"Tears of the Innocent" Log Date: 9/25/99 Log Cast: Faanshi, Lyre Log Intro: Dear Faanshi, I am sorry I cannot deliver this message in person, but alas, I cannot, for if you are reading this I am dead. Because of this, I cannot do some things which I feel must be done. Therefore, I implore you. Find a way to go to Avalon. If you will, I would like you to be ShortWind's caretaker. But most of all, be happy. Do not let anything or anyone ruin your life, including me. StormBearer Spring has come to Haven, and with it, the ending of the plague that has threatened the city for so many months. It is a time of renewal, a time of rebirth... but unfortunately, it is also a time of grieving for many who have lost friends and loved ones to the sickness that has slain so many. The grief has made many denizens of Haven angry, and near-crazed with the desire to find someone to blame for their losses. And so a young shudra girl has three things over which to grieve. Craft, the first Empyrean man Faanshi can remember ever being kind to her, has died of the plague... and Faanshi has learned this from a woman of Avalon who was all too mortified to realize that the shudra girl had not been told of Craft Astorius' passing. StormBearer, the Sylvan Herald who was the first man of _his_ race to befriend the young halfbreed, is also dead... and all Faanshi knows of this has come from a letter delivered by the Heralds, telling her alarmingly little of what has befallen her friend. Milane, the Hand of Thomas Murako, has been missing ever since a crowd of furious purebloods tried to burn her at the stake... and Faanshi fears for her death as well. Heartsick and mourning, Faanshi had no idea how to react when the Domina Ianthe, after having given her the news of Craft's death, also revealed that she knew another of Faanshi's acquaintances -- the bard known as Lyre Talespinner. Moreover, Ianthe told her that Lyre was seen in the Siren's Song singing melodies to a "lady of the dawn" who bears far more resemblance to Faanshi herself than to Ushas, the Lady of the Dawn the halfbreed maiden knows. Even as she was stricken with shock and grief at the news about Craft, Faanshi reeled at the implications of Lyre's activities... but she found a way to make thinking of both men worthy as she wondered whether Lyre could make a song of tribute for the dead former Praetor. Ianthe swiftly picked up on Faanshi's resemblance to the songs she'd heard sung by the Mongrel bard, and offered to carry a request to Lyre on her behalf to come and talk with her about the making of such a song. Since then, though, Faanshi has received the letter from StormBearer, written before his death yet reaching her after it. And in the midst of her grief over the loss of two friends and the possible loss of a third, she is utterly unprepared for how Lyre Talespinner has decided to make his entrance to their appointed meeting... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Afternoon Date on Aether: Thursday, April 24, 3905. Year on Earth: 1505 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Gibbous Season: Spring Weather: Wind Temperature: Cool *==========================================================================* 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: Lyre Kosha Obvious exits: Streets Garden Archway Afternoon settles in lightly over the gardens, with periodic birdsong providing a gentle punctuation to the more distant sounds of the great town of Haven. Rustles and the occasional snapping of twigs suggest that somewhere off in the foliage of this place, tiny denizens of the undergrowth are going about their business just as readily as the two-legged residents of the city do each day. But for the time being, despite the fact that they might well be providing him a tasty lunch, the dog Kosha is not on the hunt. Instead, he is parked on his haunches near one of the stone benches set up through the winding garden paths, confusedly watching his mistress do something he has never seen her do before: pace. "Do you think he will come, Kosha?" Faanshi frets softly, not knowing what is possessing her that she should be so nervous, so unable to sit still and wait quietly. "Do you think the Domina Ianthe gave him the message? I-I suppose we could have gone to the Siren's Song to look for him... like when we looked for the healer... but I do not think we really fit in very well there and if StormBearer is in Avalon he couldn't be there to keep watch over us... oh Kosha... what am I going to say? I... oh, Ushas, it should not be hard, right? Ask for the song, his price, he is a bard, he makes songs, it is no different than asking for a loaf of bread in the marketplace, yes?" And thus the maiden carries on her one-sided dialogue with her loyal hound, all the while pacing back and forth over a six-foot stretch of path near the bench that at least in -theory- might serve her better as a place to sit down. Perhaps the bard knows something of moving silently in the woods, but it is not something that a man in his profession truly wants to practice; after all, his chief skill is his ability to be heard. Thus the soft sound of his music proceeds along to announce his coming, drifting through trees and bushes and causing the little rustling animals to fall silent. Lyre weaves his way along the overgrown paths, nudging branches from his way as he sings: My dearest lady of the dawn Speak soft your words Voice as gentle as a fawn And sweet as any singing bird Kosha's hearing is better than Faanshi's, and so, a few moments before the echoes of that voice uplifted in song reach the shudra's ears, the dog looks up. His tail flicks, tentatively, and a little whurf sounds in the back of his throat. But then the voice reaches the maiden, and she stops cold in her tracks. Holy Mother of the Hawk of Heaven... what is that? _Who_ is that? His voice is a smooth, clear baritone, the voice of a man whose life has been spent singing. Still, there is a touch of roughness around the edges, infusing his words with a life and emotion that a sterile voice could not possibly hope to achieve. Lyre continues as he tromps through the garden, heading for his predetermined rendezvous with a warm smile playing upon his lips, singing: Eyes of new spring leaves Flecked with shining gold My heart within me sings And makes my words so bold It does not take Faanshi too long to pinpoint the direction from which that song is sounding -- and without her conscious intent, her body swivels round to try to locate the singer himself. By itself that warm, resonant baritone voice is almost too much for her to grasp; oh, assuredly, Faanshi has heard singing before. She has heard celestial harmonies sung by the choirs gathered together in the worship of Khalid Atar, the Neverending Fire. She has heard prosaic tunes bandied by the slaves and servants of Atesh-Gah, to add brightness to a night after a long day's toil. But never has she heard anything quite like this... and let us not even begin to consider the words being sung. Faanshi does not, for as soon as they settle across her like the sunlight touching her now uplifted face, her thoughts go blank and lose all hold on even the beginnings of the notion that these sung words might be lauding _her_. And indeed, it is rare for Lyre to sing like this, both in words and in meanings. Maybe he isn't consciously serenading Faanshi; he's truly not yet close enough to see her, yet somehow, he hopes that she is listening. Maybe he thinks that a song that floats through the forest would be less threatening to her. Perhaps it's just the fact that it's hard for him, the consummate showman, to sing a song of honest emotions. There is a bit of determination on his face, both to finish his song and to see the brief meeting through...And yet, not even his determination can destroy the inherent merriness of him, the joy in life. The laughter. He continues to sing, warm voice dancing on the breeze: How can I fail her? My beauteous summer rose So quiet, so demure Her face only the angels know It _is_ him; it must be him. Faanshi _wants_ to blurt this to the dog who now has gotten to his feet beside her, sniffing curiously at the air and peering in several directions as if wondering where the disembodied singing is coming from. But the shudra maiden finds control of her own voice has deserted her entirely; indeed, her ability to breathe appears to have followed it, for within her throat she can sense a strange thickening through which she can barely draw in air. Heat suffuses her face, so much so that she actually lifts a hand to pluck uncertainly at her veil, trying to fan the flushed skin hidden beneath it. _What is happening... why is he..._ The thought does not complete itself, for as long as the unseen bard is singing, she can do nothing but listen in shock and wonderment. The last verse weaves its way through branch and bow, even as the singer's form grows visible in hints and flashes as he finally nears the small clearing where Faanshi awaits. He moves with purpose, choosing his steps with care as he approaches. After all, it would hardly do to step on a twig and ruin the cadence of his words. Lyre has a smile upon his face, not yet visible at this distance, but it can almost be heard in the rich tones of the last words: As rose touches the sky, Warm blush rises in your cheek You are my dawn, my cry And always will your warmth I seek. As the last lines of the song fade away, Lyre walks into the clearing, half-hesitant to reveal himself to the object of his song. He does not often compose music for people, and even more rarely for women, but this is important to him. That fact is written upon his features as he watches Faanshi, awaiting a reaction to either his words, his music, or just his presence. "Hello, Faanshi." Lyre When there is music in a person's soul, all else about him is silence. -- Anonymous Eyes as dark as the deep-tilled earth look out of a solidly-hewn face of a man in his late twenties. His sun-streaked brown hair is tied back with a bit of leather decorated with a few silver beads, curling just at the nape of his neck. His build is solid and whipcord lean, with broad shoulders and the tight form of one used to going with little food and much exercise. His skin is almost swarthy, tanned dark by hours in the sun; his teeth are straight, save for one crooked canine that seems more the victim of a fist than nature. His nose also bears the sign of brawls, with the distinctive bump of breakage. He moves with a natural grace, as if counting off the rhythm of a song in his mind and perpetually pacing the dance in his step. He wears simple, practical clothing, appropriate to his mongrel race. Black homespun trousers are tucked into a pair of ancient, worn leather boots. Over that is worn a simple pale tunic tucked into the trousers and worn beneath a dark woolen vest. The only decoration on his clothing is found in the small wooden buttons which hold his vest shut -- they are carved with tiny designs of seashells. She sees him coming, of course; she can't help but do so. Once Faanshi catches a glimpse of the sunlight on his hair, finding the rest of Lyre Talespinner among the trees as he draws ever nearer is relatively easy for all that his clothing blends in somewhat with the trunks of the trees he passes. But the shudra remains transfixed until he is actually before her, still looking up, her eyes thunderstruck above her veil. Once the Mongrel bard enters the clearing, however, Kosha's tail sets to wagging, and he barks out a welcome. The voice of the dog, together with the voice of the man, breaks the paralysis that has gripped her. Faanshi takes a step forward, dismayed to find an unaccustomed shakiness to her legs, and her voice sounds odd in her own ears as she breathes tinily, "H-Hello, Lyre...!" Her greeting brings an answering smile to the bard's face as Lyre gives Faanshi a searching look, looking for something in her eyes, perhaps. Whatever he sought, he apparently was satisfied with the answer, for he tears his glance away from her long enough to crouch and give Kosha the greeting he deserves, "Why, hello there, Kosha. I see you're guarding your mistress well." He offers the hound a good long skritch, looking up at Faanshi from his crouch with a warm glint in his eyes. Whurf! Yes, Lyre, keep doing that. Scritch his fur! And then you can, when you're done with that, scritch his fur some more, and then scritch his head, and then you could scritch his back, and then -- well, suffice to say that Kosha wholeheartedly approves of the bard's appreciation for a good long scritching. His tail wags enthusiastically, and he fixes a warm gaze still rather puppyish despite his ever-growing size upon the man. What in the world does she say now? Faanshi swallows hard, her one hand falling away from her veil to join the other, their fingers nervously intertwining. Come now, shudra, how difficult can this be? "I... the... the Domina Ianthe found you?" she whispers at last. "Y-you received the message?" Then, as soon as those words are out the maiden flushes with shame behind her veil; Lyre is _here_, is he not? Has she no more wit than the Imphada Maat's treatment of her would suggest? "I... I mean..." A gentle smile creases Lyre's face as he looks up at Faanshi, giving her a slight nod, "Yes, she did. She said you wanted to see me about a song?" The lilt of his voice rises on the last word, indicating a question, though it seems that he has some idea of what she expects of him. "To be truthful, though, I would have sought you out even if she had not found me." He looks away for a moment before saying quietly, "I had heard you were there when the riot shook the Rialto, after Murako's speech...I was worried for you." This encounter thus far is not by any stretch of Faanshi's imagination going according to plan. She was supposed to simply meet Lyre here, explain her purpose, ask him what he would require by way of payment for the making of a song... and instead, he has turned it all askew. Rather than simply greeting her, he has _sung_ -- and the halfbreed maiden's mind still balks at the inescapable conclusion that he has sung _of_ her, _to_ her, _for_ her. It is all too easy to make the mental leap from his speaking voice to his singing one, to hear how that rich rolling baritone can slide into song. He still crouches by her loyal dog, making it almost impossible to look anywhere but to him... and the flustered shudra girl finds herself first looking at his hands as he scritches Kosha, then at his shoulders, then at his hair as she struggles to decide where her gaze should go. Lyre's mention of the disastrous turn of Thomas Murako's speech, however, takes her by surprise enough that she blurts, "Yes... yes, I was there... were... you?" Lyre shakes his head slowly, straightening with grace and a relaxed, easy movement. "No, I was not, unfortunately." There is a touch of remorse in his voice, "I wish I had been, for it makes me feel bleak to think that you were in danger and no one was there to protect you." He is quiet for a moment before saying softly, "I am very glad that you were not hurt, Faanshi." He offers her that smile again, that partly lopsided curl of lips that echoes in his eyes, "Now, what was it you wished of me? Any service I might offer you is my joy to complete." As the bard rises to his feet, the maiden finds her gaze involuntarily rising to follow him; once she catches that smile, though, a tremor of reaction shoots through her system and her attention plummets downward again to become caught upon one of the shells which decorate his vest. All at once memory of the news the Domina Ianthe had given her of Craft -- and, received _since_ she'd met the Empyrean woman, the news from the Heralds of what had befallen StormBearer -- swells up within her to compete with the alien but potent effect the Mongrel bard is having upon her. "Do..." Her voice comes out in a tiny, grief-edged murmur. "Do you make songs for... people w-who have..." And her eyes squeeze shut, as Faanshi feels tears begin to threaten her. It takes every scrap of composure left in her to be able to voice the final word: "... died?" The smile fades quickly at the grief in Faanshi's voice, levity departing swiftly as Lyre realizes that something tragic has indeed happened to his young friend. Stepping just a tiny bit closer, the bard lifts his hand to lightly touch Faanshi's cheek with work-roughened fingers, his thumb gently grazing her cheek as he searches her eyes worriedly, "Oh, Faanshi...What has happened?" There is tenderness in his voice, a concern that might be beyond friendship but that is careful and measured not to startle, if he can avoid it. He is aware of how skittish she is, but cannot resist the urge to offer what little comfort a penniless bard has to give. "Tell me, dove? I would sing until I had no voice to lighten your sorrows by just one tear." The gauzy blue silk that conceals much of Faanshi's face rides high upon the bridge of her dainty nose, and thus, the Mongrel's fingers touch that cloth rather than the skin beneath. But still, the contact is enough to send astonishment flooding through the maiden all over again; without her willing it, her eyes come open, her gaze comes up, increasingly wet and pained. "D-Domina Ianthe told me that a-a-a friend of mine died," she mumbles, "a-and then I got a letter... from my friend StormBearer, but... but when the Herald read it, it said... it said he is dead...!" A soft sigh escapes the bard's lips, and he is close enough that it might, perhaps, rustle the silk of Faanshi's veil. His thumb gently strokes the silk-covered skin of her cheek, as if trying to sooth by the motion of his touch. "I am so sorry, my dove." He murmurs, "I will write them both songs that will keep their memory alive in music for as long as the sun shall rise. I swear it." His other hand gently rises to rest upon Faanshi's shoulder, warm and strong and _there_. The blue silk is not so thick that the contours of the face it hides cannot be felt through it; delicately constructed, that face, or so it may well be guessed. And with that hand upon her cheek, the other hand upon her shoulder, Faanshi realizes all at once that Lyre has drawn very close to her indeed. Dazed, she wonders when she has ever been touched in this way, and it seems to her that no one has touched her to offer such comfort since Milane... who has disappeared, or so goes the rumor. And before that... her beloved heart-mother Ulima... also gone to meet her next life. Does this mean she will lose this bard that Ushas has sent her, too? Will he go away, as all of her friends seem to do? Seized by fretful worry along with the grief trying to close off her throat, the young healer begins to tremble... and sob. "Y-you will?" That tremble is all the cue Lyre needs. The hand upon Faanshi's shoulder draws her close into a light hug, the hand upon her cheek drifts back to gently stroke the back of her head as he murmurs soothingly, "Yes, dove, I will. It is all right to cry. The gods cherish the tears of the innocent, given in grief for a friend. They are an offering, that the loved one may drink wine and cool water in the world beyond. Cry, dear one." He speaks softly, but there is tenderness in his voice, and his embrace is light enough that any motion to pull away would free Faanshi from his grasp. Despite her height -- for she is not much shorter than he -- and despite the layers of sari that swathe her frame, there is not much at all in the way of substance to Faanshi. Drawn into Lyre's arms, the halfbreed girl might well be noted to be more akin to a young tree in shape than to the living stone one might expect of a woman of the race that has raised her. For a fraction of an instant, she freezes as she is brought into that embrace; then, still trembling, her own arms creeping around Lyre's lean form in search of its support, she gives full rein to her sorrow. "I... I-I am supposed to... rejoice," she whispers mournfully into the Mongrel man's shoulder. "Th-that they... go to their next lives, but... but... I-I-I do not have many friends! I-I-I could have healed Craft if he was sick, I could... and... and StormBearer, maybe I could have healed him too... and they're gone, they're gone, I miss them...!" His arms tighten ever-so gently, one hand stroking Faanshi's back as he murmurs to her, "I know. Do not blame yourself, Faanshi...You cannot heal everyone, no matter the strength of your power or the strength of your heart, and believe me, they are both tremendous. I know that they would not want you to be sad for them, my heart, for no one who cared for you would ever wish you grief. But you are allowed to miss them. It's right, that they who were a part of your life will sadden you by their absence." Lyre's voice is a rumble in his chest as he speaks, voice pitched for closeness as he cradles the young shudra to him. His arms hold her carefully, as if he is half afraid she'll vanish or break, yet he cannot make himself let go. "I wish with all my heart that I knew how to make the pain go away." Dismayed by this change in the behavior of the two-footed ones, Kosha whines a bit, circling around the bard and the healer as he tries to figure out exactly what is happening and whether he can nudge his muzzle in there as long as there is some comforting of Faanshi that needs to be done. For once oblivious to her poor hound, the maiden trembles within the circle of the arms that hold her, and she trembles again at the soft rumbling murmur of the voice that seems to her to embrace her as well. "You l-let me cry," she whispers, bemused. "N-n-nobody lets me cry..." It takes a particularly well-placed nudge from Kosha to cause the bard to pull back slightly, just enough to look down and give the dog a faint smile. Lyre murmurs in reply to Faanshi's words, "Perhaps I'm not the _only_ one, my heart. But yes, I would let you do anything, and help you in any way I can -- should you wish to fly, I would find a way to make it possible." Sincerity fills the soft rumble of his voice, though it's touched as much with warmth and amusement as any other emotion. "You are," Faanshi insists in tiny, doleful tones. Several disturbing things begin to occur to her all at once, then: that she is embracing a man... that he is embracing her... that her tears are soaking into the front of Lyre's vest... and that now that she's begun speaking, she appears to be unable to stop. "M-Milane would, but then she d-d-disappeared, they tried to _burn_ her and n-now nobody knows where she went... and... and my heart-mother would but she _died_ because she was so old... no-nobody else. Imphada Kiera d-doesn't stay with me, sh-she does not like Atesh-Gah and I-I do not know what to say to her, even if she is with me, I need to be V-Varati for her because the Amir-al made her his d-daughter and I cannot shame her, I... I..." One after the other, words spill out of her along with the tears from her eyes, till at last Kosha causes the Mongrel's subtle shift in position. And all at once Faanshi finds herself looking up again, damp green eyes finding Lyre's features in a daze as she finally stammers to a halt. Almost imperceptibly, the bard leans forward just a touch to place the softest, gentlest of kisses upon Faanshi's forehead, silk veil or no. "For all that is taken from you, Faanshi, something new will be given. Is that not the way of Ushas? A new day, a new cycle. I know it is hard, truly I do. But you may count on me for whatever I have to give." His breath is warm, now that he is so close, brushing against the silk that hides Faanshi's face from the world. Faanshi had already been barely able to speak as she'd lifted her watery attention up to the Mongrel man's countenance; now, though, as his lips brush that feather-light kiss across her brow, she becomes barely able to breathe. Her eyes go round all over again, and a new flush of color surges across her cheeks, rises up to peek over the top of her veil. Little details flare up and mark themselves in her awareness, the color of his eyes, the timbre of his voice, the way the light of Ashur Masad appears to have graced his otherwise dark hair. And all at once, stricken by the overwhelming realization that in only two meetings this man has somehow seared himself into her consciousness more than any other man she's ever met, the shudra girl starts palpably in his arms. "Th... thank you... I..." What else was she supposed to say? Faanshi takes a nervous step backwards and pulls one hand back to her even as the other flits to the bard's shoulder, fingertips brushing the damp place where her face had rested. "Wh-wh-what is your price... for songs? I-I-I do not know how much a song is..." With a light smile, Lyre draws back enough to give Faanshi room to breathe. A rough finger lifts to lightly touch the tip of her veil-covered nose, "For you, dear lady, a special price -- let me sing them to you when I am finished writing them, and tell me if they will do, and my price will be met. For friends of yours must be worthy of songs without any price attached to them, and I shall write a ballad for each of them gladly." He gives her a teasing little grin, "Is it a bargain?" The halfbreed girl sniffles faintly... but nods then. Her face is still lifted up, showing lashes still soaked with her tears, streaks of moisture dampening the very top of her veil. But she also breathes out swiftly, "Yes... yes!" _I want to hear him sing again,_ comes a rush of thought across her mind, strong and fast and leaving her reeling and overcome. "Your... your voice is... " _Magnificent..._ "Very... very nice...." Lyre laughs softly, though a little ruddiness enters his cheeks, "Thank you. It means a lot to me that you think so, Faanshi." He smoothes his hand along Faanshi's shoulder once and then takes a half-step back, crouching to bestow a little attention upon the poor neglected Kosha, "Then we have an agreement. But first, tell me about how you knew them? The Empyrean Craft Astorius and the Herald StormBearer, yes?" He's got a good memory, it seems. Well, it's about time! Kosha had dolefully sunk down onto his haunches by the two who had been ignoring him, but as soon as Lyre shifts his attention downward, the young hound perks up again and happily wriggles about to thrust his ears under the bard's fingers. Aghast that she has apparently forgotten her beloved Kosha for even a few minutes, the maiden drops to her knees on his other side, reaching one hand for his fur while lifting the other to scrub across her eyes. But even as she does, she begins to realize that a tight place within her she had had no idea existed has somehow loosened. Faanshi cannot explain it... but it occurs to her that it has been brought about by this Mongrel man, this bard who in the simple act of letting her weep has given her a taste of an almost painfully sweet relief. She cannot explain it... but she finds herself wanting more. And thus, slowly, uncertainly, she begins to speak... [End log.]