"The Grounded Rook" Log Date: 12/9/99, 12/13/99 Log Cast: Cassandra, Varati merchant (NPC emitted by Richard), Stephen (NPC Mongrel server at the Pantheon, emitted by Richard), Richard Log Intro: In recent days, it has begun to seem to Richard that his past is coming back to haunt him from several directions at once. Three of the women of the Siren's Song now know the secret of his past which he has assiduously guarded for the past fourteen years. Nox, his periodic partner-in-thievery, is asking him all-too-perceptive questions. And most disturbingly of all, not only has the House he thought he'd left behind him long ago come to Haven, not only has he once again met the woman who long ago betrayed him, but he's even discovered that he has an unexpected legacy from the time of before his exile: a daughter. A daughter who wants to stay with him in Haven. It's enough to make a man's head spin, especially taken in tandem with the ongoing need to care for his two young Mongrel charges... and what seems to be an increasingly intimate relationship with the young Mongrel Rory. Seeking some kind of surcease from this storm of changes sweeping across his life, Richard has come to the Pantheon this morning in search of nothing more than a filling, quality meal, at a time when he is fairly sure none of House Nemea will be here to find him. But he is not yet done weathering his personal storm -- for even the jealously hoarded secrets of the Rook are no proof against the right kind of magic... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Late Morning Date on Aether: Sunday, September 10, 3905. Year on Earth: 1505 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Full Season: Late Summer Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Hot *==========================================================================* The Pantheon - Haven(#350RDJM) Bright frescoes decorate the walls of this large, pentagonal room, depicting the rise of the city of Haven with Delphi at its heart. The domed ceiling is supported by four marble "atlantes"--statues carved to resemble youths from each race. The figures are expertly rendered and painted, if somewhat stylized, and they hint that this establishment caters to clientele from each. A long, marble-topped bar runs along the last wall where refreshment may be ordered. The air is laden with the smell of richly prepared foods and ambrosia, suiting the exclusive nature of the tavern. Rose marble tiles decorate the floor, which sinks toward the center of the room in a series of three pentagonal terraces. Situated at the two higher terraces are fine tables of polished oak--those on the outermost terrace long enough to seat larger parties. The lowest terrace features a shallow pool, lined with greenery and replenished by small fountains. (See 'places'). Contents: Cassandra Obvious Exits: Arch Out Cassandra Haunted is the pale creature that merely shadows true race distinction, a fragile and fallen bird. Sterling hair is left unbound to her waist, neatly combed out in gentle, rolling waves. To prevent most hair from falling over in her eyes, silvery combs clasp up near her temple, decorated in small aquamarine stones. Stark and snowy shorter fringes curl over her forehead, the edges curling just above the delicate arching eyebrows and shadow-smudged eyes. The eyes themselves, they are a muted green and somewhat restless--the emotions within an indecisive shifting of turbulent waters. But that which is pale is not lifeless, and the Oneiromancer's gaze is vividly bright with a fledgling curiosity and naivete. The woman, bearing nearly four decades of life, bears the enthuse of a creature newly roused to the mysteries of life that one might expect in the sheltered period of youth. At the dusk of a tumultuous storm, comes a relative calm. The utilitarian indigo robes of the Delphi's order have been set aside for a sleeveless, airy gown of sea foam silk. While it lacks the true style of any race, it seems most akin to the style of an Empyrean chimere. While formless, it gives definition to the shape that hides behind fabric, a willowy figure that suggests at curves where fabric grazes. A modest garment, it does little to boast feminine wiles or inspire poetry of beauty, but it lends to the fair appearance in simpler ways - drawing attention to the unusually light shade of her eyes. The hem stops just above her sandaled feet, the underdeveloped webbing of toes matching that of her fingers. The garment scoops lower in the back, allowances made to accomodate the frail wings covered with filmy white feathers, folded close against her back. The only ornamentation besides the combs in her hair is the silver aquamarine ring carried around her neck by a slender ribbon. Poisoned by the taint of impure blood, this half-Empyrean and half-Atlantean will never touch the skies...or the bottoms of the ocean. Filaments of burnished gold trickle in as the door cracks open, barely an inch or so from door to threshold, the slim strands broadening to angling stripes as the crack between is widened. Life fills the doorway, small shadow coating over sunlight, hesitating a moment before plunging further into the room. It takes a moment for Cassandra's eyes to adjust to the room within, lashes dipping over distracted eyes in the fuzzy squint skimmed over the furthest corners from the entrance. She lifts a hand to close the door, teetering up agaist her toes as she pivots towards the room and wobbles a few steps in. Her favored canvas bag rattles curiously, pressed to her side with a loving grasp as the room is again surveyed with a gaze that no longer bears the glowing taint of sunlight burning behind the eyes. The Pantheon in late morning is a refuge of peace and quiet, the discreet lighting within a soothing contrast to the sunlight without, the muted gurgling of the fountains a balm for ears that have been assaulted by the daily street noises of Haven. Sparse, yet, are the patrons in the place, a small scattering of individuals of assorted races who have come in in search of this place's excellent fare for late breakfasts or early lunches. A peaceful scene, to be sure. Nothing immediately stands out as a cause for a subtle sense of dislocation that begins to creep across the one who closes the door, a shifting of some part of consciousness towards some other time, some other place. Perhaps it is the glimmer of the white wings of a young serving girl who hastens past with a tray of fresh fruits for someone's meal, or the rich shade of a merchant's blue tunic as he lifts himself ponderously from his seat, leaves a handful of coins upon his table, and begins a stately progression towards the exit. Whatever it is, that sense of dislocation brings with it a glimpse of something that might be... birds. From dim hours onward she has wandered in the state both in and out of mundane, occasionally coaxed in a particular direction by a passing whim or fancy. All inconstant, all fruitless. There was nothing more or less that brought Cassandra within here, giving her idle purpose once within. If nothing else, there is water to admire at the fountains, and a meal to be had, but there is... something. Head canting curiously to each nuance of sound, every insinuation of life or movement, it gives sharp angling turns that strain her slender neck. "...should not have pets in a place like this..." the halfbreed dimly remarks to the merchant as she passes him near the exit, glassy eyes skimming over the sight of him as an oceanic blur. Fingers curling against the side of her gown, she's compelled further within -- listless at first, and finally directing herself towards the faint trickling of the small fountains. "Pets?" rumbles the portly Varati merchant, dark brows knitting in consternation as he peers at the silver-haired one, and then with a disdainful sniff and a muttered denial of any such thing in his orderly presence, he is out the door and about his business. But still, that shade of blue he was wearing remains, the clear, deep, jewel-blue of a cloudless summer day, lingering upon the edge of consciousness. It joins with the music of the fountains, altering it, till it becomes the cries of white-winged birds soaring aloft in the sun-drenched air. They wing across the mind's eye, these birds, a strange assortment of avians to be keeping company with one another. But they fly together, and one obvious thing marks them as of a kind: the dazzling white of their plumage. There is a pair of eagles, one old, one young. A she-owl, wise-eyed, on the edge of the flock. A falcon. And a dulcet dove, flying with the young eagle, cooing sweet notes of love to him. The Varati merchant is given no additional thought once he is passed, Cassandra grazing against a chair or two before the fountains are reached. A familiar sound - the lulling, the trickling - but instead it seems to but lend to this blanketing air of distraction, pale eyes tipping up towards the room's ceiling. The hand against her sack releases its hold slowly, stretching out to flutter a touch to the fountain's lip. Both steadying and reassuring, it is an anchor to the mundane as thoughts drift upward to lofty heights, giving chase to the avian creatures in sight within Sight. Oblivious to the room within, for the moment, a free hand strays upward to trace through the air in a crescent circle, heavily dipping back down to her waist finally. For a time, the dance of the white birds is led by the ancient eagle, while the seeress pauses by the fountain. But that august personage apparently cannot keep up the task of leading the airborne coterrie forever. He drops out, plummeting earthward, the strength of his wings failing. The young eagle rises up to take his place... but his position is eyed with envy by the falcon, who swoops in on the dove, distracting her. Luring her away. Pitching his calls so that only she can hear them. And soon, she breaks away from the skyborne flock, diverting her attention -- to a final bird who has not drawn anywhere near the white ones. He is black, this new bird, a rook whose ebon feathers are as inky-dark as the flock's are purest white. The rook is not welcome within the white flock's ranks, and as the dove's attention turns to him, the young eagle's spirals upon the winds begin to turn to less of a dance... and more of a hunt. His talons extend for the taking of prey, and bloodlust adds fuel to his movements as he turns his lethal intent upon the dark stranger. The air changing -- it seems to sap at the energy that kept the line of Cassandra's spine straight, sending a wobble to quiver down to her ankles. Unheeding of any patrons within even at this quiet hour, she scuffles over to the nearest table and fumbles around to tug a chair out. Sight is utterly occupied by that which is beyond the room and the line of gaze, and such flailing, awkward motions would almost indicate one robbed of the ability to see entirely. Her weight is tossed into the seat of her chair as an indelicate heap of silk and feathers, wingtips sprawling backwards to lean against her waist. Breath is gathered unconsciously against the woman's throat, knotted thick enough that it seems difficult to part with, hands skimming through the air before capturing each other and knotting in her lap. There was a subtle, indistinct taint of covetousness, at witnessing unseen creatures in flight, but it changes with the nature of these birds. Troubled clouds wreathe o'er her brow, fixated in observing the birds in fixed fascination that daringly walks along the periphery of fear. Within the inner Sight, it is the call of the dove that sends the eagle, swift and sure as though shot from a bow, towards the black rook. The dark-feathered avian has only enough time for a shriek of shock and betrayal before the agle is upon him, claws ripping savagely into his wings and sending droplets of red plummeting downward to stain the purity of the sky that surrounds them. In almost bizarre contrast, the falcon joins the attack in absolute silence, striking the rook from the side, his motions oddly graceful... oddly gleeful. Between the eagle and the falcon, the rook is doomed, his wings mutilated in short order beyond all hope of repair -- and at last, ripped from his body by sheer force of the eagle's wrath. The Pantheon is lost. The beloved canvas bag slinking down on the outside of her shoulder is, too, unnoticed. There is only the mind, and the images that cross over with certitude now are utterly claiming -- it is more than Cassandra has seen all morning, and she clings to it with a steadfast grip. How could she have thought those winged creatures lovely upon first sight? Revulsion is writ within eyes that were, by nature, unintended for such gory sights, yet still she looks on. Towards the ceiling, towards what is seen beyond. A soft mewling sound strikes at the base of her throat as wings are mutilated, and unconsciously, her own feathered appendages tense and cling against her rigid spine in some absent, protective gesture. "By the fates," is all the halfbreed murmurs, so entrenched in breath that it scarcely stirs above her ears. It bleeds with pain; sympathy. Wing-broken, his blood streaming from him in twin rivulets of crimson, the rook is flung earthward by the eagle. He drops like a stone, his plundered feathers following him all the way down until he vanishes from the sky, passing through a veil of clouds. So, too, does the vision begin to pass, retreating into the Elsewhere from which it came, leaving behind only vague impressions of red-tinged black feathers and a single certainty: the black rook is _here_... "...Domina?" The voice is of a Mongrel boy, pausing by the fountain to peer uncertainly at she who seems ill, or troubled, or some other state beyond his magicless, youthful ken. "Domina, are you well?" As though waking from a claiming dream, even when the vision subsides, it is not always relinquished right away. There is another moment of reluctance, when the mind more indulges in conjecture than in the symbolic truths that Sight tease with. It takes a few rough swipes of her lashes to clear her sight before Cassandra's gaze orients itself upon the mongrel boy. Eyes seem unnaturally large, cheeks piqued in carmine flush -- even in its most pale of hues, it still seems intent and out of place on such a wan complexion. "Hrrmur?" the halfbreed thickly mumbles, chin tipping upward as the mongrel boy is blankly studied. "Well?" Energy is restored, slowly breathing into her form and motions dually, occasional dartings of regard skimming over the portions of room nearest her. "Are.. you the rook?" she asks the lad, the mantle of distraction only partially cast aside. That is _not_ a question this serving boy has been brought up to expect in response to 'Are you well?', and the towheaded lad is deeply taken aback. His big liquid brown eyes blink several times as he tries to figure out what such a query is supposed to mean. "Umm... no, domina, I'm Stephen." He can't be more than thirteen summers old, and even in his state of gangly, unfinished childhood, his features bear an unmistakably earthy cast of the Mongrel race. Swallowing a little, he adds, hoping to help, "I work here. Can I get you something?" Hands disentangle, one skimming upward to knead firmly along the side of her neck, as though each press forges substance into cognizance. "N-no, thank you, Domina Stephen," Casasndra replies nebulously, legs stirring and shifting as the soles of her sandals scuffle against the floor. "I... I just need to find someone." A smile is fashioned upon her lips, slight and tremulous, as attention is briefly restored fully upon the boy. She scoops up the straps of her sack to settle firmly against the perch of her slim shoulders, balancing the bulk against her waist as feet press to floor, and the halfbreed unsteadily rises. A few moments are spared for precarious balance to be attained, before she scoots around the boy and starts a pace down along a line of tables, pale eyes sifting through the contents of the room -- even empty chairs and the floor beneath tables. The serving lad bobs his head respectfully, willing enough to let this odd lady go about her business, though he peers after her uncertainly until a call from across the room distracts his attention. Nothing about him, indeed, seems to connect him to that vision -- no sky-blue, no black, no blood-red. And absolutely no sign of Empyrean blood in that pleasantly homely countenance of his. This leaves the seeress free to search elsewhere in the room, to turn her scrutiny to those patrons still occupied at their various tables, one or two of the nearest of whom have glanced her way with raised eyebrows. But not until attention drifts across a man sitting alone at a side table, finishing off the remains of a meal, can any sign be found that speaks of the vision that has passed. It is a tenuous connection to be sure, but it is there, for the man in question has black hair. Even such a slight correlation seems as intently vivid as a beacon on the horizon, when faced with little else that inspires the notice of further study. Cassandra's head angles slightly and sharply, a bird's quick tilting, as the raven-haired man is studied with shameless blatancy. In an odd whim of delicacy, the hem of her gown is plucked up as she drifts across the room - her pace is unhurried and yet intent upon its destination. Fingers uncurl and stretch outward until the faint webbing between digits is tightly drawn, bare tips of fingers brushing against the edge of the dark-haired man's table. "Are you the rook?" she queries softly, subtly, the insubstantial sound nearly lost to the stirrings within the room. He is regarded from the corner of her vision, gaze tipping up to absently study some obscure spot just over the curve of his shoulder. The way Richard's head snaps up, subtle but swift, may well speak of how that question thoroughly ensnares his attention. For a fraction of an instant, his sapphirine gaze fixes upon the silver-haired, winged woman in keen concentration, before a deliberately bland, casual mask draws itself across his fine-boned features. "Maybe," he drawls softly, pitching his velvet tenor voice to just above a whisper. "That'd depend upon who ye be, domina, and why ye're askin'." Staring fuzzily off over his shoulder for another long moment, a few orienting blinks draw focus around the regard, pale eyes landing keenly upon the dark-haired man. Cassandra's hands shift upward from the bare edge of his table, fluttering absently at the air before gripping the edges with a renewed grasp. "Well, no, I should think it would not depend upon me," the halfbreed remarks as thin lines criss-cross o'er the expanses of her pale forehead. Voice thick, there is nonetheless an educated preciseness to the tone, only certain syllables elongated out of place. "If you are the rook, you would be the rook even if I did not live, breathe, or exist. I believe in fates, but not to that extent." One hand drags upward to rub vigorously at her eyes, as though swiping away the sand specks of sleep. "Might I sit down?" Keeping his expression carefully neutral, the black-haired man at the table stares at this odd stranger a moment longer, and then with one neat, economical motion of a lean and agile hand, he scoots his dishes aside and gestures at the seat opposite him. "Certainly," he answers. "Thank you," Cassandra replies in matching efficience - her own in words. She draws the chair back with a slow scuffle, her movements deliberate and sluggish. "I am Cassandra Adeera," she even supplies helpfully as she shifts, lowering herself into the chair to perch on its very edge. She wobbles a little as she balances, elbows propping on the table so that she might rest her hand within their cupping palms, wide eyes studiously remaining upon Richard. "Richard," is the easy, lilting reply. No surname is provided, as the man leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers just before his chest. "Is there some way I c'n be givin' ye aid, then, Dom'na Adeera?" Not a glimmer of surprise or discomfort shows itself in his expression; his own returning stare, albeit steady, is clear as crystal and just as unreadable. Her thoughtful regard falters, one pale eyebrow quirking up higher than the other to disappear behind the fringes of hair. "Yes, please, Deus Richard," Cassandra replies politely, lifting her chin out of her palms with with a wispy sigh. "I am wanting to find the rook, and I am wondering if you are the rook. If you are not, I ought to find him... or her?.. before that person leaves." Dipping her gaze down to furtively study her shifting fingers as they curl and uncurl, she adds quietly and resolutely, "That is all the aid I need." Nevermind that the /reason/ for the vision is still elusive, or what she might do or say when she finds the rook, but it bears purpose to an otherwise idle morning. "'Tis hardly a Deus I am," the fellow corrects, ever so politely, with just a flavor of the sort of self-deprecating modesty any Mongrel might use when conversing with one of the Children of Air. "Just a simple trader, 'sall." Blue eyes glint, however, very briefly, at odds with that polite and humble tone. "And we can be sayin' that I'm sometimes called the Rook, aye, dom'na." Hands abruptly pause, fingers caught somewhere between curls to bend awkwardly, as attentions that had begun to unravel and wander are suddenly wound up and intent once again. "You... are?" Cassandra asks slowly, arms shifting and stretching to drop her palms flatly on the table. Sympathy flares within this shifting, lifting light of eyes to even a paler shade. "Those birds were not very kind," the small woman adds in a small, barely audible voice. "Who were they?" Little regard seems to be given for the nature of her questions, or the fact that this man is well-nigh a stranger. Quite all at once, Richard's expression changes, surprise and wariness flaring up in those dark twilight eyes of his, dealing a blow to his casual mask. There is just a hint of gruff surprise to his voice now as he asks, "Ah... 'birds', dom'na? Which birds'd those be, then?" His hands part, one dropping to his side, the other to the table. "There were several birds," Cassandra returns thinly and simply, the motion of eyes attracted to the motion of his shifting hands without truly watching. "It was... the old eagle? No, no, the old eagle fell, so it was the younger eagle..." Her tone wavers in and out of audible ranges as her head lifts, working through the muddle of sights upon thoughts, and mundane sights mingled. "And the falcon too, that bird was not very kind." Filaments of silver weave into the tone, sterling sincerity that lends a bit of supporting volume to the voice. "They cast the rook from the skies, grounding him to the earth." Soft and mournful, disturbances ripple across her too-expressive visage, coiling the muscles near her jaw taut as eyes once again settle on Richard's face. Richard is a pale man by coloration -- but now, color drains further out of his cheeks, making his eyes seem an even darker blue. For a fraction of an instant he pulls in a tiny gasp of breath, and as he does, his stance turns abruptly rigid with shock, there where he sits across from the seeress. "I... I'm afraid ye've... lost me, dom'na," he says then. The words are ones of bemusement, of denial, but they don't go with the sudden stricken look that's come into his eyes. The language of his body and the language of his eyes is that of understanding... and maybe even a little fear. "I dinnae know who these other 'birds' may be..." A first, a second, and a third charmed blink cross over Cassandra's gaze in a haze of darkness, before the light within her gaze dims in a slow and subtle waning. "You do not?" she asks quietly, wingtips of her child's wings drooping down to brush against the line of her waist. The gaze still holds for a moment before flickering down to rest on her hands, already twitching from remaining still for that oh-so-long span of a couple of minutes. "I saw a man--not a bird, but a man--fall from the sky once. He was wounded mid-air and plummeted to the ground, and the Shadow Over The Sun came down to the ground to finish the task. Wings were stolen from his back with a pull of his mighty hands, where he was left to fade." Fingers skim up near her throat, absently toying with the Sibylla's pendant that dangles on a chain. "I... I suppose it reminded me." Stormclouds had settled over her face, her tone wan as she adds quietly, "My apologies - I have disturbed your meal long enough." "I was done," blurts Richard in hoarse tones, then, on his feet before he really realizes it, a little tremor shooting through his system and across his face as this strange woman before him speaks of wings being ripped from someone's back. He plasters on a smile that doesn't make it to his eyes, and which does nothing to dispel that stricken look within them. "Dinnae worry, sounds like ye just mighta made a logical mistake, eh dom'na?" he goes on then, in a tone that may well fall too glibly upon the ear. "Yes, perhaps.. that is what it was. A logical mistake," the halfbreed echoes in a heavy shadow of Richard's own words, dark and slight. How thick a mantle distraction becomes upon that delicate face, and it is difficult to see within such a state how truly convinced Cassandra is. The hand that does not nimbly toy with her pendant lifts to wearily knead along the front of her forehead as she plainly asks, "Where might I find you again, Deus Richard? Where might your home be?" Truly, she is not one fro the intricacies of decorum - they take far too long to remember and only serve to be an unsatisfying temper to a forged purpose. Richard's hand dips nimbly into a pocket, producing the coins he owes for the food he's consumed and dropping them with soft *clinks* onto the table. He hasn't missed that pendant, nor the style of the garments that Cassandra wears, and both of them contribute to the ever so slight over-swiftness of his movements. With a slight bow of his tousled dark head and that strained, not entirely earnest smile twisting his mouth, he replies, "'Tis in Bordertown I live and do me business, if ye're in need of a trader, or summat else I can provide... though as I say, I wouldnae, ah, know too much of these eagles and this falcon o' which ye're talkin', Dom'na Adeera. 'Tis only that a few o' me mates call me the Rook, y'ken?" This much is truth, but now, Richard isn't about to explain _why_ his acquaintances have given him that particular moniker. The hand against her forehead stays at the sound of clinking, drawing another swipe of lashes across Cassandra's eyes. "Deus?" inflections of the tone are slight, but nonetheless there is a slight neediness that clings to the hem of her voice. Just when it seemed that she had concluded, as well, that there was a mistake... when it seemed as though the nuances of his reactions were not absorbed... "I do not have a Faith of my own, so my only faith is that there are fates that guide the way things are to be. I take much of the same philosophy with my visions - I feel they come to me for a /reason/." The voice dips further then, threadbare and fraying around the strains of words, "I /will/ find out why I had that dreaming.... even if you do not wish me to. After all, it may very well be for your own good." Shaking her head a touch, the steel that had firmly set her face to quiet determination is gone, leaving her gaze dim and unfocused. Once more comes that glib, readily wielded smile... and now, at least if one looks only at the finely-cut lips that do the smiling, one might almost conclude that this man Richard has set aside his nervousness. One might draw that same conclusion from the tone and timbre of his voice, too, as he guilelessly returns, "Er... as ye will, dom'na. Couldna say I know aught o' visions. Good day, Dom'na Adeera." With that, then, he turns to take his leave, striding to the door in easy long-legged steps... and turning away the shadowed, haunted gaze that may well speak too clearly of whether he is, indeed, the rook who has been grounded to earth. [End log.]