"Healing in the Morning Rain" Log Date: 10/28, 10/31/00 Log Cast: Faanshi, Quickwing, Hunts-the-Truth, Tyler Log Intro: Even in the grip of the sharpest grief she has ever experienced in her young life, somewhere within her heart Faanshi has managed to find a glimmer of hope... and all because of a dream that came to her in the night, a dream of her lost beloved coming to her in spirit to bid her a final farewell. The morning after, a refugee out of Avalon found her and brought to her Lyre Talespinner's most treasured possession, his namesake lyre, which she has adopted as her own. And which she resolves to play each dawn, to honor his memory. But Faanshi's choice of practice spots, out in the old city garden, is not exactly as private as she might have wished... and a Mongrel of a very different sort than Lyre, torn between the rakish urge to see a pretty girl unveiled and far gentler sentiments he does not yet understand, hasn't yet abandoned the challenge of seeing her true face. And never mind that he has to appeal to her healer's heart to pull it off.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Monday, April 22, 3907. Year on Earth: 1507 A.D. Phase of the Moon: First Quarter Season: Spring Weather: Rain 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: QuickWing Kosha Obvious exits: Streets Garden Archway Hunts-the-Truth enters the shady depths of the town garden from the east. Hunts-the-Truth has arrived. Tyler enters the shady depths of the town garden from the east. Tyler has arrived. Rain falls lightly down from the lightening skies, casting a blanket of coolness across the green of the garden. Into the peace of this place, a maiden whose red choli and blue silwar are primarily hidden by the black sari that swathes her form -- and whose face is primarily hidden by the black veil over its lower half -- has come to take shelter with her loyal hound in a hidden little nook between two great oak trees. It is difficult to see the sunrise with the rain in the air, but still, the shudra waits with expectation, green gaze uplifted to the east as she cradles to her breast something almost as precious to her as the hound: the battered lyre that has come to her out of Avalon. Since the leaves overhead keep droplets of rain out of her hiding place -- and therefore off the strings of the lyre -- she occupies herself with the task of lovingly tuning it. And when dawn's first light at last begins to brighten the eastern horizon, sungolden fingers coax a tentative chord out of the instrument... and the halfbreed lifts up her voice in the first measures of a hymn to Ushas, the Lady of the Dawn. Among the green of the fresh foliage that hangs above the garden paths, two bits of something another shade of green flicker and then swivel swiftly in Faanshi's direction. Round bits of green. Eyes. Sylvan eyes. A gentle rustling of the branches and leaves in the tree hosting these eyes before they disappear, and then reappear, not quite so high up and definitly facing more downward, upon the red, blue, and black clad figure bearing the delicate insturment. Hunts-the-Truth slips into the garden-grown-wild, pausing to take a deep breath and let it slowly out. The rain doesn't seem to bother her in the least. What's a little water compared to new things and new places? Or to coming back to this place that is almost like home, compared to what lies beyond the gates? Green, feline eyes swivel in the direction of the music studying the figure with the lyre under the trees, and then bare feet move her silently closer, her head tilted in a posture of curiosity. Cool, refreshing rivulets of fallen rain stream soothingly over the rugged features and bare chest of Tyler as he strides along the path of cobbles. It is gradually washing away the shed blood from his swollen knuckles, split lip, and the cursory cut hovering over one of his eyes. With a defiant laugh, he casts a glance over his shoulder toward the city and dabs experimentally at his lip, tasting and seeing blood. While he does so, his foot catches on the path and he nearly tumbles to the hard ground, sword scabbard suddenly tapping against his thigh audibly. Snorting at the cobblestones, the mongrel ceases to laugh and lifts his gaze, scanning intently, to ensure that no-one saw his clumsiness. The voice out of the trees is not the surest of voices in the city; nor does it appear to be the most skilled of voices in song. Some of the notes it hits are not truly pitched, some not quite properly supported by the breath needed to give them clarity and power. But nevertheless that sweet soprano that wafts up into the early morning sky might perhaps have something of earnestness and feeling to make up for what it lacks in polish. Beneath it, the lyre sounds in the simplest of plucked chords, just enough to give it support. And then Faanshi hears the crash of something falling out there in the distance. So does Kosha, who whurfs there where he sits on his haunches by the maiden in their shelter under the trees. The dog's head swivels about... and Faanshi's voice dies down into silence, long enough for her to try to hear if the crash will repeat itself. When it doesn't seem to do so, and when Kosha does not seem overly alarmed, she draws in a breath and decides to try her second verse. She _did_ promise. She must sing to Ushas, after all. And the one who gave her the lyre. The eyes watch, and assumably listen, as the young insturmentalist stops and restarts her heart filled, if not experienced playing. Of course, however, they saw the clumsy mongrel and the padding kitten. This is thier part of the garden. A small hand, bits of black something clinging to it for a moment, pokes out from within the body of leaves, letting rain fall into the cupped palm, and then retreats just as hastily. This is repeated, with a presumed sipping in between. Hunts-the-Truth freezes as she hears the crash and the music stopping. Darting a look around, she spots Tyler and watches him for a long moment, then turns back as the music starts again. That, at the moment, is far more interesting to her. She resumes her silent trek until she reaches a vantage point from which she can see the singer and her dog, and then she stops, crouching in the rain to listen. Sure that he hasn't been spied, the blond-haired mongrel stretches out strong arms to either side and heaves an incredible yawn, wincing when a sore muscle is triggered. "Damn," he groans, arms sinking and head tilting back as if to steal a moment of relaxation. His face is tapped by the consistent fall of rain, and his vibrant blue eyes gaze upwards into the clouded heavens. Without the noise of his own boots beating against the wet cobbles, he is provided with the sound of distant song. Levelling his line of sight, he steps off the path and makes his way through the park toward that which has demanded his attention. He doesn't stalk or prowl through the underbrush, but strides along with a cocky gait. Hunts-the-Truth At first glance, this young woman might look almost normal for a Sylvan. Long, sandy brown hair is tied into a braid that drapes over her shoulder and falls almost to her waist, revealing the pointed ears typical of her race. She has a broad face with a firm jaw and a nose that appears slightly flattened. It is here that one sees the first evidence of something different. Though her eyes are the typical green of the Sylvan's, they are slitted like a cat's. This, combined with her nose and wide, thin lips gives her a decidedly feline appearance. Six feet tall and broad-shouldered, she has a solid, muscular build that moves with surprising grace. Her clothing is a strange combination. A long-sleeved shirt of white cotton hangs untucked over a pair of deerskin leggings. A matching deerskin vest covers the shirt, held close at the waist by a woven, beaded belt. Her feet are bare, as sun-browned as her face and hands. The rolled skin of some animal is slung across her back, the leather strap that holds it in place crossing her torso from left shoulder to right hip. Perhaps it is the scent coming into his range -- or perhaps the big feline Sylvan's tread is enough for the dog's hearing? Regardless, Kosha whurfs again, coming to his feet now. And that's enough to make Faanshi pause, black-veiled face shooting around in this direction and that until her big earnest eyes find the figure of the newcomer who's come upon her little nook beneath the trees. Somewhere behind the dark, smoky veil a gasp sounds... and then Faanshi freezes unthinkingly, easily caught by the sight of Hunts-the-Truth. This particular truth hunted out seems to be a dainty maiden indeed, though perhaps such things are hard to judge when she is clad in the way of the Varati. The eyes that have gone wide above the veil are green as any Sylvan's, though -- and the hands that hold the lyre are paler than one might expect of the Children of Fire. "I..." Blushing now that she has been discovered, Faanshi blurts out shyly, "Chookma...!" See, now all the piece and quiet is going to be completely gone. Oh well, it was nice while it all lasted. There's a momentary rustling in the trees here, and then there, and then farther down. Then, there's a little thudding sound. It's all very light, done with practice you know, and Kosha's likely the only one of notice, aside perhaps from the feline person if she's not too distracted. Back out of Faanshi's line of sight, then, a short Sylvan man appears from behind a tree, almost soundlessly, a empty expression on his worn and battered bird-like face. Hunts-the-Truth looks surprised at the greeting, eyes widening for a moment. Then the man in the trees distracts her enough for a quick glance. Her gaze returns to the woman with the lyre, though, and Hunts-the-Truth offers a friendly, though close-mouthed smile, remembering at the last moment not to grin. "Chookma," she answers, though she barely opens her mouth to speak. "Your song was very pretty." If the bird-man wants to remain hidden, she won't be the one to give him away. "I did not mean to interrupt. Only listen." Approaching the nook between the two oaks, Tyler's impulsive gaze flickers over the three figures that form out of the darkness and shadow. One odd-looking creature and two distinctly familiar ones. The mongrel immediately sends Kosha a silent, snarling look. "Hey, sweetheart. What's going on?" he then wants to know, a winning smile replaced and aimed at Faanshi, his voice loud enough to destroy any solemnity of the nearing dawn. Scratching at the back of his shaggy head, he goes on to measure up the tall Sylvan whom seems engaged with Faanshi, never noticing the other, more quieter one in the background. Tyler Crystalline 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 a maintained 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, four and a half feet of sturdy steel. A serrated knife is also sheathed and located on the belt that wraps 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. A small uncertain whimper escapes Kosha, for even at the distance of a few paces the signs of Cat about her trouble the canine's senses. "Kosha, shh," Faanshi murmurs, rising up from her seat between the roots of the oak under which she had been sitting, cradling the lyre in her left arm while reaching with her right hand to soothe the dog. To the Sylvan woman she then begins, "I-I am not very skilled -- but thank you... it is a song for Ush--" But then Tyler saunters into view, and the maiden's words stop dead. Partly at the sudden alarm of wounds, even small ones, rousing up her magic -- though it needs no healing power to note the blood upon the Mongrel's face. And partly at Tyler's simple presence _here_. Something like a squeak escapes the maiden, and then she's rising, concern filling her eyes. "Imphadi, you are hurt...!" And still QuickWing's back there. Plainly in sight for the two intruders, for that is what they are to him, but still hidden to the young maiden, a condition which will likely last until she ends up turning around and seeing the little dark one standing there. He remains still save for a few twitching feathers here and there, agitated by the draft the rain brings, but his eyes, the sharp green eyes that seem to observe everything, keep moving. Hunts-the-Truth gives Kosha a curious look, head tilted in a decidedly feline posture of curiosity, then turns her gaze back to Faanshi as she speaks. And then in comes Tyler, and the feline eyes are drawn to the mongrel. Note is made of his wounds, automatically, but nothing more. Now, as those two are distracted by each other, she flicks another look at QuickWing, accompanied by a polite nod. Then back to Tyler and Faanshi. So many interesting things happening! The feline eyes dart back and forth among the little group, trying to see everything. "Huh?" Lemon-hued eyebrows lift in surprise. "Oh yeah," he realizes, touching the little gash bisecting his bottom lip. "This." Tyler is always cut or bruised in some manner or another, it's hardly anything that merits his own concern. He smiles still, using the same hand to slip over his rain-slickened locks, pushing a few stray strands out of his brilliant blue eyes. "It's nothing. Besides, it's likely to get worse by morning if ..." The mongrel trails off, half-turning to peer steadily along the trail of wet, imprinted grass he made, leaving the rest of his sentence to the imagination of the listener. "Say," he resumes suddenly, grinning mischievously as his attention bears on the female Sylvan, "who's your friend? She's kinda cute--" He blinks, as if surprised, QuickWing having abruptly captured his notice. Clearing his throat, he wonders aloud, "Who's that little guy?" Another one? Holy Mother! And here she'd thought she'd picked a reasonably quiet place for her devotions. Blushing as Tyler's attention turns towards the other woman -- and turns, as seems to be his wont, flirtatious -- blushing too at the seemingly group invasion of what at least half an hour ago had been a fairly quiet refuge, Faanshi almost gratefully seizes the opportunity to peek where Tyler's gaze had gone a moment before. And then, at least for a heartbeat, the Mongrel and the unfamiliar Sylvan are forgotten. Next to the maiden, Kosha growls unsurely with distractions in three different directions, but Faanshi's attention is now riveted. "QuickWing," she might be heard to breathe, eyes going wide above her black veil. Is that relief in her soft voice? Oops. He's been noticed just a little too much by just a few too many people now. With a bit of a ragged glare shot at Tyler, the smaller man crouches quickly and jumps back up, catching his hands on a branch, which he quickly uses pull himself up into the tree and disappear into the foliage. All without a single word said. Hunts-the-Truth gives the mongrel the same curious look she gave the dog, except that this time she also raises an eyebrow. Next her green eyes flicker back to the dog, and then again to QuickWing, as the man from the trees is revealed to be. Finally, since everyone else is, she stands, just as the small man launches himself into the tree. Another curious, head-tilted look, and she simply remains silent for now. Perhaps it's best that way. "Oooh," murmurs Tyler in poorly-feigned awe, after witnessing the acrobatics. Taking a few steps to the side, the rugged mongrel issues a sigh that broadcasts his short attention span, rolls his eyes, and attempts to lean against a tree. His shoulder meets the wet, slippery bark sheathing that tree and he stumbles, briefly, before securing his position with certain care. "Don't go...!" is the abrupt protest at QuickWing's departure from the shudra maiden. Faanshi's free hand lifts imploringly in the little raven graisha's wake, but he is too swift for her, and certainly better at ascending into trees. For just a moment the girl does consider chasing after him -- but her magic is still roiling within her blood, and it spikes up a little more sharply as Tyler stumbles. Slowly the maiden turns around, certain that someone's magic if not necessarily her own would be well applied here, but far less certain that her offer of such would be welcome. Even so, she must make it. Still holding that battered lyre to her, casting one last plaintively hopeful glance into the leaves in search of a glimpse of the eccentric bird-graisha who's sought her out twice now, Faanshi says shyly to the Mongrel, "Imphadi... you do not need to bleed. I will heal you, if you will permit it...?" Hunts-the-Truth certainly wouldn't be much help. Instead of offering any assistance, she edges to one side, to get a clear view of Tyler, and, hopefully, whatever the woman does to help him. The dog's warning growls certainly haven't gone unheeded, however, and she keeps a good distance from him. The Mongrel, however, she watches with interest. After a moment, she seems to realize she might be being impolite, and so she asks softly, hardly opening her mouth at all to speak, "You will make him better? May I see it?" He looks contemplative for a quick moment, beneath the bough of one of the mighty oak trees. Blood, now undilluted by rain, marks a trail down Tyler's stubborn chin, ocassionally dripping to the forest floor below. With his palm, he wipes some of it away. "On one condition," says the mongrel, an adventurous look forming in his bright eyes. "You take off your veil. Otherwise ..." Bracing himself, he subtly sinks his teeth into the inside of his lip, feeling an acute bolt of pain and the accompanying warmth of blood inside his mouth. Tyler has learned, through the shudra and another healer, that those with her special gift can feel the pain of others, seemingly through the air itself. "... I just might die," he continues after the initial sensation fades, touching the little wound with two fingertips and adding a whimper for dramatic effect. Indeed, healers can feel the pain of others -- and Faanshi's considerable power is already alarmed and restless at the battering that the Mongrel man must have taken to leave him in such a bloodied state. Her face crinkles up; veil or no veil, the startlement and dismay in her expression might easily be deduced, if nothing else from the expressive eyes that the veil does not hide. The question of the Sylvan woman momentarily distracts her -- but only momentarily. Faanshi's gaze flashes to the cat-graisha and then back to Tyler, towards whom she now stares with a measure of something that might be fear. She goes still. And then, very quietly, she turns and kneels before the tree, to open up a leathern satchel lying nestled between the roots next to the basket that seems to accompany her everywhere she goes, along with the dog. Into the satchel, with utmost gentleness, she slips the lyre. Once her hands are free she rises and turns with a gaze full of trepidation back to the Mongrel man. "You will not die," she says, and for once her gentle voice is firm even if respectful as always. Either Tyler's theatrics have no effect upon her... or else she's taking them as an actual serious assessment of his wounds. "I would be able to feel it if you were going to die." Obviously, that suggestion made the musical woman very uncomfortable. It shows in every line of her body as Hunts-the-Truth watches. If there was something else to make her react in such a way, the cat-graisha certainly doesn't know of it. A small frown wrinkles her brow, and she looks back at Tyler, leaning against the tree. Then, wishing to be helpful, she offers, "I could hold him down for you." Speaking of the mongrel as if he weren't there, though she's looking at him as she says it. Almost subconsciously she adjusts her stance, feet just slightly apart, hands hanging loosely at her sides. Still, she smiles that close-mouthed smile. She appears to be enjoying herself. Shifting to place his back fully against the tree, Tyler cradles his middle with both strong arms as though experiencing great pain and slides down the trunk to sit amongst the roots of the oak that peek out of the soil. "Oh, but it /hurts/," he whines emphatically, looking up at Faanshi with the most innocent, pleading expression he can assume, his features softened beneath the imaginary weight of suffering. "Please, I'm in pain. I need to see you," the mongrel begs gently, the final sentence laced with sincerity that stands out against the previous, which only the most naive would actually be convinced by. Kosha has calmed down now -- mostly. Some of the dog's attention is still upon the cat-eyed woman who lingers amusedly nearby, but a great deal of it is upon the impetuous Mongrel. So too is Faanshi's attention, as the maiden's brow furrows at that last entreaty. It is often said that the hearts of the Varati are hard indeed... but that is not always a just pronouncement, and to be sure, it is not at all true of the halfbreed maiden who wears their silks. It is to the Sylvan, however, that she first speaks again. "I... thank you for your offer, Imphada, but it will not be necessary..." She hopes. Her gaze drops down shyly, but even as it does, her sungolden hands lift up to the black veil. Reach delicately in under the sari swathed about her head to unclasp the chain that keeps the dark gauze where it belongs. And brings that ebon filmy stuff downward, bearing to the morning a face whose features' shape is undeniably Sylvan. Bones already delicate of structure are made more so, too, by the lines of recent grief and strain that have etched themselves into her countenance. Hunts-the-Truth looks back at Faanshi at the sound of her voice. Surprised again, though perhaps she shouldn't have been, the graisha's feline eyes widen once more. She's seen so many more new things in this city than in months of time in the forests of home. She opens her mouth to speak, then snaps it shut and crouches once more, still ignoring the falling rain. She has not been told to leave, after all, so she assumes that staying is quite acceptable. Her attention goes back to the melodramatic mongrel. The Sylvan may not know much of city life, but even she isn't quite that naive. Quite. Her look of concern melts into what would be a grin, if she dared make such a face. Stone-walkers are so easily frightened, though, that she holds herself to another quick, close-lipped smile. The dog would seem to be forgotten, for the moment. The blond-haired mongrel's arms loosen in anticipation about his abdomen as he sees Faanshi actually begin to remove her veil. Keeping his head tilted to watch, his alluring blue eyes pool with excitement and he manages to keep all but the most basic hint of a smile banished from his relaxed features, to keep up the act. When the maiden's mysterious visage is /finally/ revealed, Tyler emits an extremely pleased, masculine purr that blends easily into the beginning of his rhetorical question, "See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" So struck with triumph that he finally accomplished this feat, he doesn't yet notice the grieved cast of the half-breed's expression, and his smile is a warm, beaming one. "You look better without the veil," he whispers genuinely up to her, his bronzed brow then darkening with concern. "What's wr--?" He bites off the question, suddenly remembering the answer. She lost someone. Broad, muscular shoulders sinking a little, the mongrel feels an unusual flood of personal reproach for taking advantage of such a compassionate creature. One glimpse, it seems, is all the maiden is going to permit the saucy fellow of her face -- and she has yet to meet Tyler's azure gaze again. Instead she's dropped it down to the quizzical and entirely safer regard of Kosha, who wags his tail a few times bemusedly at the sight of a visage even _he_ rarely gets to see. With her veil off and the morning light strengthening even in this little nook between the oaks, the flush that darkens the halfbreed's sungolden cheeks might be noted at Tyler's purring compliment. But she does not smile, and indeed all she says is a very quiet, "Will you permit me to heal you now, Imphadi?" Hunts-the-Truth, with her gaze still on Tyler, mutters something under her breath, though she's trying not to call too much attention to herself. She watches the man expectantly. While it might be more tactful to withdraw in this situation, she's never been very good at tact. Especially not when it interferes with her curiosity. So she becomes still as a statue, crouched with her arms resting on her knees, watching and ignoring the rain. The mongrel hauls himself to his feet without, notably, even an accompanying wince or grunt of the great pain he just so dramatically described. But his expression has hardened into something reminiscent of a scowl, stray droplets of rain traversing the lines of his face. He glares in a direction intentionally focused away from both the newly-revealed shudra and the curious Sylvan, his thoughts burdening him to a point not frequently known. "Yeah," he mumbles dispassionately. "Yeah, if that's what you want." Tyler levels a scarred hand, palm tilted toward the ground, so that Faanshi's healing influence will have something to take purchase on. His abrupt detachment is abandoned when his lucent eyes happen to sweep over Hunts-the-Truth and he demands rather imperiously, "What're /you/ looking at, huh?" Before Faanshi steps forward at last, the maiden restores the veil to its proper place, reaching into the top of the sari that covers her head and fastening the delicate chain that keeps the smoky silk in place. Only then, hands free, does the halfbreed girl approach the Mongrel man. There is no censure in her posture or in the summer-green eyes that still might be glimpsed above the veil... nor in the voice that murmurs quite simply, "Yes, Imphadi..." And then, apparently to the Sylvan though Faanshi gives the crouching woman only a brief shy glance, she appends, "There will not be much to see, Imphada." And there isn't. The maiden shyly takes the bronzed and battered hand that has been proffered her, recognizing that small license for what it is, and her grip is as gentle as her voice. But the contact of skin to skin is all she needs, and in a heartbeat, two, the small hurts here and there all over Tyler's rangy frame abruptly melt away. Bruises vanish. Scrapes and scratches mend themselves. And unless one is looking directly at the little hurts actually visible upon his face -- or unless one has the power to read the deep ripple in the aether that Faanshi causes as she taps into herself to bathe Tyler in her magic -- there is hardly anything to see at all. Hunts-the-Truth answers Tyler with a quiet, "You." Then, as Faanshi steps up to take his hand, she adds, "Her." She also gives Faanshi a polite nod ... and watches anyway. Even if there is nothing to be seen, that is still a thing to be learned. She watches as the small wounds on the mongrel's face disappear, her head tilted once more at that curious feline angle. There ... and then gone! A close-mouthed smile spreads across her face once more, lighting up her face. How very interesting! After trying unsuccessfully to supress a cool, reflexive shiver, Tyler removes the half-breed's touch by drawing his rigid hand away. He touches his bottom lip. A quick glimpse of the fingertips shows no blood. "I'm all better now," he states needlessly in somewhat of a growl, aggressive gaze fixed crossly on Hunts-the-Truth. Nobody talks to /him/ that way. The shift in Tyler's attitude is palpable to Faanshi; she doesn't need to be a telepath, or even really looking up at the man's now disgruntled features, to sense that she has somehow displeased him. "Yes, Imphadi," she whispers, stepping backwards swiftly, much to the relief of the anxious hound who's been torn between watching her and watching the woman who smells disturbingly of cat. Not another word does Faanshi utter, as she crouches to take up the leathern sack in which she had stashed the battered lyre she'd been trying to play before. Now, it seems to her, would be a good time to discreetly withdraw. Hunts-the-Truth nods, still smiling. "So I see," she answers softly, not rising to the bait of the mongrel's glare and growl. Instead, she stands, turns on her heels to face Faanshi, and bows. "I am impressed, Inkana," she directs at the half-breed, "Thank you." Maybe the mongrel has no manners, but the graisha does. Sometimes. No words of gratitude part with Tyler's tongue. He runs the back of his hand over blue eyes and then rakes the fingers through his rain-soaked, blond hair. Attention flung back toward the way that leads to the cobblestone path, the mongrel snorts at himself, shakes his head, and begins to journey that way. Faanshi does not seem surprised at the lack of thanks from Tyler... confused, perhaps, but not surprised. She goes still as he stalks away, almost afraid to straighten up again to her own full height, lest she somehow redirect his evidently awakened ire towards her. Surprise only comes in when she registers what the Sylvan has said to her, and only then does Faanshi slowly rise to her sandaled feet, cradling the satchel and its precious contents to her breast. "But... I did not heal _you_, Imphada," she points out, blankly. Hunts-the-Truth frowns briefly in Tyler's direction as he begins to stalk off. She would have thanked him, too, but she supposes it's too late now. Instead, she turns back to Faanshi and smiles again. "You did not," she agrees. "But you allowed me to watch you work your magic. As did he," she gestures with one hand in Tyler's direction. "It is for that I thank you." Soon even the quiet footfalls on the wet grass cannot be heard, and Tyler is gone. Perhaps it was a test of some kind -- perhaps he wished to see if she would take her veil off, and perhaps she displeased him by doing so? Faanshi's features crinkle up behind the black gauze, and she closes her eyes for a moment, pained. She should not have succumbed... but he did sound so earnest, she tells herself, deeply troubled. And why, if he had been displeased, did the Imphadi permit her to go ahead and heal him? It is all very confusing, and the maiden pulls in an uncomfortable breath even as she answers awkwardly, "I... never forbid anyone to watch me heal... there is no reason. But... you are welcome, nevertheless." Hunts-the-Truth smiles again, then steps back. It's obvious by now, even to her, that the halfbreed is uncomfortable. "Good day, then," she says softly, and turns to disappear amongst the trees, her footsteps silent. [End log.]