"A Friend in Need" Log Date: 8/17/00 Log Cast: Tara, Julian Log Intro: [NOTE: IC, this log pretty much immediately follows "All That a Man Could Want", before it on Julian's logs page.] It has been a night for brooding -- but then again, winters in Haven are good for that, even when one has a cozy study in which and a warm hearthfire before which one can brood, and a glass of ambrosia to aid the thought processes. Or slow them, if one drinks enough. Julian has never been a heavy drinker, but still, he's brooded this night, and he's fallen upon the comforts of fire and drink in which to do it. His friend and off-again on-again partner in nefarious deeds -- Nox, who'd been his right hand in organizing the raid that gave him his old name, his daughter, and the very leadership of his House -- has come to see him, to ask him what he plans to do next now that he has won himself this particular victory. Though they have parted on good terms, the talk still resonates in the Rook's head, for it's highlighted for him prices he has had to pay to win even a measure of security and safety for the children he now protects... and prices he will continue to have to pay, to balance his public face against his shadow one, to keep Julian Nemeides apart as much as possible from the Master of Thieves. A night for brooding... though as it happens, Julian's not yet done with receiving visitors. This one will not only distract him from his reflections, but bring with her a reminder that even though he's stepped into a new life, his old one is not forgotten.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Night (Duskside) Date on Aether: Wednesday, December 11, 3906. Year on Earth: 1506 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Gibbous Season: Winter Weather: Clouds Temperature: Cold *==========================================================================* Tara Pretty. 19, 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. Golden-blonde hair, with a reasonably neatly cut fringe that almost falls into her eyes, swirls about her shoulders, with the longest strands just curlng below her breasts. And those breasts are full, rounded, without being overly so, a generous asset to a trim yet curvy, not too tall, long legged body. A skirt and blouse, almost the uniform of her trade, cover her. The skirt is a simple, brightly coloured, wraparound affair, fastened on one hip, while the blouse is slightly too small, made of off-white linen, and her breasts strain against it, the garment's fastenings undone to just below. She wears a single piece of jewellry against her skin, a beatiful piece of work in silver that represents the face of Tyche, wings curving back to encircle Tara's neck. The young woman coming to this house in the Empyrean quarter doubtless raised some eyebrows on her way here -- but the servant who'd been watching the gate is one of Cynara's people, and thus Tara has been let into the courtyard of the new home of House Nemea in Haven without more than a preliminary challenge. The servant at the door took a bit more convincing, but then again, gruff and burly Ian has been advised that his new employer may well be receiving visitors at odd hours of the night... and thus Tara is allowed further into the house, to the study where the man who now claims ownership of this place has already received one odd visitor tonight. Richard can be found in what appears to have been set up as a study, a room with a cozy hearth and a window shut against the chill of the winter night. There's a chair meant for someone with wings before the fire, unoccupied; another chair, meant for someone without wings, holds the Rook. He, in turn, holds a crystal cup of something that looks like fine ambrosia, and he looks up with startled blue eyes at the second visitor he's had tonight. Seeing her, he rises. "Tara," he pronounces, recognition not needing to strike, though his velvet tenor is a trifle bemused. "Good evening." Tara smiles a little. "Hi. I.. uh... you busy?" "Busy? Well, busy brooding, perhaps." This _is_ Richard, yes? His face and his frame are the same, but the clothes he wears are of far finer cut and quality than the sorts of garments in which he's typically frequented the Siren's Song. His accent is different as well, the street cadences vanished with only a trace of a lilt in his words now. And as if Tara were the Empyress herself, he gestures with a courtly twist of his hand towards the chair he'd just occupied, since it is the more comfortable of the two before the fire -- at least for someone without wings. "But I do not mind interruption. Come in, my dear; warm yourself. I've ambrosia, if you'd like some." Tara makes a face. "Ugh..." A soft laugh. "I.. uh, don't like it." She takes a seat, somewhat nervously, then looks up. "This is.. mm.. nice." Setting his crystalline glass -- which, it might be noted, is practically empty -- down upon the small table where a matching bottle gleams in reflected firelight, Richard settles his lean frame down upon the backless stool nearby. "It will serve," he says, smiling just slightly, a touch wryly. "Heard about my return so quickly, did you?" Tara shakes her head. "Just..." She sighs. "I.. uh.. needed someone t'talk to not from th' Siren/ An' I *trust* ye." His smile fades now, at the fretful nuances of his young visitor's expression and tone; for a fraction of an instant, too, Richard seems slightly startled. How often is he named trustworthy, to his face? He draws in a breath, then lets it out and inclines his head gravely as he sits there upon the stool with enough casual grace that he's either long familiar with such furniture -- or easily falling back into the habit of dealing with it. Honored by the admission, concerned by Tara's restlessness, and vividly remembering certain confessions of his own he's made to this girl, Richard says gently, "I'm listening, lass." A nod. "Uh.. y'know th' rules in th' Siren, right? About keepin' secrets?" A pause, and then a giggle. "COurse y'do. I'm bein' silly." She flicks her hair back in that gesture that she's so obviously borrowed in imitation of the Siren's madame. "I.. uh... got kinda a problem." Richard has seen Jenean more than enough times to mark where that gesture must have come from, and it brings a small pleased smile to his elegant mouth, a brief glimmer of appreciation in his twilight eyes. "I know them," he murmurs encouragingly, velvet tenor mellowed by the ambrosia he's consumed tonight, and by the welcome distraction from the thoughts that have been chasing themselves around and around through his head since Nox left him alone not more than an hour ago. Tara sighs. "I... uh..." She licks her lips. "I just dunno." One hand toys with a lock of her hair her hair. "It.. I had a customer, 'k? An' they..." She shivers a little. "Somethin' they said... uh... is buggin' me. Like, is it th' kinda thing I oughta keep t'myself, if it means people get hurt, An'..." She looks up at him, blue eyes almost pleading. "If I tell, I.. it's breakin' the rules, an' it.." A helpless gesture. "How do folks know I won't tell again... or someone else might..." Softly, "I'd never tell yer secrets: y'know that, don't ye?" Please? Leaving aside for the nonce the fact that a good number of his personal secrets are about to become public knowledge -- his birth name, his race, what color the wings were that rode upon his back and will do so again -- Richard nods a single time, his own dark azure gaze never wavering from the anxious face turned towards him. "I do," he softly assures. Leaning slightly forward now upon the stool, half his face dappled by the light cast off by the flames crackling in the hearth, he adds, "You need not tell me who your customer was, if it will ease your mind." Tara laughs a little bitterly. "It.. ain't that." She hugs herself. "Part... part of it is that.. if.. I oughta tell someone about this, I oughta see him again, like he he asked. Just t'find out more." A pronoun. He. Not that Richard would have been particularly surprised or dismayed to learn that Tara's customer was of the fairer sex, but it is nice to have a frame of reference -- and at any rate, the Rook has found fewer women than men of his acquaintance likely to frequent cyprians, or share their secrets if they do. "But you're frightened of doing so?" he surmises, dark brows rising inquiringly. Tara dtaws her knees up, hugs them and rests her forehead on her arms. A long-drawn out sigh, and a nood. "It... uh... wasn't fun." Another shiver, and an audible swallow. "What do I do?" "Did this man harm you, Tara?" Richard's voice remains mellow, pitched low and confidingly, but a hint of steel enters into his gaze. Jenean's girls may have rules between them that anything uttered in the privacy of their beds is sacrosanct -- but there is only so far that privacy can go before it must yield to a higher purpose. Moreover, the thought that someone might have done something unpleasant to this charming, trusting young lass who has soothed his own body and mind sends a current of anger jolting through his system, one which he cannot entirely hide. "Or anyone else in the Song?" Tara shakes her head. "No. Uh.." A faint laugh. "He weren't no rougher'n anyone else I had. Was...." She bites her lip. "Creepy." It's the closest, maybe, she can get without spilling the details, something a part of her wants to do. 'Creepy' is not, admittedly, much with which to work. But with a patience which had already been keen -- and which in the last six months has been honed by the careful, exacting campaign he has just carried out against his own flesh and blood -- Richard keeps at it, looking for ways past Tara's worried reticence to the kernels of truth which can let him advise her upon a course of action. "Has he given you reason to believe he will harm someone -- actively _planning_, rather than simply possessed of" -- and at this, Richard's expressive mouth curls with distaste -- "sordid inclinations?" Tara just nods, wordlessly. Long-lashed blue eyes lift to watch him, trusting and yet reticent. The Siren is her life. The rules *work*. And now for what may well be the crucial piece of information. Twilight eyes gone dark and clear, Richard inquires with a calm that does not in the slightest diminish the intensity of his regard, "Has your... customer given any indication of _who_ he might harm?" She bites her lip, then lets out a soft breath. And nods. The tiniest of nods, as if minimising the motion will minimise the gravity of the admission. To this, Richard blows out a breath; still, though, his gaze never wavers. He does not pretend to fully understand a cyprian's life -- but after over a decade of friendship with Jenean, after over ten years of the Siren's Song serving him as a haven and a shelter against his own tumultuous life, he has a fairly decent idea of what Tara now faces. But, before he commits to the advice coalescing in the back of his thoughts, he levies one last question. "Do you know if this person will have a decent chance of defending himself, or herself, if your customer attempts them harm?" After all, if someone is delusional enough to try to attack the Queen-Maharani of the Varati... or the Empyror... or one of the Atlantean Decemvirs, they're almost asking for a chest full of crossbow bolts or to be crisped, drowned, or ripped to pieces by the magic of a dozen mages. Tara looks down at the floor for a long moment. Quietly, not looking back up, she murmurs, "I... don't know. I... don't know how many other people... could get hurt if they tried." She looks up at last, hand trailing through sun-gold hair. "Th'.. somone knows I saw him. AN' they've bin buggin' me to tell if I know anythin', an' tryin' to make out that it'll be ...my fault if things happen." She sniffs. Miserably. "An' I just don' know any more." Richard's features tighten ever so slightly, a trace of discomfort crinkling his brows at the sight of the unhappiness in the cyprian's features. But the awkwardness is momentary, subsumed by the greater need to do something for her; she has come to his door, seeking his help. Therefore, he must help her. He rises off the stool then, coming over to crouch down on one knee before Tara, looking up at her troubled young face. "I suggest three things, then," he says in soft, steadfast tones. "One. Tell Jenean. Tell her in private, perhaps, but tell her. If your customer has the potential to be dangerous to you or to any of the other girls, she must know this. Two. If you can, perhaps with Jenean's help, warn the would-be victim. Anonymously, if necessary. If he or she chooses to heed your warning, you may well save a life. If not... you've done all you can do. And three... if you need protection... I have the power to give it, now." Tara bites her lip, shakes her head. "I... can't tell Jen." A deep breath. "I ain;'t a good liar. An' I don't want t'get her int' trouble if someone asks who else knows." The Rook's brows tighten once more; he can't quite approve of such dogged conviction in this situation, but then again, he's not entirely certain he wouldn't be doing the same, if he were a frightened young woman. Besides... Tara _is_ old enough to make her own decisions. If anyone should know that, he should. Grudgingly he nods, then. "Can you get a message to the potential victim, at all?" he presses, gently but firmly, willing to concede on matters of the Song's code of silence but not so far that someone might die of it. "And the offer of my protection remains open. Furthermore... I have certain resources, now." He does not elaborate, but a small smile does momentarily curl one side of his mouth. "If you do not think you can relay a message safely, I can see that it gets done, with no one the wiser." A long pause, before she wipes the back of a hand across her eyes. "I... uh... can. I think." She frowns, then looks up again, those blue eyes just a little bright. "D'ye think I should?" Richard lifts a hand to Tara's nearer knee, letting the contact underscore the solemnity of his expression, the gravity in his dusky eyes. If it were any other girl from the Song, he might not take the liberty; this one, however, has seen the scars upon his back. She knows his vulnerabilities and some of his longest-held secrets... and he knows she has not revealed them. Even as she's admitted her own trust, he has to admit he trusts her into return, up to and including trusting in her ability to do what she thinks is right. All he can do, he tells himself, is to give her as much to go on as possible in making that decision. "If you can do it _safely_" -- and the stress upon that word is unmistakable -- "without putting yourself or any of the other girls or Jenean at risk... then yes, I think you should. If not, then I think you should let me send a message for you." Tara comes his hand with hers, swallows and nods. "I..." She sniffs. "I...uk... kinda think I knew that anyway." Another sniff. "But ..uh..y;know. Needed t'hear someone else say it who... uh.. wasn' part of it." He inclines his ebon head once, understanding in his eyes, acceptance. His hand turns about, enough to let his long, lean fingers curl about the smaller hand upon his own. "I leave it to you to judge what you can do, lass," Richard says with a return of gentleness to his velvet tenor. "But you know who I am, and what _I_ can do." Never mind who Tara's mysterious customer might be. _He_ is the Rook, stealth and secrecy his very business; he'd like to see the man who could trace any message he chose to send, at least without a clairovoyant in his back pocket. And now, the Rook has taken command of a good number of people in Haven who can make similar claims. "You know that I'll help you in any way I can." Tara nods. "I know..." She straightens, eases her hand free and slips arms round his neck, leaning forward for a soft kiss. Whispered, "Thank you." He is the Rook... but he is also Richard, and he is a man, not made of stone. With an enticement like Tara leaning towards him, he draws in a breath and then lifts his hand up from her knee to cradle her chin while he brushes his lips across hers in a feather-light benediction. "You're welcome," he murmurs, before pulling back just enough to recapture her gaze, blue to blue. "Do you need refuge tonight? Will you be safe, if you leave my house?" She smiles at that. "I'll be fine." A brave, wry smile. "I'm a big girl." A pause, and then, softly, eyes softening a little. "WHat about you, mm? Y'need company?" "I'm a big boy," is Richard's dry reply, both amusement and regret glimmering in his gaze now. It is tempting, very tempting, to consider letting this girl stay at his side tonight and chase away some of the shadows across his heart and mind and nerves. But he is no longer sure he has the luxury for such a thing -- not when his is not the only shadowed heart in the house. He cannot easily stomach the thought of failing to hear them, should Momus or Moirae call out in their dreams for a mother who can no longer come to their side. And he is already putting the discretion of his new assortment of servants to the test, with the task of making sure they all maintain a low profile before Cynara employs her power to bring the dark-winged Julian Nemeides back into the public eye. No... best not to indulge himself. Not quite yet. He squeezes Tara's hand once more, rising lithely to his feet as he does so, and finishes huskily, "I, too, will be fine." Much happier when she has others to worry about, is Tara. A quick smile, and an impulsive hug, and, softly, "Don' forget, mm? Ain't many folk I don' charge." Precisely two. She flicks her hair back again in that gesture of Jen's, and turns at the door to blow him a kiss. "Thanks. An' g'night..." Tara has left. [End log.]