"Matters of Faith"

Log Date:
	10/17, 10/18, 10/19/99

Log Cast:
	Rory, Richard

Log Intro:
	An impulsive surge of chivalry led Richard to try to save a Mongrel
slave from a pickpocket -- and that pickpocket got his revenge by ambushing 
Richard in the dead of night along with a hired compatriot. But Southpaw Rolf 
didn't count upon a friend of Richard's happening upon his little setup. Rory 
not only distracted his hired thug away from waylaying Richard, she also 
intervened in the fight... in time to kill Southpaw Rolf, but not in time to
prevent Richard from being wounded. Aghast by the injury Richard has taken,
she's managed to get him back to his little flat in Bordertown, and has for
the second time found herself in the position of having to take care of him,
for he has refused to see a healer. This time, however, the young Mongrel
woman does not have Empyreans to distract her from the task of seeing to
the restoration of his health...

----------
Dingy Flat - Bordertown - Haven
     A good amount of the living space in Bordertown is cramped, dimly lit, 
  and stuffy. This particular dingy little flat is no exception, at least when 
  it comes to those first two qualities. Situated as it is on the third floor 
  of the squalid building it occupies, with a narrow, high window at either 
  end of the room, one thing this place does boast is a flow of air during 
  most times of the year. The furnishings aren't much. Under the northern 
  window there's a bed with a lumpy mattress of rushes and a battered wooden 
  chest at one end; under the southern, a rickety table, two small stools, and 
  a low set of shelves. Most of the eastern wall is comprised of the crude 
  brick that went into the making of the chimney that runs the height of the 
  entire building, and which opens out into the room via a small hearth. 
  Illumination, when not provided by daylight or a fire in the hearth, comes 
  courtesy of the small lamp that hangs from the weathered wooden beam that 
  bisects the view of the underside of the building's slanted, shingled roof.
Contents:
Rory
Obvious exits:
Stairs <W>

The first rays of sunlight have barely breeched night's tight grasp, 
  sprinkling Haven with a touch of golden predawn. Soundless as her nature be, 
  Auvrey enters much the same as when she left. In her hands, however, is a 
  new ornament. A basket, different from the other for despite the tied flaps, 
  a delicious blend of aromas escape from within. Food. -Good- food. Setting 
  the basket upon a nearish chair, her eyes find Richard...

He hasn't moved much, and that's probably for the best given the state of his 
  stitched and bandaged waist. Fortunately for Richard, too, the early hours 
  in Gelthurn's boarding house mean that for all he's lying there defenseless, 
  there's at least somebody up to make sure that a stranger isn't going to 
  come up here and stab him while he sleeps... for defenseless he is, his 
  knife still out of reach. Years seem to have dropped off his face, with 
  those fine-boned features relaxed in his doze, despite the shadow of the 
  beard along his jawline. A comma of black strands of his hair has spilled 
  across his brow, punctuating the pale skin there.

Gentled fingers brush the small flow of ebon away from your brow with a 
  graceful stroke, a reserved portrait melding slowly into relaxed, open 
  curiosity and admiration upon Auvrey's features. The snowy onset within her 
  gaze muddies into a pale clay, her lower lip unconciously seized upon in an 
  absent nibble.

That gentle touch by itself is not enough to wake him -- and no surprise, 
  considering the blood he's lost and the strength that drained out of him 
  along with it. Richard does, however, release a small sigh at the fingertips 
  that stroke across his forehead and gently push back those raven strands. 
  And his head turns slightly in Auvrey's direction, his features open to her 
  scrutiny, as open as his bare torso had been before. That part of him is 
  still bare; he hasn't bothered to try to tug a blanket over himself, not 
  with the clement summer morning beginning to cast light and warmth into the 
  room.

Perhaps it is curiosity. Mayhaps that the half-naked gentleman is in such an 
  opened, undisturbed state that Auvrey is so explorative with her gaze. Shy, 
  yes, that same rosy hue to her cheeks brightening considerably as silver 
  glides from brow to jaw, investigative fingertips tentatively brushing 
  against stubble. Hmm, rather facinating that. As lashes lower, so do those 
  fabulous silvers, brightening once more as her snooping continues along to 
  neck, clavicle, and chest. The gnawing at her tenderized lip continues. 
  Tugtugtug.

If it is possible for something to be soft and rough at the same time, so is 
  the stubbled skin along this man's jawline. Like the tongue of a cat, except 
  dry, the beginnings of the beard striving to overtake the lower half of 
  Richard's countenance haven't yet done more than darkly accentuate the shape 
  of his features; even the dimple in his chin has merely been blurred and 
  softened by the shadow, not yet hidden. Much the same can be said of the 
  dark down lightly sprinkled over the chest that rises and falls in the slow 
  rhythms of slumber; it accentuates, rather than truly hiding, the details of 
  the muscles beneath. Nor does it hide the fact that there are scars on 
  Richard's front as well as his back -- albeit smaller, fainter. A line that 
  might have been dealt him by the fleeting graze of someone's knife or 
  perhaps a nail cuts an inch-long course along the very front of his right 
  shoulder, and the claws of some small creature left three diagonal tracks 
  just under his ribcage, just above the upper line of the cloth that's been 
  swathed about his middle.

Long fingers unfold to caress the downy sprinkling along such absolute 
  maleness. Yet, perhaps fortunately, the delectable aroma of sinful fare 
  begins to infiltrate Auvrey's sniffer, and reluctantly she rises from the 
  bedside at a rumble from within. Though her frame be slender, her tall 
  stature enables an ease in which she lifts and carries a chair over to the 
  bedside, the very same in which her wicker prize rests. Slumping it upon her 
  lap as she takes watch over her patient, Auvrey searches only a scant minute 
  before producing what may just be banana nut bread - a rare delicacy that 
  brings pure bliss to this simple mongrel woman.

Another faint sigh drifts forth from the sleeping man as his benefactor's 
  fingers trace along his chest... and then vanish again. Perhaps the contact 
  isn't quite enough to wake him, but when it is combined with the smell of 
  the bread and the sound of the shifting chair, it begins to make inroads 
  upon his consciousness. Wake up, Richard. Not safe to remain asleep, 
  tempting though it might be. Someone's... here. But what's that smell? No 
  one intending him harm would be setting foot in here with a smell like that 
  to accompany them, surely... and with this last thought unfolding across his 
  awareness, his eyes flutter open. "Mmm...?"

Caught in mid-snack, a guilty expression cannot help but float traitorously 
  across her face, and the last morsel of her small slice is digested before 
  she manages to greet the awakening man. "Good morrow Richard. I.. did not 
  mean to wake you." Apparently -some- of the foods are for her. "I brought 
  breakfast, if you would appreciate some now. Tea, as well, so that you might 
  regain your strength quicker." Hopefully it is nothing like that nasty root 
  she made you chew on just a few hours before.

"Goddess! My head..." Richard grimaces, lifting a hand up to rub a knuckle 
  against his closed eyes, realizing that his too-brief repose has left him 
  groggy, his wits feeling slow, thick. _If she'd been some crony of Rolf's 
  I'd be dead now and no one the wiser..._ Inwardly lambasting himself for his 
  lack of alertness, he peers up then, blearily. "Morning then, lass?" he 
  murmurs huskily.

"Aye, and not enough recovery time in sleep, unfortunately, which is why you 
  have such a monstrous headache. However, it would be best if you ate soonish 
  and sleep anon after." Ahh, finally Auvrey has returned to her normal, 
  composed, serene and logical self. Quite a contrast, this attitude, to the 
  rumors about redheads. "Is your stomache settled well enough to digest a few 
  morsels?" Though her knot had managed to stay in relatively one place during 
  the stitching, Auvrey's fiery tresses are no longer so kept. Several strands 
  have broken free to float nearly angelically to frame her face and drip down 
  her neck in sinful waves. One with such thick, wild tresses as her cannot 
  expect taming to last long, after all.

Nor does that hair escape Richard's notice for long. The flightless one lowers 
  his hand, his gaze straying to those errant tresses while he wonders to 
  himself if he imagined the wisp of a dream of her hand stroking along his 
  body, along his brow. Her question to him only half-registers; then he 
  starts ever so slightly, his attention shifting glassily back to her face 
  before his eyes close again in resignation. Enticing though the smell of the 
  bread may be, the various portions of his system are not quite in agreement 
  as to whether they want food and the overall reaction that comes out of that 
  clash of opinions is a reluctance to try to eat anything. _This is what you 
  get for not going anywhere near a healer, though, man,_ he reminds himself 
  grimly. And thus his eyes flicker open again, unveiling twilight blue. "I'll 
  put something down me," he concedes, rallying himself together to try to 
  haul himself a little higher along the rough pillow that's been supporting 
  his head.

Alarmed eyes automatically flutter to Richard's progress, ensuring at least 
  mentally that his progress is nowhere near endangering his newly stiched 
  hide. "Soup might be best at this juncture, so that your stomache does not 
  have to waste too much time digesting that would be better spent upon 
  healing." Setting the basket to her ankles, a hand delves within, 
  withdrawing a clay pot. Lid removed, cupped palms bring forth the healthy 
  substance. A variety of spices may be detected, many of which are Varati, 
  though the soup itself is not stingingly spicy, per se. Gentle. Tomato, a 
  flavor of chives and cream, a hint of basil and nutmeg, and a few 
  undertermined additives.

It is possibly fortunate for Rory's peace of mind -- not to mention 
  Richard's damaged body -- that he does not seem inclined to try to do more 
  than scoot himself up such that he is propped up a bit more where he lies, 
  not even truly sitting up, but at least no longer truly horizontal. 
  Determined not to appear any more feeble than necessary in front of this 
  woman for reasons he can't entirely grasp at the moment, he rasps once he's 
  done moving himself, "Soup, eh? All right." He can handle that, can't he? A 
  bit of a smile quirks into being, and he adds, "Some of that doesnae smell 
  like bread though, lass." A bit of the lilt is back, but not all of it; 
  force of habit, perhaps, set off against his physical exhaustion to play 
  havoc with the cadences of his speech.

"Nay, some are meats and cheeses and fruits, but methinks you should wait on 
  these for the time being. If you are forcing yourself to eat," ahh, she 
  -did- catch that, "Then it would be better to start with something simple 
  anyways." Wooden spoon gliding into the thick liquid, the dull, steaming pot 
  is offered yet again. "There are some breads within that you might enjoy as 
  well, if you have but ask." Yes, Auvrey did prepare for everything. Not very 
  surprising, considering how demanding her appetite usually is, and just what 
  neat and wonderful flavors she has been discovering, with her newly arrived 
  freedom.

His faint smile broadening slightly, Richard rolls himself onto his elbow, 
  enough to reach for the pot. "Thought I was smelling that," he murmurs 
  absently. Then, as he settles down again to investigate the contents of the 
  dish he's been handed, Auvrey's patient says dryly, "You sound as though 
  you've made a practice of doing this kind of thing, lass."

"Not so much for others, Richard," murmurs she with eyes that easily avert to 
  the window, gaze drawn easily outside. The contents are exactly as they 
  smell, with a few slivers of a white meat, shreds really. Easy for 
  digesting. With a steadying breath, Auvrey's gaze returns, a little too 
  intent upon remaining on the masculine face before her. "Have you felt any 
  warmth in your injury that would be abnormal?"

"You've trained, then, for keeping yourself hale?" Amusement glitters in those 
  eyes of dusk, as Richard cannot quite find it in himself to believe that 
  this flame-haired maiden has been teaching herself the art of a herbalist 
  simply due to one encounter with him laid low by sickness -- for how could 
  she have known he'd be ambushed by Southpaw Rolf? But in between spooning 
  down swallows of the spicy liquid in the pot, he adds gruffly, simply, "No."

"I have had to," is all she offers, voice a just a tad hoarse, a cold or 
  something. Her gaze remains steady, however, penetrating and unreachable in 
  itself, outside of the gentility that is her essence. "Bread?" comes her 
  clearer querie, hands already dipping into the basket. Subject change, 
  anyone?

Very softly, belying the amusement that had glittered in his eyes a few 
  moments ago, Richard murmurs, "You've done well, Auvrey-lass." Just that, 
  and nothing more; no pity voiced for Haven's having taught her hard lessons. 
  No prying around the secrets he can hear kept away beneath the surface of 
  her words, for all that his curiosity drives him to find a way in past that 
  defense, to find a solution to this puzzle that is building itself before 
  him in the shape of a redheaded, silver-eyed young woman with the body and 
  beauty of a fine noble lady... the skill to drive a dagger into a man 
  attacking him... and a childlike innocence lurking somewhere beneath it all. 
  But the wounded man she tends is also a patient one, and he bides his time, 
  choosing to go with her attempt at deflecting him rather than press his luck 
  -- especially when his wits are still slightly scattered. "And aye, I'll 
  have a bite of bread."

One appears nearly magically, a slice of warm, buttered bread, slightly cooled 
  from the early morning walk. "There is banana bread as well, but I hardly 
  think it complimentary for your present meal," quietly offers Auvrey, chin 
  chucking downwards at the casually offered compliment. "Imphadai Opal has, 
  yet again, provided much of this meal. If you enjoy it, I would suggest 
  seeking her resteraunt for a passage of meals."

"Right now," murmurs Richard wryly, "I'm enjoyin' bein' alive, my dear." He 
  applies himself for a time to the slow and methodical elimination of the 
  fare he's been given; indeed, though he is not eating with any great 
  appetite, he's showing all the signs of making himself accept the sustenance 
  out of the knowledge that his body needs it even if his mind thinks it does 
  not. After he's made more inroads on the bread and soup, however, he goes 
  on, "And I'm enjoyin' your company, Auvrey, for all that I appear to be... 
  less than a scintillating conversationalist at the moment. You offered once 
  to tell me of your god... now seems like a good time, eh?"

Sunshine alights her cheeks, and not just through the window panes, either. "I 
  did not expect you to carry conversation at all, Richard. It is a good sign 
  that you do." And that he is not incoherent, like last time. Quirking her 
  head to one side, a goodly amount of carmine spills with silken waves over 
  her shoulder, puddling in her lap as she settles back into the chair. "If 
  you are willing to hear so, then I am willing to speak." As the invitation 
  was opened, so does she begin to do so now. "Khalid Atar is not, perhaps, 
  the most gentle of deities, if you follow the many different deities that 
  have been worshipped. He does, however, exist and has long been ruler over 
  the Varati people." A thoughtful frown at that. "I am not quite sure where 
  you wish me to begin, whether with His histories or with why it is He whom I 
  follow."

Richard smiles, narrowly. "I'm... dizzy, lass, not dead." He doesn't bother to 
  clarify that he's suffered far worse pain than a little scratch across his 
  belly -- that this, by comparison, is almost a prick in the finger. But the 
  momentary flare of irony subsides as he falls to listening, studying the 
  shifts in Rory's position and the tones she chooses to use when speaking of 
  the God-King of the Varati. "Start where it seems natural," he advises, his 
  expression almost wry again. "I've time enough to spare at the moment, 
  y'ken?"

A sensual chuckle rumbles deep within, and Auvrey inclines her head in silent 
  acknowledgement. "Then I suppose I should begin with why my faith is so 
  strong. His glory is partially by sight. It is difficult to follow a 
  God-King or another deity if never you have seen him before. It is why so 
  many stray from their own religions, I feel, because no basis has really 
  been there in their lifetimes, or any close to them. Whereas, Khalid has 
  appeared in countless places, known to have lived for thousands of years. If 
  none else could offer proof of His power, this alone would." A pause. "When 
  I was captured by the Hand and sold into Imphadi Faisal's household, I 
  chaffed at many restraints. It was difficult, adjusting, though perhaps I 
  should not bother with the tedious details. Suffice to say, I spent a great 
  deal of time observing others, and my free time reading on the then strange 
  Varati people. And I began to believe. Mayhaps because when I prayed I felt 
  a warmth I had never known. It allowed me... to cope.. with much." A very 
  long pause. "And then I was given to Imphadi Kiral Khalida." Eyes lower to 
  her lap, and those delicate hands folded therein. "He taught me many hard 
  lessons. During one of.. these.. lessons.. my faith in Khalid Atar became 
  binding. My god-king brought me from the brink of a painful, disgraceful 
  dying. His fire lit through me. Healed me in soul, mind, and body." 
  Reflection and memories colour her tone, with a mixture of intense sorrow 
  and poignant joy. "I had been broken. A broken mongrel, at that," a wry 
  smile lingers in her words. "Where my faith had been strong before, knowing 
  as I did of Khalid Atar's rulings and histories, nothing had prepared me for 
  the fire that burst in me, feeding me." A sad smile lifts, to pinpoint a 
  busy spoon and mouth, and slide upwards to meet dark blues. "I suppose it is 
  a farfetched story for you. It would have been for me, but three years ago. 
  But then, I had no concept of a great many things, then."

More and more pieces of the puzzle. Richard listens to this accounting, 
  letting the words fall on his ears with almost more attention to the sound 
  of the maiden's voice rather than the words she utters; oh, aye, he's heard 
  people profess faith in gods before. Even Khalid Atar. But because this is 
  Auvrey before him, he listens with a bit more open a mind than he'd grant 
  anyone else. _Whether or not the God-King is really a god,_ he muses, _-she- 
  believes._ As she speaks, he paces himself through the consumption of the 
  soup and bread, finding it almost a relief when he finishes off the small 
  breakfast. And as he wipes up the last remaining drops of soup with the last 
  morsel of bread, he asks with arching brows, "Why do you think matters of 
  faith would be farfetched to me?" One question, no more, challenge and 
  interest intermingled in his eyes.

"Because your faith in your world was taken away," answers Rory frankly. "It 
  is easier for someone who never knew faith to learn and believe than for 
  someone who has had their world ripped out from beneath them to let down 
  enough guard to learn how to believe in anything again." Also something this 
  woman has managed to pick up along the line.

Those straightforward, earnest words cut through the wounded, wingless one, 
  though all the sign he allows himself to show of it is a darkening, a 
  distance that comes across his gaze like a cloud crossing a sunset sky. 
  _Your faith in your world was taken away._ It's almost funny, though Richard 
  doesn't laugh. Very slowly, he sinks down along his pillow again, eyes on 
  the maiden all the while. "Auvrey," he inquires quietly, "what color do you 
  think my wings were, eh?"

Delicate hands arch forward, securing the emptied pot and returning it to the 
  basket, along with it's lid and accompanying spoon. "I am not entirely sure, 
  truth to tell. I tend to believe they were white, instead of coloured, but 
  only because of something you said while you were so incoherent." Her gaze 
  does not slink away to hide, but instead shines with truth as they meld into 
  his.

_Something I said--?_ No, Richard thinks, he doesn't want to pursue that 
  uncomfortable thought. It suggests too much vulnerability displayed in front 
  of this creature who shifts from innocent maiden to competent woman and back 
  again. He refuses to look away, but an old weariness combined with a new one 
  born of his current depleted strength keeps his eyes darkly unreadable and 
  twists the finely molded mouth outlined by the infant beard into something 
  only passingly related to a smile. "I'm told," he explains then, "that I was 
  born with a fine dark head of hair that gave my poor mother quite the fit 
  when she beheld me for the first time. But that was nothing compared to the 
  fit everyone in the House threw when my wings began to grow in. One's hair 
  and wings do tend to match, you see." Draw the obvious conclusion, 
  Auvrey-lass.

She obviously drew the wrong ones to begin with, though her mind is quick 
  enough to have figured this part of it out once more. "I am told many 
  Empyreans do not loose their wings, despite darkness. Shunned, often in more 
  than one way, but not removed." An invitation to speak to her more of this, 
  but Auvrey, gentle lass that she is, leave no impression of pressing for 
  details. Her crystalline eyes lower, however, quickly raking downwards in 
  avoidance of certain attractive muscles, to check the bandages. Weariness 
  duly noted.

Odd. Warnings and cautions are flaring up all over the back of his mind, 
  trying to drag him back from revealing too much to the one who has stitched 
  him back together -- but Richard realizes in some bemusement that there is a 
  curious sensation of relief within him as well, even after having disclosed 
  what little he has. Not trusting that nascent sentiment, he takes the 
  opportunity to close his eyes while the Mongrel maiden diverts her 
  attention, close his eyes and try to rally his wits. An almost silent, 
  sardonic chuckle escapes him then, starting down low in his chest and 
  involuntarily setting off a sting of pain. The chuckle modulates to a soft 
  hiss, and Richard's hand twitches of its own accord to his middle. _Well, I 
  wanted a distraction..._ "Oh, aye," he rasps. "We might be prideful 
  bastards, every last one of us, but we're hardly so crass as to yank out a 
  lad's wings just because we don't happen to like their color."

Concern etches, finely tuned, across Auvrey's brow, her hand lifting his and 
  urging it away as another gently feels along the indentions within these 
  bandages. Good. At least he didn't bust a gut. No reprimand is forthcoming, 
  however, as most likely it should be. "Although that too has been known to 
  be done, Richard." The same fingers rise to brush back ebon locks once more, 
  before collecting into her lap.

As his hand is moved, Richard turns it in the grasp of the slender fingers 
  that hold it, just enough to let his fingertips brush along Auvrey's own. 
  But he also lets her set his hand where she will, primarily interested in 
  his continued scrutiny of the delicate cast of her features... and then, 
  distracted by the way that hand of hers graces his brow, fleeting as a 
  spring breeze ruffling his hair. It would be easy, very easy, to lose 
  himself in the seductive desire to trust as long as his benefactress tempts 
  him with those feather-light touches. His eyes flutter shut and then open 
  again in reaction before he catches himself enough to murmur in smooth 
  acknowledgement, "Some Houses practice such things. And some lawless ones in 
  Haven. But on the whole we tend to frown, collectively speaking, upon such 
  blatantly honest cruelty." Once again his mouth twists into a not-smile.

Silver finds those lips with ease, for a split second wondering just how to 
  turn the thing into something of pleasured uplift. That could be, most 
  likely, why Auvrey's cheeks heat as though connected to a modern-day 
  furnace. Or mayhaps it was the gift of caress, nothing demanding nor 
  forceful in such a response from the man. Collect yourself, woman. The 
  internal reminder is enough to jolt Auvrey's gaze away and have her 
  methodically settle back into her chair. Collect. Right. What were they 
  talking about again? Oh yes.. "It is your privacy, Richard, and I shall not 
  intrude upon the pain. I am, however, here to listen, if you need an ear or 
  a shoulder lent."

To tell her, or not to tell her? Memory makes a weight in the back of his 
  mind, pulls at his bare shoulderblades for all that he's lying upon them. 
  Still not entirely trusting to this sense of vulnerability lurking about 
  him, Richard chooses to deflect it... telling himself that he doesn't want 
  to sully Auvrey's apparent faith in the world and her god by presenting her 
  with such a sordid tale. "Perhaps in a future conversation," he whispers 
  then. "I believe we were talking about faith, aye? Suffice to say... I 
  haven't had much since I was six."

No no, she only has faith in Khalid Atar. Huge difference. Still and all, her 
  head bobs in silent acknowledgement. She'll leave the subject be, despite 
  the avid curiosity that never seems to leave the poor chit alone. "Faith, 
  sometimes, is not the easiest thing to live with either," she murmurs, feet 
  slipping from her sandals to tuck beneath the flowing silk. "How was the 
  soup?"

Truth be told, he'd barely tasted it, in the effort to simply make himself eat 
  and replenish his energies. But Richard smiles a more honest smile this time 
  and assures his young visitor, "Better than I think I'm able to give it 
  credit for, right now." A pause, and then he adds gently, "If there's aught 
  I've got faith in, lass... it's the kindness of Mongrels." A twinkle 
  momentarily lightens his eyes, a glint of humor offsetting his weariness. 
  "Most of them, at any rate. I've an issue or two with the ilk of Southpaw 
  Rolf."

A ray of high pleasure bursts across Auvrey's face, even as she lowers it 
  slightly. "I thank you. Your words are equally as kind, Richard." A 
  thoughtful frown. "Where are the children?" Ok, so that has been niggling at 
  the edge of her mind since she stepped into the room, but as of now, there 
  really was no great opportunity to ask.

Speaking of the kindness of Mongrels... "They're with Kate," comes Richard's 
  reply, "the grand old dame who makes my shirts. For the time being, at any 
  rate."

Something seems to ... relax within Auvrey's demeanor. At least he did not 
  mention Cynara. "I have spoken to the couple I told you of earlier. They're 
  income is reasonable, and after a lengthy discussion, I am sure they would 
  make wonderful serogate parents. However, my perception may be different 
  than yours, and as you may have someone else in mind, I will leave it to you 
  to tell me if you wish to set up a meeting with either of them."

The subtle release in the Mongrel maiden's face and frame does not escape 
  Richard's keen regard. "My primary hope," he says softly, "is to keep 'em 
  safe. For Dorcas and Jacob's sakes. If this couple you know can do that, 
  lass, I'll talk to 'em." Another smile, then, tired, amused. "And then the 
  bairns can. 'Tis their decision, when you get down to it, but I'll be giving 
  them the best options I can."

"Most would not go through the trouble you have, Richard. I can only thank you 
  for your consideration, and admire you." It cannot be easy, this. "They will 
  provide well with love, support, and financial stability these two young 
  ones. And Kane is a rather strapping man." He can take care of more than 
  just himself, obviously. Bare, dainty feet untuck from beneath her, toes 
  slipping into her sandals. "It is near time for you to rest, Richard. I 
  would not overtire you."

Richard smiles faintly, noting the incongruity of being thanked by Auvrey for 
  looking after a pair of children to whom she has no tie herself. Moreover, 
  he flicks a lean hand in a gesture of dismissal, claiming, "Had I any 
  bairns, Jacob would have done the same for me." Again, the kindness of 
  Mongrels. The wingless one's eyes go darker for a moment, though he doesn't 
  elaborate upon what memories of this man Jacob he might be experiencing. And 
  before his companion might get it into her head to debate his alleged 
  nobility with him -- a topic which Richard doesn't particularly care to 
  explore -- he shifts himself carefully where he lies, trying to find a more 
  comfortable position while allowing his eyes to close. "And I'll sleep, 
  lass."

A cleanly satisfied gaze regards him with a touch of open fondness as Auvrey 
  rises, her fingers once again soothing across his brow, this time for 
  comfort. It is fleeting, her touch, as hands lower to tug a blanket a bit 
  further upwards, to cover bare flesh. "Would you wish me to damper the 
  window, Richard, so the sunlight does not disturb your slumber?" queries she 
  with a soft lilt.

Without bothering to look up, Richard murmurs, "Half my sleep's during the 
  day. I'm fine." These words come out of him rather more softly, slumber 
  already beckoning away his awareness now that his lean frame has fuel with 
  which to replenish itself. In moments, his breathing begins to soften and 
  slow, dropping into the rhythms of sleep.

Part woman and part mother gaze upon the slumbering form for long moments, 
  before a long, deep breath rattles through her slender frame. No, best not 
  to give into any more urges. He is, after all, sleeping. Quietly, the 
  breakfast- and lunch-bearing basket is shimmied off to one side, kept out of 
  foot's way. Only a faint swishing of silks allows her departure to be heard. 
  That, and the faint clicking of a latched door.

[End log.]