficial captain of the Search team largely because no one else particularly wanted the job, met his other eight friends, his new family in a way, on the command deck of the Sywyrnon Wyssyra, their ship. One of them was family: Nonaarama, darker of skin and eyes but lighter of hair, shorter of stature but heavier of build, his brother and the first one to agree with him about this so-called crazy quest.

He was the first to arrive, of those who had not already been there: only blonde, sharp-faced Ffadoratha, who never seemed to leave, sitting in his hovering chair with his long fingers flying over the controls. If Ffadoratha had not been of mixed blood, he would have been on a ship long before this, as one of the technical crew, or he would have had a position doing the same types of things for ground-based machinery. Instead, here he was, Searched turned Searcher, liason for the technical crew and armorist, and the one who knew the system as well as the crew did already. He was also the oldest of the team, well into middle age, but still with plenty of life ahead of him and a tendency to call everyone else on the ship "boy", "girl", or "kid".

Following Nonaarama-- unless he was following her, she always followed him-- came tiny Ryruraan, also called Darkling, wraith-like and delicate, with her pale gray, strangely soft skin, her dark eyes and hair, and her quiet, though strange, disposition. She would tell him he, of all people, had no right to call her disposition strange. Sythwyr knew she was probably right. Within the past few weeks, she and his brother had become nearly inseparable. Originally drawn to the uniqueness of his mind, somehow that turned into something more. Sythwyr didn't see anything wrong with it, as long as she didn't hurt Nonaarama.

Sythwyr gave his brother a warm smile, returned with a faint one and a nod, and Ryruraan a head tilt of his own, which she returned solemnly. She was usually solemn.

Close on the pair's heels came the three who were more inseparable than Nonaarama and Ryruraan: Ssothrysaa, Rythrys, and Ssubyrsyn Wyvryn, brothers, triplets even, an impossible thing for a full sythyn mother. They were all identical, except when they wore different clothing or different expressions. Today they didn't, dressed in formal white, with their white hair and blue eyes, and Sythwyr couldn't even begin to guess which was which. They were the youngest members of the team-- as far as anyone knew, anyway-- and probably had the least sythyn blood in them. They were also the newest Searched, and the least comfortable at the Rosaar Norsash-Rrosythry, the home for Searched in the far north.

"Hello, boys," Sythwyr smiled. "Ready for your first Search?"

"Yes, Sythryr," all three replied, at once.

"It will be interesting," one of the three said, then added, with a ghost of a smile, "and I'm Ssubyrsyn."

"Not that he'll remember more than a minute or two, you little clones," another arrival laughed: Byrashyr, orange-haired and golden eyed, and smiling. With a name like "thundercloud", one might expect her to act ominous and heavy, like her namesake, gloomy and temperamental. Instead, Byrashyr was the most sunny, easy-going person on the ship. She had eyes and a smile like a fox, and it was notoriously difficult to say no to her. One might even think that her power, the power of persuasion.

"Well, then he'll remember for a minute or two, and then we can remind him again," another of the Wyvryn boys said. His solemn expression gave nothing away as to whether he was Ssothrysaa or Rythrys. Sythwyr puzzled over it briefly, then decided it probably didn't matter.

"And they're not clones," Vurzoon added, coming up behind Byrashyr, putting one pale hand on her shoulder and grinning. Vurzoon was the temperamental one, with her curly, dark brown hair and flashing eyes. Everyone who had magic-- and cared about it-- was wary around her, for her talent was not magic, itself, but rather the distinct lack of it: so much lack, in fact, that she became a sinkwell for unanchored spells, instinctively devouring them and releasing the energy harmlessly. If she were actually angry, she could do it on purpose.

"So are we going down, or what?" Vurzoon continued.

"We're all here," Sythwyr nodded. "Rules will be simple: stay in a group of three-- and two," he nodded to Byrashyr and Vurzoon, for Ffadoratha wasn't going to be leaving the ship, running Search programs from the command deck, itself. "If you find anything, call the rest of us. We've already discussed how we're going to Search; the area we're interested in isn't particularly big. Ryruraan and Ffadoratha are both fairly certain of where the signal, if it is a true signal at all, is coming from."

"Just what all did you two pick up?" Vurzoon asked, squinting over at Ryruraan, who merely shrugged one shoulder impassively.

"A mind... twisted strangely, warped by blood as much as by pain," she replied simply. "It could be nothing, but--"

"--But good old Ffadoratha confirmed that there could be someone of sythyn blood down there, using old fashioned technology," the technician grinned, coming up to join them.

"Old fashioned," Vurzoon snorted, amused.

"Very old fasioned, actually," Ffadoratha grimaced, then paused for a moment for a few rattling coughs. "This ship is a piece of junk, really."

"At least it flies," Sythwyr said soothingly. "And the shuttle is state of the art."

"Which I don't get to fly," Ffadoratha sighed, but he held up one thin hand to hold off Sythwyr's apologies. "Yet. I'll get my turn, I know. Go on, kids, get down there and get Searching."

"Yes, there could be a soul down there waiting for us. To the shuttle, Searchers," Sythwyr announced, and though no one actually cheered, the air was definitely full of excitement as the eight Searched Searchers made their way down a deck to do as ordered.

Chapter Two

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