"A Matter of Something Missing"

Log Date:
	9/5/99

Log Cast:
	Cynara, Richard

Log Intro:
	Richard has been desperately ill as of late, laid low by the plague
which has been sweeping through Haven after several days of trying to tend
two close friends of his suffering from that same sickness. The children of
his friends have been his only caretakers since then... at least until Nox,
the darkling Empyrean mercenary who has periodically served as Richard's
backup man on certain illicit jobs into the Empyrean quarter of the city,
came and discovered that he was stricken by the plague. Since then, all
unknowing to Richard, Nox has made arrangements to get him healed -- but
so has the Mongrel girl Rory, a.k.a. Auvrey, the assistant of Haven's 
Provost. Auvrey has shown up to not only attend to him in his delirium, but
also to encourage the children to venture out for supplies and food for
themselves... not long before Nox and Cynara have shown up as well, intending
to employ magic rather than lungroot in driving the sickness from Richard's
body.
	In the process, a heated argument has ensued between the Mongrel and
the pair of Empyreans... but Richard has also been healed. And Cynara has
made a discovery she wishes to confront him about, now that she's alone with
the convalescent in his room...

----------
Cynara allows herself a thoughtful smile as the two children disappear  
  through the door. She follows behind them and closes it, leaving her alone  
  with the man she came to heal. "Hmmm... now, Richard." she speaks quietly to  
  the unconscious man, "I know you are feeling better, even if you are tired,  
  and since I have such a busy schedule, I would like to discuss some things  
  with you before I go." She does not wait for a response. Finding the shaving  
  things that were left by the insolent chit who so recently fled, she gathers  
  them and brings them over toward the cot, along with a small bowl of 
  lukewarm water. Sitting herself down on the edge of the bed, she begins  
  preparing the mixture which softens the skin for shaving.

With the room pretty much deserted now, the only sounds remaining are those of  
  Cynara's own softly murmured words and those of Richard's now far easier  
  breathing. He lies where he's been placed, his head turned slightly  
  sideways; the silver of the chain about his neck provides a faint glint in  
  the otherwise fairly gloomy little chamber.

Cynara finishes the mixture, and then sets it aside. The mysterious little  
  ruby brooch at her breast is tugged upwards and reveals a rather oddly  
  shaped dagger, guarded on one side by a silver sheath. Snapping it open, she  
  begins to trim the beard to a more shaveable length as she continues  
  speaking, "Wake, Richard. I know you can hear me, and even if you are  
  drowsy, we must speak." Her voice is commanding, yet still low.

The soft, stern voice begins to tug at Richard's consciousness; between it,  
  and the beginnings of attentions to the days-old whiskers covering his jaw,  
  he frowns indistinctly. "Wh... who...?"

More hair is shortened upon your chin, and the hands that do the work are less  
  than gentle, though they do not hurt. "Wake, Richard." she says again, "Its  
  Cynara." The quiet voice might be mistaken for soothing, maybe.

With difficulty, the man in the bed cracks open his eyes... and although his  
  gaze is exhausted, it is significantly clearer than before the white-winged  
  healer had done her work. A flicker of dismay crosses the blue of his eyes,  
  and his black brows wing down over them -- the original of the mannerism  
  Roki had echoed before. "Cynara...! Wha... why..."

Cynara drops some of the hair in her hand to the floor and reaches for another  
  handful to cut off. A small smile creeps upon her lips at your less than  
  pleased greeting and she chuckles, "Yes, it's me, Richard, you've been a very  
  sick boy." she informs you with a teasing shake of her head, tsking softly.  
  "I've healed you, but you are still weak, can you understand me alright?"

Richard's eyes drift shut again briefly, then open up a bit more fully. His  
  gaze begins to flash round in several directions as he struggles to orient  
  himself in place and time, unsure of where he is, or when. "Aye," he mumbles  
  hoarsely, but he urgently adds, "Children... where're the bairns...?"

Cynara drops more hair and then puts her blade away in favor of the shaving  
  razor that Rory left. "They are well, Richard, we are looking after them.  
  They are outside burning your things. I will check them for the plague when  
  I've finished with you." she assures. Taking the small brush, she begins to  
  lather your chin with softening foam. "Now that you are awake, and before we  
  are interrupted again, I will ask you. What is your will for the children  
  now that they are parentless? I have offered Roki and his sister a place  
  among us where we will feed and clothe them, educate them and prepare them  
  for a good life, while being nurtured by their own kind. Would you rather  
  they stay with you or will you guide Roki's thinking to accept our offer?"

It would seem that being confronted with this question -- not to mention the  
  undeniable feel of the little motions around his jaw that tell him his beard  
  is being removed -- is not at all what Richard expected to face upon  
  regaining consciousness. His tired, confused gaze manages to focus more or  
  less upon the healer's visage, but it takes him several moments of trying to  
  rally his thoughts before he can reply. Cynara is left to bring the fine  
  line of his jaw into view again, as though sculpting him. But by the time  
  she's cleared one side of his face, he's found the wit to blurt, "What...  
  d'ye get outta takin' em on, domina?"

Cynara's hand is steady with the blade, not that she is even slightly worried  
  about cutting you, she can heal any mistakes she makes, after all. The foam  
  is cleaned from the blade in the bowl and she stops her hand just before  
  starting the other side, "I gain nothing, it is an act of generosity and a  
  gift to a friend." Whether it is you or Nox, or the parents of the children,  
  she leaves unspoken. "I have told Roki that the only thing I would expect in  
  return is his and his sister's silence as to the location of the Sanctuary.  
  Nothing more. I will not begrudge children of a proper opportunity." she  
  speaks evenly, bringing another stroke of the blade down your face, "And if  
  there is anything to be gained by this, it is an extra two pairs of hands  
  when they are older."
Generous, isn't she?

As his wits sluggishly begin to respond to him, Richard takes care to lie very  
  still -- his head might seem full of cobwebs to him at the moment, but one  
  thing is clear enough, and that is that he's lying practically helpless at  
  the mercy of a woman with a blade at his throat. A small dimple in his chin  
  is revealed under the strokes of the razor, while he stares muzzily up at  
  the face over him, trying to divine the motives of its owner. "What d'ye get  
  from healin' me?" he murmurs then, a bit more life in his voice, the lilt  
  that seems to be his habitual accent coming back.

Cynara chuckles dryly at that question and cleans a bit more foam from the  
  blade with a swish of water in the bowl. "Well now, that certainly is a  
  question, isn't it?" she responds with a calculating smile. Turning her eyes  
  to watch the blade in the water she shrugs, pulling her lips into a brief,  
  considering frown, "Well, to begin with, I came as a favor to Nox. He asked  
  me to Heal you, and I, in my mercy," she grins slightly down at you, placing  
  a bit of possible teasing on the word 'mercy', "came, argued my way past  
  your bull dog, and restored your life and what was taken of your brain, by  
  the fever." She leaves it there, for the moment.

Richard's brow furrows at 'bull dog', a sign that he may not quite know who is  
  meant by that particular appellation. The children? Roki? He thinks a  
  moment, half-formed impressions in his recent memory of someone bathing his  
  face and frame in blissfully cool water... then, he subtly starts there  
  where he lies, still frowning. "And now, domina?" he asks, barely succeeding  
  in a whisper, more of his energy being diverted to the expectant force of  
  his gaze.

Cynara smiles in her amiable fashion, and draws the blade slowly down the  
  remaining patch of unshaved chin. "And now, I have come across some  
  knowledge that perhaps might be beneficial..." Finishing the stroke, she  
  cleans the last bit off the blade in the water and then takes a cool cloth  
  from the clean, cool water and wipes your face gently. Well, gently for  
  Cynara at least. All the while, she merely smiles at you, allowing the  
  wheels in your head to turn as they will.

Still drained enough of strength that such attentions to his face are almost  
  enough to lull him back to sleep, Richard nearly drifts off... but he  
  catches himself, wariness beginning to sharpen his otherwise exhausted gaze.  
  He is here... he's been ill... Cynara is here... Cynara is a healer...  
  Cynara healed him. That train of logic proceeds through his weary mind,  
  towards a conclusion that makes his face go still to match the rest of him.  
  Then, and only then, does his mouth curl up on one side in a ghost of a  
  lopsided grin. "And ye've come to offer it to me, along with the healin'?"  
  he asks in bland and guileless tones.

Cynara pats your face dry with a towel, and then folds it neatly before  
  tossing it into a small pile of remaining things to be burned. Folding her  
  hands in her lap, she looks down at you, and again, she smiles, it is almost  
  a soft smile, though none would believe you if you said such of her.  
  "Actually, I'm rather certain it is information that you are already aware  
  of, though I doubt most people are..." Her wings sway slightly on her back,  
  causing a subtle breeze, perhaps to stir your memory.

For a moment, just for a moment as those ivory wings stir the air in this  
  cramped little room, Richard might be seen to look... disturbed. His eyes  
  darken in that instant, going from twilight towards a deeper night sky's  
  hue, as his attention goes just past the healer's countenance to the sweep  
  of her wings beyond. But that instant swiftly passes. Now that he is  
  beardless, the prone man's boyish smile is all the more apparent. Without  
  batting an eye, and in that same guileless tone as before, he asserts,  
  "Can't imagine what ye might be meanin', Domina Cynara... but as ye say... I  
  been ill. Head's still a little foggy, ye ken?"

Cynara widens her eyes and lifts her brows as she nods in a manner that  
  mockingly suggests she believes him. Then, focusing her eyes somewhere off  
  above his head, she leans down, closer to his face, turning her own  
  slightly, as if about to impart a great secret upon him. "I'm speaking of  
  the wings that should be upon that back." she whispers. Only then does she  
  return her eyes to yours, pulling back into her straight postured position  
  next to you.

Richard doesn't start or gasp at the healer's leaning down low over him, nor  
  at the words she whispers. But a quick keen glance might notice a momentary  
  ripple along his throat before he whispers gruffly, "Quite... the bedtime  
  story ye've got there. Shouldn't ye be savin' that up for the bairns...?"

Cynara chuckles in forced mirth and reaches over to pat your hand placatingly,  
  "Somehow, after the way Nox and I were treated today, I'm thinking..." she  
  scrunches up her face a little to emphasize the thought pattern, ".. that  
  this just might not be something that the bairns would like to hear right  
  now... however, if you'd like me to tell them, I will...?" she lifts her  
  brows innocently and gestures to the door, leaning that way slightly as  
  well, as if about to get up and do so.

There is a pause... and then Richard drawls laconically, "Ye seem to be  
  laborin' under the misassumption, domina, that I'm frettin' over whether the  
  bairns'd think any different of me if you spun 'em this tale of yours." His  
  eyes are still dark, his face still very still; if he _is_ dismayed by this  
  -- threat? or mere suggestion? -- of the healer's, those are the only signs  
  of it. "But ye also seem to have some other option in mind. What say ye be  
  sharin' this with me, aye?"

Cynara shrugs one shoulder and settles back down on the side of your bed. She  
  nods diplomatically, "You're right, of course, the children probably  
  wouldn't see you as much different, but I would say that cute little  
  guardian of yours would. Auvrey, I believe the children called her." Her  
  lips form a straight, tight line as her brows lift in an 'oh well' sort of  
  expression. Her wings giving a shrug this time instead of her shoulders. Her  
  demeanor has not lead toward any sort of threat yet. "Actually, I'd just  
  kind of like to know what happened..." She sounds sincere as she looks back  
  down at you, pale blue eyes, the hue of innocence, though only a fool would  
  believe that of Cynara. Still there is honest curiosity there. "Were they  
  taken from you purposefully? Was it an accident?" And with this line of  
  questioning, her little 'I'm holding something over you' facade seems to  
  fade away.

Eyes of pale blue meet eyes of dark blue, and neither gaze holds much in the  
  way of innocence now. Richard's brows knit together at the mention of Auvrey  
  -- ah, that's recognition there in his face; he knows the name. And his gaze  
  hardens as he takes in his visitor's -- his healer's -- bearing and  
  expression. The curiosity is noted, along with the apparent sincerity, the  
  relaxing of the facade. There is no trust in the man's stare, no equivalent  
  relaxing in the set of his features, as though he expects the hint of  
  blackmail to return to the conversation... especially because he is too  
  weary and weak as of yet to search for any path through the topic at hand  
  except truth. "Taken," is the only thing he says in reply, his voice turned  
  hard and low, his expression unreadable. Truth, perhaps, but the  
  barest portion thereof.

Cynara's lips turn down at the corners in a saddened frown. Her eyes move away  
  from yours for a moment and she nods slowly, "That's horrible, Richard." she  
  murmurs quietly, sincere. She knows how it would feel to lose her own lovely  
  wings. "Can you tell me, without revealing too much of your past, who took  
  them? Was it the law of Haven or the law under Haven?" asks as examples.  
  "Were you given a reason?" Her expression is one of contemplation. After a  
  pause she adds yet another soft spoken question, "How long have you been  
  without them?"

None of those questions gain an immediate response -- at least, not a  
  vocalized one. Perhaps simply because Cynara puts forth her queries in those  
  gentle and saddened tones does she provoke a silent response out of the man  
  in the bed: his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth contorting into a tight little  
  grimace. Then his head turns towards the wall on his other side, as if he is  
  unwilling to display even these small signs of his distress. At last he  
  settles on the final question, simultaneously the easiest and most difficult  
  one to answer. "Fourteen years," comes his toneless mutter.

A shudder seems to run through the branded healer, or so the slight movement  
  of the bed may tell you, since you are no longer facing her. She nods  
  silently to the response, and lays a comforting hand over yours. "It must  
  have been horrible..." she speaks in low tones. There is no sympathy in her  
  voice, everyone has their hardships, but there is an underlying empathy that  
  pervades the quiet words. Gently, she continues her questioning, "And... was  
  it a judgement against you Richard? Why have you kept it a secret for so  
  long?" Genuine curiosity, while trying to not tread to hard upon tender  
  ground. "What judge could have been so harsh?"

"Aye... 'twas a... judgement, domina, and we can be leavin' it at that."  
  Richard's head turns back again, bringing a stare turned hollow with  
  exhaustion and memory back round to the white-winged young woman. Once more  
  he smiles, but there's no mirth in it, and in conjunction with his eyes that  
  smile is a sardonic one. "Ye'll hafta be pardonin' me if I fail to see why  
  who did it makes a whit o' difference at this point."

Cynara rolls her jaw in consideration before again, her head bobs in  
  acknowledgement of that answer. Pale blue, the color of a summer sky, looks  
  down at you from within a truly angelic visage, particularly now, when her  
  features are not drawn up into their normal tightness. "I was wondering,  
  Richard, because if it were the law of Haven, you just may want to continue  
  without them, so to keep your identity from them, and if it were the law  
  below Haven, you just might be interested in having them back." The words  
  pass her lips in a whisper carried only as far as your ear, blue eyes locked  
  upon yours in thoughtful question.

The man's got a formidable self-control, even when he is weakened in the  
  aftermath of a healing that undoubtedly saved his life and his sanity. But  
  with a comment like that put forth to him, enervated and vulnerable as he  
  is, Richard can't stop the brief piercing flare of pain and yearning that  
  crosses his expression. "'Twas... no law in Haven, nor below, that brought  
  it about," he rasps out then, managing to keep his gaze steadily locked with  
  your own and schooling his features once more into a more or less impassive  
  mask as he begins to speak.

Cynara studies your face, "Will you tell me what happened, Richard? Whatever  
  it was, it was an injustice... for no crime is worth the punishment of being  
  landbound. It would be the same as denying the sea to an Atlantean." Silky  
  locks brush against her black toga as she shakes her head in disgust at the  
  very notion.

"What makes ye so sure o' that? What makes ye think I didnae do summat full  
  worthy o' rippin' the wings right off me, eh?" Under such scrutiny,  
  especially with his beard gone and revealing the full details of the elegant  
  lines of his face, Richard is all too easily marked as a man of the race  
  that also begat you. What other people, after all, would have that  
  refinement of cheekbone and jawline, that beauty which even in its masculine  
  form has provided the fuel for the fires of pride that burn in the men and  
  women who rule the skies? But if your own beauty can be called angelic,  
  Richard's is that of an angel of moonlight and midnight rather than one of  
  the sun. His darker eyes stare up into your own, their gaze as hard as  
  sapphires, whose hue they share. His voice is just on the edge of mocking,  
  and may well have passed that edge if he were not so weary in body and mind  
  and spirit. "What makes you think I didnae deserve it?"

Cynara lifts her chin as you ask your questions, her eyes perusing your face.  
  "I do not know that you did not deserve it Richard." she replies coolly.  
  "What I know, is that taking the wings from one born to soar upon them is a  
  heinous act. Tell me, Richard. Did you deserve it?" The pristine features,  
  the epitome of an Empyrean woman, one used to riding the wind and being free  
  of the earth. Yet she too has been cast down from her noble race, she bears  
  the scar of a scrawled x upon her brow, one you know is there either by  
  rumor or past sightings. Her freedom and respect among her peers stolen from  
  her in probably the same amount of time yours was stolen from you. There is  
  a pride in her mannerisms even still, one that is natural and undeniable, as  
  she waits for your opinion on the matter.

Aye, Richard knows of that X hidden beneath your golden locks, and it may well  
  be that he is thinking of the very rumors that advised him of its existence,  
  for his sapphirine gaze flickers along your brow. "No," he says then, his  
  voice tautly constrained, allowing nothing to be expressed above and beyond  
  the syllables he utters. "I did not." He could be lying, of course; he must  
  be a very good liar, to be passing for a Mongrel for fourteen years.

Cynara looks over your face for a few more moments then nods. "Very well, you  
  didn't deserve it." she concedes, she does not seem to care if you are  
  guilty or not. "I am not here to pass judgement on you anyway. I was simply  
  curious. I've known you for years, but never known this of you." she rises  
  from the side of the bed, her cool demeanor returning slightly as she  
  straightens her toga, "Since you will not tell me what brought this upon  
  you, I will leave it to your own conscience. Know that it is within my power  
  to restore your wings to you, Richard. If you would like them back, we will  
  discuss a price, which I assure you will be high, for it is a difficult  
  task. But, it will not be beyond reason for you. Consider and let me know  
  when you've decided. For now, rest, you will need it." she nods once and  
  steps toward the door.

Those last words provoke another subtle but undeniable reaction in the  
  dark-haired man lying weakened and weary in his bed -- for the offer that  
  the healer makes him deals a second solid blow to the mask of his composure.  
  As the winged woman rises, Richard once more squeezes his eyes shut,  
  striving for calm... but when she reaches the door, he does speak once more.  
  "Cynara--" Her name, not domina, not 'healer'. His voice is smaller now, as  
  though he is having trouble maintaining the strength for the creation of  
  words. A beat, two, and then he concludes hoarsely, "Thank you for savin'  
  m'life."

Cynara pauses at the sound of her name, it would seem she did not note the  
  reaction to her offer, but never underestimate her. She turns at the door  
  and nods back at you, "You're welcome." she replies quietly, "I'll be back to  
  check on your progress... if you get the chance, mention to your guard dog  
  that it's alright for me to see you, alright?" a small grin on her lips  
  before she moves out the door to find Nox and let the children know they can  
  go inside if they are quiet.

"Aye," is all that Richard can manage in reply, then. Sleep, desperately  
  craved for days, is tugging irresistibly at his senses... and now that he  
  does not have to wrestle with the ravages of the plague in his system, that  
  sleep will not be denied much longer. It begins to well across his  
  consciousness even as Cynara takes her leave, and the last thing she can  
  hear out of him is that soft, lilted "Aye," before he drops headlong into  
  oblivion.

[End log.]