"An Urgent Reunion" Log Date: 1/4/00 Log Cast: Faanshi, Lyre, Samein, FallingStar Log Intro: Many days has young Faanshi spent in concealment in the hall of Clan Behzad, attempting to use her magic in the service of the people living under the increasingly oppressive Warlord Sakhr. With the uprising of Sakhr's formerly loyal Nayaka, Numair, the Clan is once again safe -- and the halfbreed healer who has served behind the scenes in Clan Behzad has swiftly retreated to her relatively anonymous existence within Atesh-Gah. Now that her time is her own again, too, the maiden has swiftly applied herself to seeking out the Mongrel bard she has been unable to see during her secret mission. Lyre has been caring for her dog Kosha all this time, and Faanshi misses them both acutely... But nowhere to be found is Lyre Talespinner, or her dog for that matter. And thus Faanshi, stricken by fear of the last time she'd had to search Haven for the Mongrel, applies herself to a diligent search of places where an innocent shudra by rights should avoid. At last, not far from a charming little establishment known as the Pink Wyvern, the healer girl catches up at last with her errant hound -- and discovers that she has has cause to worry about Lyre's condition... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Late Morning Date on Aether: Friday, October 27, 3905. Year on Earth: 1505 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waxing Crescent Season: Fall Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* Palisade and North - Haven Some have likened the Varati home to a geode--rough and plain on the outside, while opulence and splendor lie within. Certainly the first part of that analogy is true. The only hint that these buildings house the more prominent members of Varati society are their size. Massive structures loom on either side of the street, crafted from brick, marble, granite, and even metal. And here, also, is the grand embassy of the Varati. Only shaping magic could have created such a structure, for it gives the impression of having grown out of the earth itself. Like the others, its decoration is minimal, yet flowing curves and the use of obsidian and marble make such ornamentation unnecessary. Flanked by stone pillars, the entranceway is constantly guarded by sentinels who may as well be stone themselves, so humorless are they. Only guests of the kingdom and ambassadors from other realms may pass within. A gate leads out of the city to a road that eventually winds into the distant, northern mountains, though few ever dare venture that far. Obvious exits: Atesh-Gah Streets Gate Hours of trudging through the Varati quarter have, yet again, proven fruitless. Nowhere has she seen any sign of Lyre or her beloved hound -- and today, she's even been desperate enough to begin queries at several of the taverns within walking distance of Atesh-Gah. No one has seen a brown-haired Mongrel bard accompanied by a big hunting dog, and much to Faanshi's deep dismay, this applies to those who live near his rooms as well. _Where can he be?_ she frets to herself as she stumbles wearily back to the Varati embassy, wondering while she scrubs a hand across her eyes if she has time for a bit of something to eat to keep up her strength while she continues her search. And then, perhaps in the last place Faanshi would think to look, there comes a flurry of excited barking. The familiar kind. The kind that suggests Kosha is either about to play 'pounce the poor innocent stranger', or that he's scented someone familiar. This is actually a rare feat of prowess on his part, considering all the perfume that's wafting around his current location...The Pink Wyvern. A more wretched hive of scum and villany...Well, it's a bordello and tavern, really, but it's definitely not a place for an innocent shudra. Or her puppy! Shortly following the flurry of barks comes a male voice, more than a little outraged as he bellows, "WHAT IN THE BLOODY BLUE BLAZES AM I DOING HERE?" Followed by several muffled thumps, a cacophony of feminine squeals, and the sounds of a glass breaking...And then, out the beaded front door staggers Lyre, shirt and vest undone and hanging open and the finest sheen of sweat upon him. Pale and weary-looking, he bears the glaze of fever in his eyes. Kosha, ever helpful, bounds along behind him for a moment, barking madly, before taking off towards Faanshi's drifting scent. Unfortunately for the poor pup, the (ahem) ladies took a liking to him as well. Their liking took the form of tying little bows and ribbons into his fur, and putting a bell collar on him. Well, three bell collars. His neck's a bit big for one. As Kosha takes off, Lyre sort of wobbles, before deciding that sitting down is a good idea. He drops and sits on the stoop of the building next door to the Wyvern, giving it a wary look before dropping his head into his hands with an utterly exhausted sigh. They'd _told_ her they hadn't seen Lyre or her puppy... and Faanshi, disconsolate, has made it several paces down the street before she hears that all too familiar storm of barking. The bells that accompany it are a surprise, but even so the shudra girl whirls just in time to find herself being born down upon by a hundred pounds of ecstatic canine muscle and a frenetically wagging tail. "Kosha," she breathes, even as the dog practically tackles her to the ground in his enthusiasm. She winds up on her rump on the street, Kosha doing his best to lick her face in a shower of welcome, veil or no. Tears well up sharply in her eyes at the sight of her beloved companion, and only after she throws her arms around Kosha's neck in an impulsive hug does she realize what's been done to him. But the bells and ribbons, surprising though they are, are secondary in importance right now. "Lyre, Kosha, where is Lyre?" With that, the young healer lifts her head, looking around in a resurgence of hope. Upon hearing the barks stop in a flurry of slurpy licks, Lyre lifts his head and squints off towards the dog's direction. Once or twice before in his search had the pup gotten this excited. Usually chasing a pigeon around Behzad Hall, of all places. But never had he done this sort of thing. With a care for aching bones, the bard gets to his feet and starts towards where he last saw the pup -- and almost as soon as he gets upright and pays attention, he sees Faanshi. His eyes widen just a little bit and he stops, swallowing once, before looking at her a bit more closely just to make sure. The worst thing about hunting a Varati woman is, if she's got anything close to the same clothing on as her neighbors, it's bloody hard to tell them apart. Veils. Of course...There could be no mistaking those eyes. "Faanshi." His voice is hoarse, but that might be his cold. Or it might not. He starts towards her, steps gathering momentum until he's just short of a run when he finally stops next to her, dropping to his knees in the middle of the street where she sits, winded by even such a short trip. Kosha sets up a new flurry of barks at the sound of Lyre's name, but interspersed with this canine enthusiasm are a few whines of dismay -- for Kosha has scented sickness upon the man who's been his companion these last several weeks. Something is wrong with the man, so far as the dog is concerned. But in the recesses of canine memory is the glimmer of a recollection that his beloved mistress can help. Even as Faanshi shoots to her feet the dog bounds back towards Lyre, trying to urge her to go to him. The shudra needs very little encouragement, though. Joy at the sight of the bard turns to surprise at his disheveled state -- but before she can be seized by shock at the glimpse of his chest beneath his open shirt, she is distracted by his collapse. "Lyre? _Lyre_?!" And all at once she is there, reaching anxiously for him, green eyes full of sharp dismay. Whatever bug he's caught surely spun him for a loop...Or possibly it's the sight of Faanshi after such a long time, unknowing of what might have happened. Lyre doesn't say anything at first, just wraps his arms around Faanshi tightly. Almost tight enough to be uncomfortable; but the way he buries his face against the silk covering her hair and breathes in her scent hints at just how much he missed her. How scared he was. His hand trembles just a bit as he lifts it to stroke her back, gently, and he says roughly, "Don't ever do that again." Never, _ever_, has Faanshi been tugged into so tight an embrace. Her breath squeezed out of her, she can think of nothing for a moment except how startled she is by this show of strength from a man who is positively slender compared to the hulking Varati warriors which are her usual measure of male size. But her magic is waking up, sending alarm shooting through her system -- and even without its warning, Faanshi can feel the heat of the bard's skin as he holds her so close. Her arms come up to encircle him in reply while she whispers, "I-I-I am so sorry... I did not have time to tell you, and I was not allowed to say where I was going, I _wanted_ to tell you... Lyre, you are ill!" "It's nothing, really. Just a cold." Lyre dismisses his illness, pulling back in his embrace just enough to look at Faanshi searchingly, running his gaze over every visible inch of her in search of injuries, "You're all right? Gods, Faanshi, I was so worried." His hand moves to her face, calloused fingers brushing against her soft skin, even as the world swims once more before his eyes. Taking a little breath, he steadies himself by resting his hands upon her shoulders, carefully. "It's all right. As long as you aren't hurt." The relief in his voice practically glows. And then, in a typically male fashion, roughness enters his voice, "Can you tell me now, what they made you do that was so direly important?" "Let me heal--" the maiden begins worriedly, even as she is held by those rough hands and thoroughly inspected by those anxious dark eyes. All she can think of now is how she is disturbed by the glaze across those brown orbs, and the pallid, haggard state of those otherwise rugged features. Studying him just as concernedly as Lyre is her, the shudra remains entirely unaware that the hollows around her own eyes are quite visible, close as she is to the bard -- a subtle sign of the strain she has undergone, but a sign nonetheless. And then, swallowing hard behind her veil, she tinily replies, "I had to go to Clan Behzad. They needed healers -- the Warlord would not let anyone help his people...!" As the shudra and the bard kneel there in the street in one another's arms, Kosha edges up as close as he can to the two of them. The poor hound seems a bit confused, torn between jubilation at being reunited with his beloved Faanshi and consternation that she has not yet made the smell of sickness leave Lyre. Every so often he wags his tail. Or whines in the back of his throat. Or both at once. The bard goes utterly still, breath catching in his throat as he speaks in the lowest and most dangerous voice Faanshi has ever heard him use around her. "Clan Behzad. Where the maniac has been ruling for weeks. Atar sent you _there_?" If Faanshi did not know Lyre to be a sane man, there might rise the worry that he'd do something rash. He's never been this angry before, not around her, not ever. As Lyre's voice drops down to that near-basso rumble the shudra freezes as well, not understanding the obvious displeasure radiating from him. "Not the Amir-al," she blurts. "Th-the Foreign Minister... but... but it is all right, Lyre, the Warlord... the mad Warlord, I mean, there is a new Warlord now... he never saw me! I was very careful, I-I-I had a disguise..." Lyre strokes his hands along Faanshi's shoulders and down her arms, gently, "Shh, love, no. I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at any man who would send an innocent into such a dangerous place with no one to protect her. If I had him here now..." That growl returns, just for the last words, but he visibly stops his anger and calms, despite the fever in his eyes. He whispers roughly, "Kosha and I have missed you." And with that, his eyes roll back and he slowly tips over backwards, stopped only by Faanshi's arms. "But it was my du--Lyre?" Faanshi's anxious rebuttal is quite abruptly cuts off as the man sags in her embrace. Her voice very nearly dies in her throat. While Kosha yips his own dismay beside her, the halfbreed girl tightens her arms about Lyre's form, trying desperately to hold him upright and get a hand to his brow at the same time. "Lyre?" she squeaks. _Ushas!_ Has he fainted? He has indeed, poor thing. Lyre really does look horrid. Obviously, he hasn't taken very good care of himself while she was gone. After a brief moment, though, his eyelashes flicker as through he is trying to awaken, but whatever illness has a-hold of him is tenacious. As he groans just a little, sweat beads up on his forehead and slips along into his hair. Kosha whines more loudly now, trying to nudge his muzzle in to lick Lyre's face instead of Faanshi's. "No, no Kosha, no," the halfbreed murmurs huskily, eyes turning frantic while she tries to figure out what to do. That she must heal the bard goes without saying. But if there's anything she's learned during her sojourn in Behzad, it is that sometimes healing is not best done all at once. Moreover, she has learned from her teachers that she must figure out exactly how much of her power is needed before stretching forth with it. And so she cradles Lyre's limp form to her, drawing his head to her shoulder and trying to smooth sweat-dampened dark strands back from his forehead while she sends forth a tendril of her magic into his body, in search of the breadth and depth of his illness. Fear chills her heart as she cannot help but wonder: this isn't the plague, surely? Well, it doesn't feel like the plague. It's more like...pneumonia. There's a heaviness in his lungs, just starting to build up. The fever is all-throughout Lyre's body, and has been for a few days, at the very least. And right about that time, the door to the Pink Wyvern opens and a bejewelled head peeks out and squeaks, "He did it again, Nala!" Whether or not she sounds worried by this is debateable; it's almost pleased. After all, it's oh-so-fun to care for a sweaty bard in little clothing. Faanshi looks up in alarm, not at all certain that she wants to know what Lyre was doing in that establishment. Or, for that matter, exactly who in there was responsible for her ever-loyal hound being bedecked in ribbons and bells. In instinctive protectiveness she cradles Lyre a little closer, even as she blurts out a hasty "Namaste', imphada" to the figure at the door. At the same time she begins to ease some of her magic into the man, trying to coax him back to consciousness. "Lyre," she whispers softly to him, "Lyre, you have to wake up, you have to stand up so you can walk...!" The magic does the trick. Lyre's eyes slip open and he starts to sit up with a groan, sore muscles tensing to bring him up a bit to blink and squint around. "What the...?" Putting a hand down, he shakes his head, trying to clear it, before squinting up at the approaching 'lady'. Abruptly his expression changes to something approaching alarm, if of a muted variety. "Oh, no, not again. Stay away from me." Up come his hand and he points his finger sternly at the Wyvern-girl. "I did _not_ ask to be dragged in there. It's just a little cold, and you aren't putting me in that bloody herb bath again!" Kosha might be a good guard for Faanshi on her forays into Bordertown, but in many respects he is most assuredly still an overgrown puppy. As one of the redoubtable female personages responsible for his current festive ornamentation catches his attention, he presents her with a few wags of his tail -- evidently oblivious to the dismay of the ailing bard. Faanshi, however, is not. She peers down at Lyre's pale features, immensely relieved to see him stirring. "A bath, perhaps, later," she murmurs. "Let me get you somewhere where you can rest, Lyre, please? I-I-I need to heal you, but not in the street...!" Lyre pats Faanshi's hand reassuringly and starts to get up, a bit wobbly, but seemingly none the worse for wear for his faint. He mutters to her under his breath, "Better watch that one. She's the chit who got the idea to put bells on Kosha. As if he needs to make even more noise." Kosha hears his name and swings his tail excitedly. Lyre offers Faanshi a little lopsided grin and holds out his hand to her; whether to be the gentleman and escort her properly, or to keep himself from falling over again is hard to say. Dismay is a rather good word for the expression of the well-endowed young lady seeing her perceived prize about to be taken out of her grasp. "Oh, but _baaaaard_," she squeals worriedly, fluttering closer, "you're far too sick to be moving about! We'll take such good care of you, I promise!" Faanshi is, pretty much, an innocent. But she is aware that the Pink Wyvern is one of those establishments Unsuitable for A Proper Young Maiden -- and she has at least an idea of the sorts of intentions a girl from such a place might have towards a handsome man, ill and unsteady on his feet though he might be. But Faanshi is also, well, Faanshi. As she gets to her feet, her hands remaining on Lyre's arm, she glances towards the other woman and bows deeply to her. "Namaste'," she says earnestly, "and if you have helped care for Lyre, imphada, thank you very much. But I will take him to a place where he can rest now, and heal him. If you will excuse us." Not a sign of a stammer in her voice. Odd, perhaps, to ears that know the sound of her well. The finger is pointed again at the floozy, accompanied by a somewhat smug comment by Lyre, "You heard her, Flori. Healer's orders." The bard sneaks his arm around Faanshi's waist and leans close to whisper to her, "Where are we going?" Wait a minute. Who is this veiled creature, and where is she going with the baaaaaaard? Flori stamps a dainty little foot, a dainty little pout curling her dainty little mouth, but then it sinks in: she's a healer? "But--" Before she can get farther than that, however, Kosha scampers around to separate the determined girl from the shudra and the bard... and giving Faanshi time to touch Lyre's shoulder, concentrating fiercely on giving him enough of her magic to temporarily replenish his strength. She can feel the illness within him, and her power feels to her to snarl in reaction to it, but she dares not risk exhausting herself while her first goal is getting the sick man to a safe place to rest. "To my teacher's shop," she murmurs. More loudly she calls out, "Namaste', Imphada Flori, and thank you again!" But that call's a soft one, for she does not want to spend any more strength than necessary upon speech. Back to the bard at her side she adds, slipping an arm of her own about his waist, "Come... lean on me if you must... do you know where A Moment in Thyme is?" With a faint nod, Lyre begins to walk, leaning only faintly upon Faanshi's shoulder. He doesn't even look back at Flori as they pass her; his entire attention is focused upon getting one foot in front of the other. That, and the pretty healer in his arms. Asking with only a faintly labored breath, "You have a teacher now? I'm happy for you, love." Kosha scampers again, with a jangle of bells, to keep up with his mistress and the man she's helping to walk. Faanshi guides Lyre off to the south, away from the bordello -- at as swift a pace as she can manage. "Two," she corrects, very softly. [On the shudra, the bard, and the dog wander... though fortunately, Faanshi does not have to take Lyre very far. And soon...] Fairway and Border - Haven Here is the beginning of Bordertown, named for the street that marks the boundary between it and the rest of the Haven. To the east lies order--the streets are designed in a grid-like pattern, the homes and shops are well-cared for, and business and trade thrive. But to the west is a different story. Only the main streets are still recognizable: Fairway, Main, and Seaside. The rest are a tangle of alleyways, side streets, and narrow, twisting paths. Here is the real "haven," the sanctuary to outcasts, rogues, thieves, and ruffians. They make their homes within Bordertown, where even the city guard is reluctant to venture, and this city within a city might as well be a separate one entirely, for all the traffic there is between. Resembling a jungle metaphorically, Bordertown also contains a literal one: the town garden to the southwest. Perhaps once it was meant to beautify the city, but over time it was claimed by Bordertown; its neat, ordered paths and manicured lawns giving way to a dense growth of weeds and wilderness--its beauty grown wild. Obvious exits: Fox's Forge Rooming House A Moment in Thyme Streets The Rialto Town Garden Kosha wanders in from the east along Fairway. Lyre wanders in from the east along Fairway. Lyre has arrived. "Two?" After a few more steps, Lyre manages gruffly, "Lucky them, to have you for a student." He spares a look for Kosha and his lips curl into a smile, "I've taught Kosha a few tricks while you were gone...I'll have to show them to you when we're done." Tricks? Her dog can do tricks? For a moment Faanshi smiles up at her companion, though the veil hides the curl of her mouth. A bit of brightness lessens the worry in her eyes, nevertheless. "When you have rested," she murmurs gently. And with that she sets herself to continuing on her way. It is a strange procession, to be sure -- the belled and beribboned dog, scampering around in spirals and circles as he keeps up with the girl in the veil and the bard she's helping along. "It is not too much farther now," Faanshi breathes, beginning to feel vaguely light-headed from the effort of keeping a slow, small, but steady flow of magic into the man at her side. "Imphada Fallingstar will surely be there... and... you can lie down, Lyre, and be warm... and we'll heal you...!" Gruffly the bard replies, "I'm not that badly off, Faanshi. Don't fret over me. It's more important that..." He stops to take a breath, and wheezes some, "You're home safe." He takes a few more steps and leans up against the doorframe to the shop, catching his breath and waving his arm inward, "After you, m'lady?" Faanshi pauses, looking anxiously between the bard and the door of the herb-shop, trying to decide whether to open the door or continue to support the man. She opts for the first, shooing Kosha in ahead of her and calling out anxiously, "Imphada Fallingstar?! It is Faanshi, I-I'm back...!" Only then does she reach again for Lyre's arm and urge him within. You open the door to the herbseller's shop, entering admist the soft sound of chimes. A Moment in Thyme - Haven A multitude of smells mingle in the air of the small shop, combining from plants hanging from the ceiling or sitting on the shelves, or concoctions simmering over the hearth set into the side wall, or any of a number of sources. The wall opposite the hearth appears to be a work area of some sort, with a scarred table covered with tools, containers, and partially finished projects. The back of the shop is where all the finished goods are kept, it seems, judging from the full shelves - all organized with careful precision, despite how full they are. In fact, the entire shop is kept clean, the wooden floor well-scrubbed to an almost glossy shine. A set of chimes hangs near the door, jangling softly whenever the door is opened. Contents: Samein FallingStar Obvious exits: Private Quarters Out Kosha opens the door and enters from the street, accompanied by the soft sound of chimes. Lyre opens the door and enters from the street, accompanied by the soft sound of chimes. Lyre has arrived. The chimes sound upon the opening of the door, admitting a rather startling trio of creatures. Kosha, all hundred pounds of him bizarrely decked out in bells and ribbons, bursts into the shop in canine anxiety, barking with enthusiasm as he recognizes the place and its myriad smells. Immediately in his wake is Faanshi, who is calling out anxiously, "Imphada Fallingstar?! It is Faanshi, I-I'm back...!" The shudra girl is supporting the third of the trio -- a man who might perhaps have ten years in age on her, who is rather disheveled of appearance and leaning on her. Samein and Fallingstar are near the cold hearth, she stitching and he crouched near her, speaking in a low tone. Samein looks up in surprise as the dog bursts in, seemingly startled from what had been a serious conversation. Upon sight of Faanshi, however, his grizzled features slowly shift into a warm and relieve smile. Lyre does his best to straighten up as he and Faanshi enter the shop, Kosha bounding around excitedly. Despite the pallor in his cheeks and the obvious glaze of fever in his eyes, the bard manages to be upright enough to give the shop a thorough scan, arm protectively tightening around Faanshi for just a moment before he relaxes enough to thoroughly sneeze. Twice. FallingStar's head lifts up and swivels toward the newcomers, instant identification made as soon as Kosha begins to bark. Her current sewing project is summarily deposited on the floor and the Sylvan pushes to her feet again. "Faanshi? Is something wrong?" Yes, good to have you return and all that. But was that the girl sneezing, or the dog, or someone else? One hand lifts, extending toward the newcomers, as she considers that. "Someone's sick?" _Both_ her teachers are here at once? The fortune of it sets off within Faanshi almost more relief than she can easily bear, and her eyes well up with tears as she blurts, "Imphada Fallingstar... Imphadi Samein... this is Lyre and he is sick, he is very sick..." And even as she speaks the aether surges around her, speaking of a flow of magic she's pouring into the Mongrel man in an attempt to keep him on his feet. Samein's attention reluctantly takes in the mongrel bard he has heard so much about, and his first response is a rather wry smile; he looks the man over like any protective father might. The ArchMagus straightens slowly to stand, wincing slightly at the creaking of his knees, and murmurs calmly, "Yes, yes. It is good to see you, Faanshi." In an attempt to be reassuring, Lyre says gruffly, if softly, "Faanshi, nay. Tis not so bad as all that. Don't cry." His arm tightens once more around her, albeit gently. "I've lived through worse, without any great healers paying me mind. Do not fret over me." He glances at the other two and nods respectfully, "Tis an honor to meet Faanshi's teachers." Well. So far, this Lyre seems nice enough. Good enough for Faanshi, at least. FallingStar quirks a small smile and takes a couple of steps closer. "Chookma, Faanshi and Lyre. And Kosha, of course. It's all right, child, be calm. He'll be fine." Jangle-wag, jangle-wag go Kosha and his bells and his tail, while he scampers restlessly around the two-legged ones he has accompanied into the shop. Faanshi, however, appears to be paying very little attention to her oddly ornamented dog. With a stubbornness incongruous with her usual gentle demeanor (and perhaps also either alarming, amusing, or both to eyes that look upon her as parents would, given the considerable amount of leanly muscled chest bared to open view by Lyre's unlaced shirt and vest), she clings to the rangy bard. "He was on the street," she explains in tiny, hoarse tones, "and he fell over. I could feel something wrong inside his chest but I-I-I did not want to try to heal him till he could lie down somewhere safe... I thought of here... please... if you could, Imphada, Imphadi..." She doesn't actually come right out and _say_ it, but her eyes relay it more than adequately: help? Samein himself doesn't look entirely convinced that the mongrel bard is a sufficiently nice guy to be so lovey-dovey with his surrogate daughter, but the old man steps forward as well, rubbing his hands together slowly. He murmurs almost reluctantly, "Calm yourself, Faanshi. We shall heal him together." Interestingly enough, despite the fact that Lyre's got a grumpy case of pneumonia, he seems to take the time to give both Fallingstar and Samein a polite going over. Just to satisfy his own protectiveness over the little shudra who stands so near to him. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, he gives a little nod, glancing down to whistle softly, three simple notes. The strangest thing happens -- Kosha stops his dancing around and trots back to his mistress, sitting down politely at her feet, though his tail continues to thump around the floor. "Indeed we shall," FallingStar declares, with a firm nod in Samein's general direction. "Yes, Faanshi, here is just fine, would you like to go in the back room? Or would just a place to sit suffice?" A gesture which was probably supposed to be aimed toward the back doesn't quite go in that direction, but anyway. The halfbreed girl blinks tearily at both the old arch-magus and the Sylvan, only just now realizing how relieved in general she is to see them, regardless of the ailing Mongrel she's hauled here with her. She swallows hard, trying to regain her composure, even as she keeps hanging on to Lyre. And now she includes _him_ in the conversation, breathing huskily to him, "You should lie down... after we heal you... do you... um... here? Or do you want to go home? Imphada Fallingstar and Imphadi Samein are very kind a-and they are good teachers..." Not to babble, Faanshi. Not to babble. Stay steady! For his part, Samein grumpily casts about for a more useful role, now that a general course of action has been decided. The Archmagus turns to trundle over towards the nearest chair, and pushes it out towards the center of the room. Obvious message -- 'just a place to sit down' is the way to go. He watches Faanshi's latest breakdown with a sort of weary detachment. "Whatever's most convenient for you all is fine. I do not wish to be a bother." Lyre seems perhaps just the slightest bit uncomfortable, like a child in a doctor's office suddenly confronted by a needle. He nods gratefully at Samein, "My thanks." Before he starts to the chair, he leans in to whisper something to Faanshi, softly. Lyre whispers "Make me proud, love. Show me how a healer treats a patient?" FallingStar tilts her head to one side a little, listening to the furniture-moving and suchlike, then finally nods. Good. Everything's settled, then. Well, except for healing the poor fellow. "A bother, I can assure, you are not," the Sylvan observes, vaguely amused by all the proceedings. "Are we ready, then?" Samein's grumpy expression as well as Fallingstar's query are momentarily superseded in Faanshi's awareness by the soft gravelly rasp of Lyre's voice so close to her ear. Her frame jolts ever so slightly -- a sign, perhaps, of the effect this man has upon her? -- as he murmurs to her, and her gaze lifts up to find his with a surety she has very rarely, if ever, displayed before the other two individuals in the room. While Kosha watches, his tail still steadily thump-thump-thumping against the floor, the halfbreed girl bobs her head a single time... and after a moment, in a much steadier though no louder voice, can be heard to murmur, "I will help you, Lyre." And she does, giving the Mongrel her slender shoulder and arm for support to guide him to the chair. Samein steps back slightly from the chair to give room, watching Faanshi as if from a far place. He seems pensive somehow, and he takes solace in action -- his hans fold in front of him, an the Aether pulses palpably about him, as he begins to diagnose the patient, at the very least. Lyre allows Faanshi to help him into the chair, squeezing her hand gently as he collapses with a little wheeze. With a rather roguish smile he says to Fallingstar, "You've my gratitude, m'lady." With a puzzled little look at Samein, he leans up to Faanshi and asks in something of a stage whisper, just a little confusion in his voice, "Dove, the ArchMagus isn't wearing a pink frilly gown, is he?" Samein A stodgy gargoyle, barely encased by flesh. Obviously entering old age, this Varati seems too delicate for one of his race -- his face is an assemblage of stern lines, bones standing out prominently behind parchment skin. Bushy black eyebrows shadow the pits of his eyes, the twin orbs reflecting a dark, rather murky green watchfully back at the world. His black hair is cropped short around his head, allowing rather mishapen ears and a jutting, craggy nose to become all the more prominent. The coal-black strands are streaked occasionally by pure white, doing nothing to soften his stony visage. Samein wears long, black robes which ripple about his thin, carefully erect figure. The singularity of color is broken by the collar of the robes, which encircles his neck with the blue-grey of the Cabeiri. Arranged against the side of his throat, five diamonds gleam, proclaiming Samein as an ArchMagus of the Delphic order. At each sleeve of the robes, the insignias of Samein's other talents are embroidered -- the caduceus of the Healers near his right hand, and the indigo-rimmed eye of the Sibylla near his left. Light-soled leather shoes whisper across the ground as he moves, hands generally folded with neat efficiency in front of him. FallingStar Rich brown hair, liberally sprinkled with white, frames the woman's face in soft waves, falling loosely down to about her shoulderblades - though the pointed tips of her ears peek out almost mischievously. Her freckle-dusted face has but the beginnings of age evident, though her bright green eyes seem older than she is. And, indeed, there is something odd about her eyes - they seem empty, unfocused, unseeing. Her build is lean, wiry, her height unremarkably average. A simple Sylvan-style dress of undyed cotton clothes her, its only decoration the braided belt of colored rope. A pair of rather battered-looking knee-high buskins protect her feet. She wears no jewelry other than a pair of small earrings, jewels the same color as her eyes. That might improve his looks - you never know. FallingStar's mouth twitches just ever-so-slightly as she mentally ups her assessment of this Lyre fellow. "Definitely quite ill," she murmurs, trying not to laugh. Samein responds in a calm, rather flat tone, "As a matter of fact I am. Under the robes." He lowers his hands to rest on the mongrel's shoulders, and the flow of the Aether is palpable, soothing an precise. The healing commences, with or without aid. And, indeed, the aether in its silent speech relays to the old Varati mage that this Mongrel man is considerably ill. A days-old fever can be felt to suffuse his limbs, matching the febrile, slightly scattered gaze of his dark eyes and the pallor of his countenance. There is a heaviness in his lungs as well, no doubt responsible for the wheeze of his breath each time he tries to speak. The aether reports as well the continuing flow of magic out of Faanshi -- a different sort of flow, too, than the last time she released her power in the presence of either of her teachers. Something has changed with the shudra girl... something that suggests that the wellspring of power from her has somehow... deepened. It flares out in a pulse of sunshine-gold in answer to the commencement of power from Samein, even as Faanshi, the youngest and spriest of those present, kneels by Lyre's chair with one of his hands cradled in both of her own. She peeks askance up at Samein, not quite able to spare enough attention to decide whether he is teasing. "You will... um... have to take the imphadi's word for that, Lyre," she murmurs. The lines of tension in Lyre's face relax as the healing begins, the fever startening to loosen its hold on his mind. Rather sleepily, for indeed, he's gone without adequate sleep for almost the entire time Faanshi's been gone, he drawls wryly, "Pity." As his breathing begins to ease, a smile flits across his lips and he says to Faanshi softly, perhaps a little dazedly, "You smell nice. Is it sandalwood?" Unable to see the participants in this little mini-drama, FallingStar only folds her arms across her chest and 'watches' the ebb and flow of the aether within the small shop. Most especially, that which Faanshi touches; it's almost as though she's uncertain of it, or the stability of it. Any curiosity she might feel about what's under Samein's robe stays unvoiced. Samein's presence is stable, steady.... some might even say boring. In terms of raw talent in Healing his is the least of the three, but his calm control is something which might unify an effort, subtly directing some of Faanshi's energies to more efficient use. Faanshi's energies, it might be noted by the two older healers, are in need of that guidance. For all that she seems to be drawing more power than she used to from somewhere deeper within herself, for all that she is exhibiting a far more solid control than she had the last time Samein and FallingStar saw her, she is also palpably tired. Her touch on the aether speaks of one exhaustedly applying herself to the same task she has over and over and over throughout the last several weeks, regardless of her own weariness. And it's either that weariness -- or perhaps the tone of Lyre's voice, or perhaps even the glimpse of his chest through his open shirt -- that gives her pause. "Yes," she blurts softly. "Sandalwood... and sage... do you like it, Lyre?" Retreat! Retreat! The virus' nasty little critters flee in terror at all the magic coursing through Lyre, and as a result, the bard begins to feel much better. So much so that his smile in reply to Faanshi is utterly blissful as he says in a sleep-slurred whisper, "Mmmm. S'nice." And with that the bard's chin bobs down to his chest and a sturdy snore rattles out, free of the wheeze that was causing him so much trouble.