"Death Brings a Reunion" Log Date: 12/30/01 Log Cast: Faanshi, Tyler Log Intro: It has been many months indeed since Faanshi last crossed paths with the gladiator Tyler -- though each of her encounters with him stand out vividly in her memory by sheer dint of the young Mongrel man's force of personality. She has never been particularly close to him, though she has always felt drawn by that ebullience of being that seems to be his personal hallmark... and so Tyler has been among the friends for whom she prays to Ushas each morning and Khalid each sunset. The shudra healer does not know where Tyler has gone, for there has been no sign of him in Haven for some time... but little does she know that his circumstances as of late have been dire indeed, and he is about to cross her path once more in his characteristic explosive fashion. This time, though, the chaos he seems to inevitably cause will carry with it a dark tinge of that which Faanshi's soul abhors the most: Death. *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Wednesday, June 14, 3909. Year on Earth: 1509 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Crescent Season: Summer Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* Beach - Haven Soft sands from years of gentle ocean currents greet the feet of those who explore the expanse of beach that leads from the streets of Haven to the edges of ocean. The hushed roar of the waves can be heard, a lulling sound to the attentive ear. The sand stretches out for about a quarter of a mile and allows for plenty of space for pursuits of leisure. Depending upon the time, you may be graced by the awe-striking sunset, the peaceful glow of the moon, or the comforting rays of the midday sun. Several ocean birds fly overhead as if frolicking around and playing in the air, occasionally swooping down towards the ocean surface to retrieve a tasty morsel. The ocean itself seems to be calm and relaxing near the shore for several hundred feet before the sands slope harshly and drop. There, the water is safe only for experienced swimmers and boaters. There is a small path that leads towards the town that is paved with sand and lined on either side by flowers. Contents: Tyler(#1315PJcefm$) Obvious exits: Path to the City Haven Bay Tyler Electric blue eyes, always running wild with proof of a turbulent temper, confront the world with keen, contagious excitement. Tyler's rugged features are a native setting for both winning smiles and aggressive snarls, and a quick gauge of the crossbreed's age suggests something halfway between twenty and thirty. His lemon-yellow hair, all shaggy and tangled after rather unsuccessful efforts by the mongrel to hand-comb it into place, blankets the nape of his neck, both of his ears, and is always a threat to his vision. Also, several months of neglect have gifted him with a thick, unkempt beard. Formidable in construction and sporting a barefaced air of cockiness, Tyler stands a whisper over six feet. His athletic musculature is a slammed-together package of explosive strength and curious expedition that one might identify with a prizefighter. And even in his natural state, there is a thrumming, manic energy about the mongrel. Scars score his forearms and hands, while fresh cuts and bruises always adorn his knuckles, strictly demanded by a life spent on the streets and in the wilds. A plain cotton shirt is rolled up past the man's elbows and left open at the throat. Concealing the shirt in places is a navy blue vest, loose and unbuttoned. Slung across the breadth of his right shoulder is a black leather bandolier fitted with a scabbard on his left hip and three weighted blades within easy reach of his right hand. The sword he brings along is a standard bastard sword. His pants and boots are seam-stretched and ragged, suggesting persistent action and movement. Faanshi At first glance, some things about this young woman are easy to discern. The garments she wears are those oft seen on Varati females, yet, she stands at only 5'9", small for a woman of that race, and her build is delicate for a Daughter of Fire as well. Shy or perhaps trained to submissive silence she must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless specifically bidden, and she speaks almost always in a demure, deferential tone, regardless of whom she addresses. What portions of her skin are visible are a warm shade of gold; the few strands of her short hair, coal-black. Neither of these are terribly odd for Varati, yet no Varati would have her eyes, huge and liquid, set at a slight slant in her face... and the rich brilliant green of summer leaves. She is simply clad, her garments of humble make but excellent repair, the clothes of one whose household garbs even its servants well. A leyang of subtly patterned shades of red swaths her form over a gold-hued choli and scarlet silwar; her veil is blue silk, light and gauzy, just enough to give a hint of the shape of her chin and her mouth beneath it. On her feet are a pair of simple leather zoris, whose long straps are looped up her calves and tied behind them. She owes it to Ushas, given that the last few dawns have come with interruptions that have kept her from singing her private bhajanas as they really ought to be done for the peace of her heart. And so as the sun creeps up over the eastern horizon, casting warm lights of pink and saffron upon the waves, Faanshi and her ever-loyal dog have claimed a spot on the beach by a big driftwood log. Just enough of a little niche against the breeze to let her light a tiny bier, and let the scent of herbs and incense waft up into the blossoming morning... and with it... Faanshi sings. The song is by now long familiar, "Ride Upon the Wyvern", though she has grown comfortable enough with her precious lyre to give it stronger chords to send it winging up to her voice's upper registers. Here upon the beach as well, the susurrant rush of the sea gives her an accompaniment she can get nowhere else in the city. Even a casual observer could note what the sea is presently casting upon the shore. Not a unique, twisting shell or a snarl of driftwood, but a body. The initial waves hurl the figure forward and summarily catch it on each recession, causing it to roll to and fro until it finally settles face-down, strewn out lifelessly upon the endless blanket of wet sand. Shards of moon brighten polished metal and then fade, clouds obscuring that heavenly body. A lone gull can then be heard, ignorantly calling attention to its possible meal. The soaring scavenger dives, lands unevenly, and immediately begins taxiing itself toward what the sea has gifted it with, scurrying madly on its skinny legs. Kosha is the first to notice the actions of the gull a ways down the sand; even as Faanshi whisper-sings the last strains of her private hymn to a lost love, the dog lifts his head and lets out a soft, curious whurf in the back of his throad. The maiden does not notice his distraction until she stills the ringing of her lyre-strings... and only then, does she glance down at the hound at her side and ask him affectionately, "What is it, Kosha? Do you want to chase the sea-birds?" Even as she speaks, the dog gracefully arises, loping down the stretch of sand towards the gull. But something in his motion raises the shudra's concern. It's not the scamper of a dog about to play, not exactly. Rather, the set of his ears and his tail say to her that he is investigating something... odd. The gull halts its ravenous approach, turns his head, and issues an absolutely indignant *squawk!* for Kosha and Faanshi to consider. His cry is fierce -- a hundred times more fierce than the owner, who hasn't the resources to back up the threat. But he's resolved to try to bully away those who would steal such a lovely supper. That's how it's done among his kind. Another wave lifts the body up and softly sets it down a few feet higher on the shoreline. The bird's head whips around to study his meal with concern, presumably making sure it isn't moving of its own will. Once Kosha gets close enough, the dog is suddenly torn; investigate the Strange Thing, or chase the bird? He halts in indecision -- but now, Faanshi is walking up behind him. Her first few steps are of easy pace, until she catches sight of what actually lies within the lapping fingers of the waves. And then, her slender frame jolts with comprehension's dawning. Eyes go wide above her veil. And a sharply breathed "Merciful Ushas!" escapes her as she breaks into a run. As if on cue, the sea coughs up another item that may be of some significance: a single plank of wood -- the kind that ships are forged from -- barely large enough for perhaps one man to cling to. The board lodges itself in the sand maybe twenty feet away from the body, but on the side that is closest to the three investigators. Puffing out his feathery chest, the gull triple *squawks!* at Faanshi in quick succession, protesting her sudden haste. He also skips backwards a short distance, torn much like Kosha -- split between wariness for the dog and hunger for the body. As the halfbreed nears, the figure becomes less of an enigma. It's a wingless man with blond hair and an unimportant manner of dress, much like that of the typical sailor's. She does not doubt that the crumpled figure in the shallows is alive -- the way her power roars to life in Faanshi's veins leaves absolutely no question. The aether, the halfbreed maiden knows, does not speak to her for dead men. But what it has to say to her now is that if she does not act and act quickly, this victim of misfortune may be dead very soon. To the gull she snaps out, in a tone of uncharacteristic clarion command, "Away, bird! Away!" Kosha, responding to her urgent words, starts to bark at the gull. And the shudra hurls herself to a crouch beside the bedraggled form, hands already moving to pull him free of the water's clutch. To prop him up if she can, and turn him if need be, to get the water out of his lungs. The gull scatters in a flurry of white panic, leaving only a few loosened feathers and a number of tiny footprints behind. He might have escaped due to the tone of Faanshi's command, but if attention was really being paid, a bellow could be heard in the distance, seconds before the halfbreed let her own voice ring out. A truly terrible visage is presented to Faanshi -- the man has been through some sort of a battle in addition to prolonged exposure to the beating sun and sea. His face is caked with dried blood and his shirt has been dyed crimson by that same substance. The aether would quickly tell the healer that the greatest source of his torment is in the abdomen. A simple glance in that direction finds a murderous blade of unknown length buried there to the hilt, throbbing. This man is fleeing his desperate agony through what may be the only way possible for him: death. His pulse is but a trickling murmur and consciousness has been abandoned for some time indeed. Whatever it may be, the bellow in the distance is noted but peripherally by the maiden. So is the barking of her dog, which Kosha keeps up until he is satisfied that this particular battle has been duly won and he can yurf to himself in self-satisfied victory. All of Faanshi's attention is riveted now upon the direly wounded man, and her features twist in sympathetic agony behind her veil as the priority of getting the water out of him is abruptly superseded by the priority of removing the _blade_. "Holy Mother, give me strength--" The desperate prayer is entirely unconsciously uttered, as she closes both her hands upon the weapon's hilt and strives to pull it forth. If she damages him further, she'll mend it. Blessed Ushas willing, if she can keep him _alive_! From out of the sea -- and occuring in the quick span of time it takes Faanshi to grip and unsheathe the blade from her patient's flesh -- there is yet another offering. Again, it's a man, tall and broad-shouldered, racing through the knee-high waves with wonderfully savage purpose gripping him. He, too, is blond and wingless, but slimmer than his bulkier predecessor. "/MINE!/" screams he in a shrill voice fit to wake the dead with its sheer, intense conviction. "Mine -- it's mine -- it's /mine!/" Hysteria reinforces his claim and, with the knife he holds in a murderer's grip, he falls upon Faanshi's present charge. It all happens in a split second. Faanshi has just enough time to hurl the wicked blade away from the victim it would claim before this new sudden threat arrives. And as it -- as _he_ does -- Kosha leaps into the fray with a snarl bursting out of him. The dog leaps with every ounce of his strength to the stranger who would dare attack his beloved mistress, and his every fang is bared now in fury. If the healer can peer through the haze of lunacy and the bearded, sunburned face of this mongrel, she might see him for the familiar face that he is. Those eyes of his, discounting the intoxicating greed that fills them, are the vibrant, electric blue of a gladiator she knew. Once Faanshi can make that connection, the rest should follow in a flood of realization. Yet the amazing frenzy and suddenness of the mounted attack are demanding paramount attention from all parties. The knife that the former gladiator wields -- it matches the one that the healer has discarded -- slashes its way through the warm air to abruptly occupy the chest of the first castaway that Faanshi kneels before. And at that same instant, Kosha's powerful jaw locks about the offender's wrist, fangs sinking into bronzed flesh. Another bellow, this one of awakening pain, is unlocked from his throat as he attempts to wrest control of his own arm, pulling away from the concentration of bodies. The knife is immediately released and the knife's target, that first unfortunate sailor, expels a gust of breath, but draws none back in to replace it. Recognition does not strike. Not yet. What sizzles through Faanshi now like a bolt of lightning is as keen and as sharp as the blade the second man thrusts into the first: instinctive, soul-level revulsion as the halfbreed maiden's power howls in protest at the abrupt snuffing out of life. Most Varati willingly accept death -- for does not the Neverending Fire Himself assure His children that a life nobly led means reward in the next, when it ends? But this is Faanshi, whose healer's heart revolts at life's ending. And who has suffered far too many deaths of those she loves in too short of time to be anything but an enemy of it now. Her magic roars through her, turning eyes of summer's green almost black in its potent fury... and with the wrath of a Daughter of Fire, her kshatri lineage, rising with it within her. "_Kosha, heel_!" Her voice rings out now with more force than it ever has before in her lifetime. Not waiting for the hound to obey her, she whirls on Tyler now. A hand shoots to his chest -- and aether blazes in response to Faanshi's rage. "_Surah-breaker_," she hisses, "you have committed _murder_!" As the healer can use her power to inject the essence of life and sustenance into those too weak to care for themselves, she can wrench and drain it from one who would step upon the defenseless. The blast of aether sends Tyler recoiling backwards, landing upon his bottom in a receding wave. He sits there dazed, jaw slack and muscles contracting spasmodically, while Faanshi's accusation goes unheard, blurred into incoherency. His limbs shake manically, his eyes steadfastly refuse to focus, and he seems indifferent to the deep punctures in his wrist and the blood welling up from within them. And then he twists around, fueled by adrenaline and delirium, and convinces his hands to claw and drag the rest of his body toward that single plank of wood that washed up onto the beach between the arrivals of the two men. "It's /mine/!" he cries, desperate as though his very life depended upon reaching the plank. The cry trails off until his coarse voice can no longer support speech. Kosha skitters backwards, disengaging from Tyler with only the greatest reluctance, while Faanshi herself tackles the raving Mongrel man. Powered by wrath and rage alone, she seizes him by the shoulders, intending to roll him onto his back while she pins him to the stand. With almost as much reluctance as her still snarling dog, she hauls back the blaze of her power while she lashes out in a voice full of the despair of death, "By the Hawk of Heaven, you _will_ _hold_!" Faanshi finds that physically overpowering the mongrel is a surprisingly easy job -- he's too weak to fight back. Too many days and nights spent adrift with no food or water have taken their toll on Tyler. The ferocity that filled his face has fled far away and given way to disoriention and stupefaction. It's clear that he doesn't know what is happening or even where he is. In his mind, he's still fighting for that one piece of floating salvation in a sea of hopelessness. "It's mine," says he, his voice only a rusty whisper as his body begins to slacken. It begins with his extremeties and leaves his entire body frozen and exhausted in the end, blue eyes glazed and unseeing. As he slumps, the shudra maiden straddles the Mongrel's ravaged frame... and now her rage begins to ebb, leaving in its wake grim determination. The aether still floods her with its secrets, peppered with the lingering shock of experiencing death at close range, and she must fight to keep herself from trembling violently, to focus her mind enough to make sense of what her magic tells her of this second man. Behind her, Kosha begins to subside as well, growls dying down to the beginnings of confused whines. Faanshi, slamming her eyes closed while she places a palm against the Mongrel's brow and one at his chest, does not notice. She is too occupied with the exhaustion and hunger and thirst that rack his frame... and for all that the death still rails at her soul, she _is_ Faanshi. Compassion is as part and parcel of her as her emnity of death, and even this one who has taken a life will not be denied a healing. Only when Kosha inches forward, ears sliding back as he tries to sniff at Tyler's body, does she realize that the dog has grown confused. "Kosha," she rasps from behind her veil, "be at pea--" A glance sideways, just enough to note the hound's location. Then a glance to her new charge again... and it is _then_ that she sees his eyes. Electric blue, their shade unmistakable even in the glaze of delirium and deprivation. A shade that's _familiar_. Seeing it, she freezes, the voice that had rung in maidenly wrath now dropping down to a whisper once more. "Blessed Son of the Dawn... _Tyler_?!" As if to say, /Yes, yes, that's me, that's my name,/ one of the muscles in the mongrel's cheek jumps a few times, successfully triggered. And then a shiver erupts from within, seizing control of his entire form for a few seconds. "/Help,/" Tyler breathes in the form of a whimper. The cloud of delirium parts momentarily to allow his gaze to focus on the healer. "Help me, Faanshi," is his sober plea -- sober as though his rational thought had been prisoner all this time, forced to observe the terrible manner in which he was behaving, yet utterly helpless to stop his own hand. "You gotta help -- you gotta...help me..." The mongrel tosses his head back and forth a few times, then settles upon closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. That momentary glimmer of reason and of return recognition obliterates the rest of the maiden's wrath, almost instanteously. Tears well up sharply in her eyes, and swiftly she moves off the Mongrel man now in favor of taking him up as gently as she can into her arms. She continues to cry, the shock of this surprisingly violent morning having churned up wounded depths of her soul to which she cannot yet succumb, not yet, not while there is still work to be done. But she can and does cry even as she lets loose her magic once more. This time the wellspring of her power flows into Tyler, healing the bite Kosha had dealt him as though it had never been, seeking out and mending with it the assault that the sea has made upon him. _Merciful Ushas, what has happened to him, what new trial have You given me, oh, Mother, why did he have to _kill_ him, am I going to have to take him to the Hounds--?!_ The thoughts jumble together in the back of her mind, but they, too, remain of lesser importance. For now, there is only the healing, and her tears. Tyler's face, which would be ashen with deprivation if not for the blistering burn that the sun had cast down upon him, slowly begins to lose its ugly, searing redness. It fades into the healthy, bronzed complexion that is his natural tone, and the burn is forgotten. His lips regain their moisture, as do his closed eyes. And when he is no longer dehydrated, silver slips of tears slide past his lids and catch in his blond lashes. The accompanying aches and pains melt before the aether flowing through him. Finally, after the worst of his wounds are vanquished, the mongrel opens his eyes to view the world with comprehension and a sound mind, both of which have been absent for at least the last week of his life. "Faanshi?" he asks, uncertainty lacing his quiet question as he naturally nuzzles himself deeper into the embrace of the slight shudra. She can convince his body to eke out water from within hidden reserves for now... but it's only temporary. So is the small burst of strength that comes from the simple relief of the body no longer having to wrestle against the burdens of pain and hunger and thirst. At the sound of Tyler's uncertain voice Kosha whines in reply, lying down beside the shudra; Faanshi herself continues to soundlessly weep, tears more plentiful than the Mongrels' streaking down over her veil. "It is I," she murmurs, low and clear, her voice still full of the aftermath of shock, but she does not stammer even as she cries. "Do you know me, Tyler? Do you know where you are?" "Yes," says the mongrel, which seems to be an answer to both of the healer's questions. "I think you just saved my life." There is a deep, unforgettable gratitude filling Tyler's uncharacteristically soft-spoken voice as he looks up at Faanshi's veiled face with glassy blue eyes, once more animated with the kindled brilliance that belongs there. He drops a scarred hand softly onto Kosha's head, scratching behind one of the hound's ears. With the back of his other hand, he swipes away any tears that have strayed down his cheeks -- even like this, it's difficult for him to openly shed tears in the presence of others. Meekly, he offers, "Thank you." Her veil is a different one. Lighter, letting through glimmers of her delicate mouth and the shape of her chin through its fabric... and all the more as her own tears wet it, and continue to do so, plastering it against her cheekbones. Half of her is comforted that his reason has returned. The other half grieves... for if he is lucid, she must speak of what he has done. Before she does, she shifts her grip on him to better support the Mongrel man, advising gravely, "You are welcome... but be cautious. My power cannot give you your strength back, and you need rest, food, and water immediately. But Tyler..." The tears come sharper now, as her throat threatens to close against giving utterance to the death. After he's made sure that his tears are properly wiped away, Tyler does take a moment to study the lighter veil and, more importantly, the face beneath. He continues to let Faanshi hold him, taking comfort in her embrace. His head nods along with her advice -- he knows and agrees wholeheartedly. "What?" asks he. "Don't...don't cry." A dark, vertical line knits his brow, right above his nose. "What is it?" His expression is one of who is sensing trouble and is almost afraid of the answers that he asks for. Now Kosha recognizes the Mongrel himself... and as if by way of apologizing for biting him, the dog whimpers and nuzzles at Tyler's hand, while his tail thumps dully against the ground. As for Faanshi, she swallows hard, lifting up her sungolden fingers to smooth bedraggled, soaked strands of hair back from Tyler's brow. It is easier to keep looking at him rather than at the body, though its presence is still emblazoned into her consciousness; to Faanshi, it seems that she is as aware of it as her own flesh. Her tears do not stop. "There is a man here," she hoarsely whispers. "You struck him in your madness." "I struck him? Is he gonna be--?" The question is not finished, for Tyler sits up in an effort to scan the darkened beach and, like the tree that is struck by lightning, his mind is suddenly ablaze with thought and remembrance when he sees the hopeless body and the dagger he slammed into the man's chest. "Oh...no..." he breathes slowly as the weight of his actions settle upon his shoulders. He growls as though that weight was carefully and inexorably crushing him. "Oh, /no/," he continues, the last word breaking into a sob as he spies the plank that saved his life, but led to the end of his friend's. "What...? How...?" The mongrel, nonplussed, demands answers to questions that he's not yet ready to find the answers to -- and suddenly he's struggling to get to his feet, tearing himself away from Faanshi, his eyes rivetting back on the body. "Talon..." whispers Tyler to himself. Then he whirls on the shudra. "I killed him, didn't I?!" His voice leaps up to a new, accusatory pitch. One of his scarred hands immediately goes to his forehead as though he were suddenly attacked by a headache and he begins to aimlessly stumble down the beach. Faanshi says nothing as Tyler surges upright. She needs say nothing; what has transpired is obvious. But a new upswelling of tears flood her eyes at the revelation that Tyler has accidentally slain a _friend_, rather than a stranger or an enemy. For this, too, she cries even as she slips quietly after him. Stumble away he might try, but he will not get far. He has not the strength for it. And the halfbreed will not abandon him. The unfortunate Talon cannot be saved... but until she has made certain Tyler will be able to rest and recover, she cannot leave him. He falls to his knees, of course, after only a few stumbling paces, victim to a combined assault of guilt, grief, and exhaustion. Tyler furnishes the night with a frustrated cry and pounds his fists into the sand beneath him. "How could this /happen/?" he snarls, casting his gaze toward the heavens. "Faanshi?" The mongrel then shifts to lie down, pressing one hot cheek against the fine carpet of sand below. "I want you to go now," he says in a forlorn sigh. Just a step behind him, the maiden pauses, her eyes wet, her gaze far too old for a woman of her comparatively youthful years. Habit, long enforced by a life of service to the Varati, almost makes her back away without argument. But the kshatri in her has not entirely subsided, not yet, and so Faanshi opts for compromise instead. Her voice falls now like rain on the leaves, the sort of gray, stark weather that by all rights -- or so groans the very core of her thoughts -- should be loosed upon this day to match the events that have unfolded. But rain is also a healer, with a promise of cleansing even as the skies might weep. "I will give you space and peace," she promises. "But I will not go far, and I will bring you food and water. Please take them; I could not bear to know that you died as well. And I will help you gather wood for a pyre to do honor for your friend." Only then does she turn to step away. "All right," breathes the shaggy-haired mongrel as tears begin to form once more in his eyes. "I'll be here." [With that, Faanshi gravely and quietly does as she has stated she will do, fetching food and water and a blanket from a family she knows that lives not too far off. She gathers wood for a pyre to make for the body of the unfortunate Talon... and because Tyler does not have the strength to go too far on his own, she sees him safely to the Siren's Song before slipping off to report the accident to the nearest Hounds. End log.]