"For the Good of the Heart"

Log Date:
	12/1, 12/2, 12/3/99

Log Cast:
	Rory, Richard

Log Intro:
	Profoundly shaken by the sight of figures out of his past showing up
in Haven on top of all else going on in his admittedly tumultuous life, 
an exhausted Richard has given in to the desire to seek out the comfort of
the flame-haired beauty Rory. With soothing words and the guileless touches
of her hands, the young Mongrel woman has enticed him into her own quarters
in Delphi itself; for her reward, she has gotten the Rook to admit to a
critical part of his past, and furthermore, has gotten him to consent to
spend the rest of the night in her bed and in her arms. It is a surprisingly
sweet refuge for both of them, though not quite haven enough to keep an old
fragment of Rory's past to come back and haunt _her_, even if it does so
only in a dream....

----------
Darkness continues to envelop the room, though the pitched shadows of midnight 
  are slightly lifted with the upcoming dawn. Somewhere along the line Auvrey 
  has slipped into sleep, unintentionally and despite her precautions. Fiery 
  mane spilling loosely down her backside, unbound to flow as a lush curtain 
  surrounding her, her body is less relaxed than usual. A tenseness, in fact, 
  that only a few know to exist whenever she sleeps. Either in the grips of a 
  bad dream or perhaps waiting for an attack at any moment, a definate heat 
  radiates from her body.

It is not the first time he's slept in a woman's arms -- though this, 
  arguably, is rather different from all the nights he's spent at the Siren's 
  Song. Richard lies with with his arms encircling Auvrey, a hand buried in 
  her luxuriant hair, the warmth of his body intermingling with the warmth of 
  his own. For several hours his sleepy has been heavy, the slumber of a man 
  truly exhausted; as his energies have begun to replenish themselves, 
  however, his consciousness has crept up out of velvet black, instincts of 
  self-preservation too finely honed to remain buried for long. The senses of 
  the man often called the Rook are too practiced at noting even small changes 
  in his surroundings, even when he sleeps. And thus, even before his mind has 
  truly awoken, he begins to register the tension of the form snuggled against 
  his own... and because of it, begins to rouse.

Cloth has become entwined within her long-fingered grasp, gripped fiercely. A 
  change, aye, but at least she is not drawing blood, yes? Coiled, she is 
  within, ready to spring at the slightest movement, and yet even the change 
  of Richard's body does not awaken Rory. Perhaps it is because she has been 
  so long without her usual three or four-hour rest. Or mayhaps the heedy 
  intoxication of warmth and safety have lulled her so much more farther into 
  her dreamworld that normal. Whichever the case be, it has made her breathing 
  silent, caught within at times, but shallow always. Though her cheek lay 
  pressed against his chest, it no longer feels the comfort once taken.

There is a moment of disorientation as Richard opens his eyes to find an 
  unfamiliar ceiling above him -- where is he? Then, swiftly, remembrance 
  settles into place. Auvrey's quarters, in Delphi. Her bed. And Auvrey 
  herself, lying against him... tense? Loathe to shift overmuch, for the feel 
  of the comforter over them both and the Mongrel maid he holds is tempting to 
  his still half-drowsy mind, the Empyrean frowns to himself in the gloom and 
  tries to turn his head to get a better look at the young woman's sleeping 
  face.

It is not serenity that lingers upon her features, but a twisted sort of pain, 
  one filled with extreme anguish and acute suffering. The darkness that stirs 
  within the room only emphasize the hollows beneath her closed eyes and the 
  contraction of muscles. It is then that a very soft sound emits. A tiny, 
  wretched gasp of air, held for a millinium.

All traces of sleepfulness vanish from Richard's mind, leaving him alert... 
  and concerned for the woman in his arms. "Auvrey?" he murmurs, lifting up a 
  hand to stroke experimentally at her hair, keeping the other arm about her 
  and cradling her close.

Awake with a bolt, it is all this chit needs to awaken from a rather unhealthy 
  slumber. Silver eyes slam open, awareness crystal clear within their depths. 
  Not so easy, though, to cast off the reminents of her nightmare.. those that 
  seem to have embedded within her features. "Richard," she finally whispers, 
  inhaling deeply for the first time in over an hour. "I am sorry." A weak 
  smile, a pat on his chest, and he should be well-reassured. "You are not 
  asleep yet?" Ok, so maybe the cobwebs are -not- completely gone.

"I was asleep," is the wingless one's soft, succint reply. "I woke up." His 
  hand pauses momentarily against the flame-hued thickness of the hair beneath 
  his fingers... but does not lift free of them. "You were dreaming." It is 
  not a question; neither is it an accusation of any sort, simply a huskily 
  murmured statement of concerned fact.

"Aye." That she was in the throws of a nightmare is no surprise. It is most 
  likely why she hardly ever sleeps. A hesitant pause as her brain comes to a 
  resemblance of working order. "I did not mean to awaken you, Richard." Her 
  cheek connects once more with the smooth flesh of male pectorals, nuzzling 
  affectionately. The barest of shivers courses through her spine, and that 
  heat she radiated before has seeped magically away, leaving a rather cold 
  shell.

Feeling that chill, Richard willingly moves his hand again, just enough to 
  pull the blanket a little more snugly close. Then that arm slides about 
  Auvrey once again, while he brushes his lips across the very top of her 
  brow. "It's all right, my darling," he soothes, unbothered. A pause. And 
  then he adds, "Are _you_ all right?"

My darling. If ten years pass and she still hears such an affection related to 
  her directly, Rory will undoubtedly continue to be startled. "Aye, of 
  course. It was just some bad memories, is all." Another shiver, before she 
  cuddles closer into the tangle of arms and blankets. A delicate kiss brushes 
  against his jaw line, a quiet thanks for support.

Dark as the room has grown, it is difficult to make out much of Richard by 
  sight. But one does not really need sight to find him. By both touch and 
  hearing he is palpably present, his embrace warm, his voice an intimate 
  brush of silk. Hues of concern still tint his words, however, as he 
  breathes, "I hope _I_ didn't call anything up out of your past."

"Nay," wryly smiles the mongrel lass, one finger tracing over those facinating 
  contours upon his chest. An innocent gesture it is, though perhaps not one 
  received. "I frequently have these dreams, though this was most definately a 
  lesser version than the majority I have had." Pondering that, her eyes pause 
  in their following of her finger. "I think perhaps it is because you are 
  here that something within has eased." Honest to the last, even if her guns 
  are left holstered. Silver lifts. "Does that make sense?"

Richard cannot necessarily see those fingers beneath the blanket, but he feels 
  them, and their light trails of contact along his flesh make him draw in a 
  breath of reaction. His own hand resumes its unhurried stroking of Auvrey's 
  fiery hair, coaxing strands back and free of her face. "Aye, and I'm glad," 
  he gently replies. "If I am spending the night in your bed, Auvrey-lass, 
  it's good to know I have not been... entirely a wreck tonight." His voice 
  turns mildly, ironically wry. Perhaps he is not accustomed to giving 
  comfort, this one.

A low, thrumming laugh bubbles within her, a sound somewhere between humor and 
  desire. "Nay, you have not, sunshine." The latter term is used loosely, 
  muscles and guard having eased by the continual, welcomed snuggling. "I do 
  not crush you, do I? Make sleeping uncomfortable at all?" Lifting her chin 
  upwards, her gaze links with those enticing blues. For now her hand has 
  ceased its idle trailings, content to merely stroke one area, along the 
  clavical, for a time.

There is a flash of white in the darkness: Richard's smile. "I am hardly so 
  fragile," he parries back lightly, "that I would be crushed by the sweet 
  weight of your body beside mine." Even if the physical closeness calls up 
  certain sensations within him that counsel actions very different from 
  sleep, but the man opts not to mention that, for now. Instead he feathers a 
  kiss across Auvrey's fair brow, murmuring in assurance, "You are the very 
  picture of comfort."

Surprise is evident in every nuance of her features, and for a time she seems 
  torn between sputtering and speech. All is solved adeptly, however, as she 
  finally voices in that husky, brandied tone, "Thank you." It is polite, 
  after all, after receiving such a grande compliment. Head quirking to the 
  side, Auvrey cannot help but state aloud, musing really, "You find me 
  attractive." Bemusement now, and a shake of her head. "You are an odd, but 
  most welcome man, Richard."

"Very attractive," Richard answers steadily. Then he smiles again, quietly 
  charmed. "This surprises you." This, too, is a statement rather than a 
  question, delivered along with that still-languorous stroking of his fingers 
  through unbound radiant hair.

Nudging upwards against that stroking hand, much as a kitten under such 
  intimate caresses, Auvrey murmurs languidly, "Aye." A few moments pass, 
  before she furthers to explain, "Some have found me attractive in only the 
  benefits they could reap, whether by the feeling of power and domination, or 
  by use, money, and one because of the intellect. But all have wanted to take 
  and never to give. I suppose I am surprised, more so, that you find me 
  attractive, and yet offer me so much." An apologetic smile and a slightly 
  embarrased chuckle encourage her to nip his chin kitty-style. "I do not 
  suppose I make sense."

The wingless one starts ever so slightly -- partly because he is not entirely 
  sure what he has managed to give this beauty he embraces aside from repeated 
  excuses to have to repair his ailing or damaged body, and partly out of a 
  pleased surprise at that nipping of his chin. More faces to the gem, he 
  tells himself; here is a playful kitten, rather than a submissive flower. 
  Intrigued, encouraged in his turn to continue to foster the security that 
  lets this kitten show herself, he lets his free hand range from her hair to 
  her brow to the side of her face and back again. Its mate stays where it is, 
  wrapped lightly about her waist, despite his impulse to let it go wandering 
  too. "Not entirely," he admits, "but if you care to explain, I am a rapt 
  audience."

Her smile only manages to widen, lashes falling closed with a sigh of pure 
  bliss that escapes. Aye, she enjoys the tenderness earned and displayed. 
  Idly, and undisturbed by the conversation's contents, Rory attempts to 
  explain as asked. "Many will attempt to or have used me because their 
  desires, whichever category they fall into, are what they seek without 
  regards to me being human." A chuckle at that, purring though it be. The 
  caresses, after all, are quite effective. "Mongrels get much of that, and 
  ineffective women moreso." And no, she really is no longer disturbed by that 
  fact, for some reason. Maybe it is because she no longer faces rape on an 
  hourly basis.

The dichotomy between the calm with which Auvrey speaks and the topic she is 
  addressing strikes Richard deeply, furrowing his brow even as he keeps up 
  his attentions. He shouldn't, he tells himself, be surprised by what he is 
  hearing -- yet he finds one corner of his inner self rebelling against the 
  notion that this innocent, spirited creature can so casually speak of 
  herself as being used. It takes him a few moments before he finds the words 
  he wants next, but once he does, he utters them with admiration: "I hope you 
  don't consider yourself ineffective, my sweet."

Chuckling deliciously, her attention has wandered to an exposed nipple. Ooo, 
  playground. Toying with that area absently, eyes focused upon the area, her 
  answer is just as soft and sweet, and no less humored. "In some areas, aye. 
  I am less so than earlier, in truth, for I have learned much. I am no longer 
  at the junction where my existance was nothing more than that of an 
  undiscovered flea. Yet, there are still areas in which I would not know how 
  to act or react. "

Ah, those exploring fingers set off a subtle but distinct reaction within 
  Richard; he draws in a deep and ever so slightly unsteady breath, and for a 
  fraction of an instant, the arm he's curled about Auvrey's middle tightens 
  its grip unthinkingly. His mouth comes to a halt against the very top of her 
  brow, where tiny exhalations warm pearlescent skin. "Most effective," he 
  finds himself murmuring, before he catches himself and adds with humor that 
  does not entirely dislodge the desire beginning to soak through his voice, 
  "I... am given to understand that such lacks are a matter of ongoing life."

"Aye," agrees the spitfire, her gaze lifting with a touch of timidity. The 
  desire she sees begins to warm her once more, bring her from the shell which 
  threatened to shut her away. "You.. like this, then? It is well if.. I.. 
  touch you in this manner?" Curiosity, aye, that lies within, with a dollop 
  of shyness, stirred together with a lack of confidence. A tremor through her 
  body shows that kissing her brow, at this point, can effect her nearly as 
  much as it would upon her lips.

Hale, still fairly young, and strong, Richard has a healthy man's needs -- but 
  for over a decade they have been satisfied by his habit and by his choice by 
  his occasional visits to the Siren's Song. Already bemused by Auvrey's 
  matter-of-fact mention of her having been 'used', the Empyrean is abruptly 
  seized by an unfamiliar sensation at those shy caresses she offers him: a 
  protectiveness that pierces his chest and threatens to tighten his throat. 
  Feeling tender and fierce and patient all at once, he rasps out in words 
  soft enough to caress the ear with velvet, "Yes... I like it, very much."

A pleased smile positively beams from Auvrey's features, lighting her gaze to 
  shine like polished metals. Just as quickly it disappears, though her mood 
  does not shift. "May I kiss you, Richard?" queries she, velvet voice 
  rippling with desire. If he could only see the butterflies that have flocked 
  to her stomache now, violently awhirl and fluttering madly about.

"You certainly may," he croons gently, a smile tugging for once at both sides 
  of his mouth rather than the one. The arm that cradles Auvrey's form 
  squeezes in unvoiced invitation, while Richard brushes a knuckle along the 
  Mongrel maid's cheekbone and then back to her ear, following the paths of 
  its contours.

Lifting her chin a little, Rory's head dips slowly, twitching after a manner 
  as she attempts to figure out the best approach to such a thing. It is 
  amazing enough, which is clear within her expression, that she is allowed 
  such a privilege in the first place. Unable to close her eyes, most likely 
  from the fear of missing his lips altogether, she finally chooses a path and 
  swoops in for the kill.. er... kiss. Brushed silk skims across his mouth, 
  light, tentative and exploratory.

Richard is willing enough to hold himself still while she who occupies his arm 
  explores out the best way to accomplish her goal, but he does not lie 
  entirely passively as the bashful connection of her mouth to his is made. 
  Instead his lips feather against hers in echo and answer to the touch. More 
  gentle patience here, now, even though desire is inexorably growing stronger 
  within him.

In the end, after her tongue trails along his lips and she inadvertantly 
  teases a bit, the lower lip is captured, suckled very gently. Tasting this 
  new, delightful morsel. One hand has lifted, fingers splayed over his cheek 
  and jaw with an inner groan of satisfaction, before she eventually lifts 
  away. Lashes have fallen long ago, though they raise half-mast to sparkle 
  with budded passion. Not so easy, for Auvrey to pull free from -those- 
  confines.

Twilight eyes go half-lidded, too, at the touch of fingers to the sculpted 
  flesh of Richard's face. His free arm slides down to curl about Auvrey anew, 
  and with her thusly encircled, he once more trails a kiss across her 
  forehead. With it comes the purred, wry whisper "I find returning to 
  sleep... becoming less and less of an option."

Understanding as to the -why- of such a statement is slow to dawn upon her 
  confused self, but dawn it does, and with a slightly embarrassed laugh and 
  rosy cheeks. "I did well then." A statement, as she surely felt his response 
  and interpretted it clearly enough. A nip of affection once more on that 
  chin so close to hers, and her grin and accompanying blush only are served 
  to deepen. "I am glad."

"You did," praises Richard. Oh, aye, there's a palpable change in his body 
  beside Auvrey's, a subtle tautening that is difficult to miss -- especially 
  when he shifts position, coaxing the young Mongrel to pillow her head on the 
  support of his arm, bringing his face just above her own, and putting a bit 
  more of his body into contact with sensitive portions of her own. Still, 
  though, despite the playful little lopsided smile curving his lips, there's 
  a seriousness in his eyes as he goes on, "My question for you, though, is 
  this: do you want to go back to sleep?"

Fire roasts the underlayer of her flesh, a nice cherry developing from head to 
  toe, even as her grin only broadens, and an embarrassed chuckle escapes. He 
  would have to -ask-, wouldn't he? "Well," mumbles Auvrey, barely coherent as 
  a great glob of air is sucked in for steadying purposes, "I.." That is to 
  say. "No." If he wants an explanation to be forthcoming, he shall have to 
  ask just as directly as her answer was. If, that is, Richard isn't clever 
  enough to figure out the implications by himself.

Oh, no, Richard is quite clever enough for this. Taking in the blush as well 
  as that tiny mumble, he lowers his head just enough to grace soft lips with 
  a tender kiss. As he does he whispers, "I could very easily make love to 
  you, my darling." But then, his head lifts up again, twilight eyes seeking 
  out those of silver, and his gaze grows more serious. "But only if you want 
  me to do so."

"I like your kisses," confesses Auvrey, her burning face lifting forward to 
  burry into his bare shoulder. There, her muffled words continue. "And I like 
  touching you." As if he couldn't tell. "That I desire you.. this too is new, 
  and it creates no small amount of.. of -burning- within me. Does this make 
  sense?" Her frown can easily be felt, just before she lifts her chin to 
  speak directly to him. "I think mayhaps I would, but I am .. a bit.. " 
  Timid. Shy. Nervous.

Richard settles onto his side, cradling Auvrey close, listening patiently. "It 
  does make sense," he answers, letting his voice caress her as delicately and 
  assuredly as his hand strokes her cheek. To hear desire so... intellectually 
  described, almost... provokes a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but he 
  keeps his expression otherwise in earnest. And he continues softly, "I do 
  not want to do anything that will cause you shame or fright, Auvrey. Does 
  your faith forbid you to join with a man who is not your husband?"

"Nay," murmurs Auvrey, her smile returning as she rubs her cheek against the 
  warm flesh at hand. "I am but a mere mongrel, Richard, and pleasure is not 
  frowned upon.." A pause, and a light frown, "Indeed, it is encouraged." Now 
  why would that make her frown so? But alas, it is a fleeting thing as she 
  continues. "For shudra, too, it is neither discouraged nor encouraged for 
  the woman to bear children, when she is other than Varati, though it matters 
  not to me, for I shant ever bear a child." Ahh, and that is carelessly 
  tossed to the side as well, the barren fact accepted easily enough. Peeking 
  upwards, humor and passion share lights in the cock of her brow and twinkle 
  of her gaze.

If he will not offend her god by making love to her, and more importantly, if 
  he will not make Auvrey believe she has offended her god, then that is a 
  distinct relief. Auvrey's concerns rank higher for Richard than Khalid 
  Atar's do, however, regardless of the impressive amount of power he's 
  personally seen that august being wield. As she speaks on of her barrenness, 
  however, the Empyrean's expression abruptly flickers as he is taken aback by 
  this apparently straightforward confession. A blink... and then Richard 
  kisses her again, with extreme tenderness, one kiss to her brow and another 
  to her lips. "Then you have but to tell me aye, sweetling," he murmurs, "and 
  I will do my best to keep us both from sleep for as long as you wish."

"Aye?" murmurs the carmine-tressed mongrel as she leans against him with a 
  highly experimental, suggestive motion. "Then aye is my answer, Richard." 
  She's even survived from embarrassment she was positive to die from. Tender 
  lips brush against those which hover near, artistic fingers gliding into the 
  thick, black gathering of hair.

All too often, when beheld by Auvrey, Richard's visage has been held in taut 
  control -- or etched in lines of barely restrained rage or grief or pain. 
  Now, though, as she breathes her acceptance of him, delight provokes a 
  sudden unguarded smile out of the wingless one. It reaches clear up into his 
  eyes, like the light of a full moon sending its glow across a night-time 
  sky. He doesn't speak -- but that expression of his is answer enough as he 
  sets himself to doing exactly as he'd promised: with adroit hands and 
  melting, ardent kisses, and at last the inexorable joining of his body with 
  that of the beauty beside him, staving off sleep for as long as he possibly 
  can.

[End log.]