"Shadow of the Past" Log Date: 1/2, 1/3/02 Log Cast: Faanshi, Tyler, Asusena Log Intro: It has been many months since the last time Faanshi encountered the Mongrel gladiator Tyler -- but in keeping with his chaotic nature, he has come back into her life with a violent vengeance. Driven into madness by a week of being lost at sea, he washed ashore on the beach of Haven -- and right up to the feet of an amazed Faanshi. But much to the young shudra healer's distress, he slew the man who washed up with him while in the grip of his madness before she realized who he was, and before she could heal either of them. Most especially disturbing, the dead man turned out to be a friend of Tyler's, and after healing the gladiator she solemnly helped him build a pyre for the unfortunate Talon... and only when that was done did she then report the tragic accident to the Hounds. Faanshi has experienced a great deal of death in her recent life, and this death has stayed with her, its newer shadow joining the pall of grief cast across her heart by all the other deaths she has had to bear; not only did she feel Talon die while her power was roused to its fullest strength, but she all too keenly recollects the horrified realization that flooded Tyler when he saw that he had accidentally taken his friend's life. She has lit candles and murmured prayers for the soul of Talon... and, for that matter, for the heart and soul of the gladiator who slew him. She intends to pray for Tyler again, when next sunset rolls around... but as it happens, Tyler has intentions of his own, and seeks her out to carry them out as a new dawn approaches. And while another shadow out of the Mongrel's past is about to catch up with him.... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Sunday, June 18, 3909. Year on Earth: 1509 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Crescent Season: Summer Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Hot *==========================================================================* Propylaea - Temple Shop - Haven Once a place of majesty and elegance, this long atrium now lends an entirely different tone to its environs. No more is the unearthly grace present that was once fostered by pristine marble given a ghostly glow by the touch of the sun. Instead, grapevines twine overhead on a strong lattice, turning the light within to a warm gold-green as the sun shines through. The large impluvium in the center of the room stands full of fresh water and lillies floating on its surface, while the area around it abounds with verdant growth. Moss and other plants grow untouched on the walls in any space where dirt has been able to collect over the years this temple lay untenneted, but the floor where it remains intact has been cleaned and restored, its mosaic in golden, orange and red tiles picking out a sunburst that fills the room. Earthy scents have long replaced any hint of ancient incense; the rich smell of loam and green, growing things hangs heavy in the air and heavier still on hot days. Even in the cool of winter it is clear that the walls and lattice above will provide enough shelter that the heartier growth will remain. Contents: Tyler(#1315PJcefm$) Kosha Amoke Obvious exits: Street Cella Many have been the dawns as of late where Faanshi's morning vigils have been interrupted by one thing or another: strangers walking in on the places she chooses to murmur her prayers to Ushas, kshatri or Atarvani or even vaisya afoot within the mighty warren of Atesh-Gah... and violence rising up out of the sea. Today, though, it's another story. What has Faanshi up is need out of Bordertown -- and although the family that's anxiously called for her help is duly attended, the merchant who'd been jumped by thieves and brought home by his frantic brothers duly healed, it's meant she's up sooner than is her habit. But it's also meant she's had time to make it to the green temple that the Sylvans have claimed, and within she now sits by the impluvium sipping at a cup of kaffe while Kosha busies himself with sniffing about the walls in the hope of finding the scent of something he might eat. The shudra's veil is off, the best to permit drinking, and folded with utmost care atop the basket that rests upon the cobblestones beside her. One doesn't simply wander into a temple set aside for prayer -- especially if territorial Sylvans are involved -- so Tyler makes his entrance somewhat warily. In addition to the unfamiliar ground, the mongrel knows he hasn't been himself of late. Ever since his landing on the beach, he's been nervously triple-checking his every natural motive, making sure his decisions are not tinged with the madness that gripped him so violently. And so an uncharacteristic sense of sobriety marks the mongrel as he nears a column supporting the atrium. After creeping carefully closer, bathed in shadow and night, Tyler struggles to catch a glimpse of the half-breed while simultaneously aiming to remain unseen. It's taken him all night to finally track Faanshi down -- his silver tongue has been so recently out of use. Intimidation has been more of a persuasive element than charm in the realms he's been travelling the past year. In the years she has lived in Haven, Faanshi has never been difficult to track on her forays through Bordertown. Even if her distinctive silken garb of red and blue and gold were not enough to catch the eye, the presence of Kosha near her makes her unmistakable wherever she goes. None have accosted her, in these pre-dawn hours; perhaps the rougher elements of the roughest part of Haven by unspoken consent choose to leave the healer be. She has come here in peace, and in peace she now glances up towards the ceiling of this place, where through the vine-twined latticework high overhead the last few dregs of night are beginning to yield before the gentle, inexorable advance of the dawn. And it is dawn Faanshi awaits. Drinking down the last of the kaffe, she sets her clay cup aside and reaches instead for the leathern satchel that waits for her, beside her basket. From it, she pulls forth her precious lyre. It's not a fancy instrument, but as she cradles it near and begins to check the tuning of its strings, its voice whispers soft and clear through the quiet of this place. She does not need much light for the tuning; indeed, her hands keep at it, even as her unveiled visage lifts up and stays up, green gaze awaiting the awakening of Ushas. With the surfacing of Faanshi's unveiled face in his gleaming eyes, Tyler feels a tremendous swell of relief flood over and through him, building in bright intensity. He dares not interfere with the nigh euphoric epiphany that results: he is positive that he's well again. The mongrel's eyes hood and a mass of tight tension in his broad shoulders is expelled like a gust of air suddenly released from a vacuum. His arms wind themselves around the column he's leaned against, snaking around the curves as though embracing someone he loves. The cool marble is an immediate and divine contrast to the heat that permeates the night. Goose bumps reactively ripple through his flesh, beginning at his hug of the pillar and nearly covering him with a curious sensation that is not unwelcomed at all. The harmonics of the healer's lyre draw his eyelids halfway open and Tyler makes no attempt to hide himself any longer. And it's the curious Kosha, sniffing about, who first alerts the shudra. The big dog raises his head, padding near to Tyler but not all the way, as if a trifle wary of the man's likely behaviors; his low yurf, however, draws Faanshi's eyes down from the slowly gathering radiance overhead. "Namaste', Tyler." Her voice rises up as her hands still upon the lyre, the words just as soft and low as the instrument's murmurings. There is no surprise in her expression; if anything, there is perhaps a glimmer of relief in those liquid eyes of summer's green, along with a notable lack of dismay that she has been caught unveiled. She does not look down, and perhaps it is the simple fact that she is short on sleep that gives her an air of weary understanding. Perhaps it is something else. Regardless, she adds gravely, "How are you faring?" "Great," says the mongrel, pronouncing that one adjective with the weight and authenticity of one who means /exactly/ what he says. /Great./ A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth and he heaves a gigantic sigh that expresses his feelings better than any words his lips could form. "It's good to be back." There is a twin edge evident in his statement. "How are you faring, Faanshi?" he evenly reciprocates, his lemon-colored brows lifting. His lucent eyes wander from the aestival green of her own eyes to the soft lines of delicate, sungolden hands. The testimony of his words and his sigh, aye, these are accounted; so too is the way he holds himself, his lack of tension. There is no pain in his sturdy frame, Faanshi notes to herself. Weariness, yes, but that will pass. And for this, she allows herself a silent surge of relief. If Tyler has reached peace within himself for what has happened, she will praise the Holy Mother with greater fervor today. "I am hale, and at peace," says she, simply. There is no elaboration. Even as her healer's eyes have read what they will in the man before her, what silent corroboration of those three short words may be gleaned from her countenance. There is no strain in the fragile lines of her features, no evidence of ill health to mar their comparative youth. And yet... her gaze has changed since last she crossed the path of Tyler, before. So has her voice. Asusena comes into the propylaea from the street. Asusena has arrived. Asusena Coal-coloured eyes are fringed in ebon lashes, and watch the world with a hardened glare as her full lips hold back a sure smile. Sena's body is a study of line and curve; the femininity of smooth flesh, and the surge of tiger-like reflexes do not contrast one another, but complement, and lend her proud form a supple quality that belies the severe set of her features. She moves with a liquid grace, molten rock flowing from form through form, muscles rippling beneath onyx skin, a black so deep, it dreams of blue. In places, this colour seems to be somewhat mottled, but her clothing covers the markings. Perhaps taller than average for her race, she is streamlined with corded muscle, and yet every line that defines her feline form is subtle. Rather than sharply chiseled, or roughly hewn, her figure seems to have been carved lovingly from the earth, with a reverence for the power it beholds, and the stamina it delivers. Forsaking the traditional sari, this unconventional Varati bares her form for the world to see, the midnight of her skin only covered by more appropriate fashion, for a warrior. Breeches of leather hug her well-muscled legs, and are tucked into high boots of a deeply stained hide, which are obviously worn, but well polished. Resting over her shoulders is a crimson shirt, tied tightly at her wrists. It is full in the sleeves, loose at the throat, but held in check by a shining hauberk of mail which is then crossed by a sash of blood and ink, the ends trailing to her right hip. Shorn of hair, her head is covered in a similar fabric, the ends cascading over her back. At her left hip rests a sheath of worn leather; housed within is a sword of Varati make, a falcare, the likes of which many simply cannot equal, for that reason alone. It belongs there, as an extension of herself, just as hard, just as sharp, just as deadly. The mongrel steps out from behind the column completely. He seems to have had a long bath and a shave since their last encounter, yet two days' passing have already granted him with a new, shorter length of beard through which Tyler is presently raking his hand, scratching absently. "That's good," says he. His throat is still a little rusty, but he speaks with a stock of optimism and awkwardness fused together. "That's real good..." There is a pause, and when he picks back up, a boyish crack in his voice immmediately disrupts his flow of speech. "I've--" He clears his throat, looking all at once disgruntled at the sudden squeak, and continues. "I've been looking for you all night. I wanted to thank you, Faanshi -- you...you saved me." Tyler valiantly tries a smile on for size, but it doesn't quite fit. It ends up lopsided, but well-meant. "Thanks." She _had_ asked Tyler to call upon her if he needed her -- but it had not occurred to Faanshi that he might apply himself so diligently to the task of locating her. Surprise flashes across the halfbreed's features; summer-green eyes blink a few times. "You are welcome," she says then, quite earnestly. "I praise the Mother I was there, but..." Now she pauses, not entirely certain how her next words might be received, but if the Mongrel man has reached a kind of ease.... "I have lit a candle for your friend, and prayed for his spirit," she murmurs. As Tyler moves, so too does Kosha, wandering back towards where Faanshi still sits by the impluvium. Tyler is behaving, and it rings true with doggish memory, but still, the hound is not yet entirely assured. He settles down again by his mistress, on his muscled haunches, ears pricked up alertly. Only a few short hours before dawn, and a figure once familiar to the streets of haven lingers in the doorway of this Sylvan Temple. Large, coal-colored eyes move over the stonework and stretching vines, while booted feet walk in almost silent steps. A hand rests easily on the hilt of her falcare, liking to be so near the slick steel, somehow comforted by the blade being close. Curiousity has brought her thus far, and may take her even farther, still. Her lids blink somnolently, and she moves with languid ease, without hurry, having no schedule, no need to rush, giving her a false impression of one not entirely on guard. Sensing the territory that the shudra nears almost before she does it, Tyler is seized by a troubled brow, watery eyes, and a fast constricting throat. "Don't--" he all but begs, lifting a scarred hand and waving it negatively. With his forearm, he checks the beginnings of tears in his eyes before they're shed. "--don't talk about him." The whispered forbiddance is issued with a blooming air of determination, his features hardening appropriately. It's so hard to forget, but Tyler must try, for he is an escapist -- he mourned on his own, but only shortly. From there it was attempt after attempt to fill the void through whatever means possible, as long as it contributed to dodging the harsh reality of his past. That's just the way he is. He has to keep living. Tracking down the half-breed wasn't exactly /conducive/ to the plan, but he found himself doing it anyway. Then his attention flashes toward the doorway in a hurry for a standard sizing-up -- but he doesn't make it that far, for his jaw plummets in astonishment. "As you wish--" is all Faanshi has time to say, though she understands the sentiment from the bottom of her heart. She, too, has taken to trying to avoid thoughts of death; she will not speak of it, if Tyler wishes it avoided. Then she sees another person entering the quiet place that is this temple claimed by the Children of Earth, and the openness she has shown Tyler undergoes an immediate transformation as her senses first register _stranger_ and _dark skin_. Dark skin means Varati, and to the Varati, she is shudra, and she is little more. Her expression goes as unreadable as if she still wore her veil, and the only thing that stays her hand in the midst of actually hastily reaching for the veil so carefully lain upon her basket is that her senses then register _woman_ and _armed_. So odd is this that the maiden's green eyes go wide, even as she rallies herself enough to begin gathering her things. Asusena steps in, farther yet, and her dark eyes move to take in Tyler. In an instant, it is as though her hackles have raised, one hand clenching into a fist, the other curling around the hilt of her blade. She notices Faanshi's presence as well, there and bordering on meek. Shudra. But not to me. Never to me. They are, both of them, familiar, one faintly sweet, the other bitter as parting tears on a darkskinned cheek. Sena lifts her chin, daring Tyler, /daring/ him to say /one/ word. Her lip curls as though she means to bare her teeth, suddenly torn from the present to the past, nearly two years ago, wrapped up in memories of icy water and warm sand. She says nothing, looking at Tyler plainly, but can feel the stirrings within her of the thing she has fought so long and hard to contain. Even now, untouched by the moon's light, the she-cat's blood rages. /Tyler/. Asusena's breath catches in her throat, but her expression is schooled. Cold, furious, but schooled, the only light in her visage held in her eyes, flickering angrily, a fire that yearns to scorch one man only. Tyler. After a complicated, difficult swallow, Tyler jumps a few steps backwards and blinks his brilliantly blue eyes at the dark woman before him and the fierce emotion that he can feel lashing out at him, strangely reminding him of the Imperator's barbed whip. Yet he'd trade Theron's wrath for /this/ woman's without a second thought. "Sena..." says he, sounding hollow, uneasy, anxious. "I..." His lips move a little -- one might expect half a dozen excuses to instantly fly from them if they know the mongrel any -- but no other sound comes forth. A nervous, "Long time no see, sweetheart," finally breaks the silence. By now, Tyler has backed up to a spot near Faanshi and her lyre. He, too, is bordering on meek. And he has the air of a rabbit about him -- one that's about to /bolt/ for fear of its life. True, Faanshi is meek and gentle by nature. But she is not without eyes, and it is blazingly apparent that these two know one another. She glances first at one. Then at the other. And then she slips her lyre, with all the care her most treasured possession merits, into the leather satchel; then, her hands reach up to take down the top of her leyang, long enough so that she may take up the veil and settle the chain that holds it into place about her head. Her ears come visible for a moment, small and scarred, before her thick dark locks fall back into place over them. And she speaks up, soft and grave and perhaps even a trifle sadly, "If there is conflict between you, Imphada, Tyler, I entreat you to take it from this place. It is sacred." This may not mean much to a woman of evident Varati blood, even if she is obviously one who does not follow the traditional ways of the Children of Fire. Nor might it mean much to the Mongrel. But Faanshi is half Sylvan, and therefore it means something to her. Veil in place, she then takes up the satchel to sling it over one shoulder... a signal to the dog that she clearly intends to leave. "Conflict," Asusena repeats, and cocks her head to the side. "Conflict," she says again, as though tasting the word, and looks to Tyler with a thousand thoughts voiced in her gaze. Silent, never to be asked. Never to be answered. "No," she says, the words becoming a thickly accented purr, cold as a breaking wave on a winter's afternoon. "No conflict between us, Imphada," she continues. "Nothing at all, between us, so it would seem. A thousand apologies, for having interrupted. I shall take my leave." With that, she turns, a glare straining to pierce Tyler's restraint, worlds of disappointment, disgust and fury weighing her down, and then, her back is to them both, and she moves to exit. Vibrant eyes wide and glassy with wonder, Tyler swipes away sweat that had quickly beaded upon his bronzed brow. /Phew. That was close./ He scratches rakishly at the back of his head, completely reduced to silence by what was spoken and, even more so, what was /un/spoken. Taking in a cool breath of relief, he falls heavily to his bottom, sitting right where he was standing and concentrating intensely on his personal thoughts, whatever they may be. Far be it from Faanshi to tell a warrior when she should stay and when she should go. The halfbreed maiden stares oddly after Asusena, and so does Kosha, for that matter; neither of them are exactly accustomed to women such as she clad in such a fashion, or carrying weaponry. But at the *thump* of Tyler sitting down hard upon the floor, her head turns back around to him. That gaze of hers, too old and too _aware_ for her young features, studies him. His shaken demeanor. The actions of his hands. And the way _his_ expression closes off as well. She has not yet risen from where she sits, but she remains poised as if considering it, the lyre's satchel still slung upon her shoulder. "If you are no longer in need," says she quietly, "I will go." Heavy feet carry the travel-weary Varati from the temple, and out into the night, where the sun is contemplating its own daily rebirth. A growl is already born in her throat, low and raging, and she cannot make measured steps toward the beach, but must run, blinded by her own fury, her own tears. What a mistake, to think this was home, and to attempt the return. Of all the myriad places upon the world known as Aether, to think that this one might offer the solace its name implies. Cruel Fates, to play such horrid tricks upon one who only wishes to leave the past behind. To the beach, where the sun will eventually touch her skin, and perhaps stand a chance of warming the chill of her heart. Nodding his head very slowly, the mongrel twists his shoulders to gaze over at Faanshi and Kosha, his eyes gleaming with the abstraction of his thoughts. He doesn't lend voice to it, but extends a careworn apology with the lines of his face alone. "Be good, Kosha. Night, Faanshi." From the looks of it, he'll probably be here for a while. Eyes of blue meet eyes of green; for a long moment, Faanshi is silent as the dawn grows brighter through the latticework high above, casting greater light upon the silks she wears and catching their threads in subtle gleams. Remorse, she realizes. That is what she sees in his face. She does not know whether it is for _her_, for his inadvertant slaying of one who was a friend, whatever tense past he clearly has with the strange armed Imphada... or all of them or none of them. But it does move her to lay the lyre in its satchel aside for a moment, and rise to her feet to step to the Mongrel man. A slender hand comes forward, seeking a broad shoulder; there, it lights, her touch no heavier than as if a butterfly had landed there. But it is enough for aether to flow, to come in and give a gentle surcease from weariness. To blunt its edge, should he need the energy to go elsewhere in search of needed rest... or should he choose to stay here in the peace of the temple. It takes only a moment. And then she steps back again, to gather her precious satchel, the basket, and her confused hound. Tyler watches the shudra and hound depart. The surge of aether leaves a warm, careless smile upon his face. "Namaste', Tyler. I am happy you are back in Haven." That's all she says, though it carries with it, for her, the codicil of _Because it means you are alive, and I have enough dead friends._ The shadow of premature age behind her eyes has not been eliminated by this volatile gladiator's return to the city... but perhaps it has been lessened, just a fraction, if the look of those eyes as she inclines her head to him in farewell is any sign. And then she's taken up her things... whistled to her hound to call him to her heel... and followed after the departed warrior, out into the morning. [End log.]