"Unexpected Downtime"

Log Date:
	8/19/99, 8/20/99

Log Cast:
	Hebe, Richard, Tara (NPC emitted by Jenean), Perla, Nox

Log Intro:
	The man that most of Haven knows as the Mongrel trader Richard has
come back to the city--only to get caught up in the quarantine in effect
now that plague is sweeping the streets. Much to his distress, the victims
of the spreading disease include someone close to him: Dorcas, the wife of
Jacob, the man who trained him as a thief. With much of his usual activity
curtailed--both legitimate and illicit--Richard's had to divert much of his
attention to trying to find a cure for his mentor's spouse. He's met with
only some success, and his efforts have taken far more hours out of his
days than any man should spend. But because Dorcas is at risk, not to 
mention Jacob and their children, Roki and Elette, Richard is willing to 
spend those hours.
	When he can, he takes refuge at the Siren's Song for food and kaffe
to refuel himself. And because the girls of the Song are long familiar
with him by now, they often bestir themselves to make sure Richard gets the 
sleep he needs. Even when he might wish otherwise....
 
*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Morning
          Date on Aether:  Monday, February 18, 3906.
           Year on Earth:  1506 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  First Quarter
                  Season:  Waning Winter
                 Weather:  Clouds
             Temperature:  Chilly
*==========================================================================*

It's morning but there's still a rabble in the Song--people still drunk from 
  the night before, others wishing to get drunk to blot out the day, and those 
  wishing to just have a good time. Hebe slips in from outside, trying to 
  be as unnoticeable as possible in fear she'd get kicked out. It's warm in 
  here and that's nice.

Morning, aye, but at least one of the men in the Siren's Song isn't drunk -- 
  though not necessarily for lack of trying. Nor is he asleep, though the 
  hollows at the corners of Richard's eyes suggest he ought to be. No, he'd 
  just as soon avoid sleep for the moment, thanks. And so Richard, having 
  claimed himself a seat by one of the walls, alternating between staring 
  broodingly at the carven Siren and staring broodingly at the door, happens 
  to spy the obviously bedraggled winged girl who creeps into the place. 
  Perhaps it's her dirty condition, perhaps it's the way her wings droop along 
  the ground behind her... whatever the cause, the black-haired, blue-eyed man 
  pauses in drinking down a mug of something hot and steaming and peers 
  consideringly over in the newcomer's direction.

Within the shadow cast upon her face, Hebe's eyes do a quick dart about the 
  room. Danger, always checking for potential danger. The coast seems clear 
  though and she edges along the periphery in order to draw closer to the 
  fire. Once there, she rubs her hands together and then opens her palms to 
  the flame, soaking heat upon her chilled skin. She remains attentive, 
  casting a narrow-gaze over her shoulder time and time again. It is during 
  one of these monitoring glances that she notices .. not the mongrel man but 
  a large Varati fellow that comes striding in. Her feathers ruffle a little 
  and the girl obviously brissles. Grrrrr.

Ah. Ruffling feathers, bristling wings, an increase in the anger in her 
  expression -- a betting man would not do badly putting down soldis on the 
  fledgling there being one of the many displaced by the war. There's no 
  surprise in Richard's countenance, but he does keep tabs on the girl while 
  _she's_ keeping tabs on the Varati.

What to do? The urge to just launch herself at this man .. no, this /demon/ .. 
  is there, nearly overwhelmingly so. Watching the Varati move through the 
  room, she unconsciously clenches her hands, so much so that her knuckles 
  become absolutely white. Must .. suppress .. calm .. shhh ... make it stop. 
  Make it stop. She keeps herself from attacking him. For the time being. But 
  woe unto him should he come anywhere near her.

Well. Angry little fledgling, isn't she? But the simple fact that she _didn't_ 
  launch herself at the big Varati suggests there's something going on behind 
  those eyes besides base fury. "Good," Richard murmurs under his breath, and 
  then he unfolds himself from his chair. Bringing his kaffe with him, he 
  ambles towards the fire and the huddled, ragged shape of the Empyrean girl. 
  "If ye're not too proud to let a Mongrel preen those wings for ye, lass," he 
  announces without preamble, "and ye're not too proud to work for it in 
  exchange, there's a woman in Bordertown who could help ye out wi' that."

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

Since she had been busy giving the Varati 'The Eye', Hebe failed to notice 
  Richard's approach until he was nearly upon her. She finches slightly, her 
  body going tense, and then she turns eyes up to the face of the mongrel. 
  Wariness touches over her features and the girl cocks her head slightly. 
  "What would I have to do?" she inquires, the elegance of her speech 
  indicating that her current station in life is one that she had not always 
  held.

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

If the fellow who's approached Hebe is surprised by the manner of her 
  speech, there's no sign of it in his face. His clothes look rumpled enough 
  that he might have slept in them; his hair is certainly tousled enough that 
  he might have just rolled out of bed. The subtle signs of weariness lurking 
  about his eyes and mouth, however, suggest that bed is not a place this man 
  has been in the last many hours. "Chores, most like," Richard replies 
  calmly. "Fetchin', carryin'. Kate's gettin' up in years, has a bad leg. 
  Walkin' all the way to the Rialto's a bit of a hike for the old gel. But her 
  hands're steady, and she knows how to fix up wings."

It sounds like a good deal buuuut ... "You make it a habit to offer aid to 
  complete strangers?" she replies, her tone -almost- hostile but not quite. 
  Hebe's a tiny girl. She wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight if she 
  ever found herself in such a situation which would require some 
  self-defense. And the last thing she wants is to be lured into some dark 
  alley and be .. robbed? Well, she has nothing of value. Beat up? Killed? 
  Who'd want to do that? Still, she's discovered--the painful way--that it's 
  wise to be cautious. The young woman continues to scrutinize Richard, as if 
  she stares at him hard enough, his intentions will be clear. Oh, and she 
  does look back to the Varati regularly. Ever vigilant, this one.

Morning. Must be, 'cause here comes Tara, stumbling down the stairs and 
  yawning fit to swallow a horse.

Evidently entirely unruffled by such level scrutiny, Richard merely coolly 
  sips down the rest of his kaffe, his blue gaze levelly returning the stare 
  given him. "All _I'm_ offerin', lass," he corrects blandly, "is information; 
  make of it what ye will. As long as we're on the topic, there's a gel or two 
  _here_ that can do yer wings for ye, but all the gels here can walk to the 
  Rialto. Kate can't."

Tara slides onto a barstool. mumbles something semi-incoherent to the 
  bartender and runs hands trhough her hair, yawning again.

Hebe's hands, still turned to the fire, move slightly as she rubs the tips 
  of her fingers against the flats of her thumbs. Thinking... analyzing the 
  situation. She chews on her lower lip as well, a child-like habit that rings 
  hollow in this girl. "You going to let me have some of that?" she inquires, 
  nodding her head toward Richard's mug instead of commenting on the 
  information just yet.

Black eyebrows crook up over blue eyes, and Richard glances mildly into said 
  mug before glancing up again. He does not, however, continue drinking. A 
  small smile curls one end of his mouth, and he replies almost amusedly, 
  "Thirsty, then? Ye can have it if ye like; I can buy more. 'Tis black and 
  bitter I like my kaffe, though."

Tara gets amug of something, yawning again, and starts to take in the room a 
  little better. Rubs at her eyes and yawns again and studies Richard and 
  Hebe.

Hebe sniffs a little and, to remedy the situation, she rubs her nose with 
  the back of her hand. "I am past the point of being picky." Obviously. It's 
  not as if she sits atop the garbage heap whining about how she can never 
  find a good Ambrosia anymore. Nope, there's no room for that. Dirty fingers 
  reach out and relieve Richard of the mug, the girl taking a big gulp of the 
  drink before continuing on at all. "So. Her name is Kate?" she asks, 
  repressing the desire to make a face. Cripes, this -is- bitter.

Richard hadn't missed Tara's descent of the stairs, and he casts a dusky 
  glance in that worthy lass's direction, inclining his tousled head by way of 
  greeting, even as he surrenders what's left of his kaffe to Hebe. The 
  stuff he's been drinking is bitter indeed, dark and strong -- no wonder he 
  looks awake and alert, if he's been putting down this stuff -- but perhaps 
  most importantly, it's hot. "Aye," he answers. "Kate. A seamstress, she is. 
  Used to work in the Empyre."

Hebe does wrinkle her nose a little but is not deterred from continuing to 
  drink the bitter liquid. Another gulp, this one more of a sip, and then she 
  nods. "Seamstress. And you'll tell me where I can find her?" she mumbles 
  into the mug before taking another mouthful. It's at this point she notices 
  the mongrel attention elsewhere and the girl's eyes drift over to Tara as 
  well. Hmmm.

Tara yawns again. Grins at Hebe, "Hey, sunshine. Get ya somethin' a bit.." 
  Biiig yawn. "..more drinkable than his stuff?""

"Aye, if you're wantin'," is Richard's reply to the Empyrean girl, before his 
  gaze flicks back in Tara's direction. His smile quirks into being again, a 
  bit larger this time, and he protests straightfacedly, "Ach, but it keeps a 
  man awake so well, and I thought you gels here liked that." A deadpan 
  expression, but there's a hint of a twinkle in his eyes.

Hebe doesn't cower but she does seem to shrink in size. She doesn't like 
  the attention. To Tara's offer, she shakes her head and mutters out a 'No, 
  thank you.' that's nearly lost in the ambient noise of the room. Then she 
  settles into a quiet appraisal of Richard's interaction with the cyprian. 
  Wonder if he .. and she .. hmm. Sip-sip at the mug as she peers over the rim.

Tara puts her tongue out at Richard, gigghling. "AN' hopw'd ya know what I 
  like, mm?" Gues sthat answers that piece of speculation.

This time, Richard's lopsided smile is broad enough to show a flash of white 
  teeth amidst the shadow of what promises to be a beard by nightfall if he 
  doesn't bother to shave. "Now what fun would there be in bein' paid to watch 
  a man sleep, me girlie?" he liltingly parries.

Tara laughs. "Plenty. I wouldn' be complainin' if you paid me t'do that. Easy 
  money."

Hebe's eyebrows rise up on her dirty face but she otherwise has no 
  reaction. Despite being forced to grow up far too fast and far too soon, the 
  topic at hand is something she's still a bit .. innocent about. So, she 
  continues to listen, continues to watch, and continues to keep track of the 
  Varati across the room.

Perla comes down from the upstairs rooms.
Perla has arrived.
Perla pads down the stairs, silently.

Richard's grin, if anything, gets bigger, and his blue eyes spark for a moment 
  as he unhesitantly informs Tara, "Ach, gel, a man'd have to be dead to keep 
  sleepin' with you in the room. But I'll keep ye in mind." With that, he 
  tosses off a bit of a bow and returns his attention to Hebe. "Will ye be 
  wantin' the directions, then, lass?"

Hebe is sitting on the floor in front of the fire, sipping a mug filled 
  with something and watching the interaction between Richard and Tara. Every 
  so often, the grubby Empyrean shifts her attention to a Varati across the 
  room, hate quite evident within her gaze.

Tara laughs. To Richard, "Only haveta ask, hon."

Hebe had been staring at the Varati, imagining his slow, painful death, 
  when Richard spoke to her. The girl's eyes snap back to his face and her 
  expression tightens momentarily. A breath and then a nod. "Yes, please."

Perla smiles cheerfully to Tara and Richard, and gives the winged girl a 
  worried frown.

The wink Richard tosses to Tara signifies he caught those last words of hers; 
  his glance up to Perla as the white-skinned Atlantean makes her way down the 
  stairs, and the more or less amiable little nod in her direction, signifies 
  he's noticed her arrival. Most of his attention, however, now remains with 
  the ragged winged girl before him. And he tells her straightforwardly, "She 
  keeps a little shop in Bordertown, the Stitchery. Just a touch north of the 
  city gardens, on Fairway, nae quite so far east as Border. Do ye ken that?"

Hebe nods. "MMm-hmm." She takes one last sip and drains her ...Richard's.. 
  mug. Rising up to her feet, she unconsciously dusts her clothing even though 
  no amount of chasing by her hands will drive the dirt away. "And who should 
  I say sent me?"

Perla says, mostly to herself. "I really don't understand these people."

"M'name's Richard," replies the black-haired man, with a hint of that small 
  ironic smile of his. "Tell 'er it's payment for my last three shirts."

Hebe nods, "Thank you." Her reply is spoken solidly opposed to residing in 
  the tones of damsel-in-distress gratitude. She appreciates the gesture but 
  isn't going to get down to kiss his toes over it or anything. Her pale eyes 
  sweep the room once more and then she heads for the door.

Tara grins across at Hebe. "If ya want those feathers straightenin' 
  anytime, hon, just yell."

If Richard expects more in gratitude than what Hebe gives him, he doesn't 
  display that, either in gaze or smile or expression. He simply nods evenly, 
  solid acknowledgement of solid thanks, but he does smile as Tara pipes in. 
  "I told her some of the gels here can do wings," he clarifies, "but I wasnae 
  gonna speak for ye."

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

Perla climbs upstairs.
Perla has left.

That, then, would be that. Richard casts a glance after the Empyrean girl as 
  she departs, and only after she's skittered out of the Song does the man 
  close his eyes for a moment, rubbing the back of his hand across them, and 
  trying not to regret too much the surrender of what was left of his kaffe. 
  For a moment, just a moment, he looks quite, quite tired.

Tara slides off the barstool, leaving her mug behind, and moves to stand 
  behind the mongrel, hands settling on his shoulders. Quietly, "Least I *got* 
  some sleep, hon."

Even through his jakke, even in such light contact, there's a palpable tension 
  in Richard's frame. He doesn't quite twitch, per se, but a slight start 
  moves through those shoulders, and he turns around enough to proffer a weary 
  one-sided smile to the girl who's approached him. "Sleep's a rare commodity 
  these days," he answers lowly, almost wryly.

Tara mms. "No kiddin'." Hands massage, gently. "An' too much kaffe makes ya 
  jumpy. Now relax, mm? I ain't chargin', an' this is all yer gettin'."

Tara
Blonde, pretty. 18, with that slightly worldly-wise touch to blue eyes that 
  being a cyprian for as long as you were old enough gives, although some 
  days, in the right company, it can vanish, leaving innocence the colour of 
  summer noon. Typical cyprian clothes, too, skirt and half-open blouse.

Richard's shadowed eyes drift shut for another heartbeat or two, as Tara's 
  fingers knead into the flesh beneath the leather that garbs him. "'Twas 
  either the kaffe," he murmurs faintly, "or fall over when I set foot outside 
  again... and I'm not after lettin' one of the dead-carts haul me off by 
  mistake..." Ach, that feels good. It'd be easy, very easy, to let this 
  Tara-lass do that for oh, say, the next six months...

Tara snorts softly. "Ya *can* take a bed upstairs an' sleep in it, y'know."

This makes the man look up again, just a bit startled, as if it had somehow 
  slipped his mind that sometimes the beds in the Song _do_ actually just get 
  simply slept in. Richard blinks from Tara to the stairs and back again, in a 
  sort of half-focused slow motion that gives another small signal that he's 
  already partly asleep on his feet. "I... can't spare the time," he murmurs 
  absently, as if to himself, black brows winging down over eyes beginning to 
  turn plaintive. Then he jerks his attention round to the bar, perhaps 
  wrestling with the idea of asking for another cup of kaffe. "I've got to 
  check on them..."

Tara tsks. "An' you'll do 'em sod all good when you can hardly keep yer bloody 
  eyes open, whoever they are."

[It doesn't take much -- Tara eventually coaxes Richard upstairs to sleep, 
 even as he insists on paying her a proper rate for the room he claims and
 being awakened in two hours. And later that day, much later...]

The Siren's Song - Haven
     The dim recesses of the Siren's Song tavern have, on occasion, been 
  justifiably referred to as "a barbarous assault upon the senses." In the 
  stale air the earthy smells of alcohol and the subterranean fungi from which 
  Varati rot-gut is brewed compete with the scents of blood and vomit. The 
  walls, painted vividly with sea-scapes from an Atlantean fever-dream, slope 
  slightly inward as they arch to the sooty, star strewn ceiling, which itself 
  sags slightly, supported only by a massive central column. This column, the 
  feature the tavern is named for, is carved into the likeness of a siren, and 
  she beckons lustfully to patrons, leading them through the ring of garishly 
  painted tables to the cracked oaken bar.
     There is a stone fireplace against one wall, to drive away the damp and 
  chill on wintery evenings. Opposite that is a set of stairs, rising to an 
  upper level where guests can spend the night--or just a couple of hours with 
  a willing partner.
Contents: 
Nox  
Tara              
Loreena
Obvious Exits:
Stairs <U>  Out <O> 

Nox is sitting in a shady corner of the room, alone with his mug of ale. He is 
  silently watching the crowd, shifting his attention to listen over to some 
  of the more heated arguments at the bar. While he is leaning back in his 
  chair in a relaxing pose, his face looks a bit more gaunt and strained than 
  usually.

Nox
        An Empyrean of slightly below average height, with sleek, swarthy 
  skin. His heart-shaped face seems feminine, its features soft and smooth: a 
  small, thin nose protruding between high cheekbones; delicately curved lips 
  set off above a dimpled chin; a pair of slanted eyes of dark violet placed 
  below finely arched, deeply black eyebrows. His thick, glossy black, long 
  hair is framing his face, falling on his narrow shoulders. Contrasting to 
  this look is the gaze from his eyes, revealing bitterness and past 
  hardships. 
        His body is slim and wiry, making him physically rather unimpressive. 
  The most remarkable aspect of him are his wings: Covered with soft, thick 
  feathers of raven-black, they arc high over his shoulders, broadening his 
  frame and covering his back, elegantly curving down. 
        The dark Empyrean wears a simple chiton of coarse, grey wool, fitting 
  well to his form. A black chlamys is clasped at his shoulders hanging losely 
  down to his mid-calves. His dark, nimble feet snug in bright beige zoris. 
  The chiton is secured by an unadorned leather belt around the waist, 
  revealing a sheathed pugio. A pliable longbow and matching quiver is slung 
  over his shoulder.

Richard
     He's pale; he's not a Varati. There are no visible gills or fins along 
  his slim frame; thus, he's not Atlantean. No Sylvan would have eyes of that 
  stormy, dusky blue, and his ears are not pointed. Surely no Empyrean's hair 
  would as black as shadow -- and at any rate, he has no wings. So, then, he 
  must be a Mongrel. Most everything else he utters is 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.
     The clothing he wears is about as unprepossessing as you would expect on 
  any Mongrel man. A jakke of much-scarred brown-dyed leather is his primary 
  upper garment, a simple pair of dark blue breeches the primary lower one. On 
  his feet and hugging his calves are a simple pair of battered brown buskins. 
  Only the shirt beneath the jakke, white and of a finer weave than the 
  breeches, suggests that he might have put any effort into his attire. His 
  only obvious weapon is the hilt of a knife peeking out of the top of his 
  right boot.

Gaunt and strained -- there's a lot of that going around Haven as of late, 
  even among those who aren't suffering from the plague. The disheveled 
  black-haired man who makes his way down the stairs looks somewhat less 
  ragged around the edges than he did when he vanished up them, but still, 
  Richard retains a worn and haggard look about him. As he comes down into the 
  main room, tugging on his jakke over the top of a white silken shirt in 
  which he'd obviously just been sleeping, he can be heard to be announcing 
  peevishly to the blonde girl following him down the stairs, "_You_, lass, 
  are _not_ gettin' those two soldi."

Tara follows him downstairs, blonde hair with that just-brushed look, and blue 
  eyes dancing wickedly. "Who said I was askin' for it?"

Nox's violet eyes shift upwards to look at Richard and Tara. He doesn't 
  comment, but a weary smirk of amusement settles on his lips as he reaches 
  for his ale.

Blue eyes squint blearily at the tavern, as Richard pauses at the foot of the 
  stairs. More people than he'd expected... in fact, this looks like the 
  beginnings of the Siren's evening crowd. He stops, visibly stunned, and then 
  shoots an irate glance up at the not particularly believably guileless Tara. 
  "I _thought_ 'twas more than -- ach, girlie, what part of 'two hours' did ye 
  fail to ken?" That perturbed regard of his doesn't stay on the girl, 
  however; perhaps he's a bit more affected by that sweet face and frame than 
  he's willing to let on. Searching his pockets, he snaps his attention away 
  from her as he heads out into the room; then, coming up with the two soldi 
  he'd offered Tara for the wake-up call he hadn't gotten when he'd wanted it, 
  he aims himself at the bar and calls out tiredly, "Kaffe!"

Tara smiles. "Uh.. gee. Did you say two?"

Nox lets out a low whistle as he follows the mongrel with his eyes. "A busy 
  man, as usual. As well as a generous man", he mutters deeply, but audible 
  for Richard. A bit louder, he adresses him, "Already on your way out for 
  work, or have you got just enough time to sit down?" One foot kicks the 
  empty chair opposite of the dark Empyrean below the table out -- a somewhat 
  sloppy invitation for the overslept mongrel.

"Aye, _two_, nae four nor six nor more," Richard snaps, still avoiding Tara's 
  merry gaze while he tries not to think about the all too seductive notion of 
  going right back upstairs, crawling back into that soft bed, and remaining 
  unconscious for another week or so. He's very possibly unaware -- though 
  this can be easily read by Tara -- that the extra time off his feet has put 
  a bit of life back into his eyes and his voice, a bit more grace back into 
  his frame. Certainly his head lifts immediately as Nox hails him, and he can 
  be seen to shift gears with something like his usual facility as he claims 
  that offered chair. "Over here for that kaffe!" he calls over his shoulder, 
  before grinning a small lopsided grin at Nox. "Aye to both, mate, I've got 
  to get some kaffe in me, then I'm out. Glad to see ye on your feet."

Nox rolls his eyes, then grins right back at Richard, "Kaffe, girls and too 
  much stress", he comments in an amused voice, "You know you're killing 
  yourself like that in the long run." He lifts his mug, then takes a sip of 
  his ale, "Yeah, on my feet, sometimes up in the air, sometimes creeping on 
  all fours. At least /it/ didn't catch me...yet." A subtle hint of worry 
  underlines his carefree comment. "How about yourself? Spending your time on 
  your back?"

Tara just giggles. "When I c'n get him to."

Tybio strolls into the Song with a large grin showing under his muck colored 
  face.

Nox is sitting at one of the tables in a darker corner, opposite of Richard, 
  grinning mischeviously at him. Briefly, he looks up to Tara, winking at her, 
  "It's not like you got any reason to complain. Looks like you don't have to 
  work /too/ hard for him to pay you."

Since Tara has obviously followed him to stay in earshot, Richard shoots the 
  lass a mildly disgruntled glance. "I've nae time for nappin' nor play," he 
  says gruffly, as his glance flits impatiently and restlessly to the bar. 
  Where's that kaffe. "And 'tis a dem good thing I didnae pay her, for she's 
  got a right queer notion of the meanin' of 'wake me in two hours.'"

Tara chuckles. "Hey, sweetheart. There's folk'd die fer me t'ferget how long 
  they'd bin in beed *and* ferget t'charge."

Nox rolls his shoulders in a shrug, "The night's still young, for whatever you 
  are planning. Or her, for that matter." He leans a bit closer over the 
  table, his deep voice dropping to a whisper, "So how is work for you these 
  days? I heard they blocked off most of the trade routes. Though the city is 
  pretty desperate for anything coming from the black market, I overhear. 
  Desperate, but suspicious as well."

Richard's apparently refreshed enough -- and his sense of humor restored 
  enough, or is it his sense of hormones? -- that he can't help a small 
  one-sided grin at the blonde-haired minxlet nearby. And ah, _finally_, 
  there's that kaffe! As another of the Siren's girls ambles over with his 
  mug, he forks over coinage for her, then takes a moment to just inhale the 
  fumes with all the appreciation one might expect of the finest ambrosia. 
  Nox's murmured words snare and hold Richard's attention, however, once the 
  vitally required kaffe has been obtained. Over the top of his mug, the older 
  man murmurs, smiling ever so faintly as Tara and the waitress move off, 
  "Aye, the trade's turned bad, with the sickness in the streets. Let's be 
  sayin' that I'm... managin'." He doesn't elaborate, not yet.

Nox draws his eyebrows deeper, the sense of amusement now vanishing from his 
  face as he mutters seriously to Richard, "Jovian knows it's hard to find 
  anything out on the streets these days. As playful as they are, even the 
  cyprians here reduced their services, because of the disease. Anyways...do 
  you know where any supplies -- food, clothes, even weapons, are availible 
  right now? Do you still have any contacts?"

The older man smiles, very tinily, very faintly. "All the herb-sellers I knew 
  skipped town before I got back in," Richard answers softly. "Or else they're 
  out of their supplies. But there's a few contacts to be had, still. Clothes, 
  weapons... that's easier than food. Anythin' in particular ye're seekin'?"

Nox grimaces. This was obviously not the answer he'd hoped for. "Food is what 
  I need most badly right now. Otherwise...I have been looking for other sorts 
  of supplies. But they're not as urgent, they can wait for the moment. Any 
  idea where your contacts get their resources from? How reliable they are and 
  whether they leak this sort of information?"

Jibril steps into the tavern from the docks outside.
Jibril has arrived.
Jibril scoots in with a grimace and obvious sour mood. He is dripping wet. He 
  lumbers towards the bar with a scowl as he does his best to keep from 
  shivering. Stupid winter. Stupid sleet. Stupid world in total, of course.

"Aye, you an' most of the rest of Haven is in search o' food right now," 
  Richard murmurs to Nox. The two men, the one winged, the other not, are in 
  quiet conversation at one of the bar's tables, and Richard is frowning 
  intently now over his kaffe. Blue eyes study Nox's face. "Unfortunately, 
  mate, at least thre o' my reliable contacts are dead and I've not been able 
  to find the rest." Grimacing as he puts down another big drink of his black, 
  bitter kaffe, he concludes, "I've been after doin' most of me work meself, 
  since the sickness hit."

Nox sips wearily on his ale, dissapointment showing on his features. 
  Underneath the table, he clenches his fist in frustration, yet his voice 
  remains quiet and calm as he speaks to Richard, "Are there any ways you can 
  access their resources? I'd help you to get them if I got a fair share. And 
  I'm not really touchy on the methods. It's just that we..." He looks up as 
  Jibril comes in, putting on a fake half-smile for the mongrel. He watches 
  him saunter towards the bar, then lowers his head again in Richard's 
  direction.

Jibril climbs into a seat at the bar, removing a thin small chalkboard slate 
  from the back waist band of his pants, setting it on the the bar. He pauses, 
  blinking, then quickly sticks his hand in one pocket...
...drawing out what seems to be and handful of wet white paste. He glowers 
  further, letting it drip from his hand and splat on the bar. Bad day. So 
  much for communicating anymore until he finds dry chalk.

You sit at the darkened corner table.
Richard's blue gaze tracks Jibril's progress to the bar, and one black eyebrow 
  crooks up at what the boy pulls out of his pocket. Most of his attention, 
  however, is clearly on that mug of kaffe he's polishing off, and the winged 
  figure sitting at the table with him.

Jibril pouts, chin in hand, trying to make a sculpture out of the wet paste 
  chalk, a dull expression on his face. He scans the room quietly, eyes 
  landing on moving lips every now and then to find a conversation of interest.

At your table, Richard frowns over his mug at his table companion, then. 
  Instead of directly replying, however, he says instead, "How willin' are ye 
  to have the Hounds and Hawks maybe comin' down on ye even faster're usual?"

Nox watches Jibril out of the corner of an eye, while keeping his head low. As 
  he observes how the boy gazes at the mouths of the people, he tries to catch 
  his attention. Without speaking anything aloud, the dark Empyrean addresses 
  Jibril silently, merely motioning his lips as if he was talking, "Salve, 
  mister. Not one of the best days for you, is it?"

Jibril watches Nox a moment, then smiles, shrugging, lifting a sleeve to wring 
  it out, grinning further.

At your table, Nox coughs quietly, then replies pointedly, after putting a 
  hand over his lips, "/Not/! I was looking for any of the supplies that 
  slipped through the attention of those anyways. What they don't know about 
  doesn't make them hot. B'sides, they got other things to care about now than 
  a couple of deals made under the hand. Or even a few robberies of supply 
  stations whose owners died off from the plague." A deeper frown, "You don't 
  think it's safe anymore?" With a quick indication of one thumb to the boy at 
  the bar, he notes in a mutter, barely moving his lips, "Oh, and watch how 
  you speak. I think that boy over there can lip-read."

Nox nods friendly to Jibril, then places a hand over his lips. After 
  whispering in such a hidden way with his table partner, he quirks one thumb 
  in the general direction of the mongrel boy.

Richard marks the diversion of Nox's attention back to the lad at the bar, and 
  once more he casts a glance over his shoulder to take a look at Jibril and 
  to see what manner of reply the boy might make. The smile and the shrug are 
  noted, and at least for a moment, Richard flicks a small crooked grin in 
  Jibril's direction. Most of his attention, nevertheless, remains on the 
  darkling at his table, and it might be noted that although Richard doesn't 
  so much as bat an eye at his companion, there's very little that can be 
  gleaned from the motions of the finely shaped mouth within his dark beard... 
  especially with his mug in the way.

Jibril blinks then frowns. Uh-oh. Uuuuuh-oh. Jibril moves quickly now, 
  scraping the chalk paste off the bartop into his hand, then looks at it, 
  wondering what use he has for it. He splats it on the floor. The boy catches 
  up his slate and hops from his chair.

At your table, Richard murmurs, by way of acknowledgement of Jibril, "I ken. 
  And nay. There's nae much safety to be had, at least if ye try any obvious 
  robbery or cause a ruckus." A spark of irritation flits across his eyes for 
  a moment, as he adds, "Chit damned well kicked me right in the jewels in the 
  Rialto, and I had a pack of Hounds on me in two blinks. Even with most of 
  the upper crust hidin' out in the embassies, they're keepin' tabs on 
  merchants and houses. Findin' the right ones, that's the trick."

At your table, Nox starts to gnawl on his underlip, eyes flickering nervously. 
  "Hmm-mhmm", he merely notes. "Know what you mean. I escaped their attention 
  so far here, and I stay as much out of the sight of the hawks as possible", 
  an edge of bitterness steals into his tone, "but we all need to live." He 
  stretches himself, then finishes his cheap ale, "Anyways, if you find 
  something, or can even get me a worthwhile job, you know where you can find 
  me." His eyes dart for the door, "I should be off now, though."

At your table, Richard nods slowly, putting down his kaffe. "Aye," he murmurs, 
  not unkindly. "I've... a possible lead. I'll pass the word."

Nox stands up from the table, saying out aloud to Richard, "I'll be seeing 
  you, then. Good luck with your business, Richard." Another, more intensive 
  study is given to Jibril, before he voices silently once again, "Vale, 
  mister." With that, he heads for the door and leaves for the cold night.

By way of reply to Nox's farewell, Richard inclines his dark disheveled head, 
  saying simply, "Vale." His voice carries liltingly, and now that he's 
  finished off the kaffe his mouth can be seen, too. He watches the darkling 
  go, before rising from his own seat, restlessness returning to his 
  expression, and slipping out into the night.

[End log.]