"Jenean Comes Calling"

Log Date:
	10/21/99

Log Cast:
	Jenean, Richard

Log Intro:
	The Rook has been wounded, courtesy of the thief Southpaw Rolf, who'd
gone vengeful over Richard's chasing him off a Mongrel woman enslaved to the
Varati. Fortunately for Richard -- and unfortunately for Rolf -- the lovely
redheaded Rory arrived on the scene and dispatched the villain without a
qualm. Unfortunately for Richard, she did not reach him in time to keep the
murderous thug from getting in a good blow to his middle. And so now does
Richard lie wounded in his little flat, trying his best to recover his
strength. He has sent his two small wards Roki and Elette to be looked after
by the seamstress Kate, and Rory has come by more than once to look in on
him... but there are others who have noted his evident disappearance....

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Duskside)
          Date on Aether:  Tuesday, June 11, 3905.
           Year on Earth:  1505 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  First Quarter
                  Season:  Summer
                 Weather:  Clear Skies
             Temperature:  Hot
*==========================================================================*

You hear a knocking coming from Stairs <W>

Jenean comes in from the stairs.
Jenean has arrived.

Jenean
Wayward red-brown locks touched with grey, in tumbling curls most of the way 
  down her back, frame a slightly older, worldly-wise face. Sea-blue eyes 
  dance with amusement, taking in everything around them, and lips quirk in a 
  smile. Jenean's frame is slim, yet shapely, of slightly above average 
  height. 
A bright, full, multicoloured skirt swirls around her legs, over which she's 
  wearing a plain linen blouse, whose lacings are undone enough to reveal much 
  more than a hint of cleavage. Her movements are graceful, yet somehow 
  sensuous. 
A white Empyrean pinfeather - too big to be anything else - is cunningly 
  worked into the mane down her back, held in place by a quick plaiting of 
  three strands of hair. In addition to that, she has a dark cloth choker 
  round her neck, a gem the blue of her eyes set in gold at the hollow of her 
  throat. 

Richard
     His skin is pale; accordingly, he must not be a Varati. There are no 
  visible gills or fins along his slim frame; thus, he is surely not Atlantean. 
  No Sylvan would have eyes of that stormy gray-touched blue, and his ears are
  not pointed. Surely no Empyrean's hair would be as black as coal, as black
  as shadow -- and at any rate, he has no wings. So, then, he must be a
  Mongrel. That, certainly, is the race he claims if he is asked. Such claims
  of his, along with most everything else he utters, are delivered with an
  ever so slight glint of irony to those blue eyes, and in a tenor voice whose
  faint lilting accents add a touch of music and refinement to the rough-edged
  street patois of Haven. Refined, too, are his fine-boned features, despite
  the shadow of a beard that darkens his jawline and the generally disheveled
  state of his short dark hair. One might guess him to be somewhere in his
  early thirties; his face and frame and movements are all those of a man past
  youth and not long into his prime.
     He is currently only half-clad, wearing nothing but a pair of brown 
  silwar on which might be noted small rust-hued stains -- which may have 
  something to do with the strips of cloth wound in a thick layer around his 
  middle. Richard's bared upper body is leanly defined; a fine dark down of 
  hair accentuates the lines of the muscles along his chest. Here and there 
  small scars can be spotted along his front, but only if he turns his back to 
  an observer -- something he seems to take great pains to avoid doing -- can 
  much more extensive scarring be seen there.

From within, Richard's tenor voice sounds out -- a trifle more raggedly than 
  usual. "Here... hold a moment..." It takes several moments, in fact, before 
  the door is opened on a haggard-featured Richard who promptly blinks in 
  apparent groggy surprise as he realizes who's out in the corridor. 
  Unthinkingly he blurts, "Jenean--" And then he staggers backwards a step or 
  two, rubbing a hand across his eyes and trying to reorient himself. The man 
  looks a wreck, black hair disheveled, a new beard claiming his jawline, his 
  eyes hollowed and drawn -- and the bandages swathed around his middle may 
  well be a signal as to why. "Tyche. I was t' come an' talk with ye..."

Jenean tsks. "Not in that state, I hope." The fact that she looks.. warm, not 
  a little tousled, and ..well, pretty doesn't cover it.. is probably lost on 
  him. A sigh and an arm round his shoulders. "Sit." Most definitely an order, 
  and backed up by leading him back to the bed and gently forcing him to do 
  so. "Y' look dreadful, love."

For a fraction of an instant Richard stiffens as that arm is put into place -- 
  on shoulders unhidden by any shirt. But the fleeting oddness in his 
  expression vanishes in the next heartbeat as the man permits himself to be 
  led, backwards, to settle once again onto his rumpled bed, his face and his 
  bare chest to his unexpected visitor all the while. A wraith of a smile 
  curls his mouth, then. "Ach, well... tell me summat I dinnae know..." The 
  words are hoarse, and they trail off into a hiss drawn in through white 
  teeth as he sits himself down.

Jenean ums. "Y'look like death warmed over?" An impish smile, the arm staying 
  around his shoulders as she sits next to him. "What in th' hells happened, 
  mm?"

Eyes of twilight blue, unreadable despite the sardonic smile tugging at his 
  lips, further hide any secrets within them by dropping closed. Richard's 
  posture is awkward, still, one arm curled around his bandaged waist and the 
  other's hand pressed into the mattress of rushes, keeping him upright and 
  still turned towards the woman who's sat next to him. "Little accident with 
  a knife," he whispers dryly. "Happened t' be in someone's hand at the time."

Jenean tuts. "Ye better off lyin' down?" She scrutinises him, tsks, faintly. 
  "Can't leave ye alone fer a day..."

"I _was_ lyin' down till ye knocked," rasps Richard in answer. Many men might 
  protest that they're fine and stubbornly stay vertical when so obviously 
  wounded; not so this one, at least not at the moment. Instead, a few slow 
  painful inches at a time, Richard scoots himself backwards towards the wall 
  behind him until he can swing his feet up without smacking Jenean with them, 
  a laborious process. As he works on this he adds almost blithely, "'Tis 
  incorrigible I am, and no mistake."

Jenean tsks. "Stubborn, more like." She perches on the edge of the bed next to 
  him. "Daft question fer ye, then. D'ye want me t'find ye a healer?"

Now that the apparently herculean task of getting his feet on the bed is 
  accomplished, Richard levers himself carefully downward, his tousled dark 
  head making its way for his pillow. Eyes closed, teeth gritted, he manages 
  to shake his head. "Won't... willnae be necessary." _Now_, it seems, he's 
  stubborn.

Jenean snorts. "I'm s'posed t'watch ye do *that* an' then believe ye?"

At last, Richard is horizontal. And horizontal is good. Relief lessens some of 
  the strain in the refined cast of his features as he takes a few moments to 
  force himself to breathe evenly and to convince his muscles to try to relax. 
  After that he says huskily, "Far be it from me t' set th' course of a lady's 
  beliefs." Something like the charming smile he usually wields with such 
  facility quirks into being again.

Jenean shakes her head. "An' if I turned up on th' doorstep with a healer fer 
  nothin', y'd send me away, I s'pose, y'daft sod." She leans down, smooths 
  his hair with an oddly tender gesture. "Men."

Ach, that feels good. Richard blows out a breath under the attentions of those 
  fingers at his brow even as he murmurs faintly, "Ye show up on a man's 
  doorstep with _anything_, Jenean, he's daft to send ye packing." The lilt in 
  his voice is softer than usual, perhaps due to his depleted strength, but 
  paradoxically his enunciation is clearer. Then the dusk-colored eyes open up 
  again. "I didnae forget your need for mages, but I've been... a trifle 
  distracted." With a gash in his belly, but he doesn't point that out -- 
  understatement being a trait he's exhibited along with stubbornness in his 
  years in Haven.

Jenean's eyes dance. "I'm bettin' if I showed up on most men's doorstep with 
  *nothin'* they'd let me in, too." Wicked she is, but that hand continues to 
  soothe his brow. Gently, "Y'got a decent excuse: I ain't complainin'."

"Ach, cruel woman," parries Richard, "plantin' such a thought in my head when 
  I've only just now lain myself down again..." Oh, Tyche, that feels good 
  too. His thoughts wander off for a moment at the sensation of those 
  fingertips against his skin.

Jenean sighs, softly. "Daft, ye are." Cool fingers against his temples. "So. 
  Since I'm here..."

His eyes drift fully closed, making dark crescents of his lashes above his 
  cheekbones while he lets himself indulge for a few moments in the luxury of 
  that gentle massage. But Richard's mind remains clear, and at those last 
  words he looks up again. Is this about the sought mages, or something else, 
  eh? His azure gaze searching, curious, he asks, "Aye?"

Jenean laughs. "Any word on folks who might fit what I was askin' about?"

Mages, then. Richard grins wearily and says, "Well, m'dear... only th' most 
  general of words, for what ye told me was 'mages' and 'not Delphi'. I'm 
  personally acquainted with a few, aye... though I daresay ye may well know 
  some of the same ones yourself." The grin fades down, however, as he goes 
  on, "A few I knew died in the plague. One I know left Haven and hasnae been 
  seen since. I could get ye more on 'em, if ye wanna be tellin' me what 
  flavor o' mage ye might be wantin'."

Jenean runs a hand through her hair. "Pretty much any, far as I c'n tell. I 
  believe th' person's willin' t' pay fer magic an' fer teachin'."

Black brows crook up over Richard's eyes as he absorbs this nugget of 
  knowledge. "Lookin' for students, then, this person?"

Jenean shakes her head. "Teachers."

Richard's brows climb a little higher, in a sort of 'isn't _that_ interesting' 
  look. "Supposin' I was to find a suitable mage, then... send 'im to you?"

Jenean nods. "Can, or if y'like I can set up a meetin'."

Blowing out another sigh, Richard does not bother to nod; moving, in general, 
  seems a rather repellent option for the time being. He does, however, 
  promise hoarsely, "I'll see what I can do, then. One or two o' the mages I 
  know may be drawn out for money; one or two for your charm, luv." Another 
  hint of a smile, a glitter in the exhausted eyes.

Jenean laughs, softly. "I ain't sure my charm's on offer." She straightens his 
  hair again. "So what happened to th' bastard who tried t'carve ye, handsome?"

That, too, provokes an odd glitter in Richard's eyes, a slightly stranger 
  smile, half-feral and half... almost bemused. "Little accident with a 
  knife," he drawls, "in someone's hand at the time." The smile flickers away, 
  but the strangeness in his countenance does not. "A... friend got him for 
  me."

Jenean just mmhms. Quietly. "Y'oughta be more careful. Folks'd miss ye."

Richard's gaze rests evenly now upon the knowing, sympathetic features above 
  his own, and it occurs to him to wonder exactly what has changed as of late 
  that the driving heart of the Siren's Song is here in his cramped little 
  room... and whether she's counting herself among these mentioned 'folks'. 
  All he says, however, is a tiredly wry, "I'll be keepin' a sharper eye out 
  for any who wish t' slice me in twain, I promise."

Jenean shakes her head, laughing. "Hopeless man."

"A failin' of m' sex," comes the prompt reply.

Jenean mms. "An' we love ye fer it."

"Would that be m'sex in general," Richard inquires guilelessly, his playful 
  tone contradicting the worn state of his face and the battering his body has 
  taken, "or me in particular, eh?"

Jenean shakes hair off her face. "Depends on who yer askin'."

"Ahhh... well now..." Surprised, is he? Richard may well be, if the brief 
  widening of his eyes is any sign. But he recovers quickly. "I'd no idea it 
  was a matter of debate."

Jenean leans down, hair brushing his cheek, and plants a light kiss on his 
  brow. "Y'have too low an' opinion of yerself by half, hon." Gently, "I'd 
  hate not t'see yer face in th' Siren any more."

Richard has been accused of many character flaws over the years -- but very 
  rarely is an insufficient amount of self-esteem one of them. That the 
  cyprian's words might not be off the mark, however, might just perhaps be 
  glimpsed in the odd way he stares up at her now... and his lack of argument. 
  His eyes flutter shut and then open again at the caress of hair, the touch 
  of lips. And he whispers, for once showing no sign of irony, "Thank you, 
  Jen."

Jenean smiles down at him. Softly, "Yer welcome. An' I might even let ye away 
  with callin' me Jen."

Fighting back a blink of surprise, Richard segues into a light teasing grin 
  and murmurs, "Ye make me feel a veritable rogue, ye do."

Jenean quirks a wicked little smile, eyes dancing. "I like rogues."

Mischief glimmers in Richard's stare as he points out, deadpan, "And here I'm 
  the one half-naked an' flat on m' back before ye." His smile flares up 
  again, sharp full of meaning. "Seems t' me I'm not th' only rogue in the 
  room."

Jenean shakes hair back off her face. Laughs, huskily. "Never said I wasn'. 
  Ain;'t you ain't sat in the Siren an' seen me afore." Rogue doesn't *begin* 
  to cover it, not on a good night.

The prone man draws in a long and mock-sorrowful sigh; a wince then flickers 
  across his features for an instant, as that deep breath pulls at wounded 
  flesh. "Is this a sneaky way of sellin' me on bringin' me a healer?" he 
  challenges then.

Jenean snorts. "Sneaky be damned. Next time I visit, I'm bringin' one." Thoe 
  blue eyes dare him to refuse.

He is silent for only a fraction of a heartbeat longer than normal -- but it's 
  enough to give Richard's visitor a glimpse of the look that flashes across 
  his face, that of a man who's just been threatened with having hot coals 
  thrust up against his body, rather than the hands of a healer. But the look 
  is gone as quickly as it came, as the wounded one glibly inquires, "If I say 
  aye, will ye have to invent new names t' call me?"

Jenean shakes her head, chuckling softly: something in those blue eyes, 
  though, tells him she saw that brief flicker. "I'll bring a healer, ok? An' 
  y'can talk t'her, an' then decide." Gently, "She's cute, mind."

If anything, Richard grows more glib, now -- making up for that momentary 
  flash of... whatever it was... in his expression? Silkily, he points out, 
  "Every one o' your lasses is cute, m'dear."

Jenean smirks. "She ain't one of my lasses, wiseguy." She reaches down and 
  smooths his hair again. Gentler, "That needs lookin' at, sweetheart, an' if 
  y'were honest with yerself, y'd agree." Softly. "S'folks need ye up an' 
  about. Sides, if y'carry on like y'are, y'll open it again tryin' t'do 
  more'n y'should." An oddly tender smile. "An' don' argue, mm? I know ye 
  better'n y'might wish I did."

There are things he _could_ say to argue... but for the time being, Richard 
  simply does not have the strength. His gaze turns odd again at the 
  suggestion that he might be 'needed', but as his thick ebon hair is brushed 
  back from his forehead, he says nothing more than a resigned, "Bring your 
  healer, then... I'll speak with 'er."

Jenean sighs softly, and leans down to kiss his brow lightly once more. "Oh, 
  Richard..." Delivered in a tone which makes it clear she's been a mother. 
  Boys.. and men.. will be ever this way.

"Just... gimme a spot of warnin' when ye bring 'er, aye?" Richard gravely 
  requests, almost... distractedly. There is a hint of rigid control lurking 
  somewhere beneath the surface of his demeanor, despite his apparent 
  resignation. A mother Jenean might have been, but evidently this man resists 
  mothering with every scrap of strength in his slim frame.

Jenean can't resist the softly teasing, "Why?" Eyes dancing. "I like ye 
  without yer shirt."

"So I can know it's you," Richard answers, with a small smile that doesn't 
  quite reach his eyes, "and can put away m' knife, y'ken?" Mastery of topic 
  avoidance: another skill this man has demonstrated over the years.

Jenean chuckles. "Ok. I'll do that."

He'll accept that, for now. The ghost of a smile still haunts his mouth, as he 
  then admits, "And... much as I hate to close my eyes on your pretty face, 
  love... I'd... best be sleepin'." Richard's voice turns gruff, ever so 
  slightly embarrassed, the closest he may well allow himself to admitting to 
  pain.

Jenean sashays to the door - his loss if he isn't looking, and offers, over 
  her shoulder "I'll be seein' ye, ok?"

Richard's smile turns just a trifle larger; he might have closed his eyes, but 
  this doesn't mean his imagination isn't quite detailed. And he murmurs 
  wearily, "See ye 'round, Jenean." Even if it'll be with a healer...

Jenean heads downstairs and out into the street.
Jenean has left.

[End log.]