"The Fires of Life"

Log Date:
	8/18/99

Log Cast:
	Rory, Richard

Log Intro:
	Recently returned to Haven after a private sojourn into the Empyre,
the man known to most of the lower denizens of the city as the Mongrel trader 
Richard has found the place in the grip of a dire illness beginning to
cut a swath through the populace. Much to his alarm, too, the wife of his
old mentor, Jacob, has become a victim of this plague. His usual activities
in Haven now suspended by the more pressing need for survival, Richard has
nevertheless found himself fairly out of his element in trying to help
Jacob care for his wife as well as their two young children. But he is
determined to do something for the Mongrel family who are the ones closest
to him in all of Haven -- and accordingly, he has already sought out what
may or may not be a proper cure from a disreputable merchant in the Rialto.
	If he were a religious man, Richard would pray that the "cure" he's
acquired stave off death for his mentor's wife. But he isn't a religious
man, and so the restless, worried Richard has to take what solace he can --
in the form of the Siren's Song, his favorite refuge, where he can ease his 
sorrows with an ale or a warm pair of arms to hold him close.
	Or as it happens, an unusually observant, lovely young Mongrel...

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Dawnside)
          Date on Aether:  Sunday, February 17, 3906.
           Year on Earth:  1506 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  First Quarter
                  Season:  Waning Winter
                 Weather:  Clouds
             Temperature:  Chilly
*==========================================================================*

Propped upon one of the many marred barstools, pert chin cradled in cupping 
  hands, Rory's long legs fold elegantly before her. Bereft of those whispy 
  veils to cover her features, bloody tresses blaze a path down her backside, 
  a bit loose from her previous chignon.

He should not, he supposes, keep coming in here. But where else is a man to 
  go, at this hour of the night, when he wants a place to relax? It _is_ after 
  all cleaner than many places in Bordertown. And so Richard makes his 
  unobtrusive way into the Song, tiredness around the edges of his eyes, his 
  gaze still nevertheless alert. The night might have gotten into the wee 
  hours, but this man still seems more than sufficiently awake.

The breeze that sweeps in with the newest arrival does nothing for Rory. For 
  some reason this particular mongrel is exempt from the sufferings of cold. 
  That, however, is neither here nor there. All is forgotten, in fact, when a 
  plate filled huge slabs of beef, a monstrous chunk of edible bread, and 
  various cooked vegetables is put before her. Enough there for four sailors 
  and their usual 'ladies'. Her grumbling belly, if any indication, intends to 
  digest every last morsel.

The breeze of Richard's arrival might not do anything for Rory, but the smells 
  of her meal assuredly do something for him. His strides take him to the bar, 
  a glimmer of approval lightening his azure eyes as he draws near. "If that's 
  hot," he calls across the bar, jerking a thumb at the young woman's platter, 
  "I'll be havin' some o' that myself." With that pronouncement, he claims 
  himself another of the stools at the bar.

Watching the bar servant usher off to fullfill the order, a grin cannot help 
  but surface with beaming force upon Auvrey's lips. "It is hot -and- spicey." 
  If jackhammers had been invented, most assuredly it would be that which 
  slices through the woman's belly. Embarrassment creeps through with dull 
  tones, and she offers an apologetic grin. "Ahh.. Yes. Hi. Hello.." Right-o. 
  Now get to eating, mongrel.

"I dinnae think," Richard drawls sidelong to Rory, "that the food's gonna be 
  vanishin' with the dawn, lass." He glances down at the still significantly 
  laden platter, while dipping a hand into his jakke to pull out a few coins 
  for the fellow behind the bar.

Tender cutlets disappear quite quickly, and it is only when Auvrey finishes 
  half her meat portions that she deems to respond. Soft and husky, her voice 
  resonates, and with a wry grin tucked within. "Nay, perhaps not. But my 
  belly does not believe my mind. It is a -most- insistant thing, is it." Dark 
  juices are wiped away on a bit of ragged cloth, compliments of the Siren. It 
  is then that silver lifts to greet you with a measure of curiosity. "May I 
  know your name, sir?"

The black-haired man's soldi are accepted, and as a somewhat smaller editin of 
  the meal the prior customer is tucking away gets put together, Richard lifts 
  his dark azure regard up to meet the silver one now upon him. "I answer to 
  Richard," he replies affably enough, though his lilting voice comes out of 
  him with the sort of low volume someone rather weary might use, as if he's 
  conserving his energy for things other than speech.

Lips quirk into half a smile, greeting and a bit wry once more. A nod is 
  bobbed, one to indicate name heard and filed properly away. To the food, 
  does her attention wander once more, however, deer disappearing rapidly once 
  more. Below twitches a gathering of bare toes, fiddling absently with air.

Richard's black eyebrows go up, and he suggests straightfacedly, "About here 
  is where it's usually customary, lass, to pipe in with 'Richard, is it? Glad 
  to meet ye, then, and me own name would be'--" He pauses, leaning back 
  against the bar, and concludes in bland tones, "Ach, but you'll have to 
  finish off the sentence for me."

A baleful look passes between the food and Rory, most likely instigated on the 
  part of the latter, before those pale eyes flash upwards, a bit sassy and 
  playful. "Ahh, sir, sometimes it is I imagine. It has been long, since I 
  have been in the streets of Haven, and these customs I have forgotten." 
  There is no reason to explain vocally that 'do-not-speak-until-spoken-to' 
  happens to be where -she- was coming from. "I apologize. I am named Auvrey, 
  and is it glad I am to have met your acquaitance, sir."

"Auvrey." The black-haired fellow echoes the name experimentally, while 
  casting a glance over his shoulder to check on the progress of his dinner -- 
  or early breakfast, depending on what point of view you care to apply to the 
  time. It doesn't take too long. As a plate's set down before him, he turns 
  about on the stool. "Glad to be providin' a spot of brightness in the midst 
  of your evenin' then," he says then, picking up the mug he's been given 
  first to taste the ale that's known to be his usual when he sets foot in 
  here. "'Tis a benighted time to be in Haven, to be sure."

"Haven has always been corrupted, sir," murmurs she, velvet gliding against 
  silk, "But aye, it has grown, with the amount of peoples that filter in." 
  Bread disappears too, leaving simple vegetables. Ahh, but satisfying too. As 
  for that brightness.. "It is always interesting to meet new people. Just, it 
  is difficult to keep from irritating ones with questions." Oh dear, and by 
  the look in her pearly gaze, Rory's restraint is on overload.

Looking rather unsurprised at the description of the city as 'corrupted', 
  Richard does a bit of his own filing away, fitting that choice of words with 
  the garb of the young woman with whom he now converses. Beginning his own 
  eating with somewhat more restraint, he swallows and then puts forth a small 
  lopsided smile. "Conversation wouldn't exactly be what I'd expect to find in 
  here at this hour, at least not for free," he murmurs dryly.

A friendly chuckle at that, and Rory gulps past a chunk of potato. "In truth, 
  Imphadi, I would rather be over at Imphada Opal's with her fare, but then 
  she would insist upon giving it to me for free, and I am quite afraid I 
  could not allow that. Sweet woman that she is, I would put her out of 
  business in but a few meals." Well, there is something to be said for her 
  appetite at least. Laying aside her fork, the chit regards you with 
  evergrowing curiosity. "Did you come here looking for something else then? I 
  know it is rude to ask, but your question left so many suppositions, I 
  thought it best to ask outright instead of making the wrong assumption." 
  Well-spoken and cultured. A bit rare for one of her race.

'Imphadi'. 'Imphada'. The Varati words, too, are filed away by Richard -- and 
  so are the young woman's manner of speaking, the curiosity in her eyes, and 
  her mention of the Gem Inn. There's no hint of surprise in the man's 
  fine-boned face, but there is a glint of amusmement in those sky-colored 
  eyes of his, now. "Well, mostly, lassie," he drawls, "I came for food." 
  Which he has, he might add, now acquired. He gestures at the platter that's 
  been set before him, with the little eating knife that came out with said 
  platter. If she who calls herself Auvrey is well-spoken and cultured, he who 
  calls himself Richard might arguably be a tangent off from her; his 
  clothing, the tousled state of his hair and the hint of a beard about his 
  jawline all give him a disreputable air, but that's definitely intelligence 
  in that blue regard, and the movements of his hands are all deft and 
  economical. Despite the street lilt of his words, too, he apparently has a 
  vocabulary, for he goes on blandly, "But the conversation over the top of 
  the meal will be a welcome boon. A long night it's been."

Darkness shadows her gaze ever so slightly, a cast of molt within the flow of 
  metal. Long nights are understood, far too well it seems. "What would you 
  wish to speak about, sir?" A plump bit of lip slips beneath her teeth, 
  thereupon nibble with the gentlest of sloping brows. One hand quietly urges 
  her empty plate away, as two lengthy fingers twine around one curly lock and 
  tug absently. "Or am I behaving too brashly and arrogantly in assuming 
  conversation might be passed with myself?" Ahh. This woman knows her place 
  far too well. At the bottom of the food chain she has been for -far- too 
  long, says her worrying look.

Richard appears to be one of those men who has the knack of raising one 
  eyebrow; his left one crooks up momentarily over the eye it accentuates, 
  while he takes his time through his food. No need to rush, after all, 
  sleep'll be not too far off, and better for a full belly and a well-eaten 
  meal. In the meantime, he's content to take the meausure of this Auvrey, and 
  after he swallows again, washing down the mouthful with a sip of his ale, 
  Richard says, "If ye're after bein' scolded for speakin' openly to a man, 
  lass, ye'll have to find another man to do the scoldin'. I don't punish a 
  woman for lookin' me straight in the eye and sayin' what's on her mind." His 
  eyes lighten momentarily; that mouth of his curls up on one side, too, in 
  what seems to be his version of a smile. Perhaps this means he actually 
  prefers this in a female? "As for what to talk about, what say ye humor me, 
  then, and pick your subject?"

Talk. Right-o. Something Rory used to be more than famous for, but that has 
  been quite some time. Musing aloud, she murmurs huskily, "Well, I cannot 
  imagine you as a man who tolerates much speach of Khalid Atar in favorable 
  light, so mayhaps I shall ask you instead." Mmmmm, rumbles that little 
  thoughtful purr. Ahh yes. "Sir," decides she with the same gentleness as 
  afore, "Would you tell me of your life, or what parts you wish not to keep 
  to yourself?"

Wild Ash steps into the tavern from the docks outside.
Wild Ash has arrived.
Wild Ash walks through quickly, not making eye-contact with anyone.
Wild Ash climbs upstairs.
Wild Ash has left.

Both of Richard's dark brows go up this time, as he glances Auvrey's way over 
  the top of his ale mug. For the slightest fraction of an instant, he goes 
  still at the young woman's question; then, the brows come down, and that 
  small smile quirks his mouth again. "My life story ye're wantin', is it? 
  Ach, well, how does the usual answer to that go..." His face turns 
  exaggeratedly thoughtful, as he lifts up a hand to stroke at his stubbled 
  chin; then he flashes an unexpectedly broad grin. "Ah yes. 'I was born the 
  seventh son of poor but noble parents...' But, I'm thinkin', I won't waste 
  your time with that and go straight to the interestin' parts. Came to Haven 
  when I was eighteen, been here ever since. I trade. Yourself, lass?"

Soft laughter twinkles beautifully from this young woman, a finger lifting to 
  sway back and forth with a 'tsking' motion. She knows better, but Auvrey 
  isn't going to press. Much. "A pretty dismal life if that is all you can 
  afford to speak of." Head quirking just a tad to the side, she reguards you 
  as she speaks, honesty ringing in words as much as flashing in her eyes. "I 
  was born on the streets of Haven at.. well.. sometime." She's not really 
  quite sure when. "Lived on mine own for 12 years. I won't bore you with the 
  tragedies some might assume them to be, unless you ask. It was not a 
  priviledged life, then, but I learned." Lessons at high prices. How 
  delightful. "I was sold into slavery then, taken into Atesh-Gah, and 
  recently given freedom. My master then met with death, and I was put onto 
  the streets of Haven once more. The Provost, now, employs me as his aide." 
  Simple. Short. Sweet.

Unrepentant and guileless, Richard's expression suggests that there's a fair 
  bit more than his personal life story than he's letting on. He returns that 
  frank appraisal with an equally forthright stare of his own, blue eyes 
  meeting silver, while he continues his efficient and unhurried downing of 
  his meal. His plate's not quite clear yet, and he's once more sipping ale to 
  wash down what he swallows, when he speaks again. "From slave up to aide of 
  the Provost; Tyche's right hand's graced ye then. Or the God-King's, if ye 
  prefer." Blandly, he adds, "I look like a man who'd not wish to hear well of 
  Khalid Atar, do I?"

"Aye, you do sir, if you do not mind me saying as much." As for the rest, a 
  light shrug indicates her nonchalance at the transfer of titles. "Khalid 
  Atar saved my life. It was not long before I would have ended up homeless, 
  and whoring for food. With the help of the Varati have I been given a second 
  chance at life, where my birth did not."

If Richard is impressed at the claim that the God-King of the Children of Fire 
  is responsible for plucking a young woman out of the clutches of 
  homelessness and whoring, he doesn't show any immediate sign of it. He 
  merely inclines his dark tousled head at this glowing commentary, while 
  deftly slicing up the last of the beef he's been served. "I see," he muses 
  aloud. "All that bein' very well and good, I'm thinkin', but out of general 
  curiosity" -- and his black eye brows go up again -- "what exactly about me 
  would be makin' you think I'm not open to tales of Varati beneficence?" Aye, 
  he _does_ have a vocabulary, doesn't he?

Wonderfully so, enough to make Auvrey smile sweetly once more. "Sir, in truth, 
  not many outside of the Varati race enjoy hearing of Khalid Atar, not in a 
  respectful light. It is outside my experience to see anything but that fire, 
  that light which is warmth within me." Head tucking slightly downwards, that 
  lock is tormented once more. "Besides, what lies within your eyes tells me 
  words such as this would fall on deaf ears."

This last statement seems to give the man a bit of pause. Richard sets down 
  his ale mug, brows up again, his smile gone. This, however, may well simply 
  draw the eye to the fact that despite the fact that that black hair needs a 
  washing, despite his unshaven jaw, there is an elegance to this man's 
  features that grows a trifle more apparent when not overshadowed by his 
  grin. Now, his gaze more or less unreadable... perhaps curious, perhaps 
  something more, perhaps nothing... he inquires simply, "Ye ken me through my 
  eyes, do ye?" His voice has dropped in volume, turned a trifle huskier.

"Somewhat," confirms Auvrey in that sensual, messosoprano tremelo of hers. 
  "Much can be seen within the gaze of others." Again, those frankly assessing 
  stormy greys lift to clash with yours, to search from habit and unrelenting 
  curiosity, tender though it be. A bit sad, her lips that form a smile are. 
  Graceful fingers twine as weaving strands before her, patient.

Intense, curious scrutiny such as that being levelled upon him can glean a 
  number of details from Richard's visage. There are shadowed hollows at the 
  corners of his eyes, subtle signs that perhaps this man has been running on 
  too little sleep for longer than is healthful. His pale skin stands out in 
  sharp striking contrast to his ebon hair -- and to his eyes, deep 
  gray-touched blue, twin points of evening sky. Their gaze never wavers, and 
  that, too, is notable to that searching silver regard. "A valuable gift," 
  says Richard at last, in cadences that give nothing away save perhaps a 
  tireder, gentler form of amusement. "S'pose ye tell me then, lass, what 
  you're kennin' from me?"

"Your pain is of heart, mind, and soul. Your strength, for now, lies in the 
  most mended. Your mind." A wealth of information in such a cryptic 
  statement. Will wonders never cease? Perhaps. The sadness, however, only 
  lengthens, subduing the tall woman before you, even as her bare feet tuck 
  beneath those silks. Elsewhere, in another time and place, with a closer 
  bond, she might even tempt to reach those inkstained fingers out to smooth 
  the brow and nurture. That, too, indicates restraint, that she does not. 
  "Need I continue?"

It's subtle, but it's there, the way Richard ever so fractionally starts at 
  the words his casually voiced invitation brings him. For a fraction of an 
  instant there is alarm in those dusky blue eyes; for a fraction of an 
  instant, he looks almost... nervous. But then the right corner of his mouth 
  wings upward again... for all that the smile doesn't quite offset the 
  watchful neutrality still remaining in his eyes. "Provost'll do well with a 
  sharp-eyed lass like yourself," he murmurs then, once more picking up his 
  ale, turning his face away and giving his companion a profile to study 
  rather than the twilight depths of his eyes. A pause, and then... 
  "There's... someone close to me. She's got the sickness." The words are 
  simple enough, but his voice is still husky as he utters them, almost 
  toneless. In these days, in this city, the implications of such a statement 
  are more than obvious.

"There is talk on the streets of herbs that offer comfort," offers Rory, 
  testing waters to see where might lay what, exactly. She is not fooled, 
  however, by the switch of topics, if that returning wry smile is any 
  indication. To the threat of contraction, the fiery-tressed woman does not 
  flinch. Unaffected by such news, either the woman has a Khalid-Atar complex, 
  or she may just not care overly much about such a thing.

"Aye," Richard agrees, "that there is... findin' the ones that work, though, 
  that's the trick of it all. I'll ken soon enough if what I paid for'll do 
  the job." A topic change? Perhaps. Or perhaps it's a trade, offered up in 
  exchange for what he's been given of this Auvrey-girl's life tale... or 
  perhaps it's an oblique acknowledgement of what she's claimed to read in his 
  countenance. As he shoves his plate away from him, appetite gone, he flicks 
  a sidelong glance back at the young woman beside him. "Of course, it may be 
  the weeness of the hour that's slowin' my brain, lass, but I'm stillnae 
  seein' how all this marks me as a man who'd not care to hear any praise of 
  your God-King."

"When you have the need, sir, to heal your pain, then will you ask me and I 
  will speak with you of Him. It is only when your need is present and 
  acknowledged that then will you listen with an open heart and soul." That 
  hand does rise, then, buttersoft flesh reaching to glide against the nearby 
  male cheek. It is a familiar gesture for a stranger, or a strange gesture 
  for a familiar, whichever is preferred. Rory smiles, allowing those fingers 
  to drop soon enough, sunshine beginning to filter in once more. "I will find 
  you an herb."

Incongruous the gesture is, indeed -- here, where such touches from feminine 
  hands are generally bought with coin rather than freely given. And when 
  they're given without charge, rare indeed is the touch proferred with intent 
  other than a herald of delights that enough coinage can buy. That touch to 
  his cheek, at any rate, makes Richard turn his head back to the maiden. For 
  a heartbeat, perhaps two, there is surprise in the twilight eyes... but 
  surprise for what, he does not say. But his expression swiftly veils itself 
  again, letting nothing through save that small ironic smile. If there is 
  sunshine in Auvrey's visage, what's in his is dusk. "I've a week or so t' be 
  seein' if what I've bought will do the healin'," he points out.

"With most herbs, the effect will instigate within a span of three days, and 
  indicate progress, or the lack thereof. I will find an herb. If three days 
  have passed, and there is no change, come to me if you wish, sir." Death is 
  never acceptable to this one. "Too soon are the fires of life lost, when 
  there is so much to offer and to learn." A way of explanation for Auvrey, 
  are these husky words, legs unfolding to angle floorwards. Her gaze does not 
  leave yours.

Blue eyes, met once more with silver, measure what can be gleaned of the 
  maiden's sincerity. All too easy to take the offer at face value, isn't it? 
  And many men might, indeed, be demanding to know what the catch is, with 
  such a tempting offer put forth. It would seem, however, that Richard is not 
  so crude... or else he already has an opinion on what this girl's proferred 
  herb would cost him. All at once, then, a low chuckle escapes him, and he 
  shakes his head lightly, making the thick dark curve of hair spilling over 
  his brow above his right eye bob slightly with the movement. "Ach, with an 
  offer like that I can't help but wish I'd talked to you first, girlie. Have 
  herbs to spare in the Provost's office, do they? I'da thought Delphi's spent 
  them all on the ones that fled the war."

"The Delphi may have something very soon, but I am not counting on much." By 
  the tone that slips free, there aren't many Rory truly counts on, these 
  days. But that is neither here nor there. Unfolding demurely from her 
  position, fine silks shimmer into place once more. Placing quaint feet 
  against the hard floors, she does impart, "Sir, I must to bed be, if you 
  will forgive me. Trust me, or do not, but I urge you to take my words to 
  heart." Every single last one of them.

Richard's also enough of a gentleman, it would seem, that when a lady rises, 
  he does as well. His slim frame unfolds itself from its place on the stool; 
  tall he is, this one, and leanly built, a man clearly made for agility 
  rather than strength. He studies silver-eyed Auvrey a moment more, 
  impassive... yet not unkind. If there's need or pain within him, he's hiding 
  it well now -- out of long familiarity, maybe, if this pain indeed exists. 
  But still, there's that huskiness in his voice, an allowance for this 
  unknown other struck down by the plague... and for that one, if not for 
  himself, he inclines his unkempt head in incongruous grace. "Three days, 
  then. If the fever doesn't leave her... I'll come lookin', lass."

She is not difficult to find, is Rory. A peaceful smile descends as nimble 
  fingers tuck a lock of crimson behind one small ear. "May you find the fires 
  of life, Richard, for yourself and your friend. Be well." A handful of 
  silent strides wisks the woman from sight of the tavern, and out onto the 
  muddled streets of Haven.

[End log.]