"Song of Shadow" Log Date: 7/25, 8/11/00 Log Cast: David, Madelyne Log Intro: Like hundreds of other Mongrels within the city of Haven, David lives a simple life doing simple work -- which is appropriate, the acerbic might remark, for a man with a decidedly simple mind. But this particular young Mongrel is not entirely without his artistic sensibilities, even if to display them in public embarrasses him beyond belief. Simple though David might be, he does have a fundamental understanding of a Mongrel's place in the world... and if there's one thing in the world that he's managed to learn and learn well, it's that the wingers are especially prone to making certain he'll be embarrassed if he makes a public spectacle of himself. And so he turns to the quieter places in the city and the quieter hours of the night when he feels a need to put something of himself into song, little realizing that a temperamental young winger lass who shouted at him upon their first meeting might in fact have something in common with the likes of him.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Sunday, November 3, 3906. Year on Earth: 1506 A.D. Phase of the Moon: First Quarter Season: Fall Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* Private Garden - City Park - Haven A more private garden unfolds before you. The area is dominated by the maze in the center, a seven foot tall hedgerow crafted into a labyrinth. At its center, a large marble fountain cascades water off its tiers into a wide, shallow basin below. Scattered throughout the maze and around the periphery of the garden are marble benches, with different beds of flowers ringing each one. Rose bushes circle the central area, and in the warmer months, their scent is a heady aroma that pervades the entire garden. Along the periphery of the lawn, myrtle, lilacs, and honeysuckle bloom in abundance. This garden sees the celebrations and gatherings of the more elite within Haven, the labyrinth a favorite socializing place for those invited. It is said that after each gathering, the configuration changes, whether by some natural or magical phenomena is unknown. A small arbor leads back into the open grounds of the common garden. Contents: Madelyne Obvious exits: Park

For once, David's got some time to himself -- but tonight, at this hour, he can't sleep. And thus, the young Mongrel is out tonight. Tienne, she'd probably scold him. The big city of Haven ain't exactly the same as the little hamlet of Bremany, after all, and a man could get in trouble if he ain't careful. But after walking the entire distance from Bremany to Haven, David's grown accustomed to seeing the stars and moon over his head, and that's exactly what he's doing tonight, starwatching, alone in the little nook of a garden he's stumbled across by happy accident. And because the night is his, because he doesn't have to worry about anyone who'd mock him or chide him or tell him to be silent... because of all these things, as David watches the stars wheel by overhead in the passage towards dawn, the young Mongrel plays at making a new song. His voice lifts and falls in soft easy baritone waves, and he grins to himself, trying out words and rhymes as they occur to him. Madelyne is up in a tree, experimenting with a small reed pipe. Her harp is at her side, like always, and in need of tuning. The soft, windy tones are all but unaudible, but in those odd moments of silence, the sound is so like wind blowing leaves that it can easily be ignored. But there is no wind. And at least for a while, David does seem to ignore the piping -- or at least in his unconscious mind weave it into the background harmony of the night. He's brought nothing out here with him, save the new cloak he's scraped together the money to buy in the market, a cloak to keep off the chill of the nights -- though at the moment this is lying neglected in a pile on the ground beside him, while David leans against a tree and drinks in the sight of the constellations he can make from his vantage point. Tilting his head back, blue eyes half-lidded, the young man drifts out of trying to make up words and into simply letting his voice rise and fall with that subtle tuneful... piping? Or is it wind? He can't feel any, there where he's reclined, but who knows, could be a breeze up there, aye? Every note he hits is purely pitched, low and clear and full. The piping stops as the Empyrean takes her hapr and starts to tune it, humming a tune she'd been working on. She almost has it finished, but for the words. She shivers delicatly and her wings tighten around her to warm her. There is a cold breeze up in the trees. She still does not notice her fellow musician. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear the birdsong up in the branches... wait. Ain't it too late at night for birds to be singing? It's too early for dawn, even the false dawn that amounts to nothing more than a lightning of the sky before the sun begins to rise in earnest. David trails off, sitting up there in front of the oak under which he'd been reclining, trying to listen more carefully now. What _is_ that he's hearing...? Birdsong? Oh, that was so PUNNY! Anywho, her harp tuned, Madelyne starts to play the song she'd been working on. The Harp's music in no way can be mistaken for anything found on this side of death. The sound brings to mind spring, and a stream bubbling over rocks. Soothing and peaceful. "Tyche--" David freezes there on the ground as that harpsong begins to pour forth out of the branches over here. Who else is here, and how long have they been here, and awwww _heck_, they didn't hear him making a fool of himself, did he? Snatching up his cloak, the young Mongrel surges to his feet. Intending to retreat as quickly as possible, he unfortunately places greater emphasis on speed than grace -- and thus, in the darkness, he manages to go tripping over the corner of one of the marble benches in this place. And slamming into the cobblestones that cover the path around the mountain, with a weighty thud. Madelyne stops her playing with a start, the very same thoughts flying through her head. Did he hear her clumsy try at playing the pipe? She jumps off the branch and slowly glides ot the fallen man. "Dominus?" She asks shyly, "Are you ok, Dominus?" The flap of wings, the soft voice -- and oh, Tyche, he's seen _her_ before, hasn't he? Has he? Her face and frame are different under moonlight, though, and so David can only stare uncertainly upward, his throat rippling in a hard swallow before he's able to blurt, "Ah-Ah'm fine, Ah jes' tripped..." As if anxious to demonstrate, he starts to scramble to his feet. Little annoyances like the small throb where he banged his knee and the sting on one palm where he's just scraped one hand are ignored. "Ain't no dom'nus though..." The girl looks at the mongrel nervously. "Then are you a Domina?" she asks, to cover her confusion. Madelyne Standing before you is a tall, lithe girl in her mid to late teens. Her skin is lightly tanned a vibrant and healthy shade of cream. Her wings are often folded like a feathery cloak of the purest snow white. Her features are sharp, yet soft, with lips a pleasant shade of red, not too dark nor to light for her complexion. Her eyes like twin pools of light gray water. Her real beauty, however, is her hair; No jeweler spinning strands of silver and gold could have created the effect of her silver-gold hair in the sunlight, braided with care into a intricate bun on top of her head. She is clothed in a floor-legnth robe of soft wool and a pair of loose silk pants. the collar and sleeves of the robe are embroidered with silver swans in flight. Making it to his feet, grimacing a moment as he wipes his hand against the front of his shirt, David peers uncertainly at the young winged girl; his brow furrows under the black strands of hair that fall across it, return confusion welling across his eyes even though his expression is less readable at this hour of the night, his visage rendered in shades of silver and gray. "Wha...? Now... now, ma'am, Ah ain't 'xactly th' brightest knife in the arm'ry, but even Ah know folks don' go 'round callin' th' likes o' me dom'nus..." Aww, Tyche, he's babbling again, ain't he? Chagrined, he concludes sheepishly, "Thankee, though...!" Madelyne licks her perfectly-colored lips. "Excuse me?" She says, "I can't quite understand what you're saying, Domi..ah.. whatever your name is..." _Of course she can't make out what you're saying, you great backside of a donkey, you talk like a hayseed!_ Blushing profusely, David opens his mouth, closes it again and then ducks his head, scuffing one boot-toe along the ground. "Ah-Ah'm awful sorry, ma'am," he mumbles, then manages to get a little louder as he adds, "Mah name's David...!" Madelyne's face is blank as she works her way past the accent. "Your name's David?" she asks, /her/ voice clear and smooth. There's no doubt in David's mind now that he's seen this girl before. In the Pantheon. With the harp. Ohhhhh Tyche. The urge seizes him to flee even as an entirely contradictory urge to keeping hearing that sweet clear tone falling upon his ears assures he remains planted firmly in place, as solidly as a young tree. Still blushing brightly, he nods several times, making that unkempt forelock of his bob across his brow. Madelyne licks her lips. "Do you play an instrument, David?" she asks, trying to calm him. That question works, if nothing else because of the pure startlement value. Big blue eyes as guileless as a summer sky blink once. Then the young Mongrel blurts, "Whatcha wanna know that fer, ma'am?" Ah, the question even got him to look up, enough to give a better view of the black brows crinkling over those baffled eyes. Madelyne smiles pleasently. "My father was a craftsman and taught me his craft. IF you play something, I would love to see how well made it is." For a few moments, David can't help but stare. This is a winger gal, right? Big ol' white wings, lifting up like a dream of heaven off her shoulders? Same winger gal who gave him what for for looking at her harp too close? What's she doing now, smiling at him (and oh Tyche, pretty little smile she's got, too)? David swallows hard, then shoves a nervous hand through his hair in a futile attempt to push it back from his brow. And he stammers, "Ah-Ah-Ah dunno what th' boys in th' kitchens told ye, ma'am, but Ah-Ah-Ah jes' kinda play 'round with th' singin', honest! Ah don' play nothin', ain't got nothin' t' play--" Still, even with that surge of nervousness that seizes him, David's face and frame are as readable as a day is long, and the yearning under those last few words is unmistakable when coupled with the plaintive set of his features. Yes, she has wings. And she did throw a... well, for lack of a better term, fit. But is was rude!! Well, thats just an excuse... She smiles just as nervously, but hides it under a viel of pleasentry quite skillfully. Her gray eyes, almost colorless, are hidden behind a fall of silver-gold hair. "There is nothing shameful about music." she says, the 'dream of heaven lifting up off her shoulders' twitching uncontrolably. Something is making her nervous. A hand clutches her harp tightly, as she takes heart from the contact to the instriment. David's tanned honest face crinkles up into an expression of deep chagrin. "Ain't hardly nobody gonna wanna listen t' th' likes o' me, ma'am," he answers bemusedly, shoulders slumping, head ducking down a little as his gaze falls to the boot toe he's scruffing into the dirt between the cobblestones beneath his feet. Madelyne's rather pale face turns a little red. "About that noight in the Pantheon..." she begins a bit apologetically, the twitching of her wings tossing a loose feather or two. As they fall, her hands quickly snatch them so she can imp them back on sometime. Her colorless gray eyes meet your and she gripes her harp hard enough to snap it, if it was made of wood. She looks like she's about to say something. Ahh.. the moment of truth! Why she threw a fit and is now pleasent... will it be: A) she was drunk B) On drugs C) Tired or D) All the above? Find out next time on... The Pose is Right! "Ah'm awful sorry!" David bursts out, alarm in those blue eyes now. "Ah didn't mean nothin' by it, ma'am!" He flashes a glance back and forth between the harp and she who holds it, taking an involuntary step backwards as he does so. The winged girl jumps and her mouth hangs open. "Ahh... It..it was my fault. " she says, surprise filling her rich speaking voice, making it far higher than usual. "I was tired and needed some relaxiants." she says, not quite meeting his eyes as she hides her harp behind her back along with the pipes she had been playing. What? David blinks, and then his brow furrows anew under the dark disheveled hair that falls across it. Confronted by unexpected nervousness from the golden-haired harp player, he goes still, his own agitation beginning to drain away in favor of simple puzzlement. "How's 'at?" he asks blankly. "Ah-Ah mean... you was theah, an' Ah shouldn'a come ovah gapin' at your harp -- Ah-Ah-Ah mean, it's purty an' all, but...?" The girl looks just a little peeved. "I over reacted!" she says just a little angerly, "I shouldn't have yelled!" Ok. She's almost yelling. "WILL YOU LET ME APOLOGIZE?!" Its official. She's angry. But for a good reason, right? Comprehension _finally_ dawns. Oh. OH. OH! David blinks rapidly several times as the shout flares out over him, and then he holds up both his hands as if to ward off a blow. "Wha... uh... sure, dom'na... Ah jes'... Ah-Ah jes' ain't used t' winger gals 'pologizin' t' _me_, 'sall, didn't mean no harm! Ah sweah!" Madelyne stares at him for a moment as she tries to understand what she said. She also colors a little, having yelled at someone when she intended to apologies for yelling. "Its not something most Empyreans would do.." she says a bit timidly. "And I'm sorry for yelling at you agian." she adds a bit more firmly. "'Pology accepted, ma'am," David earnestly answers, lowering his hands again. Torn between looking up and looking down, he pauses about halfway between, blue gaze coming up from just under that tousled black forelock even if his head is still shyly ducked. His hands come down to hook themselves in his belt in an unconscious attempt to give them a place to settle. Madelyne shuffles her delicate feet lightly as she thinks of a way to start a conversation agian. "So whats your name and where are you from?" she finally decides to ask, thinking that a safe and polite topic. The young Mongrel blows out a breath, and something that might actually be a smile tugs up one corner of his mouth. Didn't he introduce himself already? But if he got the winger lady all riled up, seems only fair he be patient with her, huh? "David," he says, shifting a bit from foot to foot and wondering for a moment if she actually doesn't _mind_ talking to a Mongrel man in the middle of a deserted garden in the middle of the night. "An', uh, noplace special, ma'am... l'il bitty ol' farm nobody round heah evah heard about...!" A pause. Should he ask _her_ name, in return? Screwing up his courage, he tries to go for it, concluding shyly, "Howsabout you, dom'na?" The girl almost smiles too. She may have been given his name, but she'd forgotten it in her distress. And if that Mogrel man did try something, she'd hit him over the head woith her harp and fly away. Thats the good thing about wings, isn't it? "Madelyne Lywn Kaesurus." she says, "I was born in a city not far from Civitas Dei." she doesn't say a name. After all, he didn't. And she'd rather not have someone able to check her past... Well, either this bashful young Mongrel wouldn't ever conceive of such an idea -- or else he's the best trickster this side of the Sylvans' god Ferrin. There certainly doesn't _seem_ to be a guileful bone in David's rangy body, to be sure. "Honored t' make your 'quaintance, dom'na," he pipes, bobbing his head in lieu of having a hat to tip. Then a bit more of a smile quirks across his mouth, a momentary flash of white against his tanned face and the moonlit darkness. "Didn't 'spect t' be meetin' no gals out heah at this kinda hour, but, uh, well." Madelyne smiles at the last. "That is why I usually come here." She says, "There usuall isn't anyone to here my mistakes." Good Reason, or else she thinks so. "And I'm more active at night as my musical talents are better suited for night." It'd take more than the best trickster this side of Ferrin to fool her. Like all women, she is very concerned about staying..ah... unsoiled. Unlike those filthy Cyprians, raising their skirts to any man with enough coins. "Oh," is David's prompt and vacuous reply, in the sort of tone one uses when not entirely certain about what he's just been told. "Well, uh... iffin you say so, dom'na..." He glances left, glances right, and then asks plaintively, "Y'want me t' git, so's you c'n practice, or somethin'?" The girl shakes her head, her silver-gold hair rippling like waves. "Oh, don't bother yourself over me!" she protests, just a little modestly. "This is a public area." she adds, and walks over to the fountian, taking out a old battered book. "I really don't mind" she adds to any protests the Mongrel might add. "Well... iffin y' wanna practice on your harp, dom'na," David ventures, once again scuffing that boot toe of his and managing to slouch with all six feet of his height, "an' y' don' min' me listenin', Ah'll be raht quiet! Won't make a peep!" Madelyne shrugs her cloth-covered shoulders. "It makes no difference to me." she says, tuning her harp. Stupid thing just won't stay tuned! "But I would like to hear you sing agian." she adds as she makes the finall adjustment to her precious harp. Oh Tyche, there he goes again, freezing with a look a cornered fox might well use when a pack of dogs is bearing down on him. And down goes his gaze, right to his boots. "Y'heard that?" he mumbles tinily. As she carefully opens the old book, she nods. "Uh-hu." she says, flipping pages. "It was pleasent, if not what i'm use to." I know! That was cold, but true. She's use to high, choir singing or her own melancholical brand of music. To be sure, no Empyrean is likely to be particularly accustomed to the earthy, rustic baritone this young Mongrel was putting out before -- and David, for his part, seems rather surprised to hear his unexpected companion of the moment expressing an interest. "Uh... Ah, uh... iffin y'want me to, ma'am," he blurts out sheepishly, "Ah'll sing somethin', ayeah..." He doesn't come closer now that the young Empyrean has settled herself down upon the bench, keeping a cautious distance, though now he has to speak up a bit to make himself better heard. Madelyne smiles a little to herself. She then softly strokes the strings of her harp and, satisfied it is properly tuned and all, plays the opening chord. The music, sad but haunting, stirrs the soul and almost makes someone picture a woman, innocent of crime, being cast down from high... As he promised, David falls immediately silent, his gaze coming back up again at the plaintive, ringing chords that begin to swell forth from the harpstrings. Blue eyes go a little wide and rapt, and the only sound he lets himself make is a tiny exhalation of breath lost beneath the silvery ringing of those soft notes. He still does not come any closer, but he does unconsciously straighten as the music hits his ears. The music takes a harder edge, and of all things, Madelyne starts to sing..! The singing blends in with the music almost seemlessly. Hair, like sunlight, does cover, An angel's face, branded, marked by fate..." Madelyne stops singing, letting her fingers continue moving. "You do not mind If I sing, Dominus?" she asks, load enough to be heard over the music but not load enough to drownd it out. "it has been a while since i've sang this song." "Ah don' mind a'tall!" David blurts, eyes even wider, his voice coming out of him in an awed little whisper. Slowly, as if he were much smaller and many years younger, he sinks right down where he stands to sit upon the ground. Even when sitting he seems to slouch, though now he looks more comfortable with one foot easing out before him and his hands seeming to find something to do at last. One of them, at least. Though his attention remains upon the harpist, the fingers of his right hand begin to tap out the gentle rhythm of the underlying melody upon his knee. Madelyne takes a breath and begins to sing agian, her singing agian mixing with the harp, makign it seem like either the harps singign or she's signing the harp's music. The story the singing tells fit the picture the music had invoked.. She broke the oath Healer to her did dictate. The darkest of sins, clothed in hate. Did she refuse some need? Or in healing, the pain she did feed? The facts are unknown, the reason for the hate, But only this is know: Hair, like sunlight, does cover, An angel's face, branded, marked by fate. The singer pauses for a breather as the music agian shifts to a more hurt, spiteful sound whiel keeping the general melancholical sadness. David doesn't move, past those silent movements of his lean sunbrowned fingers against his knee; in fact, he hardly dares to breathe, what with the unlooked for gift of Madelyne's voice washing over him. The young man finds himself suddenly thinking of how sunshine might sound if someone turned it into a singing voice, warm and golden, though with an ever so slight shadowy undercurrent beneath it -- sunshine through treetops, maybe. In a forest glade. The Empyrean girl's face is a bit too daunting a place to rest his gaze, though her fingers on the harpstrings are not; he watches them, his own unthinkingly mimicking their moments. And, raptly, he listens. Madelyne licks her lips and begins agian, and tries to finish the song as best she can before she needs to rest her fingers. Cast down, vilified, she does seek A place of safety, while still weak. Among the Outcasts, She finds her place Among the Outcasts, She finds some peace From scorn, pity she does not seek Yet even then, she cannot hide, Yet even then, does the knowledge abide Hair, like sunlight, does cover An angel's face, branded, marked by fate. The girl finishes the song in a rush and plays her harp on, and this time the mental image is if a black-clad Empyrean, a fall of hair coverign her forehead. To those familiar with her, the figure is Cynara. And to those not; the figure is dark and mysterious, every breathe a testament to a woman who lives on, although she has been publicly outcasted. A Fallen angel. David does not know of the Lady of Thorns; indeed, this guileless farmboy has done well to put names and faces to some of the Pantheon's less illustrious... or infamous... patrons. But the notes and the sung words tug at his mind regardless, minor chords prodding an imagination that normally does not rouse itself except through music. He shudders slightly, letting himself lost in the musical portrait Madelyne is weaving for all that it leaves him feeling as if he ought to be looking over his shoulder into the shadows. That would be a good idea as Cynara did reacted violently to the song being sung with her at the table next to Madelyne's. The girl stops her playing and promptly looks around nervously. "Please, Dominus, Don't tell anyone about that song." Her voice is almost hysterical and certainly frightened. "I fear I will not live long afterwards." Once the song ceases David shakes himself as if rousing from a dream -- and then he straightens where he sits, brow crinkling anew as he peers up at the winged girl upon the bench. "Uh... okay," he pledges easily enough, though he's once again looking vaguely confused. But there's concern there as well in the Mongrel's features, as well as in his heavily accented words. "Y'mean... somebody's out t' git ya, ma'am?" Madelyne nods a little. "I Sung that song in the presence of the one it is about and she threatened murder if I ever sung it agian." she says simplily. "She's a Branded Healer and the leader of the Outcastes from all accounts." "Tyche," breathes David then, in anxious tones. He shifts position, trying to figure out exactly how to react to having such a thing confided to him, and at last he settles upon continuing, "Well, uh... Ah don' know nothin' bout no Outcasts, Miz Mad'lyne, but Ah won' tell nobody you sung that..." A pause, and then he finishes sheepishly, "It... weren't like nothin' Ah evah heard befoah...!" Given what seems to be the Mongrel's customary shy demeanor, not to mention his slightly slow wits, that might almost be dismissable as faint praise -- except that a gleam of something like understanding has coalesced in his expression, as if that haunting construction of lyrics and chords has actually triggered off something behind those otherwise vacant blue eyes. Madelyne smiles shyly. "Thank you, Dominus." She says, and turns her attention to preparing her harp for packing and closing the old book that contains all her songs, written from the time she was twelve to just a few minutes ago. Her eyes and smile glow warmly at the praises. This is way she defied her father and ran away! This is why she moves from inn to inn! She quietly basks in the praises. Her rather poeticness ois broken by a yawn as the sun peeks out from behind the Varati Mountains in the distance. It _is_ getting lighter out, isn't it? The light's been gaining strength so subtly that David certainly hasn't noticed it before -- but the yawn does catch his attention, and he blinks a bit as if only just now realizing the passage of time. "Gittin' late," he says thoughtfully, and then he grins fleetingly, something that might almost be a bit of laughter coming out of him, low and resonant. "Or Ah-Ah guess, gittin' early, huh, ma'am?" Madelyne smiles sleepily but cheerfully. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" she says, "if you will pardon me, I must be going." She says, standing. Immediately David leaps to his feet, blurting out in boyish earnestness, "Uh, d'ya need a walk home, ma'am? Or anythin'? Kept ya up, least Ah-Ah-Ah c'n do--" Apparently it doesn't occur to the young Mongrel that a girl with wings is _not_ restricted to taking the streets back to her dwelling place. Madelyne grins quite childishly. "I'll fly to my room at the Palladium." she says, lying a little. Actually, she'll just fly around overhead and after he leaves land and find a peaceful branch for herself. "Oh," comes that slightly bemused reply of David's; says this a lot, doesn't he? Does he usually wander around through life with that faintly perplexed look on his earnest young face? Regardless of whether he's always this slow on the uptake, the young Mongrel bobs his head earnestly... and now, just a little sheepishly. Oh. Right. She has WINGS. "Uh... okay, dom'na, Ah bettah git goin' too, 'cause Ah gotta work th' kitchen t'day... so, uh, ave, an' all--!" He somehow manages a bow, though it's a clumsy one. He's like an overgrown puppy falling over his own feet, this young man trying to handle the concept of manners. Madelyne smiles agian and before taking off, curties neatly. "Ave, David." she says, and launches into the air, wings beating as she glides up, up and away! [End log.]