"Scooped Up By a Dream" Log Date: 7/10, 7/11, 8/5/00 Log Cast: David, assorted Mongrel NPCs (emitted by David), Jorianne, Ilex Log Intro: Now that he's gotten a regular means of employment in the city of Haven, life is fairly simple for the young Mongrel David. He's never asked for much--just a roof over his head, a shirt on his back, and honest work to occupy his hands and put food into his mouth. Thanks to his friend Sebastienne, he's settled in to get some of that honest work at the Pantheon in the Empyrean quarter; for the most part, it's been everything that Davey could hope for, and more. Oh, sure--that one pretty l'il ol' Empy harper with the golden hair threw him into a tizzy... but mostly, he can work, and the other men are kind to him, and they let him sing. Little does David know he isn't done attracting female attention, not by a long shot. Especially when he lets loose in song.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Afternoon Date on Aether: Sunday, October 5, 3906. Year on Earth: 1506 A.D. Phase of the Moon: First Quarter Season: Fall Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* David Just another Mongrel, from the look of him -- but this one at least is easy on the eyes, as Mongrels go. He's young, seemingly fit enough, and not _too_ scruffy of appearance; his features, while not necessarily refined of line, are pleasingly symmetrical. Short but unevenly cut black hair stands out in striking contrast with his sunbrowned skin and big sky-blue eyes, of a shade that suggests he's got an Empyrean or two somewhere back in his ancestry. He's tall, his frame rangy and lean, though his awkward carriage suggests shyness, post-adolescent clumsiness, or both. So does his voice, since he appears to have a habit of stammering his words -- but still, something about the clarion young baritone falls quite pleasingly upon the ear. He fidgets a lot, too, seemingly unconsciously, often rhythmically tapping his foot or hand upon whatever's handy. He's humbly but decently clad as one might expect of a Mongrel -- especially one who's managed to score a position working in a fairly classy establishment like the Pantheon. His simple blue linen shirt, brown breeches, and brown boots are all a working man's clothes, clean and in good condition; the shirt is of a vivid enough blue, too, that it nicely sets off his eyes. Jorianne Impressions, almost ephemeral, yet so very real and alive, this woman is. Flitting from here to there, seemingly, a riotous mixture of colors burning an impression into one's eyes; the echo of her laughter ringing in the listener's ears. If one were to search for a label, or name for this diminuitive creature, one would have to come up with 'Jorianne'. Raven tresses cascade down over her shoulders, down and beyond, streaks of auburn, gold, and violet highlighting and contrasting with the darkness of her hair. A concession to the needs of life, her hair is bound back by a simple leather tie, but what a glorious sight for one to see, when her hair is free to go where it will. Amber eyes, almost catlike, full of laughter, the joyous nature of her dimpled smile a perfect companion to her gaze. A small nose, smooth cheekbones, highlighted by the darkness of her olive skin, adds to the ephemeral impressions that this lady leaves. Sneaking out from hiding places under her hair, the points of her ears can be seen. Even more magnificent than her face, if that is possible, are the curves hidden by her full skirted dress; and how she hides her form, despite the tight nature of her clothing! For that her dress is a riotous mixture of colors, quilted together from many pieces of clothing; so intense is the clash of colors, that they hide the nature of her body so very effectively, leaving imprinted in memories just colors, not shape. Ah, but how tantalizing, for that if one stares long enough, one can begin to glimpse. Main and Vicina - Haven The closer one gets to the center of the city, the more variety there is, architecturally. Although the feel is predominantly Empyrean, there are hints of Atlantean and Varati influence--even Sylvan, in the more organic curves and flowing lines of some of the structures. It is far busier here, too. Shops, inns, taverns, and market stalls outnumber private homes, for the famous Rialto is only a block away, and merchants are quick to settle on the fringes of that thriving marketplace. A whiff of the sea wafts in, and one can catch glimpses of the water between the buildings to the south. Were the noises of the city to die down--carts passing by, pedestrians in conversation, merchants haggling and children at play--one might catch the sound of the waves, beating a steady, timeless rhythm against the shore. Contents: Jorianne Obvious exits: Elysium Music Emporium Streets Pantheon

The Rialto It is the philosophy of a good number of Mongrels in Haven, too content with their lives to run off to Avalon or perhaps simply not convinced that a better lot awaits them than that of manual labor _anywhere_ in the world, that as long as theirs is the lot of a Mongrel, they might as well put a good face on it. And thus, a small contingent of Mongrel men ranging in age from fresh-faced youths up to one grizzly old fellow supervising their progress at their appointed tasks, might be heard to be singing as they haul boxes into the Pantheon off the wagon that's parked some distance away from that august establishment. The words are simple enough. So's the melody. But the conjoining of rough male voices in harmony falls pleasingly on the ear nevertheless: Well there's a leak in this old buildin' There's a leak in this old buildin' Well there's a leak in this old buildin' We're gonna move to a better home...! And the dancing, laughing Mongrel woman that flows down the street, seemingly carefree; she draws eyes, by how her hips sway, how she seems to beam with undisguised joy and sensuality at every man. Every man that falls under her gaze, feels special; that is her magic. Others may control elemental magic, but Jorianne's own enchantment is that of a beguiling gaze, batted eyes, and a beautiful smile, along with a merry laugh. Some of the younger Mongrel men on and around the wagon see that enchanting creature coming, and appreciative whistles sound out in counterpoint. But two of the men are still belting out their song, and a third one has paused to bang out a rhythm with the flat of his hands on the top of one of the boxes. Well there's a crack 'cross the ceilin' There's a crack 'cross the ceilin' There's a crack 'cross the ceilin' We're gonna move to a better home! "Go, Davey, go!" cheers one one of the older fellows, as David's rich liquid baritone rolls out through the gruff harmony and lifts it up a notch or two above what one might normally expect of Mongrels singing at their work in the street. The young man's right leg is twitching in time with his impromptu drumming, and loose black strands of hair bob across his forehead as he practically dances there himself. So far he hasn't noticed Jorianne's approach -- but in the grip of song as he is, perhaps he might be excused. A soft merry laugh from the enchanting creature, even as her hands, so delicate compared to the Mongrel workers, begin to clap in rhythm to the music and the drums. Her feet and legs carry herself closer to those that still play; and Jorianne dances! And how she dances, an unconscious sensuality in every move that she makes. Drums? Well, if a rough wooden box on the top of a wagon can qualify as a drum, sure -- but then again, someone's produced a small tabla drum from somewhere, and even as Jorianne shimmies into view, the cheers of the men grow louder along with that enthusiastic drumming. He who appears to be carrying the melody along still hasn't managed to notice the girl yet, though. David sings almost as though he's caught up in religious fervor, that leg of his bouncing up and down till it seems his entire body is shaking lightly to the simple beat. Well there's a hole in th' roof where the rain pours in And there's a hole in th' floor where it runs right out again! Now the men begin impulsively backing him up, letting his voice dominate the song. This, too, the boy doesn't appear to notice. His dark head is up and thrown slightly back, eyes closed as the song pours out of him. Well there's a leak (there's a leak) in this old buildin' (this old buildin') There's a leak (there's a leak) in this old' buildin Well there's a leak in this ol' buildin' We're gonna move to a better Move to a better Move to a better home...! The mongrel lass that enchants and weaves her magic among the music is drawn to David, the center of the song, and the center of her world now. That is part of her magic, that when she focuses, it becomes her world. And David is now the center of Jorianne's world, even as she dances around him. Perhaps fortunately for Jorianne, David's about to wind down -- but unfortunately for David, this means he's bringing his eyes open again just as the last few notes are taking wing from him, giving him his first good look at this stunning female figure sashaying about him. Laughter bursts out in all sides at the look that crosses the boy's face, and once again cries of "Go, Davey, go!" sound from his companions. Swallowing down the last couple of notes of "ho-o-o-me", the young Mongrel flushes crimson, big blue eyes wide. Tyche, she's pretty -- where did _she_ come from? Xerise steps through the door of the Pantheon, one of Haven's finer dining establishments. Xerise has arrived. Xerise strolls north along Vicina. Xerise has left. The mongrel lass seems larger than life to many, with the aura of sensuality and presence that she exudes, but standing in front of David, the young man dwarfs her. Merry eyes laugh up at the Mongrel, as Jorianne steps in closer, her bosoms lightly brushing against him. "That was well sung!" His blush doesn't fade; if anything, David turns rather redder at the proximity of those feminine curves to his own person, especially as he tries to drop his gaze and finds the aforementioned source of those curves right in his line of sight. Stammering out something that might be a thank-you, he is drowned out by the cheerful laughter of his compatriots, and one of them calls out, "He belts 'em out like that ever' so often, pretty 'un, better'n' any bard the wingers get in any day o' th' week!" "Yeah, Davey's one of _us_," someone else says proudly. A deep inhale that causes these curves that Davey's viewing to rise and lower. A laugh, Jorianne's eyes cast around the crowd, "That so, men? I've heard quite a few lovely winged bards!" her cheeks dimpling, as she leans back slightly. David can't be very long out of his adolescence, can he, given the way he seems simultaneously hotly embarrassed by this flaunting of female charms right before him -- and compelled into reaction all the same? Heat still flushes his cheeks and there's a certain unmistakable tautening in his lean frame even as he stammers, "D-d-don't pay them no nevah-mind, ma'am, Ah-Ah-Ah jes' kinda mess around with it, 'sall, Ah-Ah-Ah ain't no real bard or nothin'..." "Mess around? Hah! The boy don't miss a note!" Someone else snickers, coughing out a mutter about wondering exactly how lovely this toothsome lass finds _Mongrel_ bards, before the youth nearest him shoves him in the elbow to shut him up. A soft merry laugh from Jorianne, as she takes David's hands, squeezing as she brings them up to scrutinize them, "Such talent with music." her warm husky purr comes, "I wonder if you have other talents as well?" her lips curling up. Those are big lean hands, suntanned, but not as dark as one with any significant Varati blood. Callused. Roughened by work. And currently shaking like two large leaves, as those dainty fingers seize them. "Ah-Ah-Ah c'n shear sheep pretty good," David gulps, "but they ain't go no sheep 'round these parts..." Is he serious? If the look in those wide blue eyes and the tone of that guileless voice is any indication, he certainly is. "And, um... catch... um... fish..." Tyche, she's _pretty_... Catcalls and cheers burst out again. Three of the young men chant rhythmatically, "Go, Davey, _go_!" before their grizzled overseer swats at the nearest one of them, sending them scurrying off with their next load of supplies into the nearby restaurant. Ilex travels in from the west, where the Rialto lies. Ilex has arrived. Eagla travels in from the west, where the Rialto lies. Eagla has arrived. A soft warm laugh from the mongrel lass, as her multicolored hair dances about her shoulders, "Come, Davey." an impish smile, as she introduces herself, cheeks dimpling, "I'm Jorianne." tugging at the young man's hands, dancing away backwards, guiding the Mongrel. Ilex leisurely walks in from the east, or rather, her dark-maned mount does. The tall Sylvan woman lets the reins lie slack against the horse's neck, that is, until she finds herself near a convocation of mongrels. Immediately she snatches up the reins before the horse has time to disrupt the crowd. "Oooooooooo," sounds a chorus of rough but mightily amused male voices, even as David shoots a liquid look of appeal at his compatriots. Wait a minute! Is she _supposed_ to be doing this? What's he supposed to do? What he seeks is some sign of assurance, or better yet rescue, but what he _sees_ is a ring of knowing faces and eyes that have lit up with good-natured envy and encouragement. This musically inclined young Mongrel might be about to fall over from shock at the attention the colorfully-tressed girl is giving him, but as far as his friends are concerned, he'll probably figure the situation out on his own. He's a big boy, right? Right! This leaves David to burst out a little breathlessly, voice cracking up from baritone towards tenor, "Wh-wh-wheah we goin', ma'a--er, Miz Jorianne--um--" The name comes out of him almost "Jor-YAN", in his country accent. "Ah-Ah-Ah gotta he'p git th' boxes in..." A brilliant smile flashes around at the crowd of men, amber eyes of Jorianne's twinkling, as she gazes at the ring of Mongrel bodies, "If I still got some left, I'll come back, gents." her voice full of promise, even as she draws off the poor Mongrel lad named David off. "That can wait." she reassures the young man. Ilex arches an eyebrow at the scene, having caught just enough to understand what is going on. She loosens the reins a bit and sits back on her horse, letting her pale green eyes settle on the attractive and slightly cruel mongrel woman. Her mouth half-curls in a smile. "Cor, Davey-lad ain't gotta go to the Song, looks like th' Song's comin' t' _him_!" one of the younger men calls out wittily, much to the merriment of the others. "Right proper, boy's a singer, ain't he?" "You goin' t' teach 'im a song or twa, now, lass? Get 'im singin' like a _man_!" David gets redder with each amiable jibe, and finally shoots a pleading glance at the old fellow overseeing the little throng of young Mongrel men. Even that grizzled old worthy is trying hard not to grin. "We c'n do wi'out ye for a few, lad, but dinnae dally too long, y'ken?" And with _that, David has no recourse but to gape down at the siren who's captured his hands. "Wheah we goin'?" he practically squeaks. "Paradise, Davey." the Mongrel lass breathes out a promise, laughing at the running commentary of the other men. "Ta-ta, for now!" she calls, as Jorianne tugs the Mongrel lad after him, wandering down the streets of Haven. [And soon...] The poor Mongrel lad had been guided away from the laughing crowd of his fellow buddies and workers. With a salacious wink and promise towards the men, David has been guided firmly, but gently down the streets of Haven. At his side, was this merry woman, her hips sashaying, as she teases him with her words, and form, but with a deftness of skill such that the young man's not totally incoherent, or runs away. She swept into the Siren's Song, with the swirl of her skirts, her amber eyes merry, even as the patrons gaze at David rather enviously, some cheering. And he is swept upstairs, and into this room. The door is firmly closed shut, and the vivacious woman leans against it, blocking any escape. Flustered, as a word to describe David's state of mind and body at this point, is undoubtedly an understatement. With flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and a slightly wild look to his big blue eyes, the young man's stumbled into the room -- only to whirl around and peer in consternation at the temptress who's managed to lure him here. "Wh-what now?" he blurts out. Not unaware of the startled and then noisily cheering patrons below, even a guileless farmboy like him can begin to get some idea of what sort of place to which he's been brought. "Miz Jorianne, Ah-Ah-Ah ain't sure 'bout this, what're we doin' heah...?" His voice starts off deep and then warbles its way back up to a boyish tenor. Yep, flustered. Definitely flustered. A husky purr in return, even as Jorianne leans against the door, her form artfully displayed by the curve of her spine, "You don't want to be here with me?" as the vivacious Mongrel pouts slightly, her eyes becoming downcast. Fingers flutter slightly, on on her hip. "Ah-Ah di'n't say that!" croaks the young man involuntarily, before he flushes red again and shoves a shaking hand through his already quite mussed hair. "Ah jes', Ah-Ah-Ah jes'... uh... Ah-Ah-Ah dunno if you're gon' do what Ah-Ah-Ah think you're gon' do..." And the Mongrl temptresses' face brightens like a sunlight, beautiful to behold, "Oh, so you don't dislike me!" she beams, lowering his gaze, "Do you think I'm pretty?" her lips quirking coyly. David's dark head starts bobbing up and down, even as he seems to struggle to find a safe place to put his gaze. "Y-you're awful purty," he mumbles, quite shyly. A warm purr, as Jorianne pushes away from the door, her skirts swirling around her feet, the medley of moving colors adding to the sensuality of her form, coming closer. A gentle touch of David's face with both hands, "And you're handsome yourself, Davey." sincerity in her voice. "Thankee, Miz Jorianne," David rasps out in that country drawl of his, even as he turns redder under those gentle fingertips. It would seem that even when he's blushing so brightly, he's got enough rough manners to express appreciation for a compliment. Whether he actually _believes_ that compliment... well, that's another matter. Certainly the words sounded automatic, and there's not much actual comprehension in the nervous dusky blue gaze that settles upon the fetching visage looking up at him. Either David's just not particularly bright... or he has no actual idea of the potential appeal in his regular features, that tousled black hair, or the thick dark lashes that fringe his eyes, thick enough for any girl to envy. Amber eyes twinkle mischeviously up at David, as Jorianne beams, her cheeks dimpling, "Have you ever kissed a girl, Davey?" her gaze deep enough to drown in, it seems, even as she leans in, her form almost close enough to touch the young man's. Ohhhh Tyche, so this is what this is about, huh? All the more flustered, David starts to nod... then shake his head... then babble huskily, "W-well, uh, Trudie, she, uh, she trahed t' kiss me behahnd th' haystack but Ah-Ah was jes' fourteen an' Paw tanned mah hahd a-a-a-and then th' Domina, she, uh, she..." "Oh! Then we have to fix that." Jorianne purrs, her touch on David's head steadying him, as she leans in to press a warm kiss; and how she throws herself into it, all her vivacious energy, playfullness, joy, and sensuality, in that one touch of lips! And that's quite the display of grace, drawing down the lanky young singer's head to meld her lips with his. David has barely enough time to gasp in startlement before that kiss has engulfed him. Soft arms are around him, that soft curvaceous front is pressed up against him, and all of a sudden his knees are getting wobbly and he's getting warm under his shirt and... and... oh Tyche. "Gittin'.... loopyheaded," he protests feebly when he finally manages to come up for air. And the lanky young singer is lowered, or rather nudged gently into the bed, onto his back, lest David's legs buckle under him. And before he can blink, Jorianne's perched on his thighs, leaning forward to smile at him. "How was your first kiss?" she purrs. "Ah... Ah-Ah..." Yep, it's official, he's still flustered. David's pulse is now visibly hammering at the base of his tanned throat, There's more than a little fear in the young man's visage -- this is disturbingly close to a situation he doesn't particularly care to revisit in memory if he doesn't have to. But the rasp is lingering in his liquid baritone, suggesting a throat gone dry. His eyes have gone a little darker of hue. And yes, oh yes, there's that undeniable tension building up in his rangy frame, all the more palpable now that its cause is perched so blithely atop him. Amber eyes twinkle at David, as she leans forward a bit, Jorianne's soft form pressing against the young man's chest once again, "Should I kiss you, and ask again?" her lips curving up, as she purrs. Quite a pretty voice, full of energy, and sensual humour. Part of him wants to protest -- who IS this Jorianne girl? Why'd she scoop him up off the street like a twister-wind did to his uncle Jabe's grain shed? What in the world IS this place and what's she doing up so close to him and warm and... oh Tyche. The rest of David, though, is rapidly reaching the conclusion that thinking, never his strong suit at the best of times, is becoming less and less of an option at the moment. And so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Ah-Ah-Ah dunno what t' do, Miz Jorianne," is his doleful pronouncement. Amber eyes dance merrily in Jorianne's gaze, as she leans in, her lips so close to David's, but not quite touching. "You might start with kissing me, Davey." her colorful hair lowering to drape and frame the young Mongrel's head. "Ah don't... Ah-Ah don't... Ah don' think Ah c'n do it lahk you done," the young fellow croaks. Mesmerized by that stare of golden brown, dazzled by the vibrant strands of hair falling down to seemingly curtain him off from the rest of the room at large, David gazes up with a strange tangle of plaintiveness, confusion, and the beginnings of ardor all fighting for dominance of his eyes to the face above his own. A gentle smile, still so close to Davey's lips, close enough that every breath and word that she makes is felt by the Mongrel lad. Jorianne's amber eyes twinkle, "Try it." she encourages, "It takes a lot of practice to do it like I've done it." she wryly remarks. Awww... awww... aww Tyche. "Okay," mumbles the young Mongrel man, his entire frame shaking subtly, both with his nervousness and his need, the one comprehensible to him, for it is born of the uncomprehensible other. Since Jorianne's lips are so conveniently close, David tries moving his own against them. The contact is fleeting, tentative as a baby fawn's first step into a glade, saved from being clumsy by his own shyness. He doesn't manage to make quite enough contact for it to lack grace. Golden brown eyes twinkle, "Mmm. That's good." Jorianne encourages, "Again?" her lips curl up, as she makes the requet. She might be a whirlwind, and full of energy, but she can be patient when she needs to be, or wants to be. "O-Okay..." Sweet Lady Tyche, what is he supposed to do with his _hands_...? David lifts one awkwardly, then the other, holding them poised over the girl sitting so carefree atop him as if he's rather afraid of actually _touching_ her. But perhaps he's not entirely without some clue about what to do, for his big lean hands do settle down upon Jorianne at last as he tries to repeat that tentative touch of lips to lips. "Mmmhmm." the vivacious lass perched upon David's thighs lean in ever so slightly, putting a little more pressure into the kiss, her voice encouraging either the kiss, or his touch, or perhaps both. Jorianne's golden brown eyes seem to shift hues back and forth, as her gaze dances. David doesn't see this, though, for his own eyes have screwed up closed in his struggle between anxious concentration, nervousness, arousal, and the rest of the sensations coursing through him. _She smells so nice and she's soft and ohhhh Tyche stop thinking Davey,_ is the closest approximation of his thoughts, as he somehow manages on instinct to figure out something of where to put his lips as well as his hands. His embrace isn't tight, though, as though he might fear holding his startling companion of the moment too closely. The vivacious lass's lips are certainly warm against David's, as golden brown eyes gaze down into the young man's own. A slight shift of her form, causing the Mongrel's hands to draw tighter against the curve of her back. "Mmm, good." Jorianne's eyes twinkle down, as the kiss is broken. A big crooked grin flares up across the young man's face, full of startlement and pleasure. "Ah-Ah-Ah, uh, Ah did it okay?" he pipes, those dusky blue eyes of his wide and hopeful though still more than a little dazed. The feel of curvy flesh sliding beneath his palms makes him swallow hard, though, and he blurts half to himself, "Ah gotta be dreamin'... gon' wake up any tahme now..." "Mmmhmm, you did." Jorianne croons down at Davey, her cheeks dimpling again, as she leans in, "Do it again." the Mongrel lass purrs down at the lad, lips coming close to his. "Is it a pleasant dream?" she adds, teasing, her form wriggling slightly under his touch. David considers this, the pace of his breath picking up. His throat must surely have gone dry, for when he manages to speak again that voice which not too long ago was belting out a paean to (of all things) leaky roofs is hoarse and almost rough. "Dreamin'...!" He nods five or six times, even as he explains raggedly, "Don't no purty l'il gals come 'long an' scoop me up 'lessin' Ah'm dreamin'..." A pause, as certain lower portions of his body ripple involuntarily beneath Jorianne in echo to that fascinating wiggle. And he finishes throatily, "Man could git t' likin' this kinda dream...!" The dimpled smile grows into a large grin, her teeth shining briefly. Amber eyes crinkle slightly down at David, "Then, let me share your dream, Davey." Jorianne's face leaning in to press a delicate little kiss against the arch of the Mongrel lad's neck. That prompts another and rather more distinct ripple of David's form as his head arches backward, baring more of that suntanned neck to those cleverly exploring lips. One of his arms tightens slightly while his other hand fumbles for support against the bed. Ohhh Tyche, yes, he's got to be dreaming! "O-Okay," he groans, his chest shuddering on the tail end of his reaction. Again, Jorianne's lips curl up, dimpling her cheeks. A careful little kiss again, at the arch of the lad's neck, before her delicate tongue is felt grazing there. A slight squirm underneath David's tightened arm, as she purrs, "You're so strong, Davey." "It's..." David trails off breathily, forgetting what he's trying to say while the lass with the multi-hued hair goes about the happy business of discovering that this farmboy she's pinned is quite sensitive around his neck and throat. Something to do with that rich rolling voice hiding somewhere under his country drawl, or merely pleasurable coincidence? Like that singing voice of his, there does indeed seem to be wiry young strength hiding behind his shyness, if the brief swift sqeeze of his arm is any indication. As his head lolls momentarily sideways, he manages to gasp, "It's 'cause Ah carry boxes..." "Mmm." Jorianne comments, even as she concentrates on exploring David's neck with her teeth, lips, and tongue, "You could carry me, easily, ah bet!" she purrs, a wriggle of her form under the mongrel lad's arm. If David notices a trace of drawl in his companion's voice, he certainly doesn't give any sign of it. Not exactly observant at the best of times, the boy's rapidly losing what few powers of perception he can claim under that gentle assault upon his throat. His free arm returns to join its mate, loosely circling the young cyprian's hips and waist, his hands trembling as some remaining glimmer of cognizance lets him fret over where exactly to put his palms. "Putcha raht in mah pocket," he mutters in a tone that suggests he's almost ready to agree to practically anything said to him. "Carry y'around through th' market..." A soft giggle at that, "Ah'm small, b't not /that/ small 'nuff to fit in your pocket, Davey." Jorianne pushes herself up slightly, her palms pressing against David's chest, her amber eyes tracking over him. "Mmm." she comments admiringly, fingers tracing down across his stomach. She makes absolutely no protests at wherever the mongrel lad puts his hands. There _is_ that blue shirt of his in the way, but from the feel of him, David is still quite pleasingly made underneath that simple linen. The glimpse of his chest through the undone laces further up the shirt is helping reinforce that impression as well; he's not bulky, this one, but he's not skinny either. His torso quivers underneath those trailing fingers, his own fluttering across the lass's curves as though he's blindly groping, or not entirely sure of her reality. "Small," he blurts, "an' Ah-Ah-Ah' all clumsy an' big an' ever'than', Paw always said so, Ah don'..." Whoops, there he goes, babbling again. And blushing, too. But perhaps that mimicking of his accent is somehow beginning to get to him, slide under his defenses, help him relax... for David adds anxiously, "You're so purty, Miz Jorie... Ah-Ah-Ah feel jes' like Paw's sheepdog wantin' t' leap all ovah me when Ah git home an' Ah don' wanna... Ah-Ah don' wanna look stupid or nothin'...!" A slight shift of Jorianne's form, as she presses some of her curves into David's touch, fingers trailing further down across his stomach, finding the hem of his tunic. "Ye're not tha' clumsy, Davey." amber eyes twinkle down at the young lad, even as she slides his shirt up his chest. A warm purr, "Ah'm glad ta' know ye'd like ta' jumpe me." her eyelashes fluttering. Deep red flushes across David's face under his tan, and even runs down to his throat, too. But there's apparently more tan under his shirt, for blue linen can be pulled aside to reveal a flat, lightly muscled belly, tinged richly golden by what could only have been the touch of the sun. Either this lad's naturally this color... or some time recently he's wandered around a lot with his shirt off. "Y-y-you ain't seen me fall ovah m'own feet," he mumbles thickly. Delicate fingers drag nails lightly across the belly that she'd exposed with her deft touch, tracing the line and curves of his muscles, "Mmm, ye're a handsome 'un." Jorianne purrs, amber eyes darting up to meet David's, "Now, be a good 'un, and lift yer arms, so ah ken push yer tunic off." Perhaps sometime later he'll wonder exactly how he got into this. For now, though, David seems as compliant as a puppy; is he always like this, one might perhaps wonder, or it is simply because he's been presented with an armful of feminine wiles? He starts to lift his arms obediently, only to squawk, "W... wait, howcome you wanna--" Oh. _OH_. The boy turns even redder as he concludes, one arm up and the other still down, "Y'sure 'bout this...?" However David squawks, he's lifted his arms enough to allow Jorianne to do her work. "'course, ah'm sure 'bout this. Been sure since a've seen yah." a dimpled grin, as she tugs the tunic off, discarding it off the bed. She rises up once again, palms pushing against the young man's chest, allowing her amber eyes to roam over the lines that she sees. The promise of the glimpses caught beneath tunic hem and between tunic laces is fulfilled, once David's torso is bared. A pair of broad shoulders are undeniably the best feature of what's now in view, though there's something to be said for his upper arms and his chest as well. Some men are hirstute beneath their shirts, but David is not; there's just enough hair there for his skin to feel roughly natural to the touch, but for the most part he's all tan and youthful ranginess. And big anxious blue eyes, as he stares up uncertainly at the girl on his chest. "But y'ain't nevah seed me 'fore today," he blurts. Wait, he has a thought or two still functioning? Apparently. But just as apparently, he's not entirely sure of it, for his brow crinkles up under his mussed hair. "Have yah...?" A soft giggle, as Jorianne leans in to kiss these lips of David's, effectively shutting him up. And how she pours herself into that contact, full of energy and vivaciousness. Again, she pushes at the mongrel lad's chest, to gaze down at his face with twinkling golden-brown eyes. "Mmmm. Aren't ya dreaming anyways?" she teases, purring. Ohhhh Tyche! As this kiss packs a little more wallop, David is, indeed, effectively silenced. His body quite cheerfully runs on ahead of his faltering brain, arms now thoroughly operating on instinct as he wraps them around the curvy lovely atop him -- he has to, for reality does seem a mite strange right now to the poor boy, and here is an all too enticing anchor. But once his arms are around her his pulse picks up again, his eyes glaze over, and he can manage little more than "Ayeah... dreamin'...." by way of response. The vivacious lass dumps oil onto the fire by arching her spine, deliberately pressing her curves against the young man's form, a wriggle rubbing herself up and down against him. "Dreamin'." Jorianne echoes into David's ear, even as she takes firm hold of each of his hands, squeezing. It's probably a mercy David hasn't actually touched a drop of alcohol -- though at this point, the young Mongrel is dimly wondering if he'd managed to have a few too many mugs of ale courtesy of his fellow workers at the Pantheon, and any minute now'll be waking up with his face in the sink. "Raht... lovely dream," he breathes, eyes shuddering closed and letting his lashes make soft dark crescents along the very tops of his cheekbones. No, there's no ale in him -- but the scent of the girl he's holding and what now to even _his_ admittedly slow perceptions is becoming a fire in the blood are making up for that, going straight to his head and starting to blur his senses. His hands, squeezed, unthinkingly squeeze back. "'tis a dream." purrs Jorianne's soft voice, that rubs like velvet on David's senses, even as her warm breath washes over his face. And then gently, little kisses begin to cover the Mongrel lad's face, first on the arch of his jaw, and then up his cheeks, and over his nose. Her delicate-feeling hands squeeze again, at the young man's hands. With both of his hands held gently captive and his face being laved with such delicate attentions, David finds it more and more difficult to keep a steady thought within his skull. His breath comes out of him swiftier and huskier now, and his head bends pliantly this way and that underneath that soft rain of kisses; his hands, feeling to him so big and clumsy in the grasp of those dainty fingers that have seized them, tremble as he struggles to figure out what to do with them. Then all at once those questing lips find a particularly sensitive spot, somewhere along his jawline, and all rational thought blurs out entirely for a moment. His hands cling unthinkingly to hers, seeking guidance. "Dream," he mumbles thickly, agreeably. And then, slowly, tantalizing, her lips draw down over his jawbone, to lay a delicate little bite where David's neck arches into his shoulder. Jorianne gives a firm squeeze back with her hands, even as her lips curve up into a smile. A small animal groan escapes David now, rather deeper a noise than seems to be his wont, as those teeth graze against his skin. The shudder that runs through his wiry young frame is correspondingly deeper as well, arching his chest up closer against that of the seductress whose claim to being a creature of dreams is sounding more and more plausible by the second. His hands, drawn out to his sides, flex against her fingers on the tail end of that shudder. Entirely without thought, he tries to pull them in again... for Jorianne is warm and soft all his dazzled mind can tell him is that his arms want to go back around her. A soft little whisper into David's ear, "Would you like to unbutton my dress, Davey?" every syllable a graceful breath of air, it seems, even as her fingers guide the young man's to the line of fastenings along her back. As she does so, she leans in, draping herself all over the hard chest, letting him feel her soft curves. "A.... ayeah," drawls the farmboy in breathless reply. He is dizzy, both from the curves pressing against his chest and the glorious scent of the multihued mane now just beneath his face, but it does not occur to him now to be grateful that he is lying down. Every remaining bit of David's awareness is claimed by that enchanting voice whispering to him, and it seems vitally important now to follow its suggestion. Buttons. He can undo buttons, aye? His fingers fumble at them now. A soft mmm, "Yes, Davey, unbutton them." Jorianne's shoulders flexing slightly, pressing her curves against his form once again, spine arching to allow him better access to the buttons. "Let's count ... " she teases, enchantingly, "One ... " as David's fingers fumble. "Two ... " "One," he mumbles obediently, a beat after Jorianne does. "Two..." But some back corner of the boy's brain takes over, at this introduction of numbers into this very strange, very pleasant dream. One. Two. One plus one is two. "O-one plus two is three..." His hands, operating entirely on their own by now, keep doggedly at those buttons. That lovely Voice has told him to do it, so it must be done! "Three ... " that softly enchanting voice continues to murmur the count to David, until the final button is released, "Ten ... " Jorianne slowly traces the shape of the young mongrel's ear with her tongue, in a slow, long lick. "Ten... one plus n-nine is ten, one plus ten's 'leven... one..." David's voice catches in response, and stops its strange little mathemetical recitation -- for She, this dream-enchantress, is doing marvelous things to his ear. And furthermore, now that his hands have undone the buttons, his fingers have found bare skin just between the folds of cloth. Bare, soft, warm skin, and it draws his hand irresistibly. The young Mongrel's rough palm stops against that exposed flesh, though, for the sheer feel of it sends almost overwhelming sensation coursing through him. And at her skin being stroked, Jorianne does the predictable thing. She purrs into David's ear, her shoulders lifting, first one, and then the other, letting the dress slip off them slightly. "How many buttons were there?" the enchantress teases the poor lad, with these whispered words. David, his mind stuck back there on 'eleven', stutters for a moment as he finally realizes he'd started reciting the plus tables; embarrassment colors his cheeks, but by now, his time-honored method of warding off uninvited attentions has been well and thoroughly overriden by Jorianne's determination to wrangle her attentions an invitation. The Mongrel makes another choked little groaning noise as her shoulders are bared, as well, his dusky blue gaze pulled to them as though he's never seen anything like them before in his life. "T... ten..." Amber gaze dance as she looks down at David, another shrug of Jorianne's shoulders that causes her dress to slip down further, exposing some of the curve of one breast. A slight tilt of her form brings that particular curve into more profile, for the young man's eyes to feast on. Okay, Davey-lad, you've done one simple motor function: undid a gel's buttons. Let's try something simpler now. Breathe! You can do it, Davey! The poor boy does seem to struggle with this concept, though, as he makes a noise now that suggests he's swallowed a cough. But while his brain is stalled, his left hand trails along the lass' uncovered back now. And his right comes up almost reverently, hovering a moment above that lovely pale swell of a curve, but not yet daring to make actual contact. Meanwhile there's an unmistakable reaction somewhere just south of his waist, while the entire lower half of his body tightens within his breeches. And in the continuing revolt of various portions of his person, all of which appear to be deciding to do exactly whatever comes to mind at the moment, his voice gasps out before he can stop the words, "Ain't nevah seen... so purty... you're so purty...!" A warm little purr from Jorianne, almost a chuckle, as her amber eyes dance. And then, slowly, deliberately, she presses the curve of her breast into David's hand, with a graceful, simple twist and lean of her body. "Touch me." these two words whispered, a command from the enchantress. Contact. And it doesn't scald his fingers right off his hand, for all that David's mind lurches dizzily through a glimmer of a recollection of his mother telling him he shouldn't thrust his hand into a fire -- he'd hurt himself! Wonderingly, he traces the shape of that breast, helpless to do anything but obey that low, purring command. Later, he'll think about what he's doing. Later, when he wakes up out of this glorious dream that's seized him. He has no capacity left for words; all of it is claimed now by the feel of skin against his skin. Both his hands, one and then the other, begin tentative strokes against the flesh they touch. The purring seems to grow louder, her head rolling back, Jorianne's multihued mane shifting around. Another shrug of a shoulder, and shifting of an arm, causing her dress to slip down further, exposing every detail of her breast, for David's touch and gaze. Slowly, she leans in once again, the texture of her hardening nubbin surrounded by smooth curves felt against the young man's callused palm. The less David thinks, the more assured his hands seem to get -- and it helps that the enchantress he's embracing doesn't seem to vanish, turn to smoke, or perhaps his pa's sheepdog who had a habit of trying to sleep on his chest when he was a boy. No, even if his mind is half-convinced she's dream, his body is thoroughly convinced of her reality. At first those lean sun-brown fingers of his stroke Jorianne as gingerly as they might a kitten. But as light on smarts as Davey appears to be, he can clearly learn one thing quickly: this feels _good_, and furthermore, the lovely one seems to want him to do more of it. And so he does, fingertips and palms exploring farther. [And, well, it can be presumed that the inevitable happened. The scene was never finished. ;) End log!]