"For the Good of the Soul" Log Date: 11/30/99 Log Cast: Rory, Richard Log Intro: Members of the wealthy Empyrean merchant House Nemea have arrived to do business in Haven -- and the man who's been living as a Mongrel named Richard for the past fourteen years has found his past as Julian Nemeides coming back to haunt him with a vengeance. He has seen the woman whose accusations of rape shattered his life... and he has seen with her a young girl with black hair who looks altogether too much like him for comfort. On top of everything else -- the arguments he has been having with the leader of the Outcasts about the fate of his two wards, the arguments he has _also_ had with Cynara about what he would be willing to pay her for the restoration of the darkling Nox's wings, his own ongoing inner discomfiture about how to keep the danger of his chosen profession away from those he has come to care about -- the presence of Nemea in Haven is too much. Troubled to an extent he scarcely ever permits himself to be, Richard goes in search of one who, admittedly, is among the highest on his list of concerns... for there are certain confessions that the Rook must make to the young woman called Auvrey. And it seems as well that there are certain confessions she wants to make to him.... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Thursday, August 23, 3905. Year on Earth: 1505 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Crescent Season: Summer Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* As much of the traffic seems headed toward the Rialto, you follow. 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: Alexania Infirmary Tent - The Rialto - Haven Obvious Exits: Streets Delphic Citadel Rory enters the Rialto from the western part of Main street. Rory has arrived. The rich blanket of night has fallen as heavy as a final curtain, weak light from the orbiting moon often spluttered and overcome by overpassing clouds. A spattering of torches decorate the mostly deserted Rialto, their warm fires casting many a shadow through the crooks and crannies of Haven. There are, still, some who lurk about, one such being Auvrey. Lurking not at all, but floating through the stillness? Aye. As ever in such instances, her gaze is not for the obvious but for the hidden, searching alleyways and rooftops. Expectant and a bit tense, though her steps remain slow and sure. Richard hasn't been to sleep this night, and for the last few hours he's lain in wait for this very Mongrel maid. He's not exactly difficult to miss, having claimed himself a bench not far from Delphi's front gates, expecting Auvrey to eventually come out or go within. He's patient. Or perhaps a little desperate. He's not entirely certain which. Still, Richard waits, on his fourth cup of kaffe, illumined by a nearby flickering torch towards which he does not look in order to keep his gaze attuned to the surrounding darkness. There she appears, moth to brilliant flame, a strange, unearthly vision within this unfolded night. Silently does she approach Richard, though from a direct path - towards the Citadel from the northern section of Haven. Undoubtedly she has completed her evening prayers. Though her gaze does not faulter from the intentional search, she does find seat next to this dark, enigmatic gentleman. "Good eve, Richard," comes her softly spoken words, her usual lilt within each enunciation. Rory sits down on one of the Benches by the Citadel. Rory joins you. His gaze shoots up from the still-steaming mug of kaffe, which stops poised halfway to his mouth. An exhausted relief is visible in Richard's eyes, along with a distinct pleasure; Auvrey has taken her seat, though, before he's able to rise to his feet to greet her. That alone may speak of his weariness, for it seems to take him a moment before he swings a small tired smile to the young woman, drinking her in with his eyes. "I'd hoped to see you," he murmurs. "Hello." Worry marrs her delicate features, drooping her slim brows forward, flashing in her pale gaze as the streets are ignored for now. A tender hand lifts to grace rough male features, tracing lightly over cheek and jaw, before clasping in her lap once more. "Hello." Welcoming and open, she does not offer any more, as it is clearly spoken without the unnecessary words. Instead, she waits. For just a moment, as those fingertips trace the lines of his face, Richard's eyes drift closed in reaction. It is easy, very easy, to take that small gesture and magnify it in his imagination, particularly given the events of recent days. But for now he restricts himself to turning his cheek slightly towards that anxious touch, and lifting his hand to gently intercept Auvrey's and accompany it in its downward decent. "I'm sorry I didn't come looking for you sooner, Auvrey-lass," comes his whisper. "Much has happened, and..." Another strange fraction of an instant then... and in it, Richard's expression flickers oddly, ill at ease, a trifle lost. Then he manages a small dark version of a grin. "Let's... say... the peace you advised me I should seek has been... rattled, eh?" With that he lifts up his kaffe with his other hand, gulping down the rest of the contents of the mug. Then down goes the mug, set aside on the bench, while the hand that abandons it treks up to shove itself through already thoroughly tousled black hair. Each action is catalogged by one very perceptive woman. "Would you speak of it to me, Richard?" murmurs Auvrey, her voice as soothing as any cozy comforter before a roaring fire. Her own dainty hand squeezes his, reassuring. "Is there anything that I can do for you?" She has, after all, risked her life to maintain his health. What could be worse than said protection? Another squeeze and she half-whispers, "Your apology is not necessary. I know your life holds many complications. I am merely glad to know you still live with good health." Richard lowers his free hand, which seems drawn of his own volition to join its mate in search of the smaller hands of Auvrey. As his gaze swings back to meet the concerned regard directed to him, his smile turns rather more crooked -- almost embarrassed, if such an expression can be found in this man's repetoire of emotions that he allows himself to display. "I... hadn't meant to drop all my troubles upon you, don't fret, eh lass? I just wanted to see you again. Let you know I've been... thinking of you. Aye, I'm hale enough." Tired, it might be noted, but he doesn't point that out; he never does. It's obvious enough in the roughness of his voice nevertheless. An easy enough rejection, to refrain from speaking of troubles, but it does not erase the defined worry lines, non-permanent though they be thus far. Instead, Rory's gaze seeps into his, grey meeting blue, the lightness emphasized eerily by firelight, her mane aglow as well. "I would not pry, Richard," she whispers a bit loudly now, head dropping as though to gain strength for her next words. "But my curiosity pricks me. I... Are you well?" And no, physical health has nothing to do with her question. The play of torchlight across that alabaster countenance and the fiery hair that frames it diverts Richard's gaze; it's oddly hypnotic to him, given the weariness tugging at his mind... and the way the kaffe he's been drinking down jars against that exhaustion to keep him awake. He doesn't immediately answer that soft question, though. Instead, he has to jerk his attention away from the glow of torchfire upon red tresses. His eyes close reflexively; his hands squeeze both of the young woman's. And in a soft, hoarse voice he at last admits, "Not... entirely." "I would ease you in what way you wish, Richard. You have but to ask." Talk. Holding. Singing. Dancing like a monkey with her head cut off. A safe-haven. You name it, Rory would easily, readily give her all. Velvety tips stroke those hands cupping hers, her closeness eminating heat and femininity. Unlike the man next to her, there is an alertness that shadows cannot steal away from her. The man manages another small crooked smile, opening his eyes once again to rest them wearily upon Auvrey's visage. "You ease me, my darling," Richard murmurs, husky-voiced, "by simple virtue of your presence. I..." Now comes again another brief hesitance, an awkwardness that does not fit easily upon his face, as though an anxious youth were peeking out from behind the features of the man. "I have seen... people I haven't... seen in fourteen years, Auvrey. I..." "Those who hurt you." After such hesitation, Auvrey can only help by filling in the blanks. Not anxious, her words, but understanding. A mere statement, not a voiced question nor doubt. Her hands continue with the gentle massage, similar to her words. She cannot help the tiny smile which forms, nor the flutter within at his simple, yet flattering words. "I am glad I bring you comfort." Would that she could offer more. Hesitation, yes, but there's other reactions there too, beginning to show glimmers of existence now that Richard's outer defenses have been breached from within by the words he's managed to utter. His expression twists sharply, and the hands that Auvrey holds grow taut, curling for a moment as though he tries without thinking to make fists -- only to be stopped by her fingers in the way. With an effort, Richard forces himself to keep his hands unclenched. But because of the control he sends there, his voice is not entirely steady as he breathes out, "Yes. I... do not know much yet of why... they are in Haven. I will be... needing to deal with this, and because of it... I may see less of you for a time." Another effort of will permits him to look up, his tired features strained now, but locked into a semblance of calm. One hand slips free from those gentle confines below, a sweet smile touching the corner of her eyes and lips. Fingertips once again trace over his tensed features, caressing with infinite tenderness. "I understand Richard. If you wish, I will do what I can to help you. But you must ask, for I would not injur you further. I would that you heal, instead." Unwelcome intrusion, somehow, manages to impede that, even with the nicest of intentions. Ach, now, that's the question, isn't it? What exactly does he need of this lovely young Mongrel? Already dark against the surrounding night, already keenly intent of gaze, Richard's eyes reflect back a few small gleams of torchlight as he stares over at Auvrey, torn. He's been at the Siren's Song often enough as of late that one option is quite obvious -- yet, he discards it for the time being, for the circumstances are not yet right. Other options flash across his consciousness, other images, suggestions of peace and relief: his head upon Auvrey's shoulder, or in her lap. How it would feel to unburden his soul to her. Those soft hands stroking his face -- _that_ is real, and it abruptly gives him a refuge as he feels himself shy back from giving words to too much too quickly. "Lass, you keep that up... I may fall asleep right here." Silken laughter escapes past her lush lips, a genteel sort of delight found in praise delivered once more. "Sleep is not so bad for you, methinks. Especially when you seem to be in such a need of it, Richard." Her hands continue, smoothing over male flesh as velveteen might. The subject is notably dropped, however, the resistance noted once more, a silent respect given for the man at her side. Instead, onto another topic more pleasant than the last she moves. "Katri, the redheaded lass I am caring for until I can find a family, has a quicker mind that I originally thought." Which is quick indeed. "I would love to begin evening lessons with your charges and mine, at your whim, Richard." Five cups of kaffe aren't exactly holding out well against the ministrations of those delicate fingers. Richard's eyes drift shut, but snap open again, blearily, at this sudden new subject. "Katri?" he echoes hoarsely. "You... found a child?" Confusion surfaces into those pearly greys, darkening them into something more pure than the silver and white they hinted at before. "After the earthquake.. I did not tell you?" Absently her ten tips trace over his lips, before returning to cheek, jaw, and brow. "Her parents were crushed by a fallen stall.. I confess I saw her first most likely because she resembles me, in a way. I worried for.. her childhood." No, no elaboration there. Most likely no need. Fear of having the childhood happen all over again - just to another lass. "She.. is.. young. Five, she says, and living with me at present within the Citadel." Auvrey's gaze remains steady upon his, searching. "I did not tell you?" After the quake... Richard pushes his memory back, blinking owlishly, and then grins a rather easier version of his lopsided grin. "I... was a trifle occupied, my dear, and I do not believe the subject came up when you found me... on my way off for my search." The grin slides away as this reminds the Empyrean of what exactly he and Auvrey had done, before he'd set off in search of Cynara; his twilight gaze settles upon and lingers at the young Mongrel's mouth while his own is traced by her fingertips. He pauses a moment, and then breathes out gently, "I'd... meant to come and ask you... about lessons for Roki and Elette. It seems we were thinking along the same lines." "Children should be educated when they can be, and until homes are found.." a light shrug. It was only logical, after all. A blush stains her cheeks, too, as the very same memory is recalled. The Kiss. Who could forget? Certainly not Rory, heavens no. Clearing her throat quietly, she dares a tad more. "The subject material will be also for your perusal, if you would like. I would teach each to read and write, and early arithmatic if their minds are attuned to such. I would wish to teach them of Khalid Atar, but only by your permission, Richard. I can always speak to Katri in private, if you wish." Richard is not exactly certain how much interest the God-King would have in the affairs of a pair of Mongrel children; for that matter, he's not exactly convinced that Khalid Atar has much interest in the affairs of Mongrel adults. But still, because of the faith with which he's heard Auvrey speak of her chosen god, he smiles a little once again. "If they'll come to you for lessons, Auvrey, tell them of your god as you see fit; they can decide when they're ready what god or gods they'll choose to follow." Impulse leads him to capture one of the hands that has been stroking his face, stopping it and holding it lightly against his cheek. As his eyes drop half-shut once more he concludes in a rough whisper, "I'll speak to the bairns, though. They need teaching. And I'm responsible for them now... but not much of a teacher, I fear..." "You have much to teach them, Richard, though I do not speak of your obvious schooling." A light grin, even as fire rages through the underside of her petal-soft skin. Oh dear, she likes that all too well. "I will ask them, however. Children at that age, even, should be allowed a choice." A slightly apologetic smile. "I fear, though, that my histories and knowledge only extends mainly to the Varati culture. I needs do some reading regarding our other races here on Aether, so those lessons may be detained a tad." Richard's mouth quirks upward on its right end. "I'm passingly familiar with Empyrean history," he drawls, straightfaced. A low-rumbling chuckle escapes, her grin stretching wide. "Aye, I had not forgotten. Mayhaps, then, I will sit in upon your lectures as well, and learn, yes?" Half-question, half-statement, her eagerness for more knowledge is not disguised. That flare of eagerness in Auvrey's expression softens Richard's own. "You'd make a scholar of me, my darling?" he murmurs, amused. His hand squeezes round the one he's caught. Rory laughs quietly, pleasure radiating from every pore. "I think perhaps you are a scholar of sorts asides, but aye, if you are willing to learn then there is always opportunity. It took a while for this concept to sink in for me, I fear." She hasn't -always- been dense. Honest. "I have been accused of being many things," Richard rasps, "but a scholar is not one of them." The idea has brought a trace of lightening to his eyes, though, and that smile still haunts the edge of his mouth. More seriously, though, he goes on, "This... already eases my mind, Auvrey; I needed... to make a decision about the children. Thank you." "About whom should teach them?" asks Auvrey, curious once again, her smile diminishing though her mood has changed nary at all, but for an additional kindness that has shifted through. He inclines his head, once, the smile -- fleeting to begin with -- slipping out of sight. "The issue has seen... some argument. But I think this particular solution appeals." And with that, mercurial as a spring rainshower, the smile comes back. Grinning almost a bit shyly, Auvrey admits, "I am glad. I enjoy children." As if that were not obvious, the way she gives a fare chance to each, feeds whom she may, encourages employment in pickpockets and the like. Or takes small ones under her wings. "Should this be evening time then, these lessons?" A few strands of black are savored betwixt two fingers, facination found therein. Thick stuff, Richard's hair, midnight-black down to the roots. There is no chance that dye could have brought about that hue. The attention to it in the meantime threatens to lull his eyes closed yet again, and it also leads him to murmur ruefully, "I don't suppose... I could persuade you to do that for the next six weeks or so, eh?" "No persuasion is necessary. I enjoy it too thoroughly to say no, and respect you just as much." What is the subject here, child-grooming or hair-molesting? A whistful smile unfolds, a bit dreamy though there is no question that her belief in fairytales died long, long, long ago. Perhaps before a chance to even be known. Richard's head begins to loll sideways... until he catches himself and mutters in consternation, "I think... I may well fall asleep, lass. I should do it in a less open place..." "I have a place of mine own now that you can rest in until you are feeling better, Richard, if you would like." Concern has returned, in full force. Sleepiness is never well on darkened streets, when one wishes their senses to keep them out of danger and other coils. That draws his gaze up again. "Near here?" he whispers. "The Citadel, within its walls." No one would dare accost him within, and Rory would guarentee his safety to boot. Twilight eyes lift up a bemused attention to the nearby walls of Delphi... and for a few moments, Richard stares in that direction before glancing back at his companion. He hesitates... but not long. He's exhausted and he knows it, and practicality bids him get to a safe haven as soon as possible. And thus comes his hoarse request, flavored with a hint of the vulnerability he hasn't yet allowed himself to otherwise express, "Show me?" Lifting from her bench, offering the Rialto a final glance around, her hands extend in offering of help, of solace. Auvrey's gaze softens all the more, intaking once again the whole of Richard's appearance. Poor man. "Come, then, if you wish." Rory has left. [And very shortly...] Assistant Provost's Quarters - Delphic Citadel - Haven(#1616RJ) TEMP DESC: There is a mahogany, four-poster bed. A built-in closet. A stone washbasin with a printed changing screan. Fireplace with a lush carpet before it, and sitting pillows with a low-lying table. Dried flowers are found in two large vases. Books. Small area for cooking. Contents: Rory Obvious exits: Hallway He does wish. With an obvious wariness that proves insufficient to dissuade him from the destination at hand, Richard permits himself to be coaxed to his feet, to take the hand offered him... though he eschews any other support. Half asleep though he might be, he is determined to walk as he always would, to all appearances at ease. Long-practiced street habits of looking to belong no matter where one is, perhaps... or perhaps it is a remnant of what appears to be a habitual pride of his race. Whatever the reason, Richard follows you into the Citadel with no more evident difficulty than any man would, walking hand in hand with a lovely young woman. It is just past the gardened courtyard and into the western tower that Auvrey leads you, an actual key produced to unlock her plain, wooden door before heading inwards. The passage itself is relatively quiet, as many of the Delphi rest easily within their beds. As she enters, her words carry behind her quietly. "Katri is with the Provost this early morning, so there will be plenty of space to sleep and bathe and eat, should you desire any of these conveniences at any time." Laying her bronze key to a table nearby, she turns to assist in the door closing as you enter. "You won't... raise any eyebrows by my being in here, will you?" Richard asks, as he steps into the room and turns to help push it shut, lightly, along with you. Easily the door fastened close. "Nay, Richard. Why would I?" Indeed, after all, Rory is the one who invited him. A heavy wooden latch clicks into place, before she turns, heading towards the bed. Thick covers are pushed backwards, making the invitation of sleep more apparent. "Would you like anything to drink? Cider? Tea? Wine?" Well, one cannot say Richard didn't at least manage to think of Auvrey's reputation, bringing a man into her personal quarters. He blows out a breath, and confesses roughly, "If I put any wine down me, it'll go straight to my head... though that might not be a bad thing." A hand shoves through his hair again, absentmindedly, in unspoken demonstration of why that dark mop is almost always disheveled. "Lost track of how much kaffe I've drunk, I'm afraid." Turning away from the bed and towards the man in her quarters, Auvrey cannot help but smile at the contradiction from such a handsome, ruffled figure. "Warmed cider might relax you, though I fear it will not reduce kaffe's effect." Nasty stuff, that. Makes everyone jittery and on edge, it does. The decision is awaited, however, as elegant hands fold before her demurely. Another sigh, during which Richard closes his eyes... and then he relents, "A bit of wine, then, if you have it." The wingless one wanders further into the room now, though he does not as of yet relax enough to settle onto the bed. Instead his gaze tracks around his surroundings, taking in what he sees, considering all in connection with this room's usual occupant. Trailing towards her small, kitchen-like setup, Auvrey sidesteps to avoid bowling her guest over. Nimble fingers pluck a wine glass upwards, settling it onto the cupboard. As bloody liquid spills forth, she questions quietly, "Would you like an herb to ease you into sleep, Richard?" It is always a good sign when the woman asks first. He doesn't immediately hear the question, however. Richard's attention falls upon the wooden etching hanging upon the wall and lingers there for several moments, before he at last starts and glances around again, smiling almost gently. "The wine should do," he murmurs. An accepting nod as the bottle is stoppered and the glass brought forth. Her paces are silent, as usual, though a light tune on her lips, soft and hummed huskily, is enough to indicate her approach, even if the man had not been facing her direction. Yet another pink rises to occasion, as Richard's glance is noted. "I appreciate your gift every morn." A quiet confession. The glass is accepted, and gracefully, experimentally, Richard takes a small sip of the liquid within -- a little thing, but like the change in his accent when he is alone with Auvrey, perhaps telling. "I'm glad," is his simple reply, eyes warm. Only after a moment of silence does he glance at the bed and then back at his self-appointed hostess for the query, "Will I be displacing you from your sleeping place?" A black eyebrow crooks upward. A delicious laugh, and Auvrey's head shakes lightly. "Nay, though thank you for your concern, Richard. I rarely sleep as it is, and I have some reading I would like to do. That is, if I would not disturb you..." The liquid should be of fine enough quality, not grande, not poor, but pleasing and with a rich aftertaste. Tucking a lock that threatens to wisk irritatingly about behind her ear, her gaze falls from portrait carving to deep blues. Knowing good wine when he tastes it, Richard idly sips down more of the stuff, while gingerly easing himself downward to sit upon the bed. His face takes on a bit of bemusement at the thought of his sleeping with Auvrey in the room... but then, he tells himself dryly, it wouldn't be the first time. "If I can get to sleep I don't think I'll notice much else," he sheepishly replies. An almost girlish giggle bubbles upwards as her eyes follow the man, though she remains unobtrusively rooted in her spot. No need to stampede the devilishly sexy man, after all. "I will be quiet," promises Auvrey, more than capable of accomplishing her boast. "I am afraid I cannot offer much in the form of sleeping attire. Will you be comfortable enough?" Deadpan, Richard murmurs over the top of the cup from which he drinks, "I don't typically sleep in much." Except a shirt and his undergarment, but he doesn't bother to point this out. Nor does he inquire whether this will be a problem, though there does glint within his eyes a curiosity as to how this statement might be received. A simple nod is what he receives, and Auvrey appears to be not at all affected. "It is just as well, I imagine. Sleeping tends to be difficult when you strangle yourself with clothing, mmm?" She quite agrees with the half-naked approach. Or something similar, at least. Well, as long as she puts it that way... Richard doesn't say much by way of reply, a simple wordless little noise of assent. Onehandedly, he undoes the laces of his black shirt; with the other hand, he hangs onto the wine cup until it becomes apparent he'll have to put it down in order to discard the garment. The cup is set aside with a strange tentative motion; then, not quite able to meet Auvrey's eyes, Richard reaches with both hands to pull off the shirt. Inhaling deeply, air rattles noisy through Auvrey's throat and deep within her chest. She really had not meant to look, but somehow her gaze was a tad slow.. a tad reluctant to leave, and when that magnificent chest is revealed it is too late to hide any sort of reaction. Quickly turning from the vision with flaming cheeks, a definate show is made of -not- reacting. Ho-hum, wander around the room, pluck up her book, and find a seat within the plush cushions. So, in fact, that the only part of her watching Richard is her backside. This very palpable attempt at nonchalance does not go unnoticed. Richard quirks both brows as the Mongrel girl strives to pretend to ignore his revealed torso, and then smirks quietly to himself. "If it's any consolation," he speaks up in bland tones as he leans over to pull off his boots, "I'm... a trifle unsettled myself." An explanation as to why is not forthcoming -- but then again, given this man's reticence about going bare-torsoed before Auvrey before, magnificent chest or no, one is probably not needed. A retort is actually forthcoming, half-teasing and without true thought given to the content. "If I stood before you without my blouse, I am certain only -then- you have my permission to be similarily unsettled." The scar-thing.. well, she does not truly understand to that extent. After all, she rather thought they were beautiful, after a fashion. Tart and filled with humor, she still cannot help cough to cover her growing embarrassment. Really, she is not -so- uncouth, is she? The thought of Auvrey in a blouse-free state sends a surge of reaction through Richard, sensation having nothing to do with his exhaustion or the wine. His boots removed, he sits slowly up, eyes gone dark with attraction he doesn't let himself voice. He just sits there for a moment or two, rumple-haired, his upper body exposed to the air and the candlelight, watching the disconcerted maiden and finding himself realizing all at once that he'd like her to look at him. "Auvrey," he huskily begins, only to stop immediately thereafter. At least her blush has faded into a mere rosey glow, as her chin cocks in your direction, body twisting automatically to respond to the call of her name. "Yes?" queries she, gaze slamming against male flesh once more, only to be forced agonizingly upwards. "Y-yes, Richard? I.. am sorry my words were so bold, if they offended you. I am usually not so bold I might say though I am not certain but I do not seem to.." A deep breath is taken, her chattering ceasing with a will of steel. He does not look offended. If anything, he looks decidedly tired, and almost... awkward. As Auvrey succeeds in latching her attention upon his face rather than upon regions southward, it might even be noted that she is not the only person in the room blushing. "I do not mean to disturb you, darling," Richard whispers in apology, twilight gaze diverting towards the little table where he'd set down the wine... though what he reaches for is the blanket that's been drawn back for him. _Coward,_ he chides inwardly, _why is this different from Jenean, from Amber?_ But it is, and he is too tired to try to fathom why. It is easier to retreat to old habits, the ingrained instinct to hide his back from view... especially if it'll make poor flustered Auvrey more at ease. "You do not disturb me in an unpleasant way," confesses the spitfire, smiling wryly. "The only disturbance I have is a strange feeling in the pit of my stomache. An excitement, if you will, that burns." A fleeting, confused look crosses her features before disappearing, forgotten for the time being. "You are a handsome, gentle man, and I attribute it to this." Lifting upwards, slow steps bring her towards the bed, book left in her grip at her side as she kneels beside him, tucking the covers upwards comfortably. "Sleep, Richard..." she murmurs, velvety lips brushing the closest cheek. That baffled, earnest confession very nearly makes Richard smile. It's the most innocent explanation he can ever remember hearing of a woman's attraction to a man, and the triumph and pleasure set off in him by the notion of Auvrey experiencing such a sensation because of him are almost too much to resist. It would be easy, very easy, to slip his arms about her, draw her to him, fuse his mouth to hers... but with an effort of will, he settles for whispering, "I'm familiar with the feeling." Letting himself be coaxed into lying down though not yet closing his eyes, he finds himself making an admission of his own. "You're... good for me, Auvrey-lass. Remind me I could be much worse off..." Her grin only broadens as she listens to his few words, before her response is issued. "You could be worse off, Richard," teases Auvrey, her book placed aside for now so that both hands may occupy themselves with much more pleasant tasks. One, in fact, returns to brush dark locks away from his face, delicate feathering caresses. "This feeling, it is what others call desire then?" Forthright, earnest in her questioning, she truly wishes to know. This catches him offguard, and Richard turns his face towards the Mongrel maid kneeling beside the bed, eyes widening a touch. "I..." How in the world to answer a question like _that_? Women have certainly desired him before -- but to have one do so and not recognize it is a new experience. It takes him a moment to find proper words, and then, grinning sheepishly, he hedges, "If it is at all similar to what I have felt before, I would say so." What he has felt before... and feels now. Richard's grin fades but not entirely, lurking about to mitigate the desire that adds depth to his gaze. Tender hands now, stroking across those thick brows absentmindedly. "I have not desired a man before in this manner. For pain-relief or intellectual feeding, but never in this manner." Not just physical either, that much is clear. A shy grin and her silver gaze lifts to glue to yours, before that too fades into something more serious. "I do not wish to upset you. I am glad that you are open with me, though." Almost peeking, so hesitant is she, she dares ask, "Are you not angry, then?" _This_ catches Richard even more offguard, and those dark brows of his go up over eyes that flash wide a second time. But his surprise quickly yields to a swift, gentle caress of the white cheek of the Mongrel woman, and his velvet assurance: "I could not be more pleased, my darling; indeed, I am flattered and honored. Why would I be angry?" First, an affectionate nuzzle against the welcomed hand. Then, a light shrug as her chin droops downwards in contimplation and un-acted meekness. "I do not know. You had not asked, but I felt it necessary to say as much." Heaven help her, she cannot explain why. "Sometimes my brain and subsequently mouth can carry faster than my will to stop foolish thoughts from surfacing, or to contain curiosity." She is quite used to being beaten for that. Call it natural instinct. Peeking upwards reveals a small smile, before her hand returns to its dalliances. "Sometimes men can become angry at such infractions." Richard wants to laugh, but he keeps the impulse checked so that the noise he makes is distinctly softened, barely more than a rumble in his chest. "My sweet," he whispers, weariness displaced in his tone by silken, rasping warmth, "I don't know what men you've dealt with that would be angry at your desiring them... but as far as I'm concerned there is no shame in desiring someone." Then his face grows solemn, his gaze introspective. "The problems only come depending on what you wish to do about your desire." Blinking with widening puddles of silken grey, Rory cannot help but stare at the man before her for some time. "Me do about it?" Huh? Confusion is evident, the reason finally being voiced. "Of course, I will do as you wish. Dampen it if you wish, or explore it as you desire." Is he daft? The back of her hand actually checks for a fever. Nope, no sign there. "I think perhaps you are overtired, darlin'." "Wha..." Now deeply startled, Richard surges into sitting up, consternation etching his fine-boned features, brows knitting together over twilight eyes. Half of him suspects Auvrey may jerk back from him in surprise herself, and thus he anxiously takes both her hands, trying to insure that she'll stay close. The blanket drops off him, but he does not notice. "Darling... this is hardly only my decision." Cocking her head to the side, Auvrey's confusion nearly swamps her completely. "But is how men prefer, is it not this way?" Brows tug downwards, lip gnawed upon in thought. "You would not use force Richard, and that is a rare trait in a man indeed," - well, at least she trusts him - "But it is not a woman's place to dictate a man or actions that involve him." Men are superior, after all, in brute strength. No use getting them upset by intruding. She does not, in fact, try to tug away, but instead her earnest gaze remains upon those indigos. "How would it then be part my decision? I do not understand." Shock and dismay course across Richard's expression at the notion that someone -- that he -- might use force upon a woman. "I would _never_--" he bursts out sharply, all at once looking distinctly... ill. "I would..." The words choke off in his throat, and he is unable to speak as Auvrey asks her next question. His eyes slam shut, and he winces as though struck. "Richard," whispers Auvrey, sadness written upon her features as clearly as ink upon parchment, both hands reaching up to stroke his jawline. "I know you would not. It is why I trust you implicitly. Why I offer you what I have. Why I am capable of this desire. I did not mean for my words to be mistaken." Emphatically, she declares, "I could not feel this strangeness - this other, unidentifiable warmth for you if it were otherwise." Head lowering with shame, her hands too seek withdrawal. "I do not know what to do, or where to begin... I.." and her sails loose wind completely, shoulders slumping dejectedly. Bad naraki. Err.. Bad shudra. "I am sorry." For three heartbeats Richard says nothing. And then he groans out in a barely audible voice, "That... is why... they took my wings. They... accused me..." A sharp glance upwards displays the fire that has lit within her winter-hued gaze. "But you are not psychologically capable of forcing a woman, Richard." Infinite sorrow swims for control of this woman's emotions. "They used it for gain, then." Bastards. "Was it the woman, her lover, or her parents?" "Oh, I... _I_ was her lover." Richard's mouth twists in a tight little smirk, and his eyes come open to show depths of blue turned hollow. He pauses, and then clarifies, "She was my brother's wife." It is then that she rises from the floor to sink onto the bed. Careful of legs, of course, for this beauty would not wish to smash them. Her hands, as gentle as a pastel sunrise begin to encircle him, arms following suit until a firm hug is in place. Not demanding, nor forceful, it is only offered if welcomed. Welcomed... too mild a word, really. A more appropriate one might be 'craved'. Richard, as those arms slip around him, across his scarred back, turns into the embrace and answers it with one of his own. "I didn't do it," he rasps. "You believe me, eh?" "Aye, Richard. There is no doubt in my mind." And there isn't any, in truth. Rory has been too accustomed to reading people, to accustomed to knowing the evil side of life, the mechanisms, and what spurs others forward in the battle to dominate. To conquer. To gain power. Head snuggling against his shoulder, the gentle wiff of spice floats upwards, unobtrusive yet soothing as well. His shoulders are shaking, and he is tired, so very tired, unsure what's making his thoughts blur now: his exhaustion or the wine he's had going to his head, or the way the admission he's made has sliced up out of him as if he's just coughed up a knife. But the scent of Auvrey's hair is soaking into his senses; her arms are soft, and so is her voice. Richard draws a great shuddering breath of air into his lungs, struck by how her murmured confidence resonates through him. The thought begins that he needed to hear this, but he cannot make himself voice it, much less complete it. Instead he crushes the Mongrel woman close to him, as close as his arms can allow, trying to pull in as much of the feel of her contact as he can before he finally forces himself to raise his head. Richard's expression has turned even more strained now... but there's a kind of surety that's come into his eyes. And to his voice, too, as he croaks, "I... think that's why I came lookin' for ye tonight, Auvrey-lass..." Her smile can surely be felt against his chest, firm and true to form. A gentle, soothing hand strokes alongside his back as his words are pondered. Considered. "Aye, I think it is, Richard." Snuggling deeper into his arms, she offers softly, "I will lay here with you, if it will keep your nightmares away." Comfort. She offers comfort of every and any kind. Intoxiation. Emotion. Physical. Mental. "You should rest, though. I will be here for you, in the morning, should you wish my help." For problems and solutions alike. It is a half-hearted suggestion, as Auvrey is more than enjoying the simple intimacy. Cuddling. She is quite unused to this, as well. What kind of woman is this, that she would be willing to do anything just because he asked it of her? Richard swallows hard, disturbed by the amount of responsibility this places into his hands. But can he really be surprised? This girl has been a slave, after all, he realizes. And that knowledge is what prompts him to finally slip a hand under Auvrey's chin, asking with his fingers' gentle pressure for her to look up to face him. "I can think of naught better than wakin' up beside you," he whispers roughly. "But what do _you_ want to do, eh, my darling?" Her smile never wavers, though it becomes slightly more shy. And, indeed, her lashes, those long, sweeping things partway to her cheeks, those which light with carmine hue. "I would wish to feel your warmth, Richard. I would wish to ease your pain. T..To hug through the night." Heavens. Rory does not even know the word cuddle. Silly chit. The strain in Richard's elegant features abruptly begins to drain away, his eyes growing less dark, less haunted. He shifts himself to sink back slowly where he had lain before, but his arms remain loosely about the Mongrel maid and his gaze remains upon her face. His long lean fingers press once against her shoulders in invitation to go with that in his expression. "All right," he whispers, voice returning to velvet. He could say any number of things, many smooth words and endearments... but for now, his ability to spin words is failing him. He'll settle for those two simple short ones. "All right..." So it is that she fits so easily to mold against him, head nestled upon bared chest, one arm slung over him in that continued half-hug. An unconcious sigh of contentment actually slips from Auvrey, bare toes wriggling into a nest of cushioning blankets. Her legs, though, remain quite unsure as to what to do, one solution finally discovered as one follows loose suit of her arm above. There. Much better. With an arm free, Richard is able to pull the blanket up over himself and she who snuggles up against him, making a loose, warm cocoon around them both. It feels good to be horizontal, and even better to have Auvrey's soft form to hold. The blanket settled, the wingless one curls both his arms about her, turning his face to her hair to breathe in its scent of spice once more. He says nothing else... but he does squeeze her tenderly before settling down at last to relax. To sleep. And to indulge himself at least for the time being in something that begins to feel like peace. [End log.]