"Rescue in the Dark of Night"

Log Date:
	10/15, 10/16, 10/17/99

Log Cast:
	Rory, Richard, NPC Mongrel thug (emitted by Richard), Southpaw
Rolf (NPC emitted by Richard)

Log Intro:
	Bordertown is a dangerous place to be on a summer's night -- but
now that he's on his feet again after recovering from the plague, Richard
has embraced the perils of his chosen profession with renewed vigor. Only
two considerations are distracting him from his pilfering of Empyrean
valuables: the motives of Cynara, the Lady of Thorns, in asking for the
two Mongrel children that have fallen into his care after the deaths of 
their parents. And his own reactions to a Mongrel called Rory, who has
somehow managed to get under his skin ever since _her_ assistance to him
during his illness. Very possibly due to this selfsame Mongrel, the Rook
has found himself recently compelled to save another Mongrel woman from a
fellow thief called Southpaw Rolf. But that particular miscreant has not
taken at all kindly to Richard depriving him of what he considered his 
rightful prey, and tonight, he plans to take his revenge...
	But tonight, Richard and Rolf are not the only ones abroad in the
most dangerous part of Haven. And Rory is about to come to Richard's aid
again....

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Dawnside)
          Date on Aether:  Friday, May 30, 3905.
           Year on Earth:  1505 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Crescent
                  Season:  Spring
                 Weather:  Breeze
             Temperature:  Comfortable
*==========================================================================*

The inky curtain of night usually weeds out those wise enough or innocent 
  enough from others of.. a darker ilk. Usually. After all, what time better 
  but under the cover of darkness to enact illegalities without being 
  detected? Yet, still and all there are indeed occassions where others roam 
  the streets, those out of place with the night. One such is Auvrey, an ebon 
  cloak slung carelessly over her shoulders in the spring air, revealing those 
  same, Khalida coloured silks beneath.

It is under the cover of darkness that Richard has been operating all night. 
  This night, like many of his others previously, has been long and exhausting 
  -- but tonight, not without profit. The fruits of tonight's labors have been 
  safely stowed away in one of his many hiding places all over the city, 
  although with the disguise that gave him better access into certain portions 
  of the Empyrean quarter. Now, under the cover of darkness, he steals like a 
  shadow through the darkened byways and alleyways, taking a circuitous route 
  from the Empyrean quarter and into the Varati one... and from there into 
  Bordertown. Despite the cover of darkness, he moves with purpose, neither 
  too hurried nor too slow, at one with the shadows around him -- upholding 
  the truism that the best way to get around not belonging to a particular 
  place or time is to look as though you do.
And under the cover of darkness, Richard is followed. He realizes this ten 
  minutes after the shadow appears in his wake -- and the moment he spots his 
  all-too-interested tail, he picks out another one across the street.

Azure eyes flick a piercing stare through darkness's concealing blanket, 
  sizing up Richard's immediate surroundings... who all else might be in 
  obvious or inobvious sight... and his avenues of escape. And not once does 
  he stop walking.

A gentle tune begins to float from Auvrey's lips, lulling and divine with 
  husky alto vibrato. Strangely enough, it is towards the larger tail of 
  Richard's that she begins to head towards. Purposely. There is no doubt of 
  her destination's intent, though perhaps the why's and wherefores can easily 
  fall under serious questioning. Silver flashes as a torch passed lingers, 
  sooty lashes narrowed. With each step, too, comes an air of anticipation. 
  Readying. Catlike in stealth as all sound disappears from the ex-street rat.

Sound carries oddly well through the mostly deserted streets, and wisps of 
  that soothing humming reach the ears of the big Mongrel on Richard's tail... 
  the smaller Mongrel... and Richard himself. But only the man nearest Rory 
  gives any immediate sign of it, stirring suspiciously in the patch of shadow 
  in which he'd been hiding. Where's that creepy humming coming from? Should 
  he be paying attention to it, when the mark is already in sight?

The other Mongrel has no such hesitations. Closer and closer he slips towards 
  the black-haired, blue-eyed man in the crimson jubbah, intent upon his goal. 
  And then... his goal abruptly sidesteps into a narrow crack of an alley, 
  vanishing out of his pursuer's sight. An oath escapes the little Mongrel, 
  and a knife flashes in his hand. Warily, he checks over his shoulder for 
  signs of his backup. But... perhaps foolishly, he begins to edge into that 
  alley, bent on locating the one who's just disappeared.

"Your prey seems to have vanished for the evening, sir," is Auvrey's greeting, 
  cultured tones half-husky with a refined street slur. She's working on it, 
  truly she is. As she haults but a dozen or so paces from the man who is left 
  'to her', easily her body rolls onto the balls of her feet, again with 
  felinoid grace. She is prepared, by all accounts, to introduce herself to 
  heavy damage.

The big Mongrel whips around, snarling out in a basso rumble, "Back off, 
  girlie. Ain't none of your business." No doubt about it; the man could pass 
  for a small tree, having enough mass to rival some Varati men. He's clad in 
  a loose black robe that obscures most of the details of his body, save for 
  its size -- and which does nothing to obscure the cudgel that appears in his 
  hand, not yet brandished with hostile intent, but most assuredly brandished 
  with warning. "Beat it, before ye get hurt."

Of the other Mongrel... and the man he's pursuing... there's no obvious sign 
  now. Nor any obvious sound, as the smaller of the two miscreants inches into 
  the alley, all senses alert, his form swallowed by the thicker darkness 
  between the ramshackle buildings.

"Actually, I would rather not. Back off, that is, if it please you, sir," 
  murmurs Auvrey with a small smile and cold eyes. "You see, I met enough of 
  your type when I lived on the streets, and your type is irritating enough. 
  Bad manners, foul breath, small mind and no soul. And well, you happen to be 
  stalking someone I very much need alive. It is an unpleasant business, this 
  meeting, but I am quite afraid I cannot step down." Prim, proper, and oooo, 
  look, she's sporting an eight-inch blade, the shining metal appearing 
  without a sound or seeming movement.

The robed Mongrel lets out a dangerous-sounding growl, like a lion being 
  roused out of slumber -- and being far less than pleased about the 
  disturbance. "I'm paid f'r my quarry," he retorts in a wrathful 
  reverberating whisper, obviously clever enough to keep from shouting at this 
  dead hour of the night... and alerting his intended prey to his presence. 
  "And I was only gonna rough ye up for gettin' in my way. You wanna insult 
  me, though, she-whelp" -- somewhere under the hood, a nasty smile flashes, 
  bouncing back another stray flicker of torchlight -- "Fine. Let's make it 
  personal." Challenge delivered; challenge accepted. The big man lunges, the 
  cudgel blurring out and upward, aiming with blinding force towards the arm 
  that holds that wicked-looking knife.

Damned fine reflexes from this mongrel allow Auvrey to duck and slip to the 
  side with ease, her long blade slashing with ferrit quickness towards the 
  underside of the man's armpit. Not a comfortable slice if her aim proves 
  true. Strangely enough, those odd silks do not hinder the mongrel lass. "Now 
  now," purrs she, in fact, as she avoids the onslaught of heated motion, "Who 
  might have paid so well for such a dirty task? Or is but a mere tuppence 
  nowadays?"

"What's it to y--" comes the rasping deep retort of the man in the robe, the 
  words abruptly cut off as that knife rips cloth at his side. It is a 
  glancing blow, and if the blade pierces more than the robe he wears he 
  doesn't give any immediate sign of it, neither crying out nor stumbling. But 
  he does abruptly change the angle of his attack, teeth gritted and eyes 
  narrowed, about all that can be discerned beneath the cowl of the hood that 
  hides most of his visage from view. When he speaks again, however, there's 
  an ever so slight increased hoarseness to his already rough-edged voice. 
  "What're ye, the Rook's woman or somethin'?"

"To me? Why," practically humms Auvrey, prowling step moving in time, much as 
  an elegant dance with the ungentleman before her, "I wish to understand why 
  a man would toy with someone as connected as him, and with ill intent in 
  mind. That's a mighty ugly skin you happen to be risking for a few coins," 
  comments she a bit dryly, though with no less seriousness than before. 
  Prancing as she is, the obvious forthcoming attack is waited upon. Auvrey is 
  not stupid, apparently.

The cudgel slashes forward -- a feint, testing the defenses of the woman who's 
  dared to halt the robed man's appointed hunt. "What makes ye think I ain't 
  been well paid?" he sneers. "And why should I tell a damn thing t' ye, Smart 
  Mouth?" Apparently, simple insults aren't enough to drive the man into a 
  foolish move, though the cudgel swings forward once, twice more, aiming for 
  Auvrey's head, from the right, from the left. He moves well for a big man, 
  too.

Easily Auvrey dodges this, the wide blows allowing a deft movement, another 
  slice of the knife as she ducks away one last, final time, before prowling 
  once again. "You are not well paid because there are only two of you. No 
  contingencies were made for extenuating circumstances, which means that the 
  attack was not dire enough to hire more capable, able bodied men to enact 
  it." The instruction, strangely enough, is almost mindless as she intones 
  these words to the man before her. Her attention remains afixed with a 
  floating tune that returns to her lips soon after her words cease.

"I got paid well enough--" But Robed Man cuts himself off, his words 
  modulating into a hiss of aggravation as he has to divert most of his 
  attention to dodging the blade that is providing the silk-clad girl's half 
  of this unlikely duel. But it is beginning to occur to him that perhaps he 
  didn't get paid enough to take on _two_ opponents, and he skitters backwards 
  a few steps, his gaze glittering with speculative intent within his mostly 
  shadowed face. Then a low snicker escapes him. "Ye think I ain't been paid 
  enough, what say ye make me a better offer, girlie? Ye want the Rook that 
  badly, I can leave 'im be. Or get 'im alive for ye, if that's yer aim."

"I can pay you ten gold, if you agree," stipulates Rory honestly, guard never 
  lowering, ears and eyes cocked for any unwanted advances, behind or before 
  her, "To never make any sort of advance to him again, and to tell me who 
  hired you, and who is behind this." A thoughtful frown, "An added coin if 
  you tell me why."

Robed Man, his cudgel cocked at a defensive angle before him now, pauses where 
  he stands -- just outside of immediate easy reach of a knife, at least as 
  long as it stays within his opponent's hands. His head turns ever so 
  slightly in the direction of the alley down which his accomplice had 
  vanished. Then he grunts out, "Let's see yer money, girlie." Translation: 
  let's see if you're silly enough to go flashing ten zechin on a dark street 
  in Bordertown, shall we?

"I am not stupid, boy-o," murmurs Auvrey, just the tiniest of lapses within 
  her speech, intentional or not. "We meet in a public area with light on the 
  morrow of the morning. Your attack needs not happen tonight, and if I do not 
  bring the required coin, you can have the pleasure of demolishing me and 
  this gentleman at a later date. Provided, of course, he comes to no harm 
  tonight." That simple.

A pause... and then, the cudgel comes down, sliding with a sharp gesture of 
  Robed Man's arm back into the folds of his robe. "Ye've got until noon in 
  the Rialto, girlie," he rumbles in tones of ebbing anger... and acceptance, 
  for now, of her offer. "Show up with yer money, else t'morrow, the Rook's 
  mine, and then I come after _ye_, too." With that, then, he begins to edge 
  back, keeping an eye on his unexpected opponent all the while... until he 
  can make a clear retreat into the maze of streets that surrounds him and she 
  who has acted in Richard's defense.

Fast feet then slip through the night, silks barely whispering from the 
  passing breeze as Rory sneaks agily into the darkened alleyway, searching...

And there, at the end of the alley, two shadows can be seen clashing towards 
  and springing back from one another. Two knives slicing at one another, in a 
  dance of thrust and parry and thrust again. Two figures locked in a tight, 
  deadly circle... the smaller of the two men Auvrey has marked on the street 
  this night... and Richard.

Cautious steps approach now, darting irises flickering to the rooftops, to the 
  shadows, and back to the clash easily enough. In her hand is positioned one 
  long blade, the very same which drips with a bit of scarlet from her 
  previous encounter. Toes inch forward, a humming beginning to commence. Odd, 
  again, that. A battle cry of some sort?

Without a doubt, neither of the two men engaged in combat see the armed girl 
  coming. Every last scrap of each fighter's attention is engaged on his 
  opponent -- and even as Auvrey begins to draw near them, Richard's attacker 
  breaks past the blur of his defending blade. The strike comes in low, across 
  his middle; cloth tears. And so, if the sharp hiss of breath Richard sucks 
  in is any indication, does flesh.

Eight inches of silver-tarnished steel sink straight into the attacker's back, 
  and it isn't a gentle rent of muscle either. Slicing downwards, ripping 
  through sinew and cloth, Auvrey's forceful slash is enough to rip vital 
  organs from within, and draw them backwards, out from the gaping wound as 
  her knife withdraws and her body swings from a possible returned blow, 
  backwards into the shadows. A faint dripping may be heard, as blood from the 
  knife splashes sickly against dirty cobblestone. Ice is her gaze.

He who attacked Richard had been grinning in vicious delight as his own blade 
  had struck home. Now, however, he has just enough time to emit a shriek of 
  pain as Auvrey's blade introduces itself to the inner workings of his 
  flesh... to spin around, his own blade still clenched in his left hand... 
  and to drop that same knife as first his hands and then his knees go 
  slack, tumbling him to the filthy ground in wide-eyed surprise.

Richard's assailant is not the only one surprised, either. Panting, hauling 
  breath into his lungs and pressing an arm low against his waist in a futile 
  attempt to stop the blood he can feel welling up out of the gash his 
  attacker has dealt him, Richard stands with blue eyes gone wide. But he 
  stands for only an instant, as he realizes who's brought Southpaw Rolf down. 
  Once that instant is over he is in motion, biting out with just enough force 
  to make the words heard, "Let's move, lass." With that, doggedly, he aims 
  himself for the mouth of the alleyway, adding tautly, "Any more of 'em?"

"Nay, the alleyway is clean. Come Richard, let us to the Citadel, where we can 
  have you healed." Her powers of observation have not waned with the shock of 
  administering death, if there be shock at all. "Are you well enough to walk, 
  or would you like support?" Practical she is, is this mongrel woman with 
  fiery locks.

He will walk, because failing to do so isn't an option, even if the woman at 
  his side has seen him physically vulnerable before -- perhaps _because_ the 
  woman at his side has seen him physically vulnerable before. Richard allows 
  himself to consider the matter no further than that, though, as he forces 
  himself to cross the distance between himself and the street he'd just left. 
  His left arm stays pressed against his waist while his right hand grips the 
  dagger he'd just been using in the fight. "I can walk," he answers hoarsely. 
  "I'm walkin' home. Closer."

Falling into step beside you, the knife is only hidden beneath her black cloak 
  that falls forward, methodical scanning for possible attacks beginning anew. 
  Obvious, it is then, of her knowledge of street life, and for a time, she 
  paces in silence. Finally, her husky timbre resonates through the now eerie 
  quiet of the streetways. "Do you want me to fetch a healer, then?"

Richard keeps moving -- because, again, failure to do so is not an option. 
  With stony determination his azure gaze remains up and alert, habitually 
  scanning the street before him to make certain he isn't about to stumble 
  over anything. Only grudgingly, and then at a realization in the back of his 
  mind that he is now wounded and therefore vulnerable, does he entrust the 
  maiden at his side to keep watch for any further miscreants... and seize 
  more precious energy for the task of getting himself to the relative safety 
  of his hole-in-the-wall flat. "I'll do without, lass," is his only reply, 
  delivered through teeth gritted against the increasing wetness along his arm.

"You will deal with me, then, for I did not heal you," murmurs Auvrey dryly, 
  patiently, "To have you die upon me from a mere flesh wound." And, quite 
  frankly, she is not about to seek that brat Cynara out either. It should 
  come as no surprise that upon this street no further dangers reside. After 
  the two scenes of brutality witnessed, none would be so foolish at this 
  moment, weakened man or no weakened man. Still, Auvrey's guard does not 
  relax.

He spares enough attention to smirk sidelong at his companion, smiling 
  narrowly. "I'll be... uncomfortable for a few weeks," he corrects gruffly. 
  "Not dead." But, having denied the aid of Delphi or any healer Rory might 
  choose to bring to him, Richard does not make a third denial. Instead, a 
  faint sweat of effort sheening his brow, he focuses instead on getting 
  himself to what passes for home and wastes no further effort on conversation 
  until he can do something about the leaking rent in his flesh. Fortunately, 
  what passes for home is not very far away... and after minutes of silent, 
  swift walking, Gelthurn's rooming house is within sight. By the time it is 
  reached Richard's face has turned white and strained, but he shows no signs 
  of slackening his stride as he approaches the place where he lives.

As the rooming house is brought into view, Rory's voice floats upwards. "I 
  have need of herbs, of which I do not carry with me at this moment. If you 
  have strength enough, or someone to do this for you, boil a pan of water and 
  find a few fresh cloths. I shall bring numbing herbs, a needle and sinew to 
  sew your injury." There is no time for questioning, as the security of this 
  particular passageway remains high, and Auvrey uses this opportunity to dart 
  of, towards the general direction of the Rialto.

At the door, Richard turns to the girl as she speaks, his eyes turned darker 
  against his pallor, but his gaze turned no less sharp. "Knock twice and then 
  once," answers the man the robed attacker had called the Rook, his voice no 
  more than a whisper now. He doesn't argue; perhaps, just perhaps, this man 
  is not so foolish as to disdain help when he is in obvious need? Or is it 
  simply that he is opting not to spend his strength on pointless debate? 
  Regardless, those few words are all he utters. One last piercing glance to 
  the copper-haired avenging maid... and then, he's turned and vanished into 
  the depths of the building.

[And soon...]

It is almost a relief to be able to tackle the stairs alone, without Rory's 
  apparently all too clever eyes upon him. Richard stalks into the rooming 
  house, keeping his blade out all the way -- at this hour, even inside the 
  shelter of the place where he lives, he never trusts to anything remotely 
  resembling safety. But there's nothing to challenge him between the bottom 
  of the stairs and the top, between the first floor and the third -- nothing 
  but someone dozing in the corner in the common room, and a suspicious 
  weakness beginning to pull at his limbs. His sleeve is now undeniably damp, 
  and by the time Richard reaches the slightly less dubious refuge of his own 
  room, he can feel that wetness uncomfortably warm against his forearm. 
  One-handedly, he pulls the door open and stumbles into the room, teeth set 
  against the pain. But once he's in, he abruptly finds himself unable to 
  manage much more than slumping against the wall for support. _Dammit, man, 
  keep awake... you're bleeding! Do something about it!_ It seems, however, 
  forever before he can make himself move. To begin to strip off his ruined 
  jubbah and tunic. And to begin to use the dagger he's still clutching to 
  slice the cloth into makeshift bandages, still one-handedly, while trying to 
  keep his blood inside him where it belongs.

With the time it takes for Richard to make his weak way up into his own room, 
  Auvrey has managed to reach the Citadel. She's quick, this one, who soon 
  after arrives within the bording house. Two knocks, then one, both soft and 
  feminine in deliverance, but crisp nonetheless. Delicate hands are occupied 
  at the moment - one with a kit and another with a strange sort of cloth 
  grasped tightly. Chest heaving, beads of perspiration trickle down this 
  woman's features and neck, down into the bodice of her sari. Damn man, why 
  can he not stay in one piece?

"Here," Richard calls out hoarsely, expending as much energy as he dares to 
  make his voice carry through the door. Hauling himself up to his feet, tying 
  a long strip of crimson about his waist, he forces himself to the door and 
  forces himself to haul it open. Rory's first sight of him gets her a Richard 
  whose face has turned gray underneath a sheen of sweat; there's blood at his 
  middle, blood on his hands, and blood that's dripped down onto the breeches 
  he's still wearing. "I'm here..."

It is the most upset Rory has shown another in quite some time, the flashing 
  disturbance like quickfire across her pert features. "Go and sit, Richard, 
  for Heaven's and my sake." That she bothered to be so forward in speach and 
  manners, if with the identical, quiet tone, is indication enough. Pushing 
  past the broad shoulders, she even bothers to heave the door shut and stalk 
  towards the bed. A woven, enclosed basket is set aside, nimble fingers 
  flipping into the container, rifling through the contents. A thick root is 
  actually pulled out and placed to the side as her other hand lays those 
  chosen, pristine cloths across kneeling lap. Needle and sinew thread follow.

Sit. All right. He can do that. Richard exhales, then stiffly drops himself 
  down into one of the two chairs in the room. He's still holding the strips 
  of cloth he's cut to his sliced waist, trying to stem the flow of red there. 
  His dark head is bowed, eyes clenched shut -- and his body turned with his 
  back to the woman who's come to his aid. Again. A frisson of nervousness 
  about his own position trickles across Richard's thoughts, but he cannot 
  summon the strength to care or to shift the chair around to move his 
  shoulders out of Auvrey's view. _She knows,_ comes the distant thought. 
  _What difference does it make...?_ Still, though, some instinctive defense 
  mechanism kicks in, and he makes himself speak up huskily, "Ye're gonna 
  stitch me up. Ye can do that...?"

"It is like stitching a very fine sari," murmurs Auvrey with a twitch of her 
  lush lips, "Except I shall not be patterning butterflies or flowers or birds 
  into your thick hide." Offering the brownish, knotty root upwards, she 
  instructs, "Here, chew on this for a bit. It will numb you as I clean your 
  wound so you will not feel much pain as I sew." Her hair has been swept back 
  into a tight knot at the base of her neck, thankfully, to cascade down her 
  back. The less hair in the face to bother with, the easier the work and the 
  steadier her hands.

Black brows knit together over twilight eyes in a faint grimace of 
  consternation. Numb him? Meaning what, exactly? Not liking the idea of 
  ingesting anything that might dull his senses, Richard lifts pain-darkened 
  eyes to the Mongrel woman as she comes over to join him. For an instant, for 
  just an instant, he finds her crisp efficiency bizarrely fascinating; it 
  draws his attention to her, and the alteration to her hair keeps it there. 
  _Can I trust you?_ is first and foremost in his eyes, but right beneath it 
  is the fascination. The wingless one lifts a bloodied hand, then, taking the 
  root. "What is it?" he mutters.

"Leadwort," murmurs she softly, huskiness infiltrating her mellow tone. 
  Refusing to look up for more reasons than the obvious, thread is woven 
  expertly through the eye of her rather large-looking needle. "Gnaw now and 
  mix it with your saliva before swallowing, or when I begin you will feel 
  every insertion. It is your choice, Richard, but we haven't much time to 
  keep you alive in a condition from which you shall recover." Since he was 
  foolish enough to negate the presence of a healer. Efficient, she is yes, 
  and detached, strangely enough. Perhaps it is best. One would not like an 
  unsteady woman upon one's hands when a life - your life - rests in them.

She would have stayed with him, for a week if necessary, to tend him during 
  his sickness -- if Cynara had not intervened. Has her god decided to give 
  her a second chance at doing something charitable, he wonders? Or is Tyche 
  trying to tell him something, tossing this flame-haired maiden at him twice 
  in a row in such a fashion? Richard's brow knits further as he begins to 
  realize that his thoughts are growing scattered, and with an effort, he 
  pulls his attention back to the here and now... and decides. "Had worse than 
  this, lass," he points out, even as he avoids elaborating upon what else 
  he's experienced that might be serving as a basis for comparison. "Won't 
  die." But he also puts the root into his mouth as he's been bidden, 
  grimacing at the taste of it. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to chew it.

Like an avenging angel of sorts, Rory wisks upwards, threaded needle between 
  one forefinger and thumb, a smooth, ivory cloth in her other. Astute as the 
  lass is, it is no surprise that she heads straight for the liquor. Bottle 
  snatched up, cork tugged away, a sniffsniffing ensues.. ahh, yes, perfect. 
  Enough to knock a seasoned sailor on his.. ahh, rump. Right. Then she is 
  there, before you with these items. The needle is laid aside for now, liquid 
  spilling over and saturating the cotton. One firm hand pushes at the naked 
  chest, and even those rose begins to filter with scorching flames into her 
  cheeks, the blush is most definately ignored. No time, after all. "Lay down, 
  Richard. I must clean you, then begin."

As he's been advised, a subtle numbness is beginning to creep across Richard's 
  senses. It's almost a relief; the hot thin line of pain lying low across his 
  belly is still there, still aching, but now there is distance between it and 
  him. And as Rory speaks again he swallows, then reaches up to remove the 
  root. His gaze stays on her as he sets the thing on the top of the rickety 
  table. The feel of that hand against his chest registers in his 
  consciousness, too, but differently than the knife slash across his flesh. 
  Closer. And rather more fascinating. "If you want me to lay down, my dear," 
  he says then, almost absentmindedly, "I'll have to get up." The street lilt 
  has dropped away from his words, the only sign that the root's had any 
  effect on him; he doesn't appear to notice the change, though.

OH yes. Right. So insistant is she upon doing good that she has quite 
  forgotten just where Richard is situated. Understandable, given these 
  nightly events. "Oh. Yes." Damn. Snatching a hand back from the lava-like 
  effect, one finger points with ramrod effectiveness towards the bed. A 
  silent order from a suddenly frazzled woman. Ok, so maybe she was 
  concentrating a bit too much on ignoring the half-nude man before her. 
  "Right-o," mutters she, a bit under the breath and with an accent much like 
  the one you have so recently dropped. It does not stop her, however, from 
  slapping the alcohol-laced cloth across your midsection with a resounding 
  slap. "Keep this here while you move. CAREFULLY."

It doesn't... hurt, per se, but there is nevertheless an abrupt edged peak of 
  sensation there at his waist, there where the aged brew in the bottle meets 
  the abused flesh. Richard draws in a swift breath, his mouth parting in 
  unconscious reaction, lids momentarily dropping across his darkened eyes. 
  But consciousness does not fade, for Richard does not let it. Slowly, 
  carefully, he pushes the chair back to give himself room. Slowly, carefully, 
  he rises. And slowly, carefully, he turns and crosses the few paces to the 
  bed, giving his self-appointed benefactor a glimpse of a heavily scarred 
  back in the feeble gleam thrown off by the lantern hanging overhead. Two 
  large patches, at either of his shoulderblades -- and those crisscrossed by 
  over a dozen diagonal lines. Then he's turning back to face the maiden 
  again, as he sinks down onto his bed, his features gone white again with the 
  spate of effort. "Ambrosia," he murmurs. "Eminently drinkable, but Tyche! It 
  stings."

"Good. The healers say that it is because it is cleaning out the rotten 
  things." Whatever they be. She never paid much attention to the why's 
  whenever she was being patched up, just methods. Either blind or completely 
  ignoring the marks strapped across such.. rather.. fine display, Auvrey 
  tends to more urgent tasks at hands. Like getting this man to lay down, 
  stubborn thing. Again that hand pushing you backwards, warm, smooth, dry, 
  and long-fingered, with just a sprinkle of compassion. "I am stitching you 
  now, Richard. Stay still, or I might sew something together that I do not 
  intend." Like your liver to your lungs.

"Moving is becoming... less of an option, my dear." There is distance now in 
  Richard's voice, the tenor turned not quite dreamy but decidedly more 
  relaxed. Lightheaded already from the loss of his blood, Richard finds his 
  thoughts still clear... but slower now from the root's effects, each one 
  seemingly bent on utilizing more of his mental strength than before to 
  become fully developed. His eyes half-close at the touch to his chest, and 
  its touch, more than anything else, threatens to distract him. A little 
  smile curls his mouth at the feel of it; it's... good, a little spot of 
  enticing sensation to cajole his attention away from what Southpaw Rolf's 
  knife did to him. "If the brew'll get rid of rotten things, perhaps you'll 
  stick my dagger in it when you're done, eh?" he murmurs then. "Rolf was 
  about as rotten as they come."

Silent. She is silent as she works, more for concentration than anything else, 
  but the ears are there. There to listen, and encourage too (if such a thing 
  can be thought possible of her small ears) should this rather devestating 
  man before her wish to tell her anything. Like, those vital tidbits which 
  she deserves to know, but is far too mild to demand or inquire after. The 
  attack. The reasoning. Steady her needle is, thank goodness, babying as well 
  as metal works through flesh, sinew tugging only enough to pull flaps of 
  skin together with the guidance of her palm.

His mind may feel like it's swathed in layers of linen now, the numbness 
  having seeped through his limbs and turned them heavier, but still Richard 
  can feel those pokes of the needle through his skin. Changes in the rate of 
  his breathing and an occasional involuntary twitch of his dark tousled head 
  reflect the tenuous connection he's maintained to his ability to feel pain. 
  Those gentle hands tending him are too close to the wound now to serve as a 
  proper distraction, though -- and Richard finds himself wanting to hear 
  Auvrey's voice. Empyrean he might be rather than Atlantean but perhaps he 
  reads her mind, or perhaps it's simply his normal astuteness that allows him 
  to speak up in hopes of getting her to answer, "Don't quite know why he did 
  it... unless he was simply perturbed that I stopped him from his mark. 
  Didn't think he carried that big of a grudge. Let my guard down."

"He paid someone else in advance to attack you, Richard," murmurs Auvrey, her 
  sensual voice remaining warm and inviting, despite the atmosphere in which 
  she works. "Which means your nightly activities were watched for longer than 
  you were aware of." Well, at least she doesn't think you're dense enough to 
  miss such a thing for long. That's something, right? Reassuring as a pat 
  against the shoulder given to a child who stubbed his toe, Auvrey casually 
  remarks, "Just a few more stitches, and then one more cleaning." Blood cakes 
  both hands, completely obliterating what ink stains that used to live there. 
  Neat as she is, the crimson is kept from reaching her treasured Khalida 
  silks.

"Ah, my dear, there's plenty of men in Haven you can find in a day to beat 
  someone to a bloody pulp, if that's what you're after..." Richard answers, 
  again in that absent, incongruously elegantly cadenced tone. Then his eyes 
  open again, and the blue gaze of them settles anew upon Auvrey, mellowed, 
  but still undeniably alert. "What nightly activities would those be, hrmm?"

"I am well aware," remarks Auvrey a bit druly and with no end of humor, "Of 
  Haven's veins and vices." Perhaps a little too aware. Brows knit tightly 
  together, woven as a fine tapestry as concentration is solely given to her 
  thread tying. There. Booboo's all better. Cultured tones having returned 
  that alcoholic cloth is brought back to clean leakage with featherlike 
  caresses. "The nightly activities, Richard, that drew unnecessary attention 
  to you." A quiet sigh, and finally liquid silver smears upwards to fixate 
  upon blues. "First, you were sloppy in that you attracted rifraff you know 
  by name, and secondly for doing so without realizing it for long enough that 
  the attack could be planned. If you are about business that interests others 
  of the lesser gentilities, the first rule of thumb is to remain 
  inconspicuous." She was a thief. She knows.

Another smile curls his mouth, but this one's tight -- though whether because 
  of the mild recrimination in Rory's words or because of the recrimination 
  he's already dealing himself for his error, Richard doesn't specify. There 
  is a pause, and then, a sigh from the man lying prone on the bed. "Yes," he 
  answers roughly... and then, oddly enough, a spark of approval crosses his 
  eyes. Sharp, this one. He's known it since he first met up with her. To have 
  it proven again, even when in pointing out a deficiency in his own 
  alertness, makes his smile larger. Thinking to tell her this, he opens his 
  mouth to speak... but what comes out without his consciously willing it is a 
  murmured, "You've sure and gentle hands, Auvrey..." And then he pauses. 
  Wait. Where did _that_ come from?

"Thank you, Richard," quietly replies the flustered-looking woman, lashes 
  drooping downwards to shield her widened eyes. Compliments are few and far 
  between, for this woman. Cleaning the sticky carmine fluids from her 
  knuckles and palms, Auvrey begins to attach bandages around your muscled 
  midsection. For a time, these words are reflected within, nary a comment 
  made, until finally she murmurs, "You.. are finished. Do not move suddenly 
  for two weeks, and rest in bed for the first duo of days." A thought at 
  that. "Would you like me to secure some foods for you and tend to your side? 
  I have these next two days away from work, after all."

He is lean and trim. Muscled, yes, but easily dwarfed by many Varati men, the 
  kind of body one can expect from a man whose primary physical skill is 
  agility rather than strength. The kind of body one might expect to be hauled 
  aloft... with wings. Richard watches the hands attending him, winding strips 
  of cloth around and around him, but his gaze rises up to take in Auvrey's 
  flustered expression after a few moments. "Fortuitous timing on my part," he 
  remarks. The curl of his mouth is a sardonic smirk, but his eyes remain 
  mellowed, taking the sting from his words. "Getting myself sliced up on your 
  free days."

Confusion blankets heavily through Auvrey's gaze as it is lifted, cloth tied 
  off tightly, but only for security, allowance given to blood flow and 
  bruising. "But it is not fortuitous, Richard. It would be well if you 
  learned better care of yourself." Well for your health, and her sanity. 
  Imagination might be taking it's toll, so perhaps there is opportunity to 
  fancy that her fingers linger the tinest bit longer than they should upon 
  the bared flesh before her, the tinest of caresses given, before hands jerk 
  away and a bit more unsteadily begin to tidy up her mess she's created.

Paradoxically, drowsily, Richard grins. "I can assure you, my dear... I do not 
  make a habit of allowing ruffians to cut me in half." His tone softens, as 
  he senses the concern lurking just beneath the surface of her competent 
  ministrations... and in that fleeting contact of her fingertips against his 
  skin. "Though I appear to... be making a habit of winding up prone around 
  you."

First she must tuck those pointy objects away, and secondly? Stare, of course, 
  at the basket before her for quite some time, silent. The normal thing to do 
  in a situation such as this. Finally, her pale eyes of mist shine as she 
  rises to lean forward, a sweet, lush kiss placed upon his brow. 
  Half-motherly, half-retrained. "You need your rest." Yes, that's it. Tell 
  him to go to bed, and she'll be able to refocus her erroneous thoughts.

At that brush of lips over his forehead, Richard's eyes flutter shut... but 
  only for a moment. His hand lifts up towards the alabaster countenance just 
  above his own -- and turns, so that his unstained knuckles rather than his 
  red-sullied fingertips are what gently stroke across her cheek. "Thank you, 
  Auvrey," he whispers.

A small earthquake shivers through Auvrey, as she jerks backwards, away from 
  the touch. Rambling words spill from her mouth, "Yes well I think I should 
  go get you some food and," as she turns away her voice is muffled by the 
  switch in directions. Stumbling over a wad of cloths, her words come back 
  into focus, "And so you may heal correctly." Scrambling downwards, the 
  bloodied things are collected as well.

Food is the last thing on Richard's mind at the moment; indeed, he suspects 
  that if he lets himself consider the matter too closely, the notion of 
  trying to eat something might well revolt him, right now. Of far more 
  importance is the niggling little desire to keep the girl looking at him... 
  so that he can look at her face. Perhaps it is due to the effects of the 
  root he'd chewed, but he can feel the memory of her kiss just over his eye, 
  and it prompts him into attempting another grin. "I'll go to sleep," he 
  bargains, "if you hand me a clean rag, my dear." Again he holds up his 
  becrimsoned hand, but this time by way of explanation.

"Oh my, oh yes. Right-o," deteriorates her speech once more, before huskiness 
  is cleared away and her things are set aside. Searching that simple wicker 
  basket, a cloth similar to those she saturated long moments before is 
  procured, one of unused value. Lashes lift, following the trail of white as 
  she closes the distance, but a foot from you, and dangles it for the taking.

His hand lifts up to brush against Auvrey's once again, accepting what she 
  offers, then slowly and deliberately lowers again. Its mate rises up -- his 
  arms, by now, feeling almost the only part of him remaining that are still 
  free of the layers of distance and softness that have wrapped themselves 
  around his thoughts -- and then his hands meet, so that he can wipe the 
  blood from where it's dried along his long lean fingers. His gaze, though, 
  dusky blue and searching, remains upon the auburn-haired beauty at his 
  bedside. At last, with a fastidious tidiness, he folds up the soiled cloth 
  with one hand, the other lowering itself gingerly down to rest across his 
  chest. "Thank you, Auvrey," he repeats, his voice just a breath above a 
  whisper now.

Honestly, she should not offer a kiss again. Not with the fire that imbedded 
  it's tempestuous flames within her lips and suffused through her skin. 
  Nevermind that her breath has caught with a ragged, nearly inaudible gasp, 
  or that she stares stupidly for quite a bit more than she aught. It is not 
  the newly healed wound she is staring at either, but deep oceans of blue. 
  Lost. Utterly lost she is, a vulnerability that couples with sorrow and 
  pain, old and new. And? An innocent longing, undoubtedly never having been 
  birthed within this redhead before.

Desire. In thirty-two years of life, Richard has learned to recognize many 
  flavors of desire, both in women... and in himself. He has seen that 
  guileless yearning before, in the youngest of the girls who make their 
  living at the Siren's Song and places like it all over Haven. And he's seen 
  that awkward vulnerability in them, as well. The desire for contact coupled 
  with the fear that it will somehow go wrong. He has seen it... and he has 
  felt it himself. He does not know what has put the pain into those silver 
  eyes, but certain memories stir in the back of his own mind, behind the same 
  safe distance that separates him from the line of pain across his stomach. 
  They counsel, even as he lifts up his hand to reach to brush an errant 
  strand of red away from fine pale skin and feels a stirring of desire of his 
  own, gentleness. They counsel tender handling of this woman who can kill a 
  man on his behalf one moment, stitch his damaged flesh back together in a 
  second one... and then flush crimson at his smallest compliment in a third. 
  And so he restrains himself to promising in velvet-soft tones, "I'll sleep, 
  Auvrey-lass. I'll sleep."

An unwise nuzzle slips past Auvrey's weakened defenses, lashes falling closed 
  even as a kitten-like caress rubs buttersoft cheek against the helpful hand. 
  Finding memory of how to breath, a deep inhilation commences, until a bit 
  more solidity infiltrates this mongrel's otherwise liquid form. "IT.. is.. 
  well.. Richard," half-whispers she, a plether of clashing emotions enriching 
  her unconcious, sensual purr. "I will return with food supplies." A breath 
  of fresh air is -exactly- what she needs. Yes. Inhale. Exhale.

For all that the thought of this statuesque maiden curled up in his arms sets 
  off another ripple of reaction within him, the wingless one maintains his 
  control. All he allows himself is a gentler version than normal of his 
  lopsided smile at that tentative brush of soft cheek against his palm... 
  then, reluctantly, he draws his hand down again and tells himself it is 
  because his muscles are beginning to protest holding that hand up for much 
  longer. "I'll wait," he murmurs.

A tense nod, and the lass still manages a smile in return. "Sleep while I am 
  away, Richard. You could use a bit of strength." Crossing the room, her 
  supplies, for now, are left in their tidy square nearish the bed. "I will 
  return anon." Silent steps lift her upwards and out with nary a sound, not a 
  whisper of silk or wool, despite her fairy quickness.

[End log.]