"Winged Hatred, Winged Hope"

Log Date:
	6/1, 6/2/99

Log Cast:
	TempestTouch, Phoebe, Faanshi, Xerise, Craft, NPC Varati silk
merchant (emitted by Phoebe)

Log Intro:
	As she waits for word on whether her absent mistress Kiera will
permit her to accompany Thomas Murako to Avalon, Faanshi has continued her
forays into Haven -- for if nothing else, there are always errands to be
run for the shudra and naraki who dwell within Atesh-Gah, and she is
beginning to learn to be cautious when venturing into the city's more
dangerous quarters... or when venturing out at the more dangerous times of
day.
	But as prevalent as the errands she finds to run are the violence
and danger that seem rife within the city, and on one excursion into the
Rialto, Faanshi stumbled across what turned out to be a murder when she
and a Healer Adept of Delphi failed to save the life of the stabbed Jelara.
Her magic overextending itself by the attempt to save the mortally wounded
Empyrean, Faanshi collapsed, unaware that her efforts had not gone
unnoticed, barely aware of the pair of Empyreans who bestirred themselves
to escort her back to Atesh-Gah.
	Little does she know that at least one of those Empyreans definitely
remembers her... that the Delphi Adept reported her actions to his superiors
in the Citadel... that rumors of her activities have prompted someone
else to begin searching Haven for her, with an offer to be made... and that
outside Atesh-Gah as well as within it, some people just do _not_ want
her to heal them...

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Dawnside)
          Date on Aether:  Sunday, September 27, 3904.
           Year on Earth:  1504 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  First Quarter
                  Season:  Late Summer
                 Weather:  Partly Cloudy
             Temperature:  Hot
*==========================================================================*
The aroma of baked goods lures you south toward the Rialto.
The Rialto - Haven(#159RDJM)
     Reigning over the Rialto is the very heart of Haven: the Delphic Citadel. 
  It dwarfs the other buildings, which cluster around it like so many children 
  seeking a parent's protection. Day or night, rain or shine, its walls seem 
  to glimmer with a light of their own, as if, over the centuries, the magic 
  within had slowly permeated the entire structure. The main tower soars 
  higher than the tallest tree, and each side tapers inward so that it 
  resembles a giant obelisk. Four smaller towers stand at the four points of 
  the compass, representing the unification of each race under Delphi's 
  government.
     And here is where they all gather. The Rialto is the famed marketplace of 
  Haven, full of shops, stalls, and brightly colored tents. The shouts of 
  merchants, the haggling of patrons, the music of entertainers, and the 
  laughter of children create a nigh-constant cacophony that assaults the 
  senses. But the Rialto is nothing if not exciting, and crowds often gather 
  here for important events and public addresses.
                      (Note: 'places' are enabled here.)                      
Contents: 
TempestTouch 
Phoebe                          
Obvious Exits:
   Streets <N,S,E,W,NE,NW,SE,SW>  Delphic Citadel <DC>      

Night brings a certain air of excitement to the marketplace. The dust of the 
  day can hardly be seen, the lanterns throwing leaping shadows lending magic 
  to romance and loosing the adrenaline of rogues. Approaching dawn, however, 
  activity has slowed. From stall to stall in the poorer end of the Rialto 
  moves a unobtrusively clad Sylvan, making quietly murmured enquiries of the 
  few proprietors who haven't shut up their stores.

Why oh why can't it cool down? You'd think she was one of those 
  weak-in-the-heat Atlanteans from the way Phoebe is draaaagging her way 
  through the crowds. The child's face is shiny with a layer of grimy sweat, 
  the grubby clothes worn stick to her body here and there with each step, and 
  the wings springing from her back droop pathetically to allow pinions to 
  drag in the dust. No, this Empyrean youngling is not coping at all well with 
  the dark, thick air. Or perhaps it's the task of having to actually trudge 
  around town, instead of fly there. Whatever the reason, Phoebe looks 
  miserable. Every so often, she'll pause in front of one of the booths or 
  stalls. But her mind doesn't really seem to be on purchasing anything, and 
  even the merchants that have grown to become wary of the brat don't seem to 
  pay much attention to her.

For some who might wish to enter the marketplace and run less of a risk of 
  being observed doing so, the wee hours before dawn are not necessarily the 
  wisest of times to set foot in the Rialto. But as it happens, given what 
  took place the _last_ time she was here, Faanshi would just as soon 
  face the square with as small a crowd as possible. There isn't much that's 
  surreptitious about her; for all that her walk is timid, her head demurely 
  lowered as she goes, the girl's Varati garments are in strong, bold shades 
  of red and blue and gold, and you could see her coming from yards away in 
  the middle of a fog. Allowing herself to look up only as much as is 
  necessary to avoid colliding with anyone, she ventures into the marketplace 
  on a course apparently intended to shy her as far away from the Delphic 
  Citadel as possible, while she goes looking through the stalls and booths 
  for the seller of herbs she'd managed to discover.

For all that her words are muted, sheer repetition brings a few of 
  TempestTouch's questions to slip between the background hum of the people in 
  the square. "... rogue ... healer?" More often than not her enquiries are 
  met with a tired laugh, scorn embittering the tone. A finger is pointed to 
  her own forehead and the woman dismissed. "Varati? Colorful clothes?" The 
  pieces are put together, at least up until the point she almost stumbles 
  over the listless Phoebe.

That usually would mean at least a kicked shin for the unfortunate stumbler, 
  but Phoebe is a bit too grumpytired to worry about such niceties. A verbal 
  attack is chosen instead, almost lost in the whoosh of wings flying out to 
  assist balance -- a lopsided whoosh, given the left wing only twitches 
  gingerly so as not to strain the booboo. "What where you're going! You 
  almost squooshed me!" Shuffling back -- out of convenient swatting range -- 
  the child glowers up at TempestTouch. Any and all reminders of how short she 
  is, in whatever form, are not appreciated thankyouverymuch. And how many 
  people stumble over tall individuals? Faanshi might be grateful however... 
  the near-accident keeps the child's gaze from roaming towards the loathed 
  Khalida colors of her outfit, as it was about to do. Spooky instinct and 
  all, for this brat.

There are only a handful of individuals who have seen Faanshi without the blue 
  silken veil that usually hides her face -- but even with most of her 
  countenance concealed, the maiden is identifiable readily enough on the cut 
  and color of her raiment alone. To top it off, the green gaze that peeks 
  momentarily out from over the top of her veil makes her quite identifiable 
  to the tired-looking middle-aged Atlantean herb-seller. The man proceeds to 
  greet her quite politely, but gently refuses to sell her any of his stock.

An equally startled squawk, lacking decorum and solemnity, flees 
  TempestTouch's lips. "Bwar! Sorry." It takes a moment for her gaze to lower 
  down to the child, having expected a taller individual. "I, that is, you..." 
  Stumbled apology is paused as vague recognition wriggles its way to the 
  forefront of her attention. "I treated you, once. You and that other one. 
  Damaged again, I see." A wry and dry chuckle is freed, "I don't suppose 
  /you/ have seen a healer about? In Varati silks? Female? Sneaky?" The sheer 
  tone of her enquiries indicates she's not expecting any useful response at 
  all; after all, what could a child know?

Planting her good hand on one cocked hip, Phoebe continues the exercise in 
  glaring up at the Sylvan. Oh yes, she remembers the icky goopy stuff she had 
  to use, and the way she was tricked into not biting a few fingers off of the 
  branded healer's hand. "I got shotted," she explains in her chirpy voice, 
  tossing her chin in as adult a manner as she can manage. /Just/ to point out 
  that she knows a patronizing tone when she hears one. "One of the black and 
  silver demon death guards did it." The question takes a moment of 
  consideration, during which the child pooches her lower lip out in what -- 
  she hopes -- is a thoughtful and mature expression. "I haven't seen anyone 
  like that. She have a mark on her forehead like you do?"

Well, no; her forehead, as it happens, is one of the few visible features of 
  the face of Faanshi, and its warm golden skin is unmarred. However, 
  it is also turned in the direction of the Atlantean herb-merchant, as she 
  comes as close as she dares to arguing her case with him. Arguing, in 
  Faanshi's lexicon, means earnest pleading, and there's a kind of sympathy in 
  the eyes of the aging Child of Water that suggests that he is not entirely 
  dead-set against bartering with her. But he remembers what he'd seen the 
  other night when a dying Empyrean had attracted a crowd... and this girl in 
  her shudra silks had crouched over her. And he is not entirely at ease with 
  the notion of helping this maiden too obviously right under the eyes of 
  Delphi. The two of them continue to speak back and forth in low tones, and 
  at last, Faanshi begins to turn away, her posture one of disappointment.

"Shot." returns the flat statement of disbelief, "By a black and silver demon 
  of death." TempestTouch shakes her head minutely. "That woman who looks 
  after you has been feeding you far too much powdered root of hallygrove." 
  Finding little enough help from Phoebe, already her gaze has begun to 
  wander, "No, no mark, I don't believe." The response falls absently. "If 
  you'd return to the Song tomorrow, I can take a look at your 'shotted' wing 
  and fix it up, though."

That gains the most horrified of looks. Fix it up and lose the scar she won 
  most valiantly in battle with the Agni-Haidar? Hardly! Phoebe's wing curls 
  defensively to her back as a few precautionary steps are taken backwards. 
  "Ismene doesn't feed me root of anything." Have to defend the sister figure, 
  understand. "And I don't want you to. That's okay, I mean. Um." In a 
  surprising moment of rationality, the child switches from offensive to 
  almost polite. Perhaps hoping to sweettalk the healer out of any silly 
  notions such as making the scar go away. Looking around, she chirps 
  carefully, "What's she doing wearing demon silks?"

"Imphada, wait--" This is from the Atlantean, who calls out softly to halt 
  Faanshi's departure before she turns completely away from his stall.

And the shudra girl goes still, and then hesitantly turns back around, 
  murmuring out a protest to being given that title, for is she not a mere 
  servant? The herb-seller lifts an eyebrow, but shifts unruffledly to calling 
  her "good maiden" and murmurs a few more words to her: directions. Something 
  in what he tells her eases something of the nervousness out of Faanshi's 
  green eyes, and she bobs her head over her clasped hands to him. With a 
  namaste' and a farewell, she turns to try to follow these new directions out 
  of the marketplace.

With a certain distracted lack of patience for the child's questions, made 
  worse by her refusal to be helped, TempestTouch's response begins curtly, 
  "She wears them because...", the rest is lost to time's memory of What Might 
  Have Been as the Sylvan dives and wriggles between the crowd, aiming towards 
  the flash of color which marks Faanshi's position. This earns her more than 
  a few curses as her weaving passage is markedly lacking in agility and 
  subtlety. "Damned oathbreakers." "Oughta be exiled, I say." The trail of 
  disgusted comments flows in her wake.

Xerise soars in from the skies above.
Xerise has arrived.

"Stuff it up your..." The last word (suitably shocking and inappropriate for a 
  child) of this insult directed at those mutterers in the crowd is lost in 
  background noise. Phoebe may not like healers -- any healers, marks don't 
  matter -- but she's not about to let anyone else get away with being the one 
  to badmouth people around here. Crinkling her nose, the child then turns to 
  watch the Sylvan walk away before trudging on her own merry way. Towards the 
  stickybun vendor man. Maybe sugar will help her feel better.

Xerise settles in an open area, and rummages for a moment in her pouch. 
  Careful steps take her to a table by the food vendors, and she considers it 
  for a moment before shaking her head, and moving to the next one. Another 
  careful scrutiny, and a nod. That's the table. She pulls out a scroll and a 
  quill, pausing to dip it in something in her satchel. The something - likely 
  a secured ink pot - is covered tightly, and Xerise puts nib to parchment, 
  scribbling something on the scroll.

It's certainly not difficult to track the maiden in Khalida scarlet and azure 
  and gold, especially since Faanshi seems to be having a bit of trouble 
  trying to remember which way she needs to go to reach the Atlantean quarter 
  of Haven. West, or south? Edging slowly through the sparse crowd, giving a 
  wide berth to everyone in sight, the shudra girl pauses, peeking in both the 
  questioned directions over the top of her veil.

Soon enough TempestTouch arrives at Faanshi's shoulder, where she pauses. 
  Lines pull about the corners of her eyes and one hand rises to push in 
  unconscious habit at the scar marking her forehead. Of the insults which 
  followed, only the barest twitch of one ear indicates she even heard them. 
  "Uhhh... Chookma, healer." The rise to the end of the words tugs what should 
  be a statement into an uncertain question.

A few tiny coins are produced in exchange for a horrifically gooey confection 
  of pastry, cinnamon and honey. Clutching this tooth-rotting treat in her 
  right hand, Phoebe then proceeds to a table. With the insensitive instincts 
  of childhood, it just happens to be the table Xerise has stationed herself 
  at. Sticky fingers and parchment are usually a poor mix, though there 
  appears to be little risk of the two meeting any time soon -- save that 
  Phoebe takes a rather close seat to the other Empyrean, peeking without 
  shame at whatever's being scribbled. Completely unsubtle, that's her motto.

Xerise glances over at the other girl, then at the sticky confection in her 
  hand...and there is a faint wince as she sees how close said confection is 
  to her precious parchment. So she stops writing, surreptitiously rolling up 
  the parchment even as she greets the young girl. "Ave, Domina."

_By the Mercy of Ushas... I really -must- learn directions..._ Feeling 
  particularly conscious of her still potent discomfort with the vast warren 
  of Haven's streets, murmuring the herb-merchant's directions under her 
  breath, Faanshi doesn't see TempestTouch coming. Only when the word 'healer' 
  is uttered, so close to her, does the girl jolt in nervous reaction. She 
  might be a brightly-hued fledgling just barely knocked out of her nest -- if 
  one can forgive an avian analogy for a Child of Fire -- but among the 
  hard-won bits of knowledge Faanshi has begun to acquire is a niggling 
  awareness that her status as healer is a questionable thing. Especially in 
  the Rialto. Green eyes flicker round unsurely, before their gaze falls upon 
  TempestTouch and then shyly drops to the paving-stones. "You... speak to me, 
  imphada?" she asks.

TempestTouch
Compact of form, this woman displays a subdued power in her movements that 
  never seems quite realized. She has lost the soft layer of flesh gained from 
  city living, muscle and sinew evident beneath tanned skin. Tell-tale pointed 
  ears extend up, parting the moon-pale hair which hangs whisper-thin about 
  her face, the short cut haphazard in appearance. An impishly upturned nose 
  and a ready smile reveal someone at peace with her place in the world, 
  despite the painfully reshaped flesh on her forehead, declaring her a 
  branded healer. Swirling about the cross is a number of dark lines; a 
  tattoo. It makes the cross the centrepiece of a whorling mass of dancing 
  patterns, transforming the mark of shame into a celebration of life and form.
Soft leather boots hug her feet, tied up to her knees with crisscrossing ties 
  and decorated at the top with matching silver-grey feathers. A simple skirt 
  reaches down to her knees of a matching brown to the shirt covering her 
  torso. The edge of both garments have been fringed, whispering lightly 
  against tanned skin.

"Ave." Sweetened by several greedy bites of stickybun, Phoebe's mood has 
  improved somewhat. The wings affixed to the shoulders of the much older 
  female may have something to do with it as well. "What're you doing?" is 
  asked curiously, after another huge chomp is taken from the pastry. Those 
  dark sapphire eyes did not miss the removal of the parchment. Illiterate she 
  may be, polite she is not. And she wasn't done staring at the meaningless 
  swirls yet.

Xerise smiles gently. "Merely inscribing memories before they flee like 
  thieves in the night."

Much like the action of a spring, Faanshi's twitch causes TempestTouch to 
  start, backing a quick pace away. One hand adjusts the strap to her cloth 
  pack with a nervous motion. "I guess so. You /are/ the one? The one from the 
  other night?" Details are conspicuous by their absence.

That made sense. Kind of. Or at least... Phoebe nods as if she understood. 
  Important to keep up the adult facade, yes it is. "Why?" A word to the wise. 
  Rarely is it a Good Thing to open the door to questions for a child under 
  the age of ten.

The other night. There's only one 'other night' standing out in Faanshi's 
  memory at this moment, but it is entirely beyond the shudra maiden's ken 
  whether this point-eared stranger might have the same 'other night' in mind 
  as she. "I know not of which night you speak, imphada," she murmurs uneasily.

Craft is lured in from the north by the aroma of baked goods.
Craft has arrived.

Xerise seems, surprisingly, willing to entertain the questions. "Because I 
  like to write. It's part of what I do."

Amid the soft pinks and oranges that are beginning to filter into the relative 
  darkness of the night sky, an Empyrean Praetor glides over the Rialto, 
  picking a choice vendor's booth to land on and perch, watching the early 
  morning crowd as it filters through the Rialto.

Stance shifting, the branded Sylvan beckons the veiled woman to follow her as 
  she moves the few steps out of the way of general traffic and within the 
  shadow of the buildings which define an alleyway. "The /other/ night. With 
  the Empyrean woman." Perhaps that is enough to catch Faanshi's interest.

Mmmhmm. A crinkle-nosed look is Phoebe's opinion of /that/. Still ravaging the 
  stickybun with sharp little teeth -- and chewing while talking, with little 
  concern for what Xerise may be unfortunate to see in the brat's mouth while 
  doing so -- she remarks, "Ismene likes to write. She does all of the number 
  book stuff for Domina Jenean." The tone of her voice makes it quite plain 
  that the job is considered Boring. Accent on the Boring. Propping an elbow 
  up on the table, lazily inspecting what is left of the pastry in her hand, 
  the kid adds, "Silly to write those down, when they're in your head anyways."

Near the southwestern corner of the marketplace, one among the crowds is a 
  maiden in Varati raiment, reds and golds and blues growing brighter with the 
  approach of the dawn. Typical of one without wings, and of one who has not 
  been raised in awareness of winged ones' ways, Faanshi does not 
  watch the skies; accordingly, she takes no notice of whoever might be 
  gliding down out of the air. Her attention has fallen solidly upon 
  TempestTouch, and as the Sylvan slips alleyward, the maiden pauses, even 
  more uneasily. This particular fledgling has _also_ learned that following 
  strangers into alleyways can prove quite dangerous, and it is with great 
  reluctance that she takes a single step forward, and that only because of 
  the words 'Empyrean woman'. "W-why do you... wish to know, imphada?" she 
  whispers.

Craft shifts every so often on the roof of the vendor's booth, watching 
  people, conversations. Indeed, this man may not have anything better to do 
  than just /watch/ people. Of course, it could come with the job. After each 
  shift, however, the Optio of the Praetorian Guard freezes statuelike, his 
  pilum reaching high into the sky above his perched, huddled down body.

Xerise grins a little. "Ah, but see. They won't always stay in your head. 
  Eventually, you'll forget. And that's why I am here. Although I don't do 
  anything with numbers. I write stories of the past. Tales from our 
  ancestors. Tales of the present, saved for the future. Although I bet you 
  think that's boring, too." She caught that expression, earlier.

While no stranger to the timid ways of the traditional Varati women, the 
  apparent lack of self-assertion still slides over TempestTouch's nerves as a 
  knife on glass. "Because we need you!" The reply is hissed, frustration 
  warring with a need of some measure of secrecy. Green eyes glimmer as the 
  sun's rays begin to peek over the horizon, gaze shifting amongst the 
  marketplace with calculating efficiency.

Then Xerise'll definitely catch the same expression, doubled, now. "/I/ 
  wouldn't forget," Phoebe insists, huffing a little with indignation. 
  Forgetting is for old people, and it's a going bet around the docks that 
  this particular child won't live long enough to enjoy old age. "It's boring 
  to just sit there and read something. Better to go out and have fun." Which, 
  at the moment, counts as licking the last bits of drippy honey from her 
  fingers after finishing the stickybun.

With a Warlord like the dour Hashim as the leader of the Clan of her birth, 
  Faanshi can't exactly be aught _but_ timid; indeed, it's by a massive effort 
  of will that she's begun her forays out into Haven from Atesh-Gah to begin 
  with. The word 'need', however, slices across the maiden arguably as keenly 
  as her demeanor slices TempestTouch's nerves. Faanshi goes rigid where she 
  stands, color draining out of what little is visible of her face. "Is 
  someone hurt...?"

Xerise admits, "I'm quite dull. I find this to /be/ fun." Of course, she's 
  ancient, you know, even if to most she wouldn't look it. "So what do you 
  think would be better fun?" She seems quite serious. "I'm curious. It's been 
  long and long since I was your age."

Reassurances slide rapidly from TempestTouch's lips, "Oh no! Not right now, 
  anyway." At least the title has been dropped, however temporarily. "That is, 
  people are always hurt. And we could use your skills. To help. To teach." 
  Her nostrils flare wide as forest senses try to cope with the chaotic 
  suffusion of inputs, automatically trying to sort out impending threat from 
  background data.

That's quite the loaded question, and one that is given due consideration. 
  Better fun? Lots of things. Phoebe spends a moment or three pondering before 
  giving her answer. "I dunno. Spitting on s'more demons, maybe? That was 
  fun." That was /awfully/ fun, to judge by the gleam in her eyes. Not that 
  she's completely blind to the repercussions of such an action, as is evident 
  when the scar-marked wing rustles forward for an absent scratch on the bare 
  patch. "Or helping give the Praetormen fighting lessons. That was fun too."

Xerise looks thoughtful. "I see. Spitting on demons, fighting lessons...sticky 
  pastries?" She looks at your fingers for a moment. "Lobbing sticky pastries 
  at fighting demons?" She can't be serious. Can she?

Unwilling to go farther out of open view than the mouth of that alleyway, 
  Faanshi lingers there like a wary young fawn eyeing a potentially 
  bear-occupied cave. She has yet to meet TempestTouch's leaf-colored gaze 
  with her own, and at the Sylvan's newest words, consternation colors the 
  tone of the maiden in Varati garb. "If... you wish me to go somewhere, and 
  help someone, imphada," she begins awkwardly, "I can try, but... but I am a 
  shudra, and I, I would not be a good teacher..."

"You would be surprised who can teach," returns the low answer. Traces of dry 
  humor tinge Tempest's response. From within the failing embrace of the 
  shadows of the alley, she continues to eye off the gargoyle-esque Craft, now 
  she has spied him. "Think about it. Leave a message at the Song for me if 
  you're interested." Perhaps because it garnered such an immediate response 
  last time, she closes with, "We do need you." And with that, booted feet 
  begin to edge backwards, further into the alley.

For just one instant, Phoebe /almost/ seems to take the idea seriously. Those 
  eyes sure lit up. But practicality rears its ugly head. "Who'd want to waste 
  stickybuns on demons?" Xerise wins herself another crinkled nose. "But 
  stickybuns are fun too. Eating them, I mean. And getting them from the 
  stickybun vendor man without him seeing, sometimes." A glance is flicked at 
  said merchant, who would have to be the roaming vendor that still appears 
  somewhat dazed at actually receiving payment from the bratling for the gooey 
  treats. One thing leads to another -- easily distracted, she is -- and that 
  gaze continues to skim around the marketplace, idly taking everything in.

"But... but, imphada... what is the Song? Who are you...?" Her brow crinkling 
  over her own green eyes, Faanshi peeks uncertainly at the Sylvan stranger 
  before her. Naive she might be, but even to her innocent experience it seems 
  difficult to leave a message for someone for whom she has no name.

Xerise hms. "True. They are too valuable to waste in such a venture, I'd 
  imagine. I like seedcakes, myself. They're nearly as sweet, but not as 
  sticky."

Success; TempestTouch finally appears to have garnered enough of Faanshi's 
  attention to draw her gaze more levelly. "The Siren's Song. It's a tavern. 
  TempestTouch. That's my name." The Sylvan bares her teeth in a quicksilver 
  grin, all too aware it's not an appellation which would inspire trust, but 
  nonetheless amused at the irony of the situation.

"Sticky is part of the fun. Watch." Phoebe hops up from the bench and flashes 
  a grin at Xerise before bouncing a few steps away. Apparently the 
  distraction led to an idea. Usually not a Good Thing either. Her path is set 
  to intercept one of the Varati silk merchants trundling by on the way to 
  open his shop, after purchasing breakfast at a nearby vendor's stall. The 
  large (large large large) man is done up in the finest his craft has to 
  offer. A walking billboard, in more ways than one, he is. And a sudden 
  'accidental' stumble bumps Phoebe right into him. Allowing her to leave a 
  glistening honey-handprint right on the rich silk layers covering his fanny. 
  Ooops. "Sorry!"

Xerise's hand is, quite suddenly, covering her nose and mouth as she watches 
  the situation. And is that a grin back behind there? Probably not from 
  Domina Stuffy, no. Couldn't possibly be.

If the name of TempestTouch is one unlikely to inspire trust, one couldn't 
  tell it from the lack of apparent reaction in the visage of the shudra girl. 
  Faanshi seems no more wary than she already is, her gaze flickering down 
  again, but obviously more from shyness than any wandering attention. "I will 
  remember, imphada," she murmurs, "but... could you tell me more...? I cannot 
  leave Atesh-Gah for very long..."

Craft quirks his head, eyeing someone he thinks is familiar, but rather than 
  seem rude and stare, he shifts his gaze shortly afterwards, resettling it 
  elsewhere.

Anyone who knows Phoebe, and the chaos that follows her around, would probably 
  be suffering from deja vu. The angry shout that comes out of the Varati 
  occurs all too often when the child wanders into an area. Spinning around in 
  a few circles, the man tries to pluck the stained silks away from his body 
  before rounding on the Empyrean child. Oops for real, this time. Normally 
  quick to get away, Phoebe miscalculates how much an injured wing throws her 
  balance off -- and stumbles honestly. "Erk!" is all she has time to get out 
  before a little arm is grabbed firmly. Someone is about to have a close 
  encounter with the inside of nearest water barrel...

Silence is the veiled woman's only response, for the moment Faanshi's head 
  lowers, TempestTouch has turned and moved away. Only the briefly lingering 
  scent of fresh herbs gives any sign she was ever present, and even that is 
  overpowered by the strong city odours.

Gone, and swiftly -- Faanshi blinks several times, wondering how in the name 
  of the Amir-al someone can vanish with such speed. Bemused, the maiden edges 
  slowly back out into the square, her attention wavering around as she 
  belatedly becomes aware of the irritated bellow of the Varati merchant.

Craft's attention is quick to flick to the disturbance at the far side of the 
  Rialto, and the Optio is immediately off his perch, soaring to where the 
  Varati has picked up the child, "Halt!" he shouts, eyes narrowing as he 
  swoops in for a landing close to the offended Varati...

Xerise is already half-out of her seat, meaning to go over and sooth the 
  merchant, but Craft is much quicker - the disadvantage to sitting, instead of 
  perching. Still, she continues over to the others, a worried expression on 
  her face.

TempestTouch makes her way south, toward Seaside.
TempestTouch has left.

Offended /Varati/? Phoebe is the one currently being hoisted by her petard, 
  with the intention of a thorough dunking in a nearby barrel of rainwater. 
  Scowling, the large silk-draped 'demon' pauses to look at Craft -- ignoring 
  the crude squalls and squirms of the child he's so cruelly manhandling. "She 
  ruined my best jubbah!" A slight half-step turn is made to show the Optio 
  the tiny handprint on the silk covering his more than ample derriere, 
  lending some credence to the complaint.

Craft's gaze slowly turns from Varati-ass to the squirming child. "Did you do 
  this?" The Praetor asks simply, one brow arching on the man's forehead as 
  his arms cross over his dark-colored armor.

Well, Faanshi might be unused to watching the skies, but when a winged shadow 
  swoops by overhead she cannot help but glance up in involuntary startlement. 
  The figure of Craft stops her cold for several moments as it strikes her 
  that she has seen this one somewhere before -- and then she realizes where 
  and when, and a deep flush colors her face behind her veil. It is time, she 
  suspects, to make a discreet exit. Cutting a course to swing wide of the 
  argument, though, Faanshi gets a glimpse of the way Phoebe's wing hangs 
  oddly.... and something twists within her. Almost against her will she 
  slows... and then reluctantly turns to approach the merchant. "Please, 
  imphadi, I beg you," she speaks up in faltering tones, "put her down; she is 
  hurt...!"

Xerise catches up to the others. "Imphadi, Optio - I am sure that it was 
  merely an accident. Please, put the child down before her injury is 
  compounded.."

"It was an accident, I tripped! Make him put me down!" Not that the merchant 
  seems at all inclined to do any such thing when both the innocent protest 
  comes indignantly from the child, and the requests coming from the Varati 
  and Empyrean females. Rather, he tightens the grip he has on the scrawny arm 
  in his grasp -- to compensate for the fierce wriggling Phoebe has set up by 
  flailing her good wing about. An effective way to clear a small circle 
  around the participants, to be sure. No one wants to be smacked by a 
  feathery bludgeon. Keeping her at arm's length to avoid a fluffy beating, 
  the man snaps at Faanshi, "Mind your place, girl. This one deserves a 
  beating -- several of them -- for the trouble she causes around here. 
  Possible that she's not the only one either."

Craft's gaze swings back to the Varati merchant. "I do not think that a public 
  beating would suit anyone well, seeing as how if you touched that girl in a 
  harmful manner the various Praetors who are watching us right now would most 
  likely be more than capable of stopping the act, and if that happens, then 
  the Varati warriors would not be very pleased, and then the Hounds would not 
  be happy at all, so...." he takes a breath, eyes unwavering from the 
  merchant before him, "I propose we settle this in a civilized manner. How 
  much does your garment cost? I will purchase a new one for you, albeit 
  probably of lesser quality, but I will personally see that the young one 
  here washes yours and returns it with an apology. This way no one is hurt, 
  and the slate is cleaned." He lets the remark about the halfbreed woman 
  pass, though most likely it did not suit him well. Still, he holds his 
  composure: stern, yet friendly.

Under the merchant's harsh and authoritative tones, Faanshi visibly flinches, 
  her gaze riveting itself groundward. "Yes, imphadi," is all she manages to 
  whisper, and she inches back, ill at ease. But her gaze comes up again after 
  a moment, for now that she's drawn near, something keeps dragging her 
  attention to that injured wing. "But... please, beat _me_ if you wish, 
  only... put her down, I beg you...!"

For a half-moment, Craft's gaze is averted to the halfbreed woman, the silent 
  statement of recognition, "you," in his eyes.

An apology?! Phoebe sucks in a huge breath, no doubt to loose a stream of 
  invective protest that would flatten a minor city, but is conveniently kept 
  from doing so by a firm shake from the merchant. What escapes from her mouth 
  is a stuttery, teeth-chattering noise instead.

"A reasonable bargain," the Varati states reluctantly once the matter of 
  silencing the Empyrean brat has been accomplished, eyeing up Craft 
  critically. "Two denarius should cover it. With the apology, and the return 
  of the jubbah." Faanshi is... well, Faanshi is given a look that would serve 
  the same purpose as Phoebe's intended scathing remark. Yes, quite tempting 
  is the thought of raising a fist or two at the moment. But the Optio is 
  given due attention. For now.

Xerise sniffs slightly, although for what reason is unclear.

Craft does not frown, nor smile, but simply nods. Reaching into a small pouch 
  on his belt, he retrieves two of the coins, and holds them out to the Varati 
  in his upward-facing palm. "Very well. The garment shall be returned to you 
  as soon as possible. And the whole of Haven thanks you for your rationality."

The rest of Haven drops out of Faanshi's consciousness. The way the Varati 
  merchant is jostling the child around makes something spike sharply across 
  the maiden's mind, and before she really takes note of her own motions, 
  she's stepped forward, a hand reaching for the winged child, golden 
  fingertips aiming for the wounded wing. Aether begins to crackle around her 
  fingers...

Xerise takes a half-step back, away from Faanshi, Phoebe and the merchant. 
  Best not to be in the way for that sort of thing.

Satisfied, the merchant releases his hold on Phoebe so he can take the coins 
  from Craft. And free up a hand to aim an angry wallop at Faanshi's 
  shoulder, just as the shudra's fingers make contact with the dusty down of 
  the stunned child's wing. Cue the bellowing: "What do you think you're 
  doing?"

Xerise's wings mantle slightly as the shudra is hit, and that half-step back 
  is reversed. Her eyes narrow as she looks at the merchant.

Culture conflicts are the worst, aren't they? Craft's gaze as the merchant's 
  arm impacts Faanshi's shoulder turns hard. Praetorian training kicks in, 
  though not the kind of training that first might be expected, but Praetorian 
  Constraint. Tossing a warning glance Faanshi's way, he says softly, "Come, 
  young one, I think we should speak." And to Faanshi, "and you, if I may 
  borrow a moment of your time, please?" He seems to really be wanting to get 
  the two of them away from the merchant. *sigh* There might have been a time 
  when he would have run the insolent bastard through, but nowadays living 
  under the threat of all-out war makes one cautious.

Fist connects with brightly clad shoulder, and Faanshi, slight maiden that she 
  is, is sent staggering back a step. For a few moments, it's all she can do 
  to keep to her feet; her eyes close as she tries to steady herself, one hand 
  still stretched out towards the Empyrean girl. "Please," she gasps out 
  hoarsely, "please, imphadi, l-let me help her..." Whether she addresses the 
  silk merchant or the Optio, however, is perhaps uncertain.

Stumbling to her feet, still somewhat rattled from the shaking, Phoebe shoots 
  an absolutely evil look at the Varati merchant. It's a safe bet that this 
  fortunate man will likely be experiencing a certain loss and/or destruction 
  of merchandise sometime in the near future. He seems oblivious to the glower 
  -- not everyone can be a Seer -- and turns to stalk away, after stabbing a 
  look of satisfied vindication at Faanshi. If Craft wants to bother with the 
  brat and the shudra, let him. The latter has been put in her place, and the 
  former will be handing him an apology soon. That'll be a savoring experience.

"I have to go." Phoebe sniffs at the Optio, raising her chin and gingerly 
  folding the hurt wing to her back where it droops awkwardly. A cautious 
  sidestep is performed /away/ from the girl dressed in Khalida colors. Bad. 
  Bad bad bad colors. They make those sweet blue eyes go rancid with hate. 
  "Get away from me..."

Xerise's hand slowly curls into a fist, then just as slowly uncurls. She 
  watches the merchant wobble away, grey eyes sparking just a touch.

A few moments pass and magically the Optio is in possession of the Varati's 
  clothing. Giving the bundle to Phoebe, he says, "I will arrest and detain 
  you for disturbing the peace if you do not do as has been agreed, young 
  one." His gaze, when he levels it at her, is one hinting of idle amusement, 
  but his intent is true, sort of a 'just do it and save us the trouble, ok?'

Phoebe's virulent, blazing stare stops Faanshi in her tracks, even more 
  effectively than the merchant's ire had done. Her green gaze stricken over 
  her azure veil, the maiden stares down at the child; for three heartbeats, 
  her hand remains outstretched, as if in supplication, golden-skinned fingers 
  quivering. Then, almost painfully, the hand lowers. "N... namaste', little 
  imphada... a-as you wish..." she breathes, heartsick. And she begins to turn 
  away, certain all at once that she comprehends how it must feel to take a 
  spear in the belly.

As has been agreed. Riiiiiight. By everyone but her. Phoebe clutches the 
  bundle to her chest, giving Craft the same glare the merchant was getting 
  earlier. Place your bets now on whether or not those clothes will end up in 
  a mud puddle on the docks. He'll have to actually catch her to arrest her, 
  after all... "Not an imphada. That's a /demon/ name," she spits after 
  Faanshi, hardly in a generous mood at the moment. If she were just a little 
  more balanced, the hurt would probably be recognized, but there's enough 
  sick and twisted hurt behind her own eyes to keep her from seeing it. Back 
  to the Empyreans her gaze goes, accompanied with a curt, "Vale." Then she 
  too is spinning about on one heel to make her wobbly way towards the 
  outskirts of the Rialto.

Xerise turns away then, muttering something about scathing poetry and fat 
  merchants who need to be taken down a peg. A brief, "Vale." is given the 
  others, but she seems much more intent on going somewhere to write. There 
  once was a Varati of big girth...
Xerise travels east to the intersection of Main and Vicina.
Xerise has left.

Craft sighs softly as the crowd disperses, his gaze moving to Faanshi. "You 
  again? It would seem that you have a knack for being in compromising 
  situations." A smile is offered to her, followed by a soft explanation, "do 
  not act surprised at her bitterness, though; your race destroyed a lot of 
  our cities and your god-king obliterated Lycenae himself."

Phoebe makes her way south, toward Seaside.
Phoebe has left.

_Demon_. Memory flares through the shudra girl; this is not the first time she 
  has been called demon. She stops in her own attempted retreat, eyes slamming 
  shut against the recollection of the voice of her birth-Clan's Warlord 
  explaining to none other than Khalid Atar himself how she was a demon, how 
  she must be destroyed. How Hashim had growled the word 'demon' at her in the 
  privacy of his vara, how he had struck her each time he'd hurled that name 
  into her adolescent ears... Involuntarily, her arms wrap around her, both 
  for comfort and to try to get hold of her uneasily roused magic. Craft's 
  voice, coming up behind her, makes her jolt. Awkwardly, she begins to turn 
  toward him, enough to let him know he was heard; her gaze, though, remains 
  lowered. "I... know, imphadi," she whispers mournfully, tinily. "I... I was 
  there..."

Craft's head tilts to the side, immediately reading the woman's expressions. 
  Obviously someone of a very sensitive nature to react so strangely to the 
  recent past events, Craft is compassionate. Just looking at her for a few 
  moments, he nods slowly, no words leaving his lips at that time. When he 
  does speak, it is polite: "I hope everything was okay when we returned you 
  to Atesh-Gah the other day. The Delphic representatives weren't very pleased 
  when we took you away. I'm pretty sure they'll be after you soon."

Most of her face is obscured by that blue gauzy veil, but the tears glinting 
  on Faanshi's black lashes are unmistakable signs of sorrow. And the way her 
  slender frame freezes is an unmistakable sign of alarm. The maiden's head 
  swivels in the direction of the Citadel -- not unlike, in fact, the way 
  she'd jolted at Craft's form winging by above her head. "After me?" she 
  croaks.

"Delphi prefers to have a monopoly on the magic market, so to speak," Craft 
  replies softly, "I wouldn't put it past them to send out after those who 
  escape their contact."

Faanshi pulls in a breath, trying to regain her composure. For the briefest of 
  instants her gaze snaps from the shape of the Citadel that overlooks the 
  marketplace, up to the face of the Empyrean warrior who has come up beside 
  her; her gaze stays up long enough to allow a glimpse of panic-stricken 
  green eyes. "They... would try to take me away, imphadi?" she whispers, 
  badly shaken by the notion. But then she catches herself. This man might be 
  one of the winged ones, but he does bear armor and weaponry; in the 
  experience of this sheltered maiden, that makes him a Warlord, and the 
  deference to him demanded by her upbringing then jerks attention back down 
  to the ground.

Craft shrugs lightly, admittedly responding, "I don't know, I can only 
  speculate," a moment, a look of curious consternation, and he adds, "please, 
  don't look down, it's okay. I don't know much about Varati culture, but you 
  can look at me like an equal. I'm not going to hurt you."

That coaxes Faanshi's attention a bit upward again, but she pauses, caught by 
  the casually proffered words, words that bring a sudden tightness to her 
  chest and to her throat. Only three people to date have ever invited her to 
  look them in the eye; one of them is dead, one of them is a Mongrel, and the 
  third, well... the third is like her. And the knowledge of what she is drags 
  Faanshi's gaze down once more. "You are most gracious, imphadi," she 
  whispers huskily, "but..." Faanshi falters for words, and only the fact that 
  the Optio has professed unfamiliarity with Varati ways gives her enough 
  courage to append, "It would not be... proper. I am only a shudra, and you 
  are a warrior; I am a woman, and..." The final word catches in her throat. 
  But Faanshi is an innately truthful girl -- and besides, it's not as if this 
  knowledge is not already whispered all over Atesh-Gah. "I am a halfbreed."

Craft's gaze is once more unwavered, even by the woman's words of taboo. 
  "Interesting..." is the first word out of his mouth, "but unmoving. Some of 
  the best people I've ever met were halfbreed, imphada. " His statement out, 
  he follows with, "and whatever shudra means, well, I know that we're both 
  alive, and I know you're a healer, so between the two of us, I think we're 
  pretty much equal. You give life, I take it. Sounds like a middle ground to 
  me." He shrugs lightly, and offers a warm smile.

Faanshi has received a variety of reactions in Atesh-Gah, ranging from a thin 
  veneer of politeness over the top of contempt to outright disgust. Only a 
  small handful of Varati in the Citadel have received her with kindness -- 
  and now, as this Empyrean before her seems to match the behaviors of the 
  latter camp in the embassy of her people, Faanshi goes still in a new kind 
  of startlement. Something in the easily offered reply coaxes her gaze back 
  up, fawnlike, daunted, but perhaps... just perhaps... marvelling. All she 
  can think of by way of a response of her own is a murmured, "Shudra... 
  means.... that I am a servant..."

Craft nods slowly, "So be it, but does being a servant mean that you cannot be 
  treated as a...friend?"

Craft
        Contrast is an immediate descriptive adjective for the Empyrean 
  Praetor which your gaze falls upon. White wings and blondish hair are in 
  opposition to the dark scheme of his armor. The crimson marking on his 
  shoulder plates mark him as an Optio, commander of the close-knit fighting 
  force of a Praetorian Cohor.
        His hair has been cropped short around his head and parted down the 
  middle so it spills, at its longest, to his cheekbones. Steely green eyes 
  blaze with passion and experience, flanking a sharp nose. Cold, calculating 
  intelligence can easily be swapped with warm charm and compassion in those 
  orbs.
        He wears the standard leather cuirass of the Guard over his torso, 
  though stained black as char, with the white sleeves of his undertunic 
  billowing out from under the equally as black shoulder plates. A chlamys of 
  black is clasped under his left shoulder. The material seems to be layered, 
  though, and the bottommost edge of the cloak is fiery red. The chlamys 
  drapes between his wings, which crest above his head, the signs of their 
  wear obvious.
        A gladius is sheathed on his hip, and a bow is slung over his back 
  along with a quiver of arrows. Strapped to his left forearm is a buckler.
        Craft, the Fallen Tribune and Optio of the Rising Phoenix Cohor 
  carries himself with the bearing of a noble, despite his reputation. A 
  friendly exterior seems prominent most of the time, but it disappears when 
  he must don his mental mask for war.

It is probably fortunate that neither the Optio's wings nor his hair are 
  ebon-hued, for this saves him from reminding Faanshi of her God-King... and 
  thus, she manages to keep her gaze up. Those green eyes of hers flicker 
  upward to take in the height of snowy wings, before coming down again to 
  note... his eyes are green. Like hers. Nervous, she looks past them at the 
  wings behind his head, a safer place to look as his question resonates 
  through her. New tears threaten to trickle across her eyes, and she murmurs, 
  "I... have only three friends, imphadi, a-and one of them is a dog...."

His armor, however is ebon, contrasting with his lighter colored hair and 
  wings - obviously a man of contrasts, Craft smiles compassionately to the 
  Halfbreed Healer before him, and offers in a light way, "Well, I'm not sure 
  you want to call me a friend, but that's your call."

Something as simple as a smile can have potent effects. Faanshi is already 
  flustered by the entire encounter with the merchant and the little Empyrean 
  girl; now, entirely unused to such a steady, ready smile from anyone, 
  whether they be friend or stranger, the maiden shyly drops her gaze, 
  reddening under her veil. The winged warrior wants _her_ to choose? "I, I am 
  not... used to choosing such things, imphadi," she blurts out tinily, "but I 
  would be honored by your friendship...!" The last word comes out of her even 
  more softly, as if she can't quite believe she's uttering it.

Craft chuckles a bit, "It was a figure of speech, imphada, but thank you." As 
  the chuckle fades, he smiles again, "I'm Craft, nice to meet you."

The maiden's stance still hints at tension, as she stands there as immobile as 
  if she'd been planted into the paving-stones, a tree instead of a 
  silken-garbed girl. Between Phoebe's malevolent stare and the sullen way her 
  power is grudgingly subsiding back down to the place within her from which 
  it had surged, Faanshi still wrestles with a sick feeling in her heart; her 
  hands remain clenched at her breast, her knuckles nearly white with the 
  force of her grip. But this unexpected gift of friendship, along with the 
  name of the dark-armored warrior, begins to offset what still haunts the 
  girl... and she once more peeks timidly up. "I am Faanshi, shudra of 
  Khalida, imphadi," she says in soft earnest tones.

Craft arcs an eyebrow; curious, but not offensively. He asks, "Khalida? Is 
  that a clan, or direct lineage to the Atar?" His demeanor is sympathetic; 
  obviously the woman has something bothering her, but he does not want to 
  scare her away.

Breathe, Faanshi; breathe. She's had enough experience trying to subdue her 
  fractious magic that she's managed to learn to make it start to behave 
  itself if she can only breathe in, out, in... and so Faanshi takes in 
  several deep draughts of air, trying to settle herself down, though little 
  aftershocks of reaction still shiver through her frame. Her head bobs once, 
  though, beneath the blue sari that hides most of her hair from view. "Yes, 
  both... but the Amir-al took me from the clan of my birth," comes an 
  explanation delivered with what seems to be uncharacteristic swiftness for 
  this halfbreed healer.

Craft peers a little closer, "Are you okay?" he asks, his hands lifting a 
  fraction in case the woman should falter. The man's gaze is steady, his eyes 
  welcoming anything she would share with him.

Another deep, uneven breath is drawn in, making the softest of sighing sounds 
  behind Faanshi's azure veil. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and it 
  takes her a moment longer before she humbly admits, "Not... completely, 
  Imphadi Craft... but it will pass..." A truthful girl, indeed, but stoic.

A concerned nod is the reply from the dark-armored Optio. "One request though: 
  please, just Craft. Is there anything I can do to help?" His concern shows 
  true through his eyes, which have had the curtains pulled back and the 
  blinds opened to allow a true discerning of his intent.

Craft. Just... Craft. Faanshi only now begins to consider the oddity of such a 
  name, and as she murmurs it, the single syllable hovers in pitch as if she 
  can't quite decide whether it should fly, like the man it names. She nods 
  slowly, then, peeking uncertainly around the marketplace. Morning's 
  progression is bringing further people into the square, and a flash of 
  uneasiness crosses what little can be seen of her face. "I need... to find 
  an herb-seller... in the Atlantean quarter," the maiden says then. "If you 
  could... show me which way to go?" Self-directed embarrassment begins to add 
  just a touch of color to her quiet voice, now.

Craft nods slowly with that same polite smile and says, "Sure, it's this way," 
  he says, heading towards the southwestern area of the Rialto. He seems to 
  not be affected by the curious glances drawn from bystanders who witness a 
  Praetor walking with a Varati woman. Let them think.

A guide. Almost as useful as a map -- no, better, since Faanshi suspects she'd 
  have a bit more difficulty acquiring a map. "Thank you," she breathes to 
  Craft as the two of them approach the marketplace's southwestern corner, 
  falling into stride. Her steps are a reflection of her shy demeanor, not 
  taking advantage of the length of her slender legs; apparently, this lass 
  has been bred to keep behind a man, too, when walking with him, since it 
  seems to be her instinct to keep a pace or two behind the Praetor escorting 
  her.

Walking westward, you soon reach Main and Border.
Main and Border - Haven
     To the east lies an urban sprawl--the vast marketplace filled with its 
  colorful tents and stalls, the stately tower of Delphi's Citadel, and 
  clusters of buildings ranging from the classic Empyreal style to the 
  Varati's stone fortresses. And to the west, Bordertown. So called because of 
  the street that marks the boundary between "civilized" life and 
  not-so-civilized, Bordertown is a haven within Haven, for the rogues and 
  outcasts of society.
     The neat, grid-like pattern of streets prevalent in the main district is 
  lost, and a maze of alleyways and cobblestoned paths veer haphazardly among 
  dilapidated structures badly in need of repair. The city guard itself rarely 
  ventures within this wood-and-stone jungle, where the streets lie cloaked in 
  shadow even in daylight. Here at the edge, there are still a few passersby, 
  but they skulk along quickly and quietly, and rarely speak to strangers.
Obvious exits:
Streets <N,S>  Town Garden <W>  Trinkets, Treasures, and Trash <T>  The Rialto 
  <E>

Craft walks in from the Rialto to the east.
Craft has arrived.
...and it is this oddity that causes the Praetor to glance back every so often 
  and pause, reflecting that consternated smile of confusion that anyone who 
  is culturally ignorant of the Varati can possess when exposed to the 
  oftentimes strange aspects of their rigid social hierarchy. Turning the 
  confusion into something lighter, he says, "stop that, you're making me 
  nervous," he says in a joking fashion, figuring that the reason for her 
  keeping back is just another one of the Varati customs she's grown up with.

_She_ is making _him_ nervous...? Faanshi is given pause by this, and genuine 
  confusion brings a bemused glance up over the top of her veil. "Stop... 
  what?" She starts to slow to a halt as she and her companion reach the edge 
  of the market, wondering if somewhere in her anxiety to elude the swelling 
  crowds venturing out into the Rialto, she's managed to miss something. 
  Truthful, stoic, and not particularly prone to humor either, this maiden.

Craft tilts his head to the side, regarding the halfbreed. "You can walk 
  beside me...I don't mind; I'd prefer it, actually. And the bit about me 
  being nervous was just a joke." He extends his hands to the woman in a 
  friendly gesture: "Come on, up here. When you're back there, all you see is 
  my back - you miss out on so much of the world."

Faanshi blinks, once or twice, and then comprehension steals across her 
  half-hidden visage, like sunshine peeking tentatively out from behind a 
  cloud. Tentative, too, is the peek she steals at the Empyrean's back. As the 
  proffered hands and the amiable tone cajole her forward, she can be heard to 
  venture shyly, "Your back is behind your wings... but people with wings are 
  still... very new to me, I do not mind looking at them...!"

Craft nods, "I see. This is very strange to me, so please forgive me if I seem 
  confused by your culture," he explains semi-apologetically, and turns to 
  continue west.
Craft enters the shady depths of the town garden to the west.
Craft has left.

You enter the shady depths of the town garden to the west.
Old City Garden - Haven
     A strange thing, to some, to see such a thick, unbridled mass of forest 
  within the city walls. Even during the brightest days, it is shady here; 
  looming tree branches above filter out the sunlight, casting shadows that 
  might be relieving during a warm summer day, or alternatively fearsome by 
  night. The heart of the garden is most often alive with the chirps and 
  chitters of the wildlife that makes its home here.
     Still, some civilization prevails, if only tentatively. A wide, roughly 
  cobbled road stretches east to west, suitable for the usual traffic of a 
  city street, if a bit precariously. Benches line the various man-made paths, 
  reminding the visitor that this is indeed intended to be a respite from the 
  bustle of the town, and is not merely some uncontrolled mass of trees within 
  Haven.
Contents:
Craft
Obvious exits:
Streets <E,NE,SW>  Garden Archway <W>

It takes some small effort for Faanshi to figure out how to match her strides 
  to those of her companion; indeed, half the time, she seems to be inclined 
  to watch his feet. Her attention strays elsewhere the rest of the time, as 
  she tries to match her surroundings with the directions the Atlantean 
  herb-merchant in the square had given her. As she walks, considering Craft's 
  words and their flavor of apology, she answers just a trifle plaintively, 
  "Much... confuses me, but if you have questions... perhaps I could answer 
  them?" It seems only fair. He is, after all, guiding her.

Craft turns back for a few strides, the streets now quite thin and sparse of 
  people, "I don't know what to ask, honestly," his wings rustle as he turns 
  back, his voice lifting from over his shoulder, "why are you so hesitant 
  around me, for one."

_That_ catches her off-guard, and only because her gaze is already pointed 
  down at her companion's feet -- the better to observe the length of his 
  stride and to try her best to keep up with him -- does Faanshi manage not to 
  halt in her bemusement. How in the world to answer this? "I am sorry," she 
  finally falters. "I am not very good at making friends... before this 
  year... I never had any."

Craft bites his lip lightly, nodding. Trying to unravel this enigma presented 
  before him is not the easiest task in the world. "I see," he responds, "but 
  go on, please?"

As the gardens come into view along their course, Faanshi suddenly glances 
  forward, the sight of the greenery seeming to catch her attention and hold 
  it, enough that for several paces, she's actually looking forward. Quite 
  matter-of-factly, she earnestly clarifies, "Warlord Hashim kept me locked 
  away, you see... until the war, and until the Amir-al took my heart-mother 
  and me away from im and into His own clan. It is by His mercy and the grace 
  of his Holy Mother that I live in Atesh-Gah now, but everything is still 
  very new to me...!" A veritable flood of words, now. Once she starts to 
  talk, Faanshi finds herself realizing that she had _wanted_ to say these 
  things, and it is a great relief to be able to do so. Guilelessly, 
  mournfully, she concludes, "And Haven is so very large. I still get lost 
  very easily."

Craft nods slowly as he walks, "How fascinating," he muses, taking another 
  turn down a road. "And you've got the power to heal others, as well. What a 
  marvelous gift. So tell me, how long have you known you've had it?"

At this new question, the girl's gaze drops down to her golden-hued hands; 
  like restless small birds, they flutter a moment before she makes herself 
  clasp them before her while she walks. "I have always known it," is her 
  grave, soft reply. "It is why the Warlord let me live."

Craft nods slowly in grim understanding, figuring that it would take something 
  special to cause a Varati to allow a halfbreed to live within their house. 
  "Why do you respect the Varati so much? From what you've told me, they seem 
  to only bring you pain?" His words are tinged with compassion and the barest 
  hints of confused irritation.

This stops the maiden cold. Her face comes up again, showing eyes gone wide 
  over her veil, and she blurts out, "Oh... I am not telling this well, am I?" 
  Distress filters through that muted voice, darkening the eyes, turning them 
  anxious.

Craft pauses as well, turning to gaze at the halfbreed. His demeanor is quite 
  calm, eyes compassionate, welcoming her thoughts. His voice lilts to her, 
  promising understanding and unconditional respect, no matter who she turns 
  out to be. "Well, from my point of view, they beat you, cursed you, and only 
  spared you because you had the gift to heal. Call me crazy, but I think my 
  feelings toward these people would be pretty well honed."

Little subtle facial expressions are sheltered behind that gauzy blue veil, 
  but Faanshi's big green eyes reflect a deep, heartfelt dismay. _Ushas, do 
  not let me lose this new friend so soon... help me explain...!_ The silent 
  prayer -- combined with the sympathy and concern of the gaze upon her -- 
  gives her courage to keep looking up at the Praetor. How to begin to 
  explain? "But... but you see... my heart-mother loved me, so much... she 
  tried to teach me, and she kept the Warlord from killing me and she tried to 
  keep him from beating me, too...! And then Imphada Kiera found me... and she 
  is halfbreed, like me, but she is Favored of the Amir-al, and because of 
  her, the Most High delivered Ulima and me from Hashim...!" As these words 
  escape her, they begin to gain conviction and surety, for all that they're 
  still shyly delivered. "Of course I must love them...!"

The sudden onslaught of Varati-speak blows the poor Empyrean into utter 
  confusion, "I'm sorry, can you say that again, but slower? And could you 
  please explain who you're talking about? The names utterly have me 
  confused," he admits with a sheepish smile.

Green eyes blink, several times, as it begins to occur to the girl that she is 
  _still_ not properly delivering her story. Blushing furiously behind her 
  veil, she seems to wilt somewhat. When she speaks again, it is to ask only, 
  "Could we... perhaps... sit down? On the grass, somewhere... or a bench..." 
  And Faanshi glances around, feeling shaken all over again by the torrent of 
  words taking her as much by surprise as their intended recipient.

Craft nods, "Look, Fahn-shee," he begins, immediately seeing the strain on the 
  woman's composure, "if you do not wish to talk about it, that is perfectly 
  fine. It's just idle curiosity on my part, nothing more. Do not feel 
  obligated to tell me anything you do not wish to."

To this, she looks up once more, insisting solemnly, "I _want_ to... and I 
  want to tell it right, if we are to be friends...!"

Craft smiles and shakes his head, "We can be friends anyway, you know."

That smile again. And, *voop*, down go the maiden's eyes; cause and effect. 
  "You wanted to know, though... why I respect my people if they have done 
  nothing but evil to me..." 'My people'; not 'the Varati'. Apparently, 
  halfbreed though she might be, Faanshi counts herself among the 
  Children of Fire.

It is something in the way that she speaks which causes the Empyrean Optio to 
  pause for a long moment. Perhaps it is something of an unsaid kinship he 
  suddenly feels with her. He too knows what it is to have a people turn their 
  backs on him. "Don't worry about it, Fahn-shee. Forget about it," he 
  encourages, and turns his gaze back to her, his smile returning.

Her name coaxes Faanshi's gaze back up, just in time to observe that her 
  companion's smile is still there. And all at once the tangle of memories, of 
  words fighting each other to cross the gap between her thoughts and her 
  voice, grows clearer. Settled. Still very present, but somehow more easily 
  occupying that space within her heart. "All right, Craft," she answers, 
  emboldened enough by the odd pronunciation of her own name to let herself 
  utter his.

Craft smiles at the halfbreed. "Anyway, I should be returning to the Eyrie 
  shortly. I have some business that must be taken care of. The Atlantean 
  quarter is just down that road," he says, indicating a small pebblestrewn 
  path. "Be safe, Fahn-shee, and I will see you soon." His wings unfurl, and 
  with a graceful leap into the air, he begins his flight east.

"Thank you, Craft!" The green eyes over the blue veil grow lighter with 
  gratitude, and she bobs her sari-covered head to him, drawing her hands back 
  to her breast to clasp them there as she sketches him a little bow. 
  "Namaste'!" She steps back, then, giving a little gasp as those white wings 
  stretch out to bear him aloft. As the Praetor leaps into the air, the healer 
  maiden finds herself watching him take flight. It's not quite the same as 
  her first glimpse of Ushas in her glory, Faanshi's first sight of a sunrise... 
  but still, it is the first time within Haven's borders that she has found 
  her eyes lifting with wonder to the sky.

[End log.]