"The Rook Consoles a Bard"

Log Date:
	12/16/00

Log Cast:
	Lyre, Saraphina, Richard, Kavi, Haifa-Amara

Log Intro:
	It's been some days since Richard's discovery that fourteen years
ago -- just before Dulcinea, his older brother's wife, made the fateful
accusation that cost him his wings -- he'd gotten Dulcinea with child. And
as if that weren't enough, he's had the chance to meet in secret with that
very same daughter, and learned to his shock that Moirae knows exactly
what relationship exists between them... and that she wishes to live with
him in Haven. What he wants to do about it as of yet, however, the Rook
does not yet know. It's just one more thing to toss his thoughts into a
muddle, as much if not more so than the young Mongrel beauty who has somehow
managed to haunt Richard's mind and heart.
	Now, as it has been for the past fourteen years, the Siren's Song is 
the haven to which Richard turns when he is in need of consolation -- whether 
it be in the form of food, drink, feminine companionship, or simply a place 
where he can relax without fear of being anything other than _himself_. Today, 
however, the Rook is not the only man seeking his consolation at the Song... 
and Richard is about to learn anew that despite and perhaps even because of 
his lost wings, he has much more in common with men of the Mongrel race
than he ever did with the men of his own....

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================*
             Time of day:  Morning
          Date on Aether:  Saturday, September 23, 3905.
           Year on Earth:  1505 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Crescent
                  Season:  Late Summer
                 Weather:  Partly Cloudy
             Temperature:  Hot
*==========================================================================*

Lyre steps into the tavern from the docks outside.
Lyre has arrived.

Lyre
        When there is music in a person's soul, all else about him is silence. 
                                    -- Anonymous
        Eyes as dark as the deep-tilled earth look out of a solidly-hewn face 
  of a man in his late twenties. His sun-streaked brown hair is tied back with 
  a bit of leather decorated with a few silver beads, curling just at the nape 
  of his neck. His build is solid and whipcord lean, with broad shoulders and 
  the tight form of one used to going with little food and much exercise. His 
  skin is almost swarthy, tanned dark by hours in the sun; his teeth are 
  straight, save for one crooked canine that seems more the victim of a fist 
  than nature. His nose also bears the sign of brawls, with the distinctive 
  bump of breakage. He moves with a natural grace, as if counting off the 
  rhythm of a song in his mind and perpetually pacing the dance in his step.
        He wears simple, practical clothing, appropriate to his mongrel race. 
  Black homespun trousers are tucked into a pair of ancient, worn leather 
  boots. Over that is worn a simple pale tunic tucked into the trousers and 
  worn beneath a dark woolen vest. The only decoration on his clothing is 
  found in the small wooden buttons which hold his vest shut -- they are 
  carved with tiny designs of seashells.

Saraphina flaps her wings, that being the only sign she's at all startled by 
  what's going on.She expels another sigh, lifting her head to peer at Kavi. 
  "I know that." She sits up, "Couldn't think of anything on such short 
  notice." Regaining her composure, she adds, "What would you suggest, then?"

Saraphina
        The wings are there but the colours are wrong. An Empyrean should be 
  an entity of light; a sunbeam captured and refracted into a human body. 
  Their purity should be reflected in airy paleness and ethereal gold. And 
  when something goes wrong, the result is odd. 
        The height is right, and the figure and body would be if the woman had 
  been brought up properly. Instead of being reed-slender and delicate, she 
  has a wiry muscle development that speaks of a life not so well lived. She 
  would never be big, but she seems tough. If she fights, it would not be with 
  a sword, and it would not be honourably. Judging by her posture and 
  clothing, she neither flaunts nor scorns her femininity, but accepts it as 
  she does the hair on her head. 
        And that for what is right about her. Seen in light, she would never 
  be mistaken for a pure Empyrean. Her long, straight hair is brown. Not a 
  particularly special brown, except that it is seen on one who's head should 
  never know darkness. It's not black hair, but it's dark nonetheless. It is 
  as straight as straw, and confined with a tie at the base of her neck so 
  that it falls in a tail to elbow length down the middle of her back. It is 
  so harshly pulled back that no strands escape to soften her face, which is 
  squarish. The doll-like features of an Empyrean mixed with something else on 
  a background of tanned skin with a golden cast make this woman look strange 
  to most eyes. The something else is nothing really tangible, except to say 
  that even had her colours been correct, there would be something vaguely 
  different about her, if it might have been seen only as exotic. Not that it 
  is pretty. Her chin is determined and strong, her nose snub, as though it 
  has been pushed back in her face. Her cheekbones are high but broad, her 
  forehead much the same. The mouth and eyes are pure Empyrean in shape. The 
  eyes are also dark gray, framed with short lashes and set off with high, 
  arching eyebrows.
        Her wings do not help her look any more familiar to the eyes of an 
  Empyrean. Their shape and size is right, but they too are strange. Mottled. 
  On a background of gray, the feathers are dappled with many different 
  colours, the most prominent being white and brown like her hair

Early in the day -- quiet enough time to come into the Song, assuming you're 
  not already there and coming down the stairs. For once, though, Richard's 
  purpose here is food and nothing more, on the tail end of what's been a long 
  night for him... but profitable. Although tired, the Rook is still alert of 
  eye as he makes his way into the Song, scanning his surroundings with 
  habitual caution and looking for a quiet place to sit down.

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 clad in a black shirt tucked into trousers of a dark 
  twilight blue, in turn tucked into a pair of battered old boots of brown 
  leather that appear to have seen a great deal of use. The only weapon he 
  carries in immediate sight is a knife whose sheath is strapped to his upper 
  right thigh for swift ease of drawing if he needs it.

And not far behind Richard, another enters, the door swinging open to admit a 
  distinctly scruffy six-legged person. Or, depending on the state of squint 
  involved, a man and a rather large dog. Lifting a hand towards the barkeep 
  to forestall a protest to Kosha's admittance, Lyre says a bit grumpily, 
  "Believe me, whatever you're about to say, I've already tried. Unless you 
  want him outside your door howling like he's lost his best friend and wakin' 
  the girls, he stays with me." Kosha gives a mopey wag of his tail to all of 
  this, sniffing at the air experimentally to see of there's a likely chance 
  of food around. Lyre might forget to eat, but _he_ is a bit more sensible. 
  Which is sad, since Kosha's not the brightest pup around.

"Totally understandable. Perhaps you should have said that you were part of a 
  cult that burns paper and hates all writing. I would have believed it, if 
  you said it as convincingly as you pledged to be a servant of that Dark Lord 
  fellow." Oh yes, Kavi is having a bit of fun with her, sure, but he's half 
  serious too. Well, alright, maybe not.

A... _dog_ in the Song? Richard, as he'd been about to hail one of the serving 
  girls to ask for a mug of something of the ale family and a bit of something 
  hot to eat, turns and peers at the newcomer and his big canine companion. 
  Dryly, he calls over, "That beast's gonna behave himself in here, I hope. 
  Song's got a reputation to be keepin', y'ken, mate?"

Haifa-Amara steps into the tavern from the docks outside.
Haifa-Amara has arrived.

Saraphina leans an elbow on the bar, resting her chin on a hand, "Wouldn't 
  have wanted to inspire violence," she says mildly, although she's most 
  likely lying through her probably-rotten teeth. She lifts a hand to the 
  others while continuing her conversation, "There could be a Dark Lord, you 
  know," she says conversationally, that infuriating eyebrow lifting 
  pretentiously.

Lyre glances at Richard as he and Kosha make for a table, righting an 
  overturned bench and plunking himself down on it with the grace of someone 
  who's either half in their cups already, or sleep deprived. And judging from 
  the circles under the bard's eyes, it'd be the latter. Kosha hunkers down 
  and crawls beneath the table, tail thumping on the wooden floor as Lyre 
  observes gruffly, "He's got better table manners than most o' this lot. Even 
  if he does drool a little." The pup gives a little whine and nudges Lyre's 
  leg encouragingly. Well, to the pup it's encouragingly. To Lyre, it nearly 
  upends the bench again. "All right, all right. I promised to take care of 
  you, an' I will." Calling to a waitress, "Some of yesterday's roast'll do 
  fine, thankee."

The doors swing open and a small woman enters dresses in full robes. The hood 
  is pulled up over her face, even in this hot weather it does not seem to 
  bother. She moves, as if grace had bestowed her gift upon her alone. She 
  slides across the floor, the robes not doing much to contain her form. She 
  pauses, sniffing a bit, her eyes gracing all who is here.

Richard's dark brows crook up a bit over his twilight eyes as he takes in the 
  general state of the fellow with the dog. "And an ale for me, eh, lass?" he 
  liltingly appends to that same serving girl who's taken Talespinner's order. 
  Then, half of him eager for a distraction from any number of things that 
  have been nagging at his mind as of late and half of him simply curious, he 
  ambles over in the disheveled musician's wake. "Not your hound? Big handsome 
  fellow, 'e is," he remarks.

"Oh, not only can there be, there must be one," Kavi says, recieving the ale 
  he ordered from Raven just now. He takes a sip before finishing the comment. 
  "There must be one. If we just had Light Lords, things would get rather 
  boring, don't you think?"

Saraphina laughs out of pure surprise. She slouches against the bar once more; 
  much more comfortable than sitting up. "I assume you are personally 
  acquainted with him, ten?" she asks blandly. "And /that/ is the way you knew 
  I was lying?" She laughs again, grinning openly now. "I'm hurt; I always 
  thought I looked like the type to sacrifice cats." What an ambition..."Why 
  else do small children run from me?" Oh, there are a few reasons...most 
  plain as the, um, sun. "If I dare ask, to which are you a devotee?" Yep, 
  Sara always talks to strange Varati men about good, evil and cats.

Dropping his gaze to Kosha, who takes up a good half of the space underneath 
  the table, Lyre smiles wryly. "No, he belongs to..." He seems to stop for a 
  moment, before continuing easily, "He belongs to a friend." Giving the pooch 
  a good head-scratching beneath the table, the bard arches his shoulders in a 
  stretch; one shoulder pops in protest. Wincing a bit, he rubs at the 
  offending joint and mutters something under his breath, "I'm getting too old 
  for this staying up all night bit."

Richard crouches down on his heels to get a look at the dog under the table, 
  impressed by what he saw of his size when the bard and the hound came in, 
  and still impressed by what he can see of the creature's muzzle and jaw. A 
  very slight grin curls his mouth as he deliberately refrains from observing 
  that _he's_ been up all night himself. Instead, he glances up and says 
  blandly, "They've comfy beds upstairs, mate, and the gels're friendly if 
  ye're after a bedwarmer."

The hooded woman notices the dog and the comotion near the bar before moving 
  further into the Tavern. Her hands are neatly folded in the folds of her 
  robe. Her eyes scan over the area noting each face, before finally one hand 
  comes up and pushes the hood back, letting a mountain of hair flow behind 
  her head and exposing a veiled countenance. Underneath the veil on the left 
  side ofher cheek is twain triangles on her cheek. "It is as I had heard 
  about this place." The Varati murmurs slightly.

The frown that drops over Lyre's features is sudden and bleak, even if it's 
  immediately shuffled aside by tired stoicism. "No, thanks. That's not what 
  I'm interested in." The ale-wench brings over the platter of last night's 
  roast, still cold, and without even glancing at it Lyre reaches beneath the 
  table and sets the plate on the floor. "Here's hoping he stops eating my 
  boots now." Even though the words are grumpy, underneath it lurks a genuine 
  affection. Even if the dog's a beast, he's just a puppy at heart. As proved 
  by the happy wagging of his tail as he eats, the thwumping making the table 
  vibrate as it hits the legs.

Wait? It that one of those Ushasti? Kavi catches the hooded woman out of the 
  corner of his eye. Well, isn't that pleasant. Too bad for her she doesn't 
  act innocent. If she did, Kavi'd go out of his way to protect her. He's had 
  to do that an odd number of times, recently. This one, however, is deemed to 
  look too selfrigheous, at least by Kavi. So she is ignored. Back to the 
  darkling. "Not quite, but I guess that you're close enough. Still, you look 
  more the type to sacrifice small children. Cats don't run from you, do 
  they?" A humorous little smirk is inserted there, pointed straight at Sara.

Although he hasn't been invited, Richard slides himself into the seat opposite 
  Lyre, studying the other man thoughtfully. He hasn't missed that bleak 
  flicker in the dark eyes, and something that might be sympathy softens his 
  own for a moment. "Must be a handful, this dog. Kept ye up all night, did 
  'e? Howls at night?" And the Rook peers briefly under the table, at the 
  canine eagerly inhaling the breakfast he's been given, with all the vigor of 
  a starving bear. "I'm thinkin' 'e must put out a fearsome howl."

Saraphina grins. She likes being feared, and while it very rarely /happens/, 
  this conversation is a very weird form of ego-boosting for her. Not that she 
  needs it. "You may have something there. Cats...far too salty." Salty? 
  Yikes. This is a wierd one, all right. The Varati woman gets a look-see, and 
  her own summing-up is different than Kavi's; Sara sees her as someone /else/ 
  easy to disturb. Flapping her wings, she grins at her. Grinning. A thing she 
  does a lot lately. Judging by all this false intimidation, she must have had 
  a bad day or something. Hey...it's almost not morning. Almost time to order 
  something with slightly less water in it. Sara has a few rules, one being 
  that she doesn't drink before noon. Another being that she doesn't eat cat 
  meat before noon.

Lyre gives a little nod, stifling a yawn, "It's more of a whimper than a howl. 
  Faanshi said...Well." He frowns grumpily and looks down at the dog once 
  more, "I've been informed that he whimpers when he gets lonely, and I'll be 
  hanged before I let him up on the cot with me, thank ye very much. Other 
  than that, he's a good lad." A twinkle makes its way into those tired eyes, 
  "Smart, for a dog. I've taught him a few things while his mistress is away."

An idle finger comes up to push a strand of hair away from her face, tucking 
  it behind her ear. Haifa-Amara inclines her head towards Saraphina as well 
  as Kavi, before a small impish smile slides on her face. She pauses for a 
  few moments, looking for a suitable place to sit.

"Salty? I always just thought that it was too stringy, but I guess we all have 
  our own tastes." Kavi grins a bit more then, finishing his ale. "Well, time 
  for me to get going. Stuff to do, People to eat." Kavi can be just as 
  strange, doubt that not. Still, most of the time, he's not. Without a 
  further word, he turns towards the exit and begins to stalk out.

The ale-girl comes back, with Richard's ale this time, and the black-haired 
  thief slips her a couple of soldis, a crooked white grin, and a wink that 
  sends her scurrying off in giggles. With that, then, he leans back casually 
  and sips at the drink he's been brought. "Ah," he says, in the sort of 
  knowing tone that encourages elaboration. "Mistress, eh? High-bred bit o' 
  skirt? Dog tricks seem t' go over well with that type, seems t' me."

Kavi steps out of the Siren's Song and onto the docks outside.
Kavi has left.

The bard seems to stiffen momentarily, before a slow grin comes to his lips as 
  he replies tiredly, "Hardly that. She's as sweet as they come. Good, 
  innocent, the whole bit." Lyre muses, absently rubbing Kosha's head beneath 
  the table. He's rewarded by a great slurping lick before the hound returns 
  to his supper. Idly rubbing the goo from his hand, he adds, "Pretty, too. A 
  healer." Well, if there was any doubt as to the source of the bard's 
  apparent moodiness, that'd have to be it. Woman trouble.

Woman trouble. Seems to be going around, it does. Richard studies the younger 
  man, then smiles a bit. "And she's away then, is she? Lookin' after her big 
  pup for 'er?" He considers, peering momentarily down at his mug, then back 
  at his table-mate, musing on whether to offer to buy this fellow a drink. 
  _Tyche, the man looks like he needs it..._

Haifa-Amara deems that there is no futher reason that she should be here, and 
  thus leaves.
Haifa-Amara steps out of the Siren's Song and onto the docks outside.
Haifa-Amara has left.

"Aye, that she is. Though..." Lyre looks at the other man appraisingly for a 
  moment before admitting, gruffly, "I don't know where she is. The gods know 
  I've looked. She just said something about having a duty, not being able to 
  tell me about it, and poof. Gone." Something more than grumpiness enters his 
  eyes, for a moment, and he mutters, "I'm this close to storming that dammed 
  Atesh-Gah and dragging her out m'self."

Well, _that_ pretty much settles it. Richard sets down his mug of ale, shoving 
  it across the table towards the younger man and advising, "'Ere, mate, ye 
  look like ye need this more than me, eh? And by th' by, it's on good 
  authority I've got it that throwin' yerself at the gates o' Atesh-Gah's 
  mostly just good enough for gettin' yerself pummeled by yon great brawny 
  Agni-Haidar."

With a nod of appreciation, Lyre lifts his mug in a faint toast, "To finding 
  things." He takes a swallow and sets it down, giving the other man a 
  measuring look, "Ye've the look of someone whose got their own troubles. Up 
  all night for pleasure or pain?"

"Work," is Richard's easy, straight-faced reply, though he does then append 
  with a slight wry quirk to his mouth, "though I'll nae deny a trouble or twa 
  of me own. I _was_ on me way to bed after summat to eat, but ach, well." He 
  rolls a lean shoulder in a shrug. "Believe I've seen ye singin' before, 
  bard, so ye caught me eye."

Lyre looks amused, "And you still came over? I'm flattered." He takes another 
  swallow of the ale and beckons the barmaid over for another mug, for 
  Richard. "I thank ye for the ale. I'd not realized I was thirsty."

"Hey now, I may nae be able to carry a tune with an 'andle meself, but this 
  don' mean I don' go for a good 'un." Richard graciously inclines his dark 
  head, adding in magnanimous tones, "Ye're welcome to it. Look like ye need 
  it, man. And who knows? Maybe if ye rest up a bit ye can make a song for 
  this lass o' your'n, to give 'er back with her big pup, eh?" With one deft 
  finger, he points under the table.

A bit dubious, Lyre looks at the other man with an upraised brow, "Well, I've 
  written her a few tunes, aye. None of them terribly good." Scrubbing one 
  brown hand over his face, he lets out a breath on a rough sigh, before 
  admitting grudgingly, "Mayhap I could use a bit of sleep, aye."

Lyre does succeed in getting a second ale brought to the table, to which 
  Richard nods his gratitude, though he takes even less of a sip from this new 
  drink than he had from the first one. He smiles crookedly, observing as he 
  lowers his voice, "Tell ye the truth, mate, ye look like death warmed over, 
  an' that's about the way I felt about a week ago, so I'm speakin' with the 
  voice of experience here. Ye dinnae want none o' Jenean's girls, the ale's 
  about as good. Might get a few winks o' sleep outta it, if ye put down 
  enough."

Lyre's smile is a little lop-sided, but he acknowledges the point with another 
  raising of the mug, "That, my friend, sounds like a bloody fine idea to me." 
  With another few swallows he finishes the mug, nodding towards the barmaid 
  to get a refill. "And again, my thanks to ye. So, ye've a ladyfriend of your 
  own? Or..." He grins roguishly, "Perhaps more than one?"

The Rook's answering smile moves out of wry and into devilish, though it's 
  more in the glint of his twilight eyes than in any obvious curl of his 
  mouth. As he lifts up his own mug, taking his time with the contents -- 
  since at the moment, his aim is only to be pleasantly mellow and not to blur 
  his thoughts -- he murmurs confidingly, "We'll be sayin' only that a few 
  gels here have been right obligin' to me." He doesn't say which ones -- a 
  hint of the gentlemanly about this disheveled dark-haired fellow, perhaps. 
  Then his gaze turns slightly distant, slightly inward, as he adds, "Though 
  aye... there's a girl I've me eye on. One of a number o' tangles in me life. 
  All the best girls put yer head into the biggest spins, don't they, mate?"

Chuckling faintly, Lyre rubs at the back of his neck and nods, "Aye, that they 
  do. That they do. Seems nearly every trouble in m' life has had its start in 
  a woman, somehow. Odd how that works." His eyes close for just a moment, as 
  if remembering something, before he opens them again and studies the mug 
  carefully. "At least this one doesn't have wings."

Black eyebrows go up over blue eyes, and Richard suddenly feels compelled to 
  swallow down a prodigious portion of his own ale. Then he rasps softly, "You 
  too, eh?"

Lyre nods just once, a dark frown across his features. "Seems like half the 
  women in the Empyre are born with rocks for hearts. I was a slave once. No 
  more." He stops, then, and a smile begins to play around his lips, "Now, my 
  Faanshi...Her heart's as warm as the summer sun."

"Well, ye top me an' no mistake, mate, I just apparently managed to get a 
  daughter off an Empy woman." Richard's mouth quirks in something between 
  smirk and smile as he murmurs this, mostly to himself -- for he's noticed 
  the way the other man's attention has drifted off the subject of women with 
  wings again and back to this mysterious Faanshi. "Sounds like ye found 
  yerself a right paragon among women there, though," he says a bit more 
  loudly, grinning with just a touch of amused nonchalance.

"Aye, that I have. Not that we don't have our problems...She's shudra, for 
  one. To Kiera Khalida, no less." Lyre lets that last bit out more quietly, 
  but seems a bit more relaxed than when he first entered the tavern. Perhaps 
  it's the ale. Perhaps it's having a conversation with someone besides Kosha. 
  At any rate, he continues. "And she's a shy one. But as gentle as a lamb." 
  He glances at Richard over his mug and asks, "A daughter, ye say? How old?"

"Fourteen," murmurs Richard, a trifle surprised that the bard had actually 
  heard that. Not quite as distracted as he looked, then, the Rook supposes. 
  "And not a bloody thing did I know of 'er, till just a week or twa ago." And 
  once again, he crooks up a brow at this mention of Kiera Khalida. "The 
  halfbreed, the wind-mage? The one the God-King keeps?"

Lyre nods slowly, once. "Aye, that be her. My Faanshi is shudra to her. 
  Property of the God-King as much as a table or chair." _That_, apparently, 
  grates upon the bard quite a bit, though he doesn't show it to Faanshi. "And 
  heaven help me if I mention it, for she's Varati by faith. Worships Atar as 
  if he could do no wrong. I haven't the heart to break her ideals."

"Varati by faith?" echoes the older man, curiously. "What, she's mon--no, ye 
  said she's healer, did ye not? Halfbreed, then, like the wind-mage?" Then he 
  smiles, but only faintly. "Ye're soundin' familiar again. This gel I've me 
  eye on, seems she's after worshippin' yon God-King too."

With a tilt of his chin, Lyre nods, "Aye. My Faanshi's eyes are green. And 
  someone...cut her ears." Those words are fairly a growl, but he keeps it 
  under control. "It's a harsh thing to see someone ye care about, bound up so 
  tightly to another person that they cannot breathe for themselves without 
  fear of heavenly retribution. And to know there's little enough ye can do 
  about it, for it's their choice."

Richard can be seen to frown at this mention of ear-cutting. _So the Varati_, 
  he thinks to himself, _are no better than the Empyreans when it comes to 
  mutilating those they don't like the looks of, eh?_ He can't say he's 
  exactly _surprised_... but then, he can't help the tiniest twinge of 
  disappointment, even though his cynical side advises that he'd learned a 
  long time ago that practically all the members of the so-called pure races 
  seem to look highly unkindly on anyone with a hint of 'taint' about them. 
  "Poor little chit," he murmurs. "So, what're ye thinkin', eh? The God-King's 
  what, got 'er moppin' extra floors or whatever it is they make shudra do?"

Lyre growls into his ale, "I don't know _what_ he has her doing. That's the 
  problem. He ordered her off on some secret mission, and I'll be buggered if 
  I've any idea what it could be. She's a healer, a gifted one...She saved 
  m'life." He sets the mug aside, carefully. "I was trapped in a building 
  after the earthquake, and the beams had beaten me up pretty badly. She 
  healed me, without a thought for her own self. She should not be mopping 
  floors and getting whippings. She should be praised and honored." An 
  understatement, perhaps, of his own part in that rainy night; but the truth 
  in his eyes, and no less than it. "It grates on me to see her like that."

Richard's brows go up again. "_Whippings_?" he asks, a trifle more sharply. 
  "Surely if she's that powerful a healer, and innocent as you say, Khalid 
  Atar wouldn't be so cruel as to have her beaten?"

Lyre says quietly, "She's not always lived in Haven. What little I know about 
  her life before coming to Khalid's attention...Well, not all Varati are as 
  tolerant as he when it comes to mixed bloods. She is shudra, the lowest 
  caste. And jealousy at such power in one so low might move many a hand to 
  strike against her. She's had a difficult time of it. She knows little 
  kindness, save her own. That's what makes her so remarkable. What has been 
  done to her...It would make most bitter, hard. Yet she still wears her heart 
  on her sleeve."

Richard takes all this in, and realizes with a little tremor of surprise that 
  this man Lyre Talespinner is still sounding bizarrely familiar in the 
  experiences he's recounting. A face takes shape behind his eyes -- not 
  green-eyed, but rather, silver. Mongrel, rather than halfbreed healer. But 
  shudra, and a worshipper of the God-King, a girl who's somehow managed to 
  retain a kind of innocence despite hardships he _knows_ have been done to 
  her and several he can only but suspect. _Auvrey,_ he thinks, a pang whose 
  nature he can't quite identify creating a taut, half-painful, half-pleasant 
  warmth somewhere in his chest. And then, Richard blows out a breath, 
  wondering if it's perhaps that Auvrey-lass haunting him, Auvrey with her 
  compassion and her sense of duty and honor, that prompts him into offering, 
  "Look ye, man -- I cannae promise aught, but maybe I could try to get a word 
  or twa on the matter for ye. That gel I mentioned? She told me she's shudra, 
  too... who knows. Maybe she can find out summat for ye, if ye asked 'er."

The bard is silent for a moment, before he replies quietly, "Aye. At this 
  point, I'll try anything. Even asking the soul-blighted Agni-Haidar at the 
  gates. I would be surprised if she knew aught, but..." Lyre lets out a slow 
  breath, placing his hands flat upon the table. "I would not let pride stand 
  between me and knowledge. At least, not now."

Richard stares musingly at his table companion for a long moment. He thinks he 
  knows that look in the Mongrel bard's dark eyes: desperation, kept 
  stubbornly in check, but desperation nonetheless. And is he aware of the way 
  his voice and face change, when he speaks of this shudra healer of his? All 
  at once the Rook can't quite help but wonder whether his own expression 
  alters, when Auvrey's on his mind. His voice turns a trifle gruff in its 
  turn; the velvet tenor can't come near the gravelly rasp of the Mongrel's 
  baritone, but still, the same idea is there. "Then, ye got any problem wi' 
  goin t' Delphi for help? Works for th' Provost, this gel I'm speakin' of. 
  She's his assistant."

Brown eyes meet Richard's, a touch surprised. But Lyre nods, making a note of 
  the information. "I've no quarrels with Delphi. They're a fair site more 
  generous than most, when it comes to treating those of us on the outside 
  well. Eric's assistant, then? The redhead." A spark of appreciation enters 
  the bard's eyes, and he gives just the smallest of grins at that. Gotta love 
  a redhead. "An' I thank you for the help." Stubborn, he is. Perhaps too much 
  so for his own good. But he doesn't fail to offer thanks, where they're due.

"Aye, 'er name's Auvrey -- and the thing is, she wears Clan Khalida colors. 
  Told me she served a master in that Clan, once. It's worth a shot, I'm 
  thinkin'." Richard half-smiles, and once again graciously inclines his head 
  in a manner ever so slightly at odds with his streetborn accent and his 
  generally rumpled appearance. "And eh, well, dinnae fret yourself much, I'm 
  sure the chit'll turn up soon enough, eh?" Just a glimpse of sheepishness; a 
  streetborn reluctance to be thanked, perhaps? Or does it go with the oddly 
  courtly nod, or the subtle shift in his accent that lurked here and there in 
  his words, when he'd spoken sharply before? "But ye're welcome."

The bard nods affably enough, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a faint 
  acknowledgement. An awareness, perhaps. Lyre may have been a slave in the 
  Empyre...But he had been a slave of value, a scribe and musician, a prize 
  among high society. He knew that accent, those gestures. Or at least, he had 
  a sense of when they were being imitated. Familiar, it seemed. At the very 
  least, the man before him is more than he seems. "Auvrey. Aye. I'll remember 
  it." And it seems as if he speaks of more than just her name.

"And in the meantime..." Richard flashes another small crooked grin, letting 
  it almost reach his eyes. "Ye still look like ye need t' fall into a bed for 
  a day or twa, mate. Ye may be after doin' that, before ye go trackin' down 
  yer healer."

Lyre rubs at the back of his neck for a moment, absently, before giving a wry 
  grin and nodding. "I think you might be right." With a low whistle to Kosha, 
  the bard stands and offers a hand to Richard. "Lyre Talespinner."

"Richard," is the succint reply, while the hand proffered is taken and shaken. 
  It's a hardly unusual hand the bard grips, lean as any Mongrel's and a bit 
  browned by the sun, fingers long and deft, the returned clasp sure. Then the 
  older man starts a bit as the dog -- all hundred pounds of him -- shoots out 
  from under the table, a bone clenched between his jaws, and with that 
  Richard rears back slightly in his chair with both hands and feet pulled out 
  of the canine's way. "Big an' fast," he drawls.

Lyre laughs as Kosha's paws skitter on the wood floor, the dog bounding to his 
  side, tail wagging happily. "Aye, that he is. He still thinks he's a small 
  one, though. I wouldn't recommend ever calling him when you're sitting down. 
  He thinks it's an invitation to a lap." Lyre grins a bit and gives Richard a 
  polite nod. "T'was good to meet you. I think I'll take that suggestion of a 
  bit of sleep." With another little grin, the bard nods Kosha towards the 
  door and heads that way himself.

"I see what ye mean," murmurs Richard dryly as the dog bounds past an incoming 
  pair of extremely startled Atlanteans. Then those twilight eyes of his lift 
  up their gaze again to the musician, and the nod of farewell is returned. 
  "Tyche's right hand be on ye," he calls, to send Talespinner on his way. And 
  as he glances in the Mongrel bard's wake, the Rook adds to himself, _And on 
  that little healer of yours. It sounds as though she needs it._

[End log.]