"Dandelion Wishes" Log Date: 11/27, 11/28/00 Log Cast: Tyler, Faanshi, Fenimos, Empyrean arena guard (NPC emitted by Fenimos) Log Intro: Faanshi has entered into a time of mourning for the loss of her beloved Lyre, and as the weeks that have passed since his death begin to turn into months, new things have arisen to keep her from losing herself entirely in her grief. There has been her mistress Thalia's insistence that she find Sylvans for her to question about the violating of the ritual of Invoking the Flame -- as well as Thalia's sudden absence from Haven, and the rumors that flew through Atesh-Gah about Khalid Atar putting His wife aside from Him. There has been the unexpected friendship of a kindly Sylvan sailor, and the equally unexpected friendship of a young kshatri girl taken under the wing of the Warlord Sumai of Clan Messala. But few things or persons have caused her quite as much consternation as the Mongrel Tyler, a gladiator of ebullient, electric temperament, who has at once alarmed her with his apparent determination to see her unveiled face... and fascinated her with his unbridled energy. Tyler, who all without Faanshi's knowing seems to have grown fascinated with _her_ as well. And who needs little more than the impetus of winning the latest round of Games at the Arena to show it as well as his unexpected capacity for sensitivity... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Morning Date on Aether: Sunday, June 17, 3907. Year on Earth: 1507 A.D. Phase of the Moon: First Quarter Season: Summer Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* City Park - Haven A large, well-manicured lawn covered with soft green grass provides some respite from the daily hustle-and-bustle of the city. Along its perimeter, beds of blue myrtle grow underneath a row of willow trees to the northwest, with a small path leading back streetside. A hedgerow delineates the southern boundary some hundred feet away, and a break in the hedge allows a view into a smaller, more private garden. This area is generally used for large public gatherings and social events, such as public performances or the huge festivals of cairds that flock to Haven throughout the year. At more quiet times, it is frequented by common folk and aristocrats alike, and most notably, the Sylvans seeking brief escape from the confining streets of Haven. Contents: Tyler Kosha Obvious exits: Street Garden Tyler Electric blue eyes, always running wild with proof of a turbulent temper, confront the world with keen, contagious excitement. Tyler looks to be in his mid-twenties, his features rugged and relatively handsome, fit for winning smiles and aggressive snarls alike. A quick shock of lemon yellow hair challenges the bronzed complexion of his skin in contrast, all shaggy and tangled after rather unsuccessful efforts by the mongrel to hand-comb it into place. Formidable in construction, cocky in demeanor, Tyler is six feet and two inches of adrenaline and abandon. His athletic musculature thrums with energy, reasonably combining explosive strength with curious expedition. Proud scars dance in sharp patterns across his powerful forearms and hands, while fresh cuts and bruises always adorn his knuckles, strictly exacted by his rough profession. Fitting snugly over Tyler's form is an unmaintained hauberk of chain-mail, through which a sky blue tunic can be glimpsed, the sleeves of both shorn off haphazardly at the shoulder for ease of movement. In a scabbard at his left hip is a standard hand-and-a-half sword. A serrated knife is also sheathed and located on the belt that wraps twice about his middle. The pants he wears are crafted from faded brown leather and his combat boots are worn-out, both suggestive of persistent action and movement. With the shining sun approaching its zenith, unobscured by cloud, a warm nourishment is cast upon the lush, green lawn of Haven's park. A glint of brilliant silver or the contrast of sun-struck blond nestled against the grass might draw the eye. The silver happens to be a crown of laurel and the yellow is a tousle of shaggy hair. Their mongrel owner has selected to lounge in a spot that is very close to the center of the park, as though he were its sole owner. Legs stretched out and both hands tucked comfortably behind his head, Tyler thoughtfully observes of one puffy cloud, "Kinda looks like a horse ..." 'Kinda looks like a horse' is an observation more than one person has made of Kosha, due to his size and speed. However, there's nothing equine about the bark that sounds not far away from Tyler -- or about the amiably curious canine face that abruptly blocks his view of the clouds overhead, as Kosha scampers right up behind the reclining Mongrel's head and thrusts his own upside down into the man's line of sight. You! Hey! I know you! He definitely heard the bark, but before it could be registered, Kosha makes his appearance--and Tyler immediately surrenders a decidedly un-gladiator-ish yelp. The mongrel bolts upright and dodges the hound's head with his own, spinning half-way around on his bottom to stare, jaw sagging, at the animal. "Kosha!" he gasps in a blend of surprise and relief. He thought he was going to be eaten! A smile tentatively touches his rugged features as he reaches out to pat at his muscular neck. "Hey, boy, what're /you/ doing here? Where's--?" Perking up, he begins to scan the outskirts of the park, looking for the halfbreed who can't be far behind. Faster than a speeding chariot! Able to leap tall fences in a single bound! It's a bird, it's a gryphon, it's -- well, it's a very enthusiastic dog who might not be a wind-mage, but who can nevertheless generate a considerable little breeze with the wagging of his magnificent tail, so pleased is he at the reaction he provoked out of Tyler. His mission completed, he proceeds with phase two of his devious doggy plan and promptly starts butting at the fighter's hands to get them to give him his rightful due: skitches. In the meantime, though, Faanshi is indeed not too far away. Clad predominantly as she is in black she might perhaps look out of place under a summer sky, but she nevertheless stands out starkly against the lush green backdrop of the park. She has knelt some distance away, her ever-present basket at her side, and from the look of it she seems to be busily searching between the roots of a tree. He smiles even more when he sights the presence of the black-garbed healer, then turns back to Kosha. "You scared the /hell/ outta me!" Tyler admits with some laughter, shifting his bronzed hands into scritch-mode, right behind the hound's ears. "Mmmm, he /likes/ that, don't he?" The mongrel vigorously scritches and scratches, happily watching the doggy expressions. He does! He does! Kosha's eyes close in bliss, his mouth stretched in a canine grin while his tail wags up a storm and one of his paws thumps against the earth. If there is anything Kosha loves best in the world, it is scritches. Well, okay, and FOOD. And Faanshi! But right now, in the innocent Now of doggy existence, Tyler and his agile fingers are Kosha's very best friends. Unaware of who her canine protector has run across in the center of the park, the healer who was Kosha's first friend industriously and delicately picks little tidbits of moss out of the hollows of the roots she is exploring. Her sari-covered head is bowed, but for once not in prayer. Rather, her earnest gaze is focused upon her moss-gathering, and she pauses every so often to judge the color and texture and smell of her finds. "Thatta boy," praises the mongrel fondly, his fingers easing out of scritch-mode after a number of long, attentive moments, for he knows that if he sat there and pampered the hound for the whole of the day, it /still/ wouldn't be enough. "Lemme go talk to Faanshi now." Tyler appears very cheerful as he pulls himself to his feet with a grunt. "Faanshi!" he calls toward the exploring shudra, beginning to excitedly dash her way. "I won--!" Then he falls, tumbling to the grassy lawn. But almost immediately, Tyler bounces /right/ back to his feet, both hands frantically clawing at the top of his sunny locks. "My crown!" he cries desperately, spinning with terror lacing his voice. The crown in question seems to answer with a silvery glimmer, resting in the green blades right below Kosha. Without pause, he sprints to the latest object of his most dearest, loving affection. Kosha's disappointed snuffle is lost beneath Tyler's headlong plunge and his agile leap right back up again -- but for all that she does not hear her dog's reaction to the cessation of his rightful skitching, Faanshi cannot miss the gladiator's energetic call. Her head comes up, eyes as green as the summer that surrounds her going a trifle wide even as Tyler hastens to reunite himself with the silvery gleam on the grass. Kosha snuffles again, scooping up the laurel leaves and wagging his tail again. Hey, look what he found! Ooh, SHINY. Oh no! Nearly flying forward once more with his running momentum, Tyler skids to a halt in the grass, kicking up two short trails of rich soil in his wake. /Wide/, vibrant blue eyes rivet themselves to the laurels in the hound's mouth. "Kosha," he begins with all the gravity he can assume. "Please ... /please/ ... bring that to me." He lowers, very carefully, into a crouch and extends a scarred hand. "Bring it to me." With the deadly urgency Tyler displays, one might think that Kosha had an explosive clamped in his jaws, not a piece of jewelry, however symbolic it might be to the gladiator. Oh my. Faanshi cannot quite comprehend the apparently frantic desperation exhibited before her eyes, but it's enough to pull her to her feet. Looking back and forth between her hound and the Mongrel, she pads up near Tyler and beckons to him with her own rather slenderer hand. But she also utters a soft three-note whistle, and it's that summons that does what Tyler so ardently desires: brings the hound up and over, tail a-wag, and gets him to drop the laurels at Faanshi's feet. Look what he found! Isn't it pretty? Isn't it shiny? Kosha has no idea what it IS, mind you, but that he FOUND it obviously pleases him. "Good dog, Kosha," the shudra murmurs, as she kneels down to retrieve the laurel wreath and hold it up to its owner. "Please pardon Kosha," she requests solemnly. "He likes things that shine. I hope he has not damaged it?" A powerful, gust-like sigh of relief accompanies the soft sound of the laurels dropping into the grass at Faanshi's feet. Tyler reaches out for it, taking it from the healer and instantly beginning to wipe away any doggy slobber or sticking bits of grass with one of the legs of his pants. "I think it's all right," he points out absently. Currently more important to him, the crown captures his attention: he holds it up to the sunlight and examines it with anxious eyes. Satisfied, a bright smile banishes the seriousness of his features. "I won!" he proclaims, both arms reaching out with the unthinking endeavor to wrap the slender maiden in an exuberant embrace. Taken utterly by surprise, Faanshi is easily lifted to her feet and right off of them as well with the force of that hug, and at least for a moment or two the only reaction she can manage is a breathless little squeak. Seldom indeed does this maiden get embraced so, but the unfettered joy is as uplifting as summer itself, and even solemn shudra healers cannot help but react to it. Shyly she blurts, "Won -- the games? The gladiator games, in the arena...?" The gladiator releases the maiden with a giant grin, his strong arms unwinding from about her delicate form to place her in the same spot he briefly removed her from. "Uh-huh--in the arena! Me and Emrys--we're champions!" Tyler bounces on the balls of his feet as he seems to do when excitement dominates, then positions the laurel crown right on top of his head. It gleams regally. "See? They gave me /this/!" Reacting as well to Tyler's bubbling fervor, Kosha scampers this way and that about the fighter and the healer, while the healer herself tries to regain command of her composure. Eyes of Sylvan green blink a few times over her smoke-hued veil; it's just a little bit too much information to process all at once for the gentle halfbreed, and it takes her a moment to do so. Being hugged. Tyler a gladiator, of which she knows very little -- save that gladiators fight and people go to watch them do it. Someone named Emrys. A crown of leaves wrought in silver, and beneath it, the Mongrel man's enormous scintillating grin. "It -- it is very fine," she says, and means it, for all that she's still flustered enough to unconsciously smooth one sungolden hand against her dark sari. Her brow is crinkled too, as she tries to fathom the deluge of euphoric information coming her way. "Emrys... your partner in arms?" Gladiators have partners? "Yeah. I don't think he likes me, but he fought good enough last week. We represent House Augustus! It's great!" The cheerfulness of the mongrel seems intense enough to banish gloom and despair for miles around, radiating from his tall, bronzed form. Tyler retrieves the crown from his head and delivers to it a meaningful kiss, pressing his lips to the warm silver. Then he cradles the laurels to his chest, an absolutely dreamy cast to his alluringly blue eyes. He probably curls up with it in his arms at night, too. "So what've you two been doing?" he asks with interest, sending Kosha a fond glance before returning his attention to the maiden before him. This is not the first time Faanshi has been in such ebullient company; her acarya has rather high-spirited young kin. But then again, FallingStar's young kin are _children_, and the halfbreed maid finds a similarly high spirit coming out of a significantly larger individual rather more overwhelming. "I... um... gathering dandelions," she murmurs, peeking back at the basket waiting for her by the oak tree, and sounding rather as if she is well aware that an herb-gathering expedition is probably not nearly so exciting as being a champion gladiator. "And moss." So presently pleased of disposition is the mongrel that he immediately blurts, "Can I help?" Eyes hopeful and brows lifted, he carefully watches and waits, just a few of the longer strands of lemon-hued hair teasing at his vision. "I'm a good dandelion ... hunter!" He adds this with enthusiasm once he selects a proper description for the task he claims to be so skilled at. For just a fraction of an instant, Faanshi's already rather confused mind refuses to latch upon this concept. Even though her understanding of such things is spotty at best, it seems to her that a gladiator is a kind of warrior -- and what warrior would stoop to such a lowly task as assisting such as she in the gathering of herbs? Dainty black brows knit together in consternation above her leaf-tinted eyes... and then, half because of remembrance that Mongrel men and women seem far more willing to assist one another with any kind of work no matter how lowly, and half out of simply being affected by that hopeful expression, she relents, "If... if you wish! I have not filled my basket..." "I'll fill that basket up in no time!" exclaims he, sounding sure of himself, sweeping his attention from the maiden to the oak tree where her basket lies. "Now," he goes on determinedly, beginning to walk toward the tree and dusting off his hands in the process, "if you'll just remind me a little bit what a dandelion looks like--they're those little fluff-balls, right?" And then a brilliant thought lights the imaginary lightbulb hovering over the mongrel's head. He pauses and slowly peers back over his shoulder at Faanshi. "Are you trying to save them all up and make a /really/ big wish?" Faanshi being, well, _Faanshi_, her immediate reaction to that is to begin to answer the question seriously. Only after a single soft "I--" escapes her does she catch herself, taken utterly aback by that suggestion even as she pads back towards the tree a pace or two behind the Mongrel. She stops for a moment in her surprise, and then asks, head tilting slightly to one side and her brows crinkling anew, "People do that...? Make wishes, with dandelions?" Apparently, she's never heard of such a thing before. "Oh yes," Tyler replies, quite certain. "I used to do it all the time when I was little and my mother would bring me to the park. You just close your eyes, make a wish, and blow real hard on the fluff-ball. It works." The mongrel rakes a hand through his hair and proceeds toward the tree. "Sometimes," he adds, just a degree quieter, "but you only get /one/ a day. So saving them up won't help." He sounds like he's tried it before and been let down. "Have you made your wish for the day--wait, look!" The seemingly incredible discovery of one such dandelion fluttering gently in the light breeze interrupts him. Tyler dashes with all haste toward it. While Kosha decides that romping amongst the dandelions is a fine idea -- because if nothing else, there's a butterfly on the loose, and distractable as he is beneath a warm summer sky, Kosha is very easily seduced by the prospect of chasing butterflies -- the maiden goes still for a moment, eyes turning abruptly wistful at so simple a thing as a mention of a mother who once took her son to a park. On the heels of that comes a secondary realization: this big gladiator must once have been a small tow-headed boy, and somehow, that begins to ease Faanshi's nervousness. She retrieves her basket, then follows after the Mongrel, asking earnestly, "Who hears the wishes...? Is it like prayer?" Sliding to his knees before the dandelion, Tyler carefully snaps its stem and clambers to his feet. He holds his gladiatorial trophy in one hand and the flower in between two fingers with his other hand. "Ah-ha! Got one!" Faanshi's question is processed as he strides swiftly back toward her. "I dunno," he eventually murmurs, twirling the flower and watching it as if enthralled while sunlight filters through the tiny seedlings of the fluff-ball, an odd little splendor of light playing there. "I don't think it's as serious as a prayer. I think it has something to do with fairies. Here--" He holds the dandelion out to her. "--make a wish on this one, Faanshi." "What are fairies--?" This question, too, comes out of Faanshi in utter childlike solemnity; either that word is unknown amongst the Varati, or else this maiden has lived a very sheltered life. She lifts a hand, though not quite coming into contact with the dandelion; something in her gaze suggests that she is seeing that perfectly prosaic plant, which she's picked many a day before for many a tea for FallingStar's customers, as if for the first time. Then she peeks up uncertainly in search of guidance. "What must I do?" "Fairies are little people." Tyler reflects: What /are/ fairies? He's never /seen/ one before; only heard of the tiny creatures in bedtime stories or from other mongrel children when he was small. "Well, I know they have wings. And they're magical." The gladiator shrugs his shoulders a little. Evidently, that part mustn't be too important. "You'll probably have to take off your veil," points out he, still inviting her to take the dandelion, a playful smile actively edging its way across his bronzed countenance. Little people? With wings? Faanshi's brow remains crinkled at the mental image of a miniature Empyrean, but that is quickly overriden by Tyler's last comment. Her gaze plummets downward again while she mumbles bashfully, "W-why -- h-how does that -- I mean--" Where, exactly, did the conversation divert itself from using dandelions to make wishes to her taking off her veil? "How else can you blow on the little ball of fluff, huh?" Tyler wonders with a growing grin. "The veil will get all in the way. Come on, just a /little/ wish. Ushas won't mind." He seems particularly proud that he is able to remember the name of the mother of Faanshi's god from when she explained it to him. "Please?" Instinctively, Faanshi glances to the east -- for there lies the dawn each morning, and therefore, east is the direction sacred to Her so far as young shudra healers are concerned. One might almost wonder whether she hopes to see some sign of guidance there. But there is nothing to the east but more park, verdant beneath the summer sun, and a dog who's given up on chasing butterflies to roll happily in the grass. It occurs to Faanshi then that the Mongrel _has_ seen her face before... so perhaps, Ushas will not object if it happens again? She hopes so, at any rate. The halfbreed girl's hand comes hesitantly up to reach within the sari that swaths her head and unclasp the chain that holds her veil in place; just as hesitantly, it brings it down again, to bring into the light the bottom of her nose, her finely drawn mouth, her pointed chin. Her gaze stays down, however, resting upon the dandelion she accepts from the bronzed hand that offers it. And her dainty features are as creased as her brow has been with her consternation, while she admits tinily, "I... I do not know what I should wish for..." After taking a tiny step closer to the maiden, Tyler's question is susurrant, soft, and sincerely interested: "You already have everything you want in your life?" He openly looks over the young woman's sungolden features, committing them to memory, impressing the shy, innocent visage into his mind now that it is without the mournful cast he observed when last he managed to have the veil removed. The ensuing quiet allows the mongrel's breathing to be heard, light but persistent as if slowly increasing in rate. Lifting the hand that Faanshi takes the dandelion from, he tries to touch her chin if she'll permit it, two fingertips encouraging her to lift her gaze. "Please look at me," he breathes in a whisper that begs. That murmured entreaty brings the halfbreed's gaze up, inexorably. Do all Varati women look like her, with a fragility to their features to match the delicate white cloud of fluff that crowns the dandelion she cradles in her fingertips? How many of them have eyes the color of luxuriant summer leaves? And do they all meet the gazes of men with such timidity when their faces are bared to view -- or just Faanshi? "My... I have... all I need is provided me by the Clan I serve," she humbly whispers, as if shocked by the idea that she might desire more than the minimum necessary to sustain her. "Clothing... food... shelter..." "What about fun ... excitement ... adventure?" The gladiator looks down boldly and questioningly into her eyes, shy serenity meeting carefree unconventionality. Faanshi's mixed blood of Sylvan and Varati descent never crosses Tyler's mind--he doesn't realize it. Detailed racial characteristics were never important to him; he's lived in an urban world of mongrels where appearances were never limited: they could have golden curls or raven tresses, eyes like the morning or pools of night, skin as dusky as the soil or pale as milk, tall or short, stocky or slender. Faanshi is Varati because of the trademark, silken sari and her talk of a clan. She is not a mongrel, because he knows she wields the aether that heals and mends, which his kind are sadly exempt from controlling. He knows this because he often wondered when he was, yes, a little tow-headed boy if /he/ could ever bend and shape the elements after witnessing such magic. His reproachful father informed him that it was impossible. The mongrel way was intensely and solely physical. Tenacity and temperament, endurance and strength. None of this travels through the mind of Tyler, though. It's already been accepted, a long time ago. What /does/ occupy his thoughts is the attraction to the fine, delicate features of Faanshi and the timid gaze that captures the summer in hue. "Does your clan provide that, too?" Not so dusky of complexion is Faanshi that a blush cannot be seen sweeping across her cheeks, especially under direct summer sunlight. Though it doesn't plummet again, her gaze does slide sideways beneath her knitted brows; embarrassment and wistfulness etch themselves sharply into her countenance, along with the shyness. "I-I have fun," she murmurs awkwardly, "with Kosha... sometimes... or when the Mongrel children in Bordertown ask me to play with them...!" Whether the Clan that commands her service fills such a need she does not address, however. It is at this point that the mongrel does something rather rash and impulsive. With Faanshi's attention slipping to the side, one of her sungolden cheeks is even more exposed. Tyler finds that he cannot help himself of this importunate desire. He tries to kiss her--a swift, darting peck of his lips aimed at the maiden's warm, blushing cheek. And the moment he does, a sharp gasp escapes the healer. It is as if she is a deer, starting at an all-too-close arrow from a hunter; she freezes, and then involuntarily scrambles backward a step or two. Shock and what can only be fear now fill Faanshi's eyes, and the dandelion drops to the earth as she is seized with the sudden desperate need to fumble her veil back into place... and the simultaneous abrupt need to flee. "I -- no -- I --" is all she is able to croak, even as she struggles with the chain that usually holds the black silk up before the world. Tyler's conscience savagely bites him and demands to know /why/ he just did that. He winces. "W-wait! Don't go, Faanshi!" The mongrel's words are blurted out desperately as the healer backs away from him. "That was stupid of me!" he realizes with compunction. "I'm sorry!" Again the maiden freezes, hands jammed underneath the black cloth that wraps about the top of her head, caught in the midst of trying to re-secure her veil. Her face is already half-hidden behind the stark ebon gauzy silk, but her eyes are not; wide, darkened with panic, they're more than enough to relay her alarm. Especially with the beginnings of tears springing up within them. The faint taste and warm feel of the maiden's golden skin against his lips is completely exiled from the mongrel's mind. Nothing is worth seeing her like that: eyes widened and glistening, frightened speechless of /him/. He swallows with difficulty, silently inveighing himself for his sheer, improvident foolishness. "I shouldn't have done that," he all but whimpers, flopping down hopelessly onto his bottom in the rich blades of green grass. Tyler's contrition, seizing him so mightily, holds Faanshi immobile for a few seconds -- long enough for the anguish that twists his rugged features to imprint itself upon her mind, only adding to the turmoil that's seized _her_. But he is not the only one suffering guilt now, and with a choked little sob she abruptly whirls and stumbles back to the oak tree where she'd left her basket, tears beginning to stream from her eyes. She hadn't managed to fasten the veil yet, and she clings to it with both hands as she runs, only to struggle with it again as she falls to her knees by the basket and the knife she'd been using to delicately scrape moss from the roots. Even though his hands are gently quivering in a state of trepidation, Tyler manages to fasten a tight grip about his beloved silver crown and abruptly hurl it into the bough of the oak tree that Faanshi stands beneath. It doesn't fall back down, stuck somewhere in the tangled limbs above. And amidst the effulgence of the summer sun beating down on the flourishing park, the mongrel bends his knees and tucks them close to his chest. He folds muscular, bronzed forearms over them and rests his head there defeatedly, hiding his eyes from the sight of the weeping maiden. The faint noise of the wreath's collision with the oak leaves -- and a tiny fragment or two of broken twigs that fall down upon her from above -- snap Faanshi's head up. She's stood now, aye, veil back in place, eyes still wet. She'd been about to gather her belongings, call her dog, go while the going is good. But she espies the gleam of silver just overhead, and a hesitant peek back at the Mongrel shows her the huddled, dejected posture into which he's sunk. Remorse seizes her a second time, and never mind her inexperience with such things as kissing. How could he know, she asks herself bleakly, that the memory of another Mongrel man is still too vivid within her to bear even a swift, chaste kiss upon the cheek? That _he_ was over-rash in trying it does not occur to her; for all that it is entirely unconscious, the experiences of her life tell her that she is the shudra. She is the halfbreed. She is the woman. Therefore, if something goes wrong, it is _her_ fault. On top of this, she is struck by the memory of the simple heartfelt joy he'd radiated, showing her his prize. She cannot hate him, not when he'd shown her such exultation, she who is fortunate to receive a kind word from those she serves, much less such open delight. Her sudden decision does not consciously occur to her, either. But nevertheless it does put Faanshi into motion, scrubbing a delicate hand across the back of her eyes... and then peering up at the tree to find a way to reach the hurled laurels. She'll retrieve them, she thinks. Put them where Tyler can find them... then go. Fenimos approaches along the path from the street. Fenimos has arrived. Fenimos walks slowly into the Garden, the chain that holds his ankles jingles with every short step. An Empyrean Arena Guard follows closely behind him, watchful eyes on the Mongrel slave. Feni stops near a bed of flowers, his gaze dropping to examine them...his usual stone-like face shows a hint of happiness as a small grin comes to his lips. There is a yellow-haired mongrel sitting balled-up with his knees clutched to his chest in the park. Tyler's hidden face is buried against the forearms that fold across his knees, his quiescent body positioned not too far away from an oak tree on the outskirts of the large expanse of green, sunlit lawn. Beneath the oak tree, investigating its bough, is a black-swathed shudra. Indeed, the mood of the park could be easily described as idyllic -- save for the fair-haired co-champion of the arena, huddled amongst the grass and evidently privileged enough to have free rein of the city without any sort of guard. And save for the damp-eyed maiden in black sari and veil trying to figure out as quickly as possible a way of climbing up an oak tree... when she has never done a thing such as this before in three years' worth of freedom in the world at large. The only idyllic creature in sight is the dog, Kosha, who's thrust his nose into the mound of an anthill to investigate the fascinating smells therein, and who sneezes at the flurry of insects he dislodges in his search. With one furtive glance at Tyler, Faanshi can be seen to pause... and then she gathers herself for a jump, trying to reach the bottommost branch of the oak. Gladiators are built for such things, heavily trained, fit and agile. Shudra for the most part are not, and it is luck rather than any sort of skill or fitness that gets the girl's hands up around that lowest branch, leaving her dangling awkwardly as she struggles to get a foothold. Fenimos finishes his study of the flower bed, slowly he turns and starts to make his way further into the garden. The sound of the jungling chain getting slightly louder as he gets closer. His green eyes seem to try to take in every little bit of his surroundings..like this is the first, or perhaps last, time he will see them. His gaze though is eventually drawn towards the Mongrel curled up under the tree and the shudra swinging above him, he stops and just starts to watch the scene before him...his face now showing little emotion as it starts to click into combat mood. His Empyreal Arena guard also casts his gaze at the two who seem like they may be fighting, he raises a brow as he looks at the Mongrel....a hint of recognition shows in the Guards eyes. When the jingle of chain invades Tyler's private silence, he lifts his head. The sight of Empyrean and mongrel spectators impresses a territorial scowl into his rugged features. "Go. Away," he imperiously commands. "Can't you see I'm trying to--" Dangling maiden legs in his peripheral demand attention. Lucent blue eyes sweep that way and the wall of solid rock he'd just constructed crumbles away. "No, Faanshi, don't--I'll get it," he worriedly says while pushing himself to his feet, his voice gentle in contrast to the way he spoke to Fenimos and the winged guard. There are certain core concepts one probably wishes to learn, if one wishes to climb a tree for the first time. Such as, Varati garb is probably not the best of outfits in which to attempt a maneuver like jumping up to grab a branch -- and sandals already worn thin by much walking all over Bordertown probably aren't the best footwear in which to try to gain traction upon the trunk of a tree. Unfortunately, since she has not in fact ever been educated in the fine art of tree-climbing, Faanshi has not learned these concepts. Her feet fail to gain a purchase upon the trunk, and furthermore, Tyler's anxious call and the uneasy feeling of the branch bending with her slight weight are enough to distract her. Her grip slackens. And all at once releases, sending her tumbling to the ground in a puddle of black. Across the field, Kosha snaps his head up from the anthill, ears twitching at the *thud* of Faanshi's form against the earth. Fenimos just watches Tyler for a moment, seeing that there is no threat to him he just turns his attention to a new flower bed. He moves to a piece of grass and sits down, his eyes still on the flowers...from under his belt he produces a small flute, bringing it to his lips he starts to play a sorrowful and soft lulla-bye..the only one he knows. When the sound of Faanshi falling hits his ears the music stops, those green eyes glance over towards her to ensure that she has not injured herself. The Empyrean Arena Guard no longer really watches Fenimos, when he's playing his music he's as tame as a kitten...and so the guard continues to watch Tyler and Faanshi. His face showing that he does not like the tone that Tyler has taken, after all the Mongrel isn't much more then a slave. When Faanshi falls the guard just grins, as if he's hoping that it hurt her, but since this is a public place though the guard just moves to stand nearby Feni, his watchful gaze the only hint of movement. The shaggy-haired gladiator hurries with concern over to where the maiden has tumbled to the park's lush floor. "Faanshi? Hey, you all right?" he quizzes, his features softening as he arrives to kneel down beside the halfbreed, awkwardly hesitating between helping her with his hands as he would with anyone else and respecting the distance that she seems to prefer. "I'll get it, don't worry. It's dangerous up there," he tries to soothe, his brow knitting as he waits for a report on her condition. But even if she /has/ injured itself, Tyler hopes the pain will be brief. After all, she is a healer. Tyler isn't the only one to go bounding over to Faanshi. Letting out a loud bark, Kosha comes scampering across the grass in a hundred pounds of canine speed, anxious to see why his beloved healer went *thud*. In the World According to Kosha, Faanshi is most assuredly not supposed to go *thud*, and this is obviously something that requires investigation. Halfway over to his mistress, though, the big canine spots the other gladiator and his keeper. Kosha whirls about to eye them, caught between rejoining Faanshi and ascertaining that those two strangers aren't about to do something that requires investigation as well. As for Faanshi, already shaken to the point of tears, she has a difficult time preventing a new wash of them from welling up within her eyes -- particularly as she landed right on her tailbone. In a word... OW. Though it is once more safely hidden away behind her veil, her face still nevertheless screws up in her effort not to make a sound. Once she does, it is in as stoic and tiny a voice as ever a Mongrel or a gladiator or a slave of any kind has ever used: "My... pain is irrelevant..." Granted, she _is_ a healer. And even without her willing it, her power has already surged up to chase the pain out of her, roused out of dormancy by her collision with the earth. But it may easily be concluded that she's not speaking of what her considerable power can do. Without meeting Tyler's eyes, she scrambles to retrieve her basket and the dagger she'd been using to gather her moss. Fenimos continues to look at Faanshi with just a hint of concern in his eyes, when he see's that she will be fine his eyes once more turn to look at the flowers. The small flute is once again brought to his lips and that same simple and yet sorrowful lulla-bye begins to float through the air. For a man that shows so little emotion his playing, though simple and rudementary, is filled with it. His eyes close as he plays, his mind and heart almost seeming to join with the sorrow of the music. And so he sits there, lost in his simple tune and his memories floating up to the front of his mind. The Empyreal Arena Guard for the most part just stands there, watching over the scene....he does give that dog a couple of glances though, but for the most part he's just another piece of the scenery. And before the champion who'd so vehemently tossed away his own laurels can stop her, Faanshi is on her feet again, dagger stuffed into the basket, basket clutched against her breast. And she's running, unnerved, for she's heard music not far away and espied her dog peering warily at the winged guard and the man over which he seems to preside. "K-Kosha," she can be heard to rasp, making the hound's head swivel her direction and making him immediately bound to join her. Neither Fenimos nor his keeper get any more of a glance at the maiden's eyes than Tyler had beneath the oak tree's branches; indeed, the only sign she gives of acknowledging their presences are a timidly and humbly murmured "dominus" for the Empyrean and "imphadi" for the man with the flute. And with that, needing now more than anything else to be elsewhere, the halfbreed pelts away as fast as she can; soon enough, she and her dog have vanished into the sunshine. [End log.]