"A Clash of Compassion" Log Date: 9/4, 9/5/99 Log Cast: Gelthurn (NPC emitted by Richard), Roki (NPC emitted by Richard), Rory, Elette (NPC emitted by Richard), Richard, Nox, Cynara Log Intro: In search of the man he knows as the Mongrel thief Richard, the dark-winged Empyrean mercenary Nox has tracked down the seedy rooming house in Bordertown where Richard resides... only to discover that the man is direly ill with the plague that has swept across Haven. Furthermore, Nox has found Richard guarded only by a pair of children, and that the building's parsimonious keeper -- a man named Gelthurn -- appears to be hoarding fresh supplies and doling them out only grudgingly to the ailing men, women, and children under his roof. Determined to insure that not only Richard but also the two children receive appropriate care, Nox has confronted the landlord and made certain that the sick man will get fresh water before leaving Richard to the children's care and heading off to make further arrangements. But in the meantime, someone else has been searching for Richard, unaware that her plans and Nox's are about to coincide... ---------- It's roughly a full day since the slim, dark-winged Empyrean showed up at the rooming house, threatening the proprietor who runs the seedy establishment if he does not more freely distribute his supply of fresh water to the many ailing individuals who have taken up shelter within the building. Tensions are running high in the place... but at least Gelthurn _has_ grudgingly submitted to Nox's demands, increasing the rations of water that the building's inhabitants have received today, and no blood has been spilled. But there are still a number of sick people camped out in the common room on the rooming house's first floor, awaiting word from Delphi as to the rumors of a cure that have made it into the city... or better yet, a healer who can take time out of his or her overburdened schedule to come and drive the sickness from their bodies. In the midst of it all, Gelthurn has grown significantly more nervous than is his wont, jumping at the slightest sounds, barking out his words in high-strung tones every time someone addresses him. And when little Roki sneaks down from Richard's flat on the third floor to beg for a share of the water, the proprietor's reaction is no different. "Please, sir, c'n I be havin' some water for Uncle Richard...?" "What?! Didn't I give you a share this morning?!" No more than a polite knock is allowed the door before intentionally sounded steps bring forth a tall, lanky redhead, silks sweeping with bare breaths across bare floors. "Children," murmurs this newest arrival, "are to be treasured." A warning fair growls within her velvety tone, a threat perhaps heavily veiled by a polite accent. Two pairs of eyes flash their gazes to the door when the stranger arrives. Gelthurn's immediate response is to bark out, "Girlie, this place is quarantined, who in Hades are you?" He whirls his short, stocky frame in Rory's direction, alarm and wariness warring for dominance on his swarthy face. The last stranger that set foot in here, after all, caused trouble. The child, in the meantime, stares up at Rory with black eyebrows winging down over his liquid black eyes. He's a fairly grubby little boy, this child, but beneath the streaks of dirt on his face can be glimpsed skin of a light brown hue. But his attention is taken only partially by this new strange woman, for he insists with hands drawn into little fists, "Ye didn't, an' Uncle Richard really really needs the water, he's all hot an' ever'thin'!" "The quarantine I believe will be lifted if you direct me to this man named Richard, with, of course, a fresh pail of water." Unaffected by such a rude attitude, she continues forth with soothing tones. "I am Auvrey, through previously upon the streets you may have known me as Rory." Oh hell, if he's been in Haven long enough, that'd be enough information to indicate just -who- she used to be. Loudmouthed and crass, and with enough spitfire to perpetually perturb Hounds and Empyreans alike. Good as gold, though, and always able to produce what was promised. That was the word, at least, on the streets, a year ago. "Auv-Auvrey?" _This_ seizes the attention of the boy, who leaps at the woman; a startled hope lights up his dirty little face. "D'ye say Auvrey, ma'am? Y'come to help Uncle Richard?" He snaps a glance to the grumbling Gelthurn and pipes furiously, "Y'better get water for my Uncle Richard or his friend's gonna come back an' beat ye up!" Gelthurn scowls visibly, but here and now, in the view of several of the suspicious-eyed denizens of this place, he does turn and stalk off to fetch the water requested. But he doesn't leave without a parting shot, as he snaps at the lad, "Mind yer tongue, whelp, 'less ye want it cut out of ye!" Artistic fingers outreach to splay tenderly over the lad's ruffled hair, a reassuring gesture indeed. "Aye, I have come for this, lad. You will bring me to him then?" The grunting, overbearingly postured man is all out ignored, dismissed out of hand as interest is found elsewhere. The boy swallows, clearly torn between looking brave and looking desperately relieved. "Aye!" he pipes, reaching up for the young woman's hand with one of his own and pointing at the stairs in the center of the common room. "C'mon this way! He's up in his room an' you gotta help him 'cause he's awful sick an' hot and he keeps tryin' to get up and Lettie hasta sit on him, c'mon!" With that, then, Roki tugs desperately at the hand he's seized, pulling Rory towards those stairs. Rory follows dutifully, allowing herself to be easily guided. Up those narrow stairs, then, the boy leads this newly arrived savior. The stairs are cramped, but the child ascends them agilely to the third floor... and to the door to the west, held open by a chunk of stone. "Uncle Richard's in here, ma'am! M'name's Roki. Lettie, Lettie, I brung help, I brung help!" With this, he throws his small form against the door to push it open, giving the woman coming with him space to enter the room. Within is a small and fairly cramped chamber... but at least there's a breeze circulating through the place from the windows on either end of the room. Under the north window, a small girl with a mop of pale hair starts from her perch on a crumpled form beneath her. A little wordless cry escapes her, and she scrambles down off the bed to turn limpid dark eyes up to survey the newcomer. The frigid arctic colouring of Auvrey's gaze blazes intensely, their pale irises adjusting to search thoroughly this given room. At the corners of her mouth twitch the faintest of smiles, odd for such a depressing scene. "Just Auvrey, lad, or Rory if you will. I have no title beyond that." Slippered feet pass quietly until she kneels beside the seemingly lifeless form, her palm having slipped from the boy's to instead press against the man's forehead. Both children, the boy and the girl, flank the newcomer now as she crouches down by the man lying crumpled in the bed. Richard it is, but he is direly changed, sweat and the oils of many days' worth of lack of a bath turning his black hair grimy and disheveled. A beard has claimed the lower half of his face; his skin is nearly gray save for spots of hot color high on his cheekbones, drawn tightly over the fine bones beneath it. A rough blanket and sheet are tangled about his form, also sweat-stained, as is the shirt garbing what's visible of his upper body. At the young woman's touch, he stirs fretfully, his brow creasing beneath her fingertips... and the heat of his flesh is all too apparent even to that touch. "He's hotter t'day," murmurs Roki unhappily. Coins appear. No trick is this, though her ink-stained fingers are nimble enough in procuring the tidy sum. "Have you children been to town before on your own? Into the streets for any purchases?" A veil, golden as a lion's rangy mane, is removed and wadded just as it touches the man's soaked brow delicately. "I been to the Rialto!" Roki volunteers. "But greasy ol' Gelthurn won't let nobody outside 'cause of all the sick ones!" On Auvrey's other side, the pale-haired girl watches her motions, and then lifts up a tiny hand to stroke Richard's nearest shoulder, apparently taking this as license to try to soothe the ailing man. Richard himself groans at the touch of the veil, and the groan segues into a deep, racking cough. His body convulses with the force of it, making him writhe where he lies. "I will handle this Gelthurn, boy." A few coins are given the lad, winking gold within what little light reaches these precious things. With a pat on the hand, she continues in that lulling, gentle tone of hers. "Since he will be bringing fresh water, these items are what you need to bring. Attend Opal at the Gem Inn, and she will oblige your order. Take a small wooden wagon you boys enjoy using if needs be." And so it is that her list begins. "A fresh loaf of bread. Bowled chicken broth without bits. A quad of fresh towels. A man's cleaning supplies, and clothing that you think will fit this uncle of yours. Fresh linens. Soap. Untinted salve." Pausing, the older lass tilts her head, and carefully inquires, "Will you remember these items?" Roki's eyes go wide in his dirty little face at the sight of the coins pressed into his hands, It's obviously an amount that impresses the child, for he stares at it for a full two seconds before bobbing his tousled dark head vigorously and shoving the coinage away somewhere into the depths of his equally grubby clothing. Ah, this one, it would seem, knows how to hide money safely upon his person. "Bread," he parrots instantly, "an' chicken broth, an' towels, an' cleanin' stuff, an' clothes, an' sheets, an' soap, an' salve! Okay!" Hope floods his face as it starts to sink in for him that someone is truly here to help the man he and the little girl have been guarding... but before he goes charging out the door, Roki pipes, "Y-you gonna take care of him now? Y'ain't gonna get sick too, are ye, Auvrey?" "No, I am not going to sicken, little one." Even if it means sheer force of will and determination. Like that has ever proven to have much effect over illness before. It is then that a tiny frown begins to form. "The other two.. those whom your uncle was caring for.. Do they still live, little ones?" The girl says nothing, but her tiny frame visibly sags even as she keeps petting Richard's shoulder, over and over and over. Her other hand pops her thumb into her mouth. And the boy named Roki swallows again, before simply shaking his head and muttering tinily, "Uh uh. Momma an' Da got carried off onna cart and then Uncle Richard got sick." He whips right past these words, though, using them to relay information and nothing more. Has this boy had time to grieve his loss? Very possibly not. He goes on without pausing, "Y-y-you need Lettie to stay with ya or can I take her?" Voices. There are voices somewhere just over him, and Richard frowns to himself in consternation as he dimly perceives them. Another groan escapes him as he shifts position where he lies, another cough hauls itself up from somewhere deep within his chest. "Take her lad," a few more coins are presented, "And purchase the biggest meal either of you can stomach. Eat slow, mind you, so you dinna cough what you digest back up, alright? Return soon, though. Be safe, little ones." The utmost of confidence is placed in both children, and Auvrey's attention returns to Richard. As the initial, leatherbound pouch disappears, another is procured of the same materials. It is, however, of a darker hue, nearly midnight in making, and the contents are revealed as an abundance of dried powder. A touch of her fingertip adjusts a pinch to be smoothed as butter over the ailing's lips. Food! _That_ thought brings out a sharp flare of longing in Roki's expression, competing with a surge of guilt at the thought of himself and the other child of leaving their guardian... who's become their charge... alone. But it doesn't take him long to scamper over to seize the girl's hand, and he advises her staunchly, "C'mon, Lettie, c'mon, we gonna go an' get food an' a lotta stuff to help take care of Uncle Richard now!" As he speaks, the girl-child solemnly considers this, and then bobs her head solemnly. She gives Rory a long look before she lets the boy tug her out the door, though, and her deep liquid gaze is the last thing visible of her before the children are all at once gone. Normally well-cut and finely shaped, Richard's lips are cracked now within the thick black expanse of the days-old beard that's taken over his jaw. That light contact to them, though, makes his mouth shiver a little in reaction; the taste of the powder brings the very tip of his tongue into view. A confused grimace flickers across his haggard face... and then, his eyelids lift, revealing glazed and unfocused blue beneath. "D... Dorcas?" comes forth a vague murmur. "Auvrey" corrects she with a hushed tone, no expectation for recognition there. The powder is placed upon the tip of fleshy tastebuds, a bitter aftermath sure to follow. "You are ill. I am here to see that you recover." Not like her words will be understood, but it is the same nursing tone that washes as fine rivulets of purifying water over a blackened soul. Liquid silk absorbs a collection of beaded sweat, patting the sickly substance away. A sharper grimace contorts Richard's drawn visage as the taste of the powder hits his system... and sets off another string of coughs, more moisture dampening his brow with the exertion. Once the spasm passes he sags back again, enervated, but with guilt haunting his face. "N-nooooo," he moans. "I cannot... time, no time... I must watch over the children... I must..." His voice is the barest, sparsest of whispers, hoarse and rasping, the lilting cadences of his accent apparently subsumed by his illness. A firm, slender hand begins to tug at the shirt. "I am sorry for your modesty and mine own," and boy, by that scorching blush, this is truth enough, "But I must divest you of your shirt. The children have gone to consume a hearty meal and return with supplies. Worry not, man. Rest, instead." And if that innkeeper, or whatever that filth of a man is, doesn't return with fresh water soon, Rory may just well out slit his throat. Err... "Stay in bed, Richard." -This- tone brooks no argument. "I must retrieve water for you, and my efforts will be wasted if you expire on the floor from exhaustion." Speak of a vermin, and he will appear... or so goes the old saying, at any rate. Out on the stairs, heavy, clomping footsteps herald someone's approach, and then a loud thudding on the door the children had pulled closed behind them provides a second alert. "Water," comes the growl of Gelthurn on the other side of the wood. The sick man, in the meantime, jerks sharply as Rory reaches for the once-white shirt that covers his torso. That's undoubtedly silk beneath her hands, but it, like the man who wears it, is sorely changed. Very likely ruined by the stains of sweat that have darkened it, the garment is horribly rumpled. But oddly, Richard shoots a hand up to try to grasp the woman's and pull it free of him, while he bursts out with unexpected strength, "_No_! N-noooo..." Unwilling to upset Richard further, as strength is needed for recovery and not fighting, a soft 'shhhhhhhh' escapes. The silk is released, however, as Auvrey respects her patient's request. "If you are so modest, then I will leave you to your shirt, mmm?" For now, at least. Rising and turning away, she is quick to produce an open entryway and offer her hands for the offered water. "It is best if you do not enter, sir. I have only herbs for four, at the present, and another sick will only bestir bad tidings." The water, that within the pail, is carefully inspected. Clean? Fresh? Gelthurn scowls at Auvrey as he turns over the bucket, growling as he does so, "You think I wanna go any nearer the plaguestricken wretch, think again. He's all yours, girlie." With that, he whirls around and stomps back down the stairs the way he came, giving Richard's unexpected second benefactor no opportunity to criticize the quality of the water he's presented her. It's in a bucket, and the bucket is whole. Casual inspection can show her, at least, that it looks clean enough. The prone figure on the bed slumps down again as his shirt is released, but as Auvrey moves towards the door, his head tosses back and forth across his lumpy pillow. "I didn't do it," he mumbles thickly. "Didn't do it... why, amora? I didn't..." Hefting the bucket without spilling a drop, it is placed beside the sickbed carefully. "Shhhhhh, Richard.." soothes she, ever the one to comfort. Another veil removed, this from her other, slender arm, the silk dipped within cool waters only to glide over fevered flesh. Forehead, eyelids, cheeks. A moment is even taken to carefully allow a few drops of moisture onto and past those harsh, cracked lips. "All is well. Think of something pleasant, a field perhaps, with a favored flower. Each petal," whispers she, even as the cycle is repeated with careful fingers, "carries a drop of dew, kissed by the morning. It is fresh, here, the scents invigorating -" and so it is that she drones on, each word pronounced as a motherly caress, a lullaby thrumming within each syllable. A wavering relief starts to soften Richard's ravaged features at the touch of that blessed wet coolness upon his overheated brow. The smallest of whimpers escapes him, a sound that may well disturb when coming out of this man. His head turns in Auvrey's direction now, following the movements of that dampened veil. "See... see the sky?" he whispers plaintively, his gaze rising up again, the blue eyes turned strangely yearning. "Yes, crystal clear. How about you tell me of the sky, Richard. Tell me what -you- see..." Cloth dips to glide along the neckline, tender to avoid heat bruises. A few seconds produce a rewetted gathering of material, and the pattern is repeated once more. Brow. Cheeks. Eyes. Lips. The ruined silken shirt, clinging to Richard's body in several places and loose in others, is open enough at his throat to bare the top of his breastbone to the gentle ministrations. As the cloth dips down in that direction, he coughs without opening his mouth, a smaller and weaker cough -- either the result of waning strength or perhaps of the lulling effects of the moisture soothing his face. His eyes shiver closed for a moment, before opening again on a gaze turned distant, elsewhere, longing. "So high," he murmurs. "Pure, clear... wind... I can feel the wind... I..." His features crinkle up ever so slightly then, in what may well be anguish. "I can't... I can't reach it..." "Imagine yourself, then, with wings. Beautiful ivory wings, extended and floating upon the breeze, lifting yourself upwards.." If it were not for healing methods, she might just very well choke on these words. As it is.. well.. Her ministrations continue, tone as lulling as warm milk. Gently and warmly uttered as they are, those last few words provoke an abrupt response out of Richard. He lets out a strangled little croak, his face twisting in unmistakable grief, his head beginning to toss back and forth anew. "C... _can't!_" comes his hoarse groan of a reply. A hint of a wetness not delivered by the Mongrel woman's veil wells into his clouded eyes before they squeeze shut. "Can't... I can't...!" Generally Not Good. "Richard! Hush!" she whispers, pressing her weight against the thrashing body to keep from further damage occurring. "Hush! Relax!" Her own lips press against temple. Not Wise, given the state of contagion. "I cannot help you if you dinna relax!" Weakly, the ailing man tries to struggle, but his store of strength is not great enough to serve him now. His eyes come open again as he strives to focus on the face leaning over him, and there is no doubt that there are tears in those blue depths now. The gaze of those eyes, however, is vacant. "I didn't do it, amora," he mumbles in mournful tones, guilt and despair adding to the strain of sickness already wreaking havoc upon his features. Again those deft hands seek to guide the shirt up and over your head, as weakness hits once more. Dirty tactics, to get a man nekkid when his guard is down, but desperate times equals desperate measures, right? A wordless mutter of protest drops forth from Richard's lips, but for all that he feebly bats at Auvrey's determined hands, he seems unable to interfere with her efforts. Wrestling the shirt off requires getting it free of his arms as well as his torso, and the necessary movements of his prone form set off a chain of coughs that leave Richard slumping limply where he lies, trembling with the touch of air against more of his skin. The shirt's removal can reveal one immediate thing: a long silver chain about his neck, from which dangles a clear crystal of some kind, lying there glimmering against his chest. The sweat cloth is discarded, Auvrey's final veil removed, that which covers her fiery locks. This too is dipped in the cool water, and motions repeat once again. This time, however, instead of pausing at the collar bone, her tender ministrations continue downwards, cleansing the skin which covers male torso. The chain itself is lifted, but replaced quickly enough as she efficiently sets about her work. The torso over which Auvrey's last veil now glides seems to match the face and head with which it belongs: lean and elegant of line, broad-shouldered, but not heavily muscled, designed perhaps more for quickness than for strength. The skin is pale, but a light scattering of fine dark hair covers much of the chest. No hulking Varati warrior is he, to be sure. But now that Richard's shirt is off him, it might be noted that he trembles more violently, half with reaction to the air now touching his hot flesh, half with reaction to the coolness of that wet cloth. Two more coughs twist through him before he goes still again, blue eyes half-open. "Raining," he murmurs distantly. "It's raining..." The initial sheen of sickness is cleansed at last, silks wrung out with tight precision onto the bare planks beneath Auvrey. As the small stream formulates to drift away, the veils are lifted to dry upon the pail's metal edge. Her pouch is taken up once more, fasted with the two strips of tanned hide and placed on higher ground. Throughout it all is a comforting melody, one of no recognizable origin. As minutes begin to drift by, begin to accumulate into a substantial fraction of an hour, Richard begins to settle down under the steady lulling of his benefactor's attentions. Strain eases out of his face; his coughs grow somewhat less frequent. The most movement he manages is to twist his body slightly towards those ministering hands, drawn by the irresistible bliss of the water being lightly brushed across him. And once he murmurs dreamingly, "I'll watch 'em, Dorcas... I'll watch 'em... take care of 'em for ye, lass... dinnae worry..." Sorrow, sharply poignant, filters within silver to create twin molten puddles, Auvrey's gaze enough to create a corrupted God's tears. Yet, it is well-known and accepted within this slender woman, far from the usual turbulence of others. For now it is all Auvrey may do, settled upon the floor, watching and waiting for further supplies to return. Nox comes in from the stairs. Nox has arrived. Cynara comes in from the stairs. Cynara has arrived. Soon, somewhere between a half hour and three quarters of one, the Mongrel woman's vigil over the ailing man receives the interruption for which she's been waiting. The sounds of footsteps smaller than those of the landlord Gelthurn sound out in the corridor, and there's a soft noise as of something being dropped upon the floor before the door is pushed open by the small but determined arms of little Roki. His face peeks in through the space made by his efforts between door and doorframe, and around him, the smaller form of Elette peeks as well while he pipes into the room, "Auvrey ma'am! We got what you asked! The stuff for Uncle Richard!" The lad tries to hold open the door and push a bundle into the room with his foot at the same time -- a rather ambitious operation, given that the bundle is almost as big as he is. The man on the bed has fallen asleep by now, Rory's ministrations having coaxed him into an uneasy doze. Richard lies with his bearded face turned towards the young woman, and one arm draped limply across his now uncovered torso. Against his chest, the faceted crystal and the chain from which it hangs glint faintly in the room's dim light, possibly one of the only fine-seeming objects in this room... aside from the veils Rory has removed from her person. Behind the two kids. two Empyreans follow, one black and one white. Nox walks closely at the side of Cynara, the top of his folded wings hunched over, so it doesn't brush against the ceiling. The darkling rubs against his chest in a mock hurt way, giving the woman at his side a long suffering look, before muttering to her, "You tell me. You're the healer." Only then, his gaze shifts about the room to take in the scene. Her silent reserve broken by such enchanting interruptions, Auvrey is hardpressed not to chuckle at such a sight. Instead, making use of herself, quick feet and nimble hands cast the door further open for her present charges. "Thank you, children. Did you eat?" questions she as light as a feather, while those ink-stained fingers direct where to place the packages: near the bed, but away from a slightly wetted floor beneath. The other two obviously are not seen, as the door is swept with a single motion to close it in one fell swoop. "Speaking of which, what are your names? I cannot very well say, 'hey you', mmm?" Teasing, she is, a gentle sparkle within her gaze. The winged ones coming up the stairs have had a clear shot all the way -- certainly Gelthurn had taken one look at Nox and at the woman he's bringing with him, and made himself immediately scarce for all that he did it with a scowl upon his face. As the mercenary and the healer reach the third floor, they might espy the open door of Richard's room and the woman who's helping Roki tug the two big bundles into the chamber. Little Elette, however, snaps her head around at the sound of new footsteps, and a little wordless cry escapes her as she backs up against the door and squeezes past her brother into the room, just before the door closes behind her. "M'name's Roki," the boy pipes, warming to this redheaded woman who has been responsible for the first hot bread he's had in days, and for her apparent selfless desire to attend to the ailing Richard. Thrusting a small finger to the girl, he goes on, "She's my sister. Her name's Elette but I call her Lettie, and 'Phada Opal gave us some hot bread and juice but we didn't eat too much so we could bring the stuff back for--" He cuts off, though, at the little girl's manner of entering the room, and at how she points an even tinier finger towards the door. Nox doesn't bother to give Gelthurn a second glance. He knocks politely at the door, "Please, Elette, open the door. We only want to help." His voice is certainly friendlier than when he was here the last time. Cynara allows Nox to precede her, clasping her hands at her waist in exaggerated patience as he tries to work his way into the room that has just been closed to them. "Roki, Elette," murmurs Auvrey politely, refraining from a nickname until bidden, "I remain very pleased to meet you." Without missing a beat she continues, "Would you mind telling me who those Empyrean people are seeking entrance?" questions she, even as the newest bedding is carefully unfolded and prepared. Roki blinks in startlement, before blurting to Rory, "Uncle Richard's other friend is back!" He hops back to the door, then, past the Mongrel woman and past his little sister, to tug the battered wooden door open again, and indeed giving view of the two Empyreans just outside the door. Nox he had expected, recognizing that voice, but the woman behind him gives the boy obvious and immediate pause. Elette, in the meantime, sticks her thumb back into her mouth; it seems to be a favored locale for that particular digit. She stares solemnly up at Rory, apparently absorbing her every word, until her attention swings back to the prone and now shirtless man lying on the bed. The little one steps to Richard's bedside, still sucking her thumb all the way, and lifts her other hand to pat curiously at his bare shoulder. Nox steps inside the room, touching Cynara on her arm to have her at his side. A warm smile is given to the boy, "Thank you, Roki. This is a woman who can take care of your uncle. She's very good at healing people. There's no reason to be scared of her." Well, he has certain doubts about the last sentence, but tries to calm the boy down at least. His eyes rise, to study Rory. "Ave, miss. You are Auvrey, I assume?" Nox An Empyrean of slightly below average height, with sleek, swarthy skin. His heart-shaped face seems feminine, its features soft and smooth: a small, thin nose protruding between high cheekbones; delicately curved lips set off above a dimpled chin; a pair of slanted eyes of dark violet placed below finely arched, deeply black eyebrows. His thick, glossy black, long hair is framing his face, falling on his narrow shoulders. Contrasting to this look is the gaze from his eyes, revealing bitterness and past hardships. His body is slim and wiry, making him physically rather unimpressive. The most remarkable aspect of him are his wings: Covered with soft, thick feathers of raven-black, they arc high over his shoulders, broadening his frame and covering his back, elegantly curving down. The dark Empyrean wears a simple chiton of coarse, grey wool, fitting well to his form. A black chlamys is clasped at his shoulders hanging losely down to his mid-calves. His dark, nimble feet snug in bright beige zoris. The chiton is secured by an unadorned leather belt around the waist, revealing a sheathed pugio. A pliable longbow and matching quiver is slung over his shoulder. Cynara The heavens cast down a ray of light, a single beam to caress the world in warm radiance. Its glow is captured and refracted within the crystalline aspect of a young woman. Lustrous locks of spun gold sweep carelessly over her shoulders and swiftly down her back. Only the foremost strands are diverted in their course, a silky stream to either side of a fair face. Somewhat squared features hold the semblance of the ray's direct touch, known to fade rival colors a degree while enhancing those it cannot hope to match, such as the stunning blue of the sky, which is itself caught and held within her gaze. The hue of innocence. An ominous shadow claws its way upon this luminous visage marring the image forever with a scrawled x, deep pink in color. It rides just above the slender arch of her brows and is usually concealed beneath a golden spray of unmanaged hair. Darkness seeks to assert its dominion over the sun. A partial eclipse rising in the black cloth which covers her slight frame, contrasting the lambent essence of her natural appearance. Ivory wings, drawn close to her body lend their own gentle voice to the fray, leaning the battle towards day. A shimmer of silver circles her waist, lightning striking within the storm. The flashes extend to her feet where barely used sandals of silver straps glint their defiance at the ground. Cynara steps into the room at Nox's side, cool blue eyes taking in the entire room in one quick glance. The man upon the cot receives a short look, and her lips twitch slightly at one corner. The next to receive her attention are the children. Uncaring eyes take in both of them in a manner that suggests she is sizing them up. She nods in greeting to the boy, "Ave, Roki, I am Cynara." she tells him, but there is no comfort in that voice which speaks as if she is addressing an adult rather than a child. The little girl receives yet another nod. It is then Rory's turn to be scrutinized briefly, "Domina." she greets curtly and bothers with no more than that before moving to Richard's side and looking down at him. Richard He's pale; he's not a Varati. There are no visible gills or fins along his slim frame; thus, he's not Atlantean. No Sylvan would have eyes of that stormy, dusky blue, and his ears are not pointed. Surely no Empyrean's hair would as black as shadow -- and at any rate, he has no wings. So, then, he must be a Mongrel. Most everything else he utters is delivered with an ever so slight glint of irony to those blue eyes, and in a tenor voice whose faint lilting accents add a touch of music and refinement to the rough-edged street patois of Haven. Refined, too, are his fine-boned features, despite the days-old beard that hides the lower half of his face and the generally disheveled state of his short dark hair. One might guess him to be somewhere in his early thirties; his face and frame and movements are all those of a man past youth and not long into his prime. He appears to be clad in very little at the moment, for his upper body is bare, leaving pale skin and a chest lightly covered in fine dark hair open to view. Like his face, Richard's torso is lean and elegant of line, constructed perhaps for quickness rather than strength; his shoulders are broad, his hips slim, his musculature not particularly heavy. The rest of him is currently hidden beneath a tangle of bedclothes. One other thing is visible, however, a silver chain about his neck with a faceted crystal dangling from one end. He is quite obviously ill at the moment, much paler than is normal for him, save for spots of feverish color high on his cheeks. Strain and exhaustion have left his face haggard and drawn, and he frequently trembles as though terribly drained of strength. "I am Auvrey," concedes she with pleasant tones. "As you were uninvited and the man of the house is indisposed, I will let you know now you are as such quite unwelcome." Polite as always, wellspoken to boot, and without a hint of animosity. There is, however, distrust. Heavy and thick as an old tapestry, and nearly as finely woven, there is no attempt to veil it. "If you are concerned over his health, I have secured an herb which will bring him to full health inside a week. As I promised him not long ago." If -that- isn't enough, her chin actually raises a notch, stubborn with its pert shape. That, too, is accompanied with a step directly in front of Cynara. A challenge. "You both remain useless here, only able to catch and spread this disease." Still there remains a lack of rudeness. Instead, it is frank and wrot with knowledge. At least she isn't a twit. The man of the house -- or perhaps more specifically, the man of the room -- remains lying prone upon the bed, frowning vaguely in his slumber. Richard stirs, but only feebly, as the voices in the room sound somewhere out on the farthest edges of his awareness. From little Elette there is not a sound, as she scoots as close as possible to the sick man's bedside, her thumb still solidly lodged within her mouth. Her brother, in the meantime, peers warily up at Cynara. As Roki is addressed an adult, so does he respond, drawing his small form up to his fullest height even as he peers back and forth between the Empyreans and Rory. "Ye're a healer, dom'na?" he pipes at Cynara, dark brows winging down over his dark eyes, in a manner that one who knows Richard well might realize is in imitation of him. Nox's lips tighten as he speaks to Rory in a calm, tightly controlled voice, "Both the owner of this building as well as the kids let us in, so I doubt there's any reason for an invitation from you. And while I thank you for your concern over our health, I can assure you we are quite capable of watching out that we will not catch it." His gaze shifts to Cynara, now questioningly. His lips barely move as he mutters, "A week? How long would you take?" The placid calm of pale blue chills to the frigid cold of a crisp winter's morn. Cynara's icy gaze looks evenly back at the person who dares step in her way. "While your attitude of protection over your friend is admirable, I will tell you that my presence was requested here." she intones in quiet willfulness. "Step aside and let me see to him." she commands, "He is needed to aid these children and many others. A week is too long to wait." she agrees with Nox, without taking her eyes from Rory, "We are in no danger of catching, nor transmitting this illness." There is an air of command about this woman as she stands with her shoulders back and her wings tightly held to that back. Her head is high, and the golden hair upon it falls just perfectly to cover her brand, concealing it from view. "Richard has been given lungroot, woman. He heals even now, as we speak. Natural restoration has long been preferred amongst many, in such cases, and that you waste your efforts in an attempt to incur debt saddens me." A pause, and then softly, "That you interfere is something you will regret, eventually." As simply as that, her reasons remaining unnamed. Pushing past the arrogant woman, she indicates Nox with a crook of her finger. "If you are staying with her, you -will- be of service. Help me roll him off those filthy sheets and replace them with clean ones." Roki can be seen to chew at his lower lip, troubled by the apparent conflict between the two with wings and the one without. Now, granted, after days in which the only ones who seemed to care about his Uncle Richard were himself and Elette, having an influx of adults in the room _should_ be a blessing from Tyche herself... but why are the adults _arguing_? "You... you _all_ better fix him!" he insists with as much fierceness as he can manage. He, for certain, is going to do his part. The lad ducks around the grownups, beckoning to his little sister, and the two of them grab hold of one corner of the sheet beneath the sick man's shivering form. And Richard, through all of this, stirs again. A racking cough bursts out of him, while one hand fumbles for the blanket that half-covers him, trying to pull it up. Nox approaches the bed, looking down on Richard. He tells Rory in a cold voice, without bothering to look at her, "You're not only making judgements what Richard prefers, but also on our motives, while you still hide your own. So why don't you just keep to your business, while not advising us on what and what not we will regret?" He does however follow the woman's demand and wraps one arm around Richard's shoulder, lying the other one beneath his legs. Nox mutters, "I can lift you up without turning your back over, but I cannot promise what the others will see. And I believe you'd better let Cynara see to you in any case." Cynara's eyes narrow further at this obstinate mongrel woman. "Has Richard specifically told you that he would prefer to suffer through the drawn out pain of his condition rather than be healed? Has he left instructions for you that he would rather remain unconscious and unable to protect the children in his care or maintain his livelihood, so that your fascist beliefs can be imposed on him?" she asks pointedly, irritation gathering in her tone. "Do not even think to threaten me girl, or condemn me with your lofty judgements. I have not asked a price from this man, nor have I indicated that he will be in debt in any way to me. There is such a thing as kindness, you see." Not that Cynara has any of that, but she can at least mention it. She takes the opportunity of Rory moving toward Nox, to complete the distance between she and Richard, placing her hand upon his head, even as he is moved. "Yes there is. I do not trust you to have any." Simple as that. Fresh linens begin to replace those dingy ones, crisp and clean and smelling faintly of spices, compliments of an old friend. First the bottom sheet, until that is secured with the help of two small peapods and an overgrown bird. Then the blankets and sheets are stripped away. No move is made to replace them. No, indeed, and those breeches Richard once claimed, the very same which are rumbled and smelly with the sweat of illness, are tugged right off. Followed quickly enough with a clean cotton cloth taken from the newly arrived pile and dipped within a pail of fresh water. With all three adults now at the bedside, and the wings of two Empyreans taking up a good bit of space besides, the children are left with very little room to maneuver. Roki can be seen to scowl uncertainly as Nox moves his stricken guardian and mutters to him... and with obvious reluctance, the boy murmurs to his sister, "C'mon, let's help Auvrey, Lettie!" The girl gravely bobs her head, and the children edge out from their spot at the very edge of the bed to pass items to the Mongrel woman as she requests them, or to take away filthy clothing and linens and make a pile on the other side of the room. Richard, in the meantime, groans raggedly as he is moved, coughing yet again and murmuring in indistinct query at the darkling mercenary's muttered words. If he comprehends those words, however, he gives very little sign of it. Both Nox and Cynara can easily ascertain that fever still heats his flesh, though there is lingering moisture along his brow and his chest where he has probably recently been washed. When Rory strips off his breeches, he's left shivering all the more and mumbling, "Cold... let me in, Mother, let me... let me..." Nox folds out one dark wing as he lifts Richard up, covering his body with dark feathers, to at least try shielding him a bit from the cold. Like that, he holds the mongrel body silently above the bed, waiting until Rory has exchanged the blankets. Cynara replies swiftly to the woman as she goes about her work of changing sheets. "I care nothing for your trust in the matter, you have no choice here." she snaps. Her hand is already on the weakened man's head, and the aether begins to flow through him immediately, as Nox holds him up. Finished. All done. Softly spoken words of encouragement are given the children, their efforts appreciated. "Roki, Elette sunshine, dip your hands in the clean water and scrub yourselves." They did, after all, touch those filthy things. Washing away what she can of Richard's bared parts, these too are thorough and efficient motions. The rose that creeps within her cheeks is ignored, much like Cynara, though her chin bothers to raise a notch with continued obstinance. Hrmph, darnit. As the healer's power begins to well through the ailing man, a few things can be immediately sensed. He's been sick for days, the fever sapping his strength and muddling his wits, the coughs straining his lungs and his breath. Richard is exhausted, slumber having done him very little good since illness took hold within him. And, as power begins to search through him, identifying the nnature of the man it touches, one other thing can be sensed. Mongrels are the children of many mixings of the blood of all four races... but within this man, there is no mixing. Only one blood can be sensed within him -- that of the Children of Air. Slumped unmoving in Nox's support, between the touch of Cynara at his brow and the attentions of Rory along the lower portions of his slim frame, Richard falls more or less quiet... but not for long. As Cynara's power begins to touch him, his eyes flash open, revealing twin points of blue and a gaze full of unmistakable alarm. His body jerks, and a hoarse cry bursts out of him: "Dulcinea! Amora, what're you... wh... what..." Roki and Elette start nervously at Richard's cry, but the boy takes charge of his sibling, tugging her firmly to the water as Rory has bid them. Among the items sent from the Gem Inn are soap... and the children make use of that soap with a speed that belies the common wisdom that Mongrels find that particular substance foreign. Nox lets the body finally down again in a slow, careful move, nestling it in the fresh blanket, drawing the sheet over Richard. "Keep still, Richard! She's healing you." The arms still remain clinging to the sick man, at the moment barely touching him, but ready to grasp him stronger, should he jerk any harder. If Rory can play the game of ignorance, so can he, not admitting that there is actually somebody there that did the job of sheet switching. His head tilts sideways to Cynara, eyes raised in expectation, the deep voice still dampened with concern, "Well?" Cynara's features contort at the weariness and sickness she feels in the victim of the plague. Her lips twitch again and she frowns deeply, looking over his body, possibly for any sorts of bed sores, as he seems to have been bedridden for quite a while. One brow lifts slightly in some unknown reaction to what she notes, but it is quickly drawn downward once more, as she frowns at the chaos running rampant through him. Her magic begins its work, easing the muscles from their strain caused by coughing and laboring to breathe, slowly easing the pain from him first, so that he will be more pliable for the next portion of his healing. His sudden reaction brings her already irritated eyes to his face once more, attempting to discern the meaning of his words while still concentrating on his healing. Her hand remains upon him as he is lowered, and it takes a moment before she glances to Nox, "It is good we came when we did, even lungroot might not have been able to cure him completely at this stage." An irritated glance is thrown toward Rory before she focuses again on Richard. "A highly inaccurate statement," smiles Auvrey with a bit of desert dryness, highly confident in this held belief. Once more no explanation is forthcoming from the mongrel. Instead, her back is purposely turned upon both Cynara and Nox. As usual, there is no insult involved; she just has other matters to attend, now. A jar of sea green is meticulously placed aside, within settled an obvious salve of sorts. The blanket, quilted by an expert hand, thick and plush and right as rain, is fluffed upwards as the lanky spitfire rises once more to settle it over the lower half of Richard. Watching all of this, now that her hands have been washed, Elette tugs on her brother's shirt and leans over to whisper something into his ear. It would seem that the lass is comfortable with speaking only with the older child, for she certainly doesn't raise her voice loud enough to be heard by any of the adults in the room. Roki, by way of response, flashes the grownups around his Uncle Richard a deeply concerned glance, and can be heard to murmur gently to the smaller child, "They're gonna fix him, Lettie, an' he's gonna be okay an' take care of us, you'll see!" The sheer relief of the pain of his lungs and chest easing very nearly makes Richard faint. All tension drains out of his lean form as the two Empyreans and the Mongrel settle him down again in his bed. Only a slight crinkle to his brow remains over his closed eyes, a slight frown tugging down the corners of his mouth within the beard that conceals the lower half of his face, almost as effectively as a Varati woman's veil would hers. Nox withdraws his hands from the body, retracting the one below the knees a bit faster than the one wrapped still wrapped around Richard's shoulders, letting the latter brush briefly over the skin. Now realizing that the two women are much more effective at doing the healing job than he could ever be, he turns to the kids, but not before whispering a soft "Thank you that you came, Cynara" to the winged woman at his side. Attention focusing on Roki, he crouches down to be on eye-level with him, his own dark wings swishing uncomfortably about the ground. The smile he gives at the boy is comforting, his voice calm again, "You did your best to help, Roki. And you did a great job of keeping him alive. Yes, I'm sure he'll be all right in no time." The darkling's brief contact down along the sick man's shoulderblades might, just might, notice a puckered line of scar tissue beginning not far from the broad line of his shoulders. More than that cannot be determined, not with such fleeting contact, or without turning Richard round for a look at his back. Cynara hisses at the woman who dares contradict her. "I suggest you keep your feeble opinions to yourself, domina, as you only prove yourself a fool by speaking such. This man was gravely ill, and though lungroot would have aided his physical recovery, the fever would have taken part of his mind in the long process of recovery in that manner, as it has already begun to do. If I had not come, or if you would have succeeded in your objections to the service I offer him, he most certainly would have recovered, but would no longer have been the man he was before the illness." This response is snapped out in angered warning. "Do not test my limits of patience with your ignorance. If I must, I will have you escorted from the room." There is power in her voice, the confidence of one who leads many. There has been no indication as to whether there are more of her number outside. There are not, but one would hardly know that without taking a look. However, what need would their be, with Nox present? The healing continues, suffusing the man's body with a warmth that somehow drives the fever away. An aligning of order, ushering the pandemonium of illness out, pouring outward in the sweat that should be beading upon his body now. When Nox removes his hand from beneath Richard, Cynara's snakes in under the man, between his back and the new sheet he lays on. "Nox, have those things burned." she nods toward the sheet and trousers and anything else that has touched Richard. "And keep the children from the flame." "Cease calling me domina. I am no whore for the Empyrean empire. Your attitude needs improving, Cynara. You cannot behave as a bitch and expect the world to bow with pleased subservience. If you give respect, you may receive it. No more, no less." Now the gentleness has seeped from Auvrey's tone. Replacing it is openness, a frankness not found in many. This one is not for subterfuge. "You may disagree with me, as I with you, but I wager you find Richard's life a bit more important that petty squabbles. If you care not a lick for the children, at least consider his own standing if he awakes to find two children who have mentally collapsed beneath the realization of what death entails. I suggest you choose a different tone, and we come to a certain understanding." A pause, then, as gentle hands reach to smooth over each young ones heads, reassuring. "I am here to see to Richard's welfare. I am here to see that these children do not follow in their parents' footsteps. I have extended my resources to provide for these measures. You, Cynara, are not stupid." Think about it, suggests Rory's undertone. Turning to Nox, she murmurs, "Unfortunately a hairy man by nature, apparently, Richard will need to be shaved. I can do this, or you can, man." No name is used for Nox, for after all it was never supplied. Instead, intense silver eyes pinpoint the only upright male past pubescent years. There they remain, before lowering after a few moments to glide along the scraggly pair of children with a considering, measuring gander. "Did you two eat enough to completely fill your bellies, or are you and your sister still hungry, Roki?" Roki looks up as he is addressed, and pipes steadily enough, "We could eat lots more food, Auvrey! But--" He pauses, his dark gaze flicking towards the bed, trying to see past the two Empyreans to the man lying behind them. "I don't wanna leave Uncle Richard!" Next to him, Elette first bobs her tousled pale head in assent to her brother's first claim, and then shakes it in support of his second. She has yet to make a sound any of the adults can hear. Richard, while Cynara's power flows through him again, faints for real this time. A sigh of profound relief slips out of him as her power washes over and through him; that vague worried frown leaves his countenance, letting his brow and his mouth relax. A few subliminal shivers still jerk through his system, but they grow progressively less, ebbing down inexorably as his body succumbs to the magic. His breathing palpably eases as well, heading towards the rhythm of true slumber rather than the delirious half-doze that has comprised much of his recent existence. Nox lifts himself up and gathers up the dirty, sweaty sheets and clothes without drawing a face. To Roki and Elette, his smile stays encouraging, "Don't you want to come with me outside for a moment? Both of you can need some fresh air and sunlight and uncle Richard will surely be well once you come back. Just follow Cynara's advice and don't touch anything." As he turns to the door, he looks over his shoulder back at Rory, "Do what you must, Auvrey." His voice drops to a whisper as his gaze intensifies on her, "Your first words were that we were the ones not welcome. If you truly care so much for Richard's and these children's welfare, have at least enough respect for those who supply it, rather than giving them a lecture on attitude and caring." Without awaiting an reply, he turns back to head out. Cynara smirks and shakes her head, flashing a bemusedly longsuffering look toward Nox at Rory's words. "Again, you speak with the very tongue of ignorance. Domina, dear woman, -is- a term of respect, among my kind." she points with the exaggerated patience that an adult would use on a very young child. "And as for being a bitch of the Empyre, the term in no way implies that, though the less educated can hardly know that, so I will forgive your obvious attempt at insult." Her face grimaces slightly as the healing continues even in the midst of this conversation. "Furthermore, I have done nothing, since I entered this room, but attempt to heal a friend, and fend off your verbal judgements and insinuations, which are purely based on your prejudiced opinions of a race I no longer consider my own. It is you who have shown no respect whatsoever to one who is far better versed in Healing than yourself. You have contradicted every word I've said and not offered any evidence to back up your opinions at all. I do find Richard's life more important than this petty squabble indeed, however, it is obvious that you do not, as you refuse to cease it as I have asked." Her eyes flicker uncaringly to the children. "These children are far stronger than they appear, they will survive, and they will prosper." Her eyes again flick to Nox with a meaningful nod of agreement. A past discussion perhaps. "I will change my tone, when you stop speaking." she mutters. The healing flow gently eases the sickness away, repairing any deliriousness it brought in its wake, any damage done to the brain. A soothing relaxation takes over the movement of his lungs, much easier to breathe now. After a moment, the comment Rory makes sinks in and Cynara lifts her gaze to the woman, "Why would he need to be shaved?" she asks in angrily amused confusion, "I am purging the poisons from his body and all that he will have need of is a thorough washing with hot water, and then some rest." That draws a tighter lip than perhaps it should. Rory actually is offended. "Domina represents to me a bitch of the Empyre. If you caste off your race so easily, you would not use their false titles on a mere mongrel in a mocking tone , Cynara, as a compliment." Stupid woman. "A shave would create comfort for a man who just went through Hell. It is a simple procedure, and one I noticed Richard prefers - being beardless. Why you argue such simple things is beyond me, other than you've been beneath Haven for far too long, nestled in that throne of yours." And another thing! "Perhaps -you- have forgotten what it is to be parentless, guardianless, penniless, and bereft of love, but -I- remember the streets well enough. Strength in a child is precious, and though it may ensure possible survival, there are far worse things in life than death." To the children, a promise is made. Solemn, and filled with that sharp sorrow once more. "Opal will feed you again. She's a very special friend of mine. If you want a sturdy set of clothes, either I or she can help you choose something." As the dark Empyrean crosses the room, he mocks Rory audibly, his words dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, it is good that /one person/ here knows what it is to live the hard life on their own out in the street. After all, all Empyreans have always been cuddled and spoiled since childhood, and everybody just waited to bow to their command. Even better than that, she even knows that it feels comfortable to have the beard shaved off. Personal experience can be so valuable." His tone turns serious again, letting out an annoyed sigh, "I just wish that this person would get a clue before she opened her mouth to let other people know how they think, feel, and what they've been through." An exasperated sigh escapes Cynara's lips as the healing is finished. "I thought you were implying that you shave his body, it made no sense. By all means, shave his face, since that is the style he wears." Her tone is cold and crisp as she straightens her back, flexing her wings slightly. "And though you seem so fierce about judging me for naturally affording you the respect of an equal, upon my arrival, and addressing you in the manner I was taught as respectful, regardless of my current affiliation with the race that bore me, I see no reason for it, other than bitterness. You have made your view of that word clear, and I have not used it since, as I am not attempting to purposely insult or attack you, as you are so intent on doing. As the term is used to show respect in the culture I was raised in, even you must realize, that there was no mocking in it, for certainly," she chuckles dryly, "If I were mocking you, I'd make it much more obvious." A deep breath is taken, settling her wings upon her back again, as she shakes her head irritably, smirking in agreement with Nox. "I have forgotten nothing." she assures the woman coldly, "And these children will be nothing of the sort, arrangements have already been made for their well-being and education, as well as any other need they might have. They will not know the loneliness that you and I know is part of life on the streets of Haven for mongrel children." The chill in her voice does not falter, however that is reserved only for Rory, the children do not receive any of it. Addressing Roki, Cynara does not bend down to be on eye level with him, nor does speak as if to a young boy. Her eye meets his directly, respectfully. "Roki, you will have your choice. You are the man of your house now, and the decision is yours. Both of us offer you protection," she indicates Rory with a nod. "I will not influence your decision against this kind woman who wishes nothing but your safety. What I will do, is tell you what I can offer. I offer a warm bed, for both you and your sister. Clothing. Food, and whatever other needs you have. In addition to that, I will educate you both so that you can grow and learn whatever skills you like, so that you can be whatever you want when you are a full grown man. You will have several people about to love you and care for you. This would be only in return for your silence as to where it is that you will be living. No one else must know its location." Two pairs of young dark eyes take in the argument between the grownups, and finally, Roki can bear no more. The boy surges to his feet as Cynara, Nox, and Rory bicker back and forth, and he manages to hold his tongue only so long as it takes first Rory and then Cynara to make their offers to him. "We ain't goin' nowhere," he insists hotly, his little hands curling up into tight fists. "Uncle Richard loves us an' he's gonna take care of us, he promised Momma an' Da, an' we ain't gonna leave him!" He surges forward then, intent on squirming between the Empyreans and reaching the man on the bed. All the while, little Elette bobs her disheveled pale head in synchronization with her brother's words, and she tries to follow him to their now unconscious guardian. "Well, you kept Richard alive. That is a nice, tidy affair." Crouching, her materials are gathered. Well, some of them at least. The blankets, extra set of male clothing, shaving kit, foodstuffs.. those are left alone, within the small pile. The salve jar and pouch of herbs, however, are taken up, linked into the folds of her sari carefully. "And apparently, taking Roki and his sister underground you find beneficial. Take Richard too. He'll need to heal his soul there, along with his body. As, I am sure, you well know. At least try and heed the childrens' desires for now, mmm?" And that is that. With such little to take, her hands drop away from the children. "Roki, Elette, if for some reason," not that there would be much, with two capable adults available, "You needs find me, go to Opal." They know her well enough, and vice versa. And that, folks, is the end of that. "I will not pretend meeting either of you was pleasurable, but you are necessary to Haven's balanced existence unfortunately, so I bid you health and safety." Pulling open the door easily enough, it is out she walks, without a glance back. Nox glances back at the kids, muttering quietly, "I suppose you'd best take care of him, and he of you." A silent vow is made to return and speak with the two once Richard is fully restored. The faintest inclination of his head is given to Rory as she passes him, "Thank you, and....likewise." Softer, he adds: "Kindliness is a boomerang, miss." After she has gone, he follows out of the door in a slower pace, to bring the sheets and clothes out and burn them. Cynara actually smiles at the boy's loyalty to his guardian. That is a good trait. She steps aside so he can more easily reach the man on the cot. Before reacting to the boy, however, Cynara raises her head to watch Rory's ... fit. Confused bemusement colors her features and she nods, "Good day, and safe journey Rory." she responds amiably enough, though the smirk upon her lips pretty much ruins the affect. She cares not that the woman is leaving. Good riddance, troublemaker. The branded healer's attention then falls back to the boy and his sister. She nods confidently, respecting his decision. "It is good that you wish to stay with Richard. He is a good man." she informs them dispassionately, "He will recover, and he will certainly be capable of seeing to your needs. Let me just mention to you, that if you do decide that you would like to take me up on the offer, you will in no way be restricted from seeing your uncle as much as you like, even living with him, if that is your wish, and he agrees." She smiles reassuringly to the boy, "Now, I have some more that needs to be done with him, can you assist Nox in the burning of those things?" A request made to a man, not a child. Rory heads downstairs and out into the street. Rory has left. Roki peers suspiciously at the three adults, his stance and expression rather belligerent, as if he'll happily call the grownups to task for arguing rather than attending to his guardian. But the glance he gets in at Richard's now quietly sleeping form is enough to begin to assure him. The lad takes in the soft rise and fall of the man's chest, and the beginnings of normal color returning to his features; seeing them, Roki begins to brighten a bit. And the manner of Cynara's address gets his attention, making him look up at the white-winged woman thoughtfully. "Okay," he says then, grudgingly. "If you're gonna make sure Uncle Richard's gonna take a good nap now...?" Next to him, Elette is his smaller shadow, her thumb still firmly in her mouth. Nox heads downstairs and out into the street. Nox has left. Cynara nods again to the boy, offering yet another reassuring smile. "He will be fine now, Roki. I will look after him." Her words, though meant to bring comfort, are not spoken with any softness, only firm confidence. She waits for the child to leave before she makes any further moves. Roki considers this, and then nods his head once, shortly. He reaches over to take his sister's free hand, telling her, "C'mon, Lettie, you come with me an' we'll burn up the old dirty stuff, okay?" The smaller child follows the older one diligently as he leads her to the door, but before they go, the boy casts one last look at the winged healer. "You take good care of our Uncle Richard!" he insists firmly, before he and his little sister scamper out in Nox's wake. [What did Cynara talk about with Richard, as she lingered behind? That's classified! For now, end log.]