"A Little Difference of Opinion" Log Date: 8/16/99 Log Cast: Richard, Starfang, Emilee, Aron, NPC Hounds emitted by Aron Log Intro: Plague. What a time to come home, eh? The man that at least some small portion of Haven knows as the Mongrel trader Richard has come back from a private journey into the Empyre, only to find himself caught up in the quarantine that's been put over the whole city. And while the decrease in the already sparse attention the Hounds pay to Bordertown might be considered a blessing by many denizens of that part of town, relieving the well-to-do of their burdensome material goods -- whether by fair means or foul -- is awfully difficult when most of the well-to-do have sealed themselves up inside the embassies of their respective races. Moreover, the sickness that's swept over Haven has made for even crankier tempers than usual in Bordertown... and Richard's not really an exception. Especially not with his various means of livelihood (both fair and not quite so fair) threatened. 'Cause after all, it's difficult to rob the rich if you're dying from a plague... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Wednesday, February 13, 3905. Year on Earth: 1506 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waxing Crescent Season: Waning Winter Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Cool *==========================================================================* The Rialto - Haven(#159RDJM) Reigning over the Rialto is the very heart of Haven: the Delphic Citadel. It dwarfs the other buildings, which cluster around it like so many children seeking a parent's protection. Day or night, rain or shine, its walls seem to glimmer with a light of their own, as if, over the centuries, the magic within had slowly permeated the entire structure. The main tower soars higher than the tallest tree, and each side tapers inward so that it resembles a giant obelisk. Four smaller towers stand at the four points of the compass, representing the unification of each race under Delphi's government. And here is where they all gather. The Rialto is the famed marketplace of Haven, full of shops, stalls, and brightly colored tents. The shouts of merchants, the haggling of patrons, the music of entertainers, and the laughter of children create a nigh-constant cacophony that assaults the senses. But the Rialto is nothing if not exciting, and crowds often gather here for important events and public addresses. (Note: 'places' are enabled here.) Contents: Starfang Obvious Exits: Streets Delphic Citadel Richard His skin is pale; accordingly, he must not be a Varati. There are no visible gills or fins along his slim frame; thus, he is surely not Atlantean. No Sylvan would have eyes of that stormy gray-touched blue, and his ears are not pointed. Surely no Empyrean's hair would be as black as coal, as black as shadow -- and at any rate, he has no wings. So, then, he must be a Mongrel. That, certainly, is the race he claims if he is asked. Such claims of his, along with most everything else he utters, are 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 shadow of a beard that darkens his jawline 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. The clothing he wears is about as unprepossessing as you would expect on any Mongrel man. A jakke of much-scarred brown-dyed leather is his primary upper garment, a simple pair of dark blue breeches the primary lower one. On his feet and hugging his calves are a simple pair of battered brown buskins. Only the shirt beneath the jakke, white and of a finer weave than the breeches, suggests that he might have put any effort into his attire. His only obvious weapon is the hilt of a knife peeking out of the top of his right boot. The streets have been a lot more deserted these days, with rumors and counter-rumors of plague driving those who aren't actually sick into the security of their homes. It's almost spooky, particularly with the dead-carts rattling along and the altered patterns of patrol of the Hounds. To a man recently returned to Haven, familiar with the comings and goings of its denizens for years now, it's enough to send a splash of unease down his spine. Richard makes his way into the Rialto, haggard but alert, surveying the marketplace with cool blue eyes -- and grudgingly giving in enough to his unease to hunt for one of the herbesellers that have come out of the woodwork like termites ever since the start of the sickness. Starfang sits near the food vendors, nursing a mug of tea, watching the death carts, the people, the herb sellers (with a sneer for them), yet doesn't seem to care much for what she sees. Not that she bears any signs of the plague, but she does seem a bit pale for a Sylvan. She sits very quietly, motionless, as if moving would be bad, or is too hard. As if she's a statue with moving eyes. Then she dips her head down as she raises her mug of tea, shattering the image. The roving blue gaze of that fellow with black hair takes in a ragged-looking Empyrean with drooping wings, hawking her wares (as it were) -- the wares in question being tiny bundles of herbs looking almost as bedraggled as she does. Richard eyes her with cool disdain, passing her with no more acknowledgement than enough of a glance to mark her location. His footsteps carry him onward, till his form emerges out of the relative darkness near Starfang. He slows; he considers; he stops. "Chookma," he calls out lowly, tenor voice pitched just well enough to carry to Starfang, but no louder. "Don't suppose you'd be knowing where I can find an herber with half a clue, d'you?" Of average height, she fails to impress much, from a distance. When seen from a shorter distance, her round face with haughty, deep green eyes challenges your very presence. The numerous freckles on the bridge of her round nose fail to reduce that near contempt for anything that isn't herself. Sometimes, she smiles at people in a way that ridicules everything they stand for. The simple dress she wears reveals but a modest amount of cleavage, mainly because that's about all there is. Her sleeves flare and stop a hand's length above her wrists, revealing a sturdy bracer with a sheathed dagger on her left forearm. Her skirts stop about two hands' length above her feet, revealing stubby calves, with feet in light leather slippers. Her skin is tan, matched beautifully by the golden brown of her long hair, which falls down her back, almost to her waist in a none too neat braid. Starfang looks to the.. frown, pause. Mongrel, then.... The mongrel in front of her, "Don't worry, you don't have it." She returns her attention to her tea, taking another sip. Richard smiles narrowly. He'd lean casually against something if there was a wall or a column within handy distance; as it is, he merely gives an excellent impression of leaning without actually doing so. "I'd not be a healer, lass," he drawls lightly, "but that much at least is within my ken. So I ask again: would you be knowin' any herbers that have a clue?" Starfang shrugs, impassive under the implied pressure that would suggest she might be rude, possibly a lot. "I don't need their kind. Try and find one who had a shop before this, if you really want their weeds." Another sip is taken from her tea, then she bothers to look directly at the mongrel, even stares at him. Apparently undaunted, the man stares right back, dark eyebrows going up over those dusky blue eyes, his thumbs lazily jammed into the pockets of his breeches. "I'll take that as a 'no'," is his dry reply. Not bothering to mention that a good number of the herb-sellers he's acquainted with have done an excellent job of making themselves scarce, he adds blandly, "Would you be havin' a problem then?" Starfang continues her stare, unbroken by another sip from her tea. "Do you want a problem, then?" She seems uncaring more than undaunted. The man's mouth curls into a lazy lopsided grin, teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Oh, nay. 'Tis only that when a lass your size pins that kind o' stare on me, she's after one of three things: tryin' to ken me, tryin' to bed me, or fixin' to punch me, and I was merely curious as to which option you were takin', is all." Richard leans forward, then, just enough to better put his face into view. And he goes on straightfacedly, "I've no time to be sparrin' with you, the Hounds hardly need l'il' ol' me to be livenin' their mornin' for 'em, and you'd not be my type. So since you don't have the information I'm after, I'll bid you good day, then, and be on my way." The deadpan expression turns a touch mocking, then. Being hatless, Richard tugs his forelock instead, and turns to go. Starfang narrows her eyes at that.._mongrel's_ back, slowly, deliberately sets down her mug of tea...then rises... Starts to walk briskly in Richard's direction, then jumps up and uses both hand to whack at his head. Not that she's that strong.. but she's passionate. Well, that stops him, to be sure. At that swat to the back of his head, Richard whirls sharply around, swiftly bringing up his hands with the intent of grabbing the Sylvan woman's wrists. His eyes have turned decidedly colder, but if anything, the sardonic crooked grin he's wearing gets a little larger. "Ach, now, lass, not that I dinnae appreciate a love-tap now and then, but I _did_ just tell you you're not my type, did I not?" Starfang doesn't much feel for conversation at this time. She underlines that with a none too poorly aimed kick at Richard's groin. My, she's spirited, isn't she? Maybe for a one-nighter? The blow connects -- and although Richard's teeth clench and his face drains sharply of color, he will under no circumstances show any signs of tears of pain, not here, not now. Nor will he allow himself to crumple over. For an instant, his vision whites out. But this doesn't stop him, either, from lashing forward with a balled fist. It would seem that the Sylvan's chosen to pick a quarrel with someone quite acquainted with the tactics of dirty street fighting. Emilee steps from the gates of Delphi and into the Rialto. Emilee has arrived. Emilee quietly slips out of the Citadel, her wide eyes scanning the croud for a moment before she spots Starfang...then, almost as habit she leads her escort tward the food stalls. Starfang is taken aback by a blow from a tall mongrel who's looking a bit pale at this time. She stumbles, blinks and decides it might be better to take a breather, keeping her distance from the man. From the fire in her eyes, one'd say the man had killed her mother, at the very least. Oddly, her hand doesn't even wander near her dagger, which is usually quite easily drawn. Almost as if she's holding back. Naw.... Emilees steps falter as she sees...somthing happening to Starfang...pausing to try and understand what's happening. Teeth gritted, face decidedly pale, Richard scowls at Starfang as she stumbles backward from him. And he spits disdainfully, "You've got one hell of a piss-poor seduction technique, girlie!" The tenor lilt of his voice has practically vanished under the weight of the hoarse roughness that's drowned it out; his rasping tone and his pallor are the only signs of reaction to the blow she's dealt him. There's absolutely no sign of pain in the now sapphire-hard blue points of his eyes, and that fine-boned face of his has blackened with an imperious scowl. Starfang was never one to fear a scowl and is returning it with interest right now. She's panting, as if there's a really huge effort involved in standing there, scowling. As a matter of fact, her legs are shaking a bit. As she notices that, she scowls harder to compensate. Emilee frows softly, clutching her stone more tightly to her middle as she starts hurriedly tward Starfang. Her Delphic escort struggling to keep up with the small woman. Aron steps from the gates of Delphi and into the Rialto. Aron has arrived. Emilee frows softly, clutching her stone more tightly to her middle as she starts hurriedly tward Starfang. Her Delphic escort struggling to keep up with the small woman. (Repose for Aron) From the Citadel come the form of a few Hounds... they seem to have been summoned after the fight started. The Hounds move slow enough, especially seeing that no one is actively engaged in fighting at this point. Well, better late than never. Running feet. The Hounds. Richard, staring daggers down at the small Sylvan before him, nevertheless hears those feet and can easily discern who must be on the way -- the streets of Haven might have been eerily cleared by the sickness that's swept over the city, but it's only seemed to increase the number of Hound patrols. Not fool enough to try to bolt in a public place like the Rialto, the black-haired man keeps his hands out where they can be seen, held with deliberate casualness at his sides. But his sharp blue eyes never leave Starfang, and he sneers visibly at her. "Ach, and I'd told ye I wasnae worth the trouble of the Hounds. Determined to prove every man wrong ye meet?" Starfang merely narrows her eyes yet more, clenching her teeth. Hmm.. those legs are wobbling more still. One might expect she's overexerting herself. Her fists clench, her breathing grows more raggeed than her opponent's. Ah, just a few more poses and she'll be collapsing, most likely. The Hounds fan out, the youngest of them stepping forward with sword drawn. Aron's voice echos a little in his helmet. "What's going on here? The both of you, back off... " He reaches out with more senses than the creators gifted most with, trying to sense all that is going on. Emilee stops up short of Starfangs side...eyes slipping to the Hound as he takes charge...then falling to the cobbles. No magic at work here, to be sure -- just a Sylvan female and a decidedly pale, black-haired, blue-eyed man staring hotly at one another. By contrast to Starfang's apparent closeness to collapse, Richard stands stoically straight, his posture as unyielding as though he were shaped from stone. Aron's arrival is not enough to pull his hard gaze away from his opponent, but he does rasp in sardonic reply, "A little difference of opinion, is all..." Starfang manages a severe nod, perhaps by virtue of not being able to move very fast. Her eyes are becoming a bit strained and her determination isn't helped by Emilee collapsing there, setting a Bad Example. But not for a second does her glare waver. Emilee is never the best to use as an example of stron will, she slowly shifts, coming closer to Startfang to lend whatever support she can. Aron growls, "Then sir, I suggest you move along, and quick. Before this difference of opinion lands you both in the Bastion for a few days. These are very hard times... don't make them harder." Only now does Richard slide a narrow-eyed glance to the Hound in the lead. It occurs to him that he could mention that he had been, in fact, about to move along when Starfang had decided to strike him -- twice, and furthermore the second time right in his... er... assets. But it also occurs to him, as he glances at that Hound, that his chances of the man siding in his favor are next to nil. He turns his hands over, then, palm up, and manages a mirthless little smile for Aron's benefit. "Don't mean no harm, sir," he says, almost guilelessly. His expression goes deliberately bland... erasing any _obvious_ signs of mockery. With a bob of his dark head, he turns to the south and departs, and only a _really_ sharp glance might take in the detail that the straightness of his course is accomplished _only_ with the mightiest of efforts... [End log.]