"All That a Man Could Want"

Log Date:
	8/16, 8/17/00

Log Cast:
	Julian, Nox

Log Intro:
	For well over a decade the man who has been living in Haven as
"Richard" has not let himself imagine the possibility that he might ever
resume the life he'd led in his youth -- that of Julian Nemeides, darkling
son of the wealthy merchant House Nemea. But then again, he never conceived
of the fact that his exile from his family had resulted in an unexpected
byproduct... a darkling daughter by the name of Moirae.
	Driven by this discovery and by that of his brother Erasmus'
subtle abuses of the child, Richard resolved to take back his daughter --
but his plans could not come to fruition until he received the help of no
less a personage than the Lady of Thorns herself, Cynara. With Outcast 
funds and Outcast weapons backing him up, Richard has spent much of the 
summer and fall of 3906 systematically robbing his own House blind... and
as the final blow, he has launched a raid intended to win his daughter into
freedom. 
	But even this had unexpected results, for Richard's raid upon his
family's country estate in the Empyre resulted in the deaths of his brother
Erasmus _and_ Dulcinea -- once married to Richard's older brother, now 
married to the younger, the woman who had caused Richard's exile, and the 
mother of Richard's daughter. No one else is left to take the House as their
own...
	And so Richard has won not only his daughter and not only his name, 
but the leadership of his House as well. But because of the _other_ position
of leadership he also now claims, the Rook cannot stay long away from Haven.
And so now he has returned, bringing the four children under his protection
with him. He has settled himself, the children, and the loyal servants who
have accompanied them out of the Empyre into a new residence in Haven's
Empyrean quarter. And it is there that the one who was most instrumental in
aiding Richard in his assault upon his brother comes to find him, on a chill
winter's night, to find out what he will do next....

*===========================< 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:  Partly Cloudy
             Temperature:  Chilly
*==========================================================================*

Julian
     He is pale -- he's not a Varati. He has neither gills nor fins; he's not 
  Atlantean. He cannot be Sylvan, for his eyes are twilight blue, his ears 
  unpointed. And surely his features are far too refined to be those of a 
  Mongrel... which leaves only one race from which this man could come. He 
  certainly has the build of an Empyrean, leanly muscled, finely boned. At 
  just over six feet in height, he is tall, but slim. Shoulders, limbs, and 
  hands are all in elegant proportion, and he moves like a Son of the Air as 
  well, with a certain lightness of carriage that suggests he might spring off 
  the earth at any given moment.
     But if he _is_ Empyrean... there appear to be a couple of problems. He 
  _can't_ spring off the earth, for he has no wings. And his hair, short, 
  often rakishly tousled, is a pure raven-black. The hue of his hair and the 
  absence of wings may well be the source of an ever so slight glint of irony 
  in his dark azure gaze, or the hint of a sardonic drawl beneath the lilting 
  velvet tenor with which he speaks. Wingless though he may be, darkling 
  though he may be, he nevertheless comports himself like a lord. His manners 
  and accent are impeccable, and he conveys to the world an aura of unspoken 
  assurance and experience, befitting a man who appears somewhere in his 
  mid-thirties.
     Julian is dressed at the moment in a black silken long-sleeved tunic, 
  sleek black breeches, and a midnight-blue tunic upon which gleam discreet 
  touches of gold embroidery. The cut and cloth of each garment he wears are 
  subtly fine, perfectly tailored without ostentation though of a style that 
  owes its origins to designs outside the usual preferences of the Children of 
  Air. Upon his feet he wears soft boots, also black.

Nox
        An Empyrean of slightly below average height, with sleek, swarthy 
  skin. His heart-shaped face still has faint traces of femininity and 
  smoothness from the past, but it has clearly suffered in recent times: The 
  high cheekbones have become hollow and the curved lips cracked and dried 
  out, giving the young man a haggard appearance. The light in his violet 
  slanted eyes, below a pair of finely arched, deep black eyebrows, has become 
  duller, now shining with the intensity taken from suffering and desperation. 
  Long black hair flows losely down to his shoulders. 
        His body is lithe and slender. Originally of thin, light build, recent 
  training has given Nox broad biceps, a hardened musculature and a flat 
  stomach, making him neither big nor bulky, but well-proportioned, even if 
  somewhat underfed. The most remarkable aspect of him are his wings: Covered 
  with thick feathers of raven-black, they arc high over his shoulders, 
  broadening his frame and covering his back, elegantly curving down. At a 
  closer look, a few pristine white feathers sprouting near his back on both 
  wings can be observed. 
The dark Empyrean wears a set of simple clothes: a wide grey woolen shirt with 
  short sleeves that slips over his waist, held together by a narrow, simple 
  belt, and a pair of well-fitting, black leather leggings. Small feet snug in 
  hardened, worn out boots of brown leather. Attached to one side of the belt 
  is a sheathed gladius, while the hilt of a small throwing knife is revealed 
  at the other. Clasped to his shoulders is a thin black cape that is hanging 
  losely down his back, framing his lithe figure to his knees.

A winter night in Haven can be a cold thing, and the man who's spent the last 
  fifteen years letting Haven call him Richard is long familiar with the 
  vagaries of Haven's weather. What is rather less familiar to him, these 
  days, is the prospect of spending a winter night in Haven in a warm, cozy 
  room, a fire in the hearth and a window to close against the chill that 
  might threaten from without. And this is only one of a large number of 
  things to which the Rook must now accustom himself. There are the children 
  -- Roki and Elette sleeping in good beds for arguably the first time in 
  their lives, warm food and clean clothing available in abundance now. But 
  there's also little Momus, too small yet for his wings to grow in, and not 
  yet having realized that his mother will no longer be with him. And there's 
  Moirae... whose face is so like Richard's own, and who calls him Father. The 
  children are all safe, warm, fed, clothed. Richard himself is wearing far 
  finer clothes than most of what he's worn in the last decade and a half, and 
  that, too, is strange. He has servants again. And they're calling him by a 
  name he hasn't used since he was a youth.
It is all very strange, and since he is safely alone, a cup of ambrosia 
  waiting at his elbow on a table at his side if he chooses to savor it, the 
  Rook allows himself the luxury of brooding.

Among the reunited family is somebody who does not fit in. Who never fit in 
  anywhere, and who now realizes once more how much he misses his own family. 
  Sure, it was just another job for Nox, and it payed well, yet the longing to 
  be part of such a family cries out to him from inside once more, bringing 
  out painful memories. 
However, none of that reflects on his face. Cool as usual, dressed in his 
  run-down, black and grey clothes of inferior quality, even his appearance 
  marks him as difference. Seemingly too cool to care, he slinks through the 
  House, passing by the servants with hardly a look as he enters the living 
  room of the estate. One finger glides slowly across a marble pillar before 
  he approaches the new owner from behind his seat. "Over and done," he says 
  somberly, his soft, deep voice barely above a hum. He waits a moment, to 
  make sure all servants have left the room, before he continues, "Or do you 
  already have your next coup in mind..../Julian/?"

"Why, Nox," drawls the velvet tenor of the Rook, "you make it sound as if I'm 
  aiming to take over the Empyre." The top of his dark head is visible over 
  the back of the chair -- a chair made for people without wings, comfortably 
  and elegantly padded. One wouldn't see a chair like this in Nemea's main 
  holding in the Empyre, but here in this new holding of the House in Haven, 
  there's still a great deal of furniture that can accommodate the wingless. 
  And from this chair its new owner now rises, turning his back to the 
  hearth-fire and his blue gaze to his visitor. A small smile curls one side 
  of his mouth, not quite reaching his introspective eyes. "Or have you come 
  to suggest I do so?"

Nox' lips to form a wry grin. "Would I ever? /What/ to do was always your 
  choice, I just advised you on the /how/." His violet eyes wander up as 
  Julian rises, to meet his gaze. "You'd probably do a better job at ruling it 
  than the people who do so now. It might be worth a consideration." His gaze 
  drifts off again, wandering through the room. "Some things changed since you 
  are here, I see," he notes idly. "And I assume more changes are still to 
  come?"

Richard. Julian. He _is_ still the same person, is he not, that Nox has aided 
  so deftly over the past several years? But as if a name _does_ make a man, 
  there are already subtle changes all about his person. His hair is still 
  black, his eyes blue -- but he is dressed like a lord, and he stands like 
  one as well. And even if the black silken shirt is open at his throat, even 
  if his hair is as tousled as it often is, there is a new restraint about the 
  man: old memory in his eyes, a hint of weariness, a sobriety that was 
  scarcely ever allowed into the persona of the 'Mongrel' Richard. "The place 
  does need redecoration," he acknowledges, "particularly if the children are 
  going to live here for the time being." Another faint smile curves his 
  mouth. "And while I fully intend to see how many social mores I can bend as 
  acting Deus of Nemea, I rather doubt I'd find them as flexible were I to 
  challenge Drusus Marcus Jove for the throne. Furthermore" -- and for a 
  fraction of an instant, his eyes almost twinkle in the firelight -- "I also 
  doubt Cynara will be able to make a wind-mage of me."

The new Deus' traces of lordship stand in contrast to the subtle changes of 
  the mecenary and outcast that affected him during his time as gladiator. 
  Still haggard by appearance, his once smooth skin roughened and withered, 
  Nox shows even less signs of nobility and lordship than before, if that is 
  possible. However, it is impossible to tell either from his expression or 
  his voice than anything changed between the two men. No matter what Julian's 
  status is now, to some, he will always remain 'Richard'. With a twitch of 
  his lips, he comments, "The last owner didn't have any kids. Nor any taste, 
  if you ask me." His eyes wander over Julian's shoulders, studying the empty 
  air behind it, as if there is still something amiss. "You still have a ways 
  to go for that, I guess." He rolls his shoulders in one of those 'what do I 
  care what /they/ think'-poses. "The tradition of having to be ruled by a 
  wind-mage is just that: a belief that's kept up by some people who allow 
  themselves to be lead by history, rather than practicality, because they are 
  too narrow-minded to think for themselves." His violet eyes give Julian a 
  more intense look. As if he was looking for something specific there. 
  Something...uncomfortable. "Cynara...is a good girl. Always good for 
  surprises. But I'm sure I don't have to tell you about that, do I?" His 
  voice is a bit too dry and flat to be entirely genuine.

Richard, then. His mouth quirks up into a broader smile, as he inclines his 
  head and drawls, "I've already taken the opportunity to get rid of most of 
  the prior occupant's... art." Two or three pieces he'd actually ordered 
  turned over to the nearest shapers for re-use of the materials, and one he'd 
  had to personally take out and smash, but he doesn't bother to elaborate on 
  this. The dismissal of the traditions of leadership in the Empyre gets 
  another small wry smile, as Richard gestures towards the nearby table where 
  his cup of ambrosia still rests, next to the crystal flagon that contains 
  the rest of the drink. "Would you like some?" As he speaks he takes up his 
  own cup, staring at it distantly for a few moments. In the Siren's Song, 
  he'd have tossed back half the stuff in the cup without a second thought; 
  here, however, he only sips cautiously. After a moment, intensely aware of 
  that look that had been given the still-empty space behind his 
  shoulderblades, the Rook appends dryly, "No, I'd managed to figure that one 
  out myself."

Nox strokes his chin thoughtfully as he studies the delicate crystal glass, 
  "Ambrosia, eh? Some folks seem to get an endless supply of it, yet mosts of 
  the places I frequent never have it." Not to mention that he can rarely 
  afford it. "I wouldn't mind some," he gives in distantly, but doesn't reach 
  out to grab a second cup on his own. Something about Julian's answer makes 
  Nox' teeth clench. Quietly, he prods a little further. "You had quite some 
  time to figure that out while...while I was gone. I assume. Find out more 
  about her hidden qualities." Slim, black eyebrows wander questioningly up, 
  but the deep, dark glowering eyes stay lowered below the long lashes.

Pouring out a second glass for his visitor's consumption, Richard quirks one 
  dark eyebrow at Nox's words; then, as he holds forth the crystalline cup, he 
  studies the smaller man's expression with the same intensity with which Nox 
  has been studying him. The changes in the other man have not gone unnoticed, 
  from the new haggard set of the dark features to the leaner, tougher build; 
  nor, now, does the Rook miss the seemingly pointed probing being directed at 
  him. What, exactly, is being asked here? "Less time than one might expect," 
  he replies quietly, understatedly. "I've been a trifle busy. So has she."

Nox watches calmly how the golden liquid flows into the cup meant for him, 
  then takes it up with a languid, slow motion, not allowing any guesses how 
  highly-strung the man still is underneath the smooth surface. He purses his 
  lips, then acknowledges the answer with a satisfied nod. Whatever was asked, 
  whatever was questioned, better let it drop now, before hinting at more 
  unbacked accusations. "I see. And I understand." Abrubtly, almost 
  unnoticably, he lets the topic drift again, asking in a less cool tone, "So 
  what lies ahead of you, Richard? Does your work end here, or has it just 
  begun? One could think you have everything a man could want." He gestures 
  with the still full cup lightly through the room. But despite the seemingly 
  careless, quiet tone, it's obvious that the Outcast does not refer to 
  physical property alone.

Oh, aye, all that a man could want. Wealth. Power -- even if the power the 
  Rook has seized for himself is still new enough that if it were a weapon, it 
  would still be glowing from the heat of the forge. Security -- this seized 
  House _is_ well-guarded, though the servants and sentries brought here from 
  Nemea's holding in the Empyre have not yet figured out exactly what to make 
  of the Haven-dwellers their new master has brought into their midst. And 
  family -- though it is an odd assortment of youngsters now under his 
  protection, to be sure. All of these things come to mind, even as Richard 
  settles his rangy frame back into the chair he'd previously occupied, 
  gesturing invitingly towards another fine chair also in the room, one with a 
  low back far more suitable to one with wings. "What comes next is simple 
  enough," is his solemn reply. "As far as House Nemea is concerned, I hold it 
  in the name of Momus, until he comes of age."

Nox sips idly from his ambrosia as he strolls over to the hearth, declining 
  the invitation to sit. Through his mind wanders once more the thought of how 
  different this world is from his own. Power through position, wealth, 
  comfort, family a security of payed, bored guards unprepared for some of the 
  things that could hit them...all those things represent aspects of the 
  'other' world outside the underground for Nox. Part of the establishment. So 
  how much has Richard become part of /them/? 

The warrior places the delicate cup on the marble ledge besides the hearth as 
  the flames flicker near him, reflecting upon his swarthy skin, giving it a 
  glowing red teint. "Is that really your plan, Richard? Give up once again so 
  easily what you have fought for? Or is that only what you tell people?"

As the firelight dances across Nox's dark complexion, so too does it spark in 
  Richard's twilight gaze and cast crystalline gleams upon the goblet he holds 
  in one lean hand. The older man eyes the younger, one black brow crooked. "I 
  do not," he notes archly, "intend to make my brother's son Deus tomorrow, if 
  that's what you ask."

Nox stretches one arm out, holding the hand over the fire to warm himself. He, 
  too, has been a victim of Haven's harsh winter too often, and not been 
  blessed with warmth in his life. In a quieter, less sharp tone, he says, "I 
  did not expect you to do so. Which could bring up the question of what you 
  plan to do with the House." He takes a step back from the hearth, back 
  towards the entrance. "But it's late tonight. And I suppose you prefer some 
  peace before coming up with an answer, even only to yourself."

"What I intend to do with Nemea," answers Richard, "is lead it. I do not have 
  much of a family left, but it will be best for the children, all four of 
  them, if the House is not torn apart by the first pack of ravening vultures 
  who convince themselves a merchant House would be a prize worth acquiring. 
  And perhaps I will be able to insure that Momus does not grow up to be a 
  brute and a clod as his father was. If I can, the boy's welcome to it -- he 
  _is_ the legitimate heir." He says nothing about any peace he may be getting 
  in the near future... or the distant one, for that matter. For a fraction of 
  an instant the Rook's eyes go dark and tired despite the reflection of 
  firelight against them, the only sign that he expects to find little peace 
  in the new roles he's seized for himself -- but then he smiles, narrow, 
  sharp, sardonic. "Besides -- there's any amount of mischief that can be 
  conducted underneath the guise of respectability, wouldn't you agree?"

Once again, Nox feels a brief, aching pain shoot through his head as Julian 
  mentions the reunion, and his plans to lead the family. And once again, he 
  does his best to keep a calm, expressionless mask. "He's already learned a 
  few important lessons of life within the last few days, I'd say," he throws 
  in dryly. "I'm sure his uncle will be a serviceable idol." The twinkling in 
  the still unwinged Empyrean's eyes is caught and reflected. Once again, Nox' 
  lips turn to an amused, but pleasent smirk. "The heritage of your race 
  shines through. I have yet to meet the respectable Empyrean that has not 
  used his position to further his own goals where he could." Of course, Nox, 
  too, is Empyrean, but so far away from the respective, rich and traditional 
  image of the winged ideal that he hardly considers himself as the same race 
  anymore. In the door, he halts his step, leaning casually against the frame. 
  "And I did not think what you achieved came without a price." Still smooth, 
  friendly...but with a slightly darker undertone.

"Cynara and I have a deal," Richard acknowledges, inclining his head a single 
  time. "I shall hold to my side of it; Nemea is not all I intend to lead." 
  No, the Rook isn't about to stop his night-time flying, figuratively 
  speaking -- and perhaps, soon, literally as well. He smiles again, but 
  there's a darkness beneath it, answering the tone in the other man's voice. 
  It will be quite the juggling act: acting Deus, father and uncle and 
  guardian to four mismatched children, merchant... and master of the thieves 
  of Haven. Richard. The Rook. Julian Nemeides. There's not much room left 
  there beneath those many faces for whatever one _truly_ belongs to the man 
  in the chair, and if the look in his eyes is any indication, he knows it. 
  Irony in his velvet tenor, he appends, "And it is, by the way, my experience 
  that most people regardless of race use their positions to further their 
  goals." His smile turns edged... though whether it's turned on himself or on 
  his race in general, one perhaps cannot say. "_We_ merely happen to be 
  exceptionally good at it."

Nox' eyes flicker, and his eyes wander through the room, thoughtfully. Then he 
  inclines his head, to acknowledge The Rook's sentence. "No surprise. Not in 
  this place." Something about his smirk twists, becoming a little more 
  two-sided. "This House is included in your list of achievements, I suppose, 
  and as for the price..." He shrugs, not bothering to continue this line of 
  thought. "Your kind often considers itself as superior, it seems. And wear 
  your titles and traditions like a crown, while twisting the arms and truths 
  of those who are not in a position to defend themselves." So who exactly is 
  having the wings on his back in this room? Positions are reversed now, at 
  least in Nox' eyes. Despite those harsh judgements, his voice is still calm 
  and quiet, laced a mixture of wry amusement and sarcasm, or perhaps 
  cynicism. "Unlike to...what you used to be. But I doubt I have to lecture 
  you about what awaits you in the other world. Richard. You seem well enough 
  prepared already."

All traces of irony vanish from Richard's countenance now, as his visitor's 
  words cross the space between them. Is there a trace of hurt in the twilight 
  eyes, at the implication that because he is re-assuming the public face of 
  Julian Nemeides, he will be assuming the prejudices of the Children of Air 
  as well? A trace of hurt that the young mercenary before him appears to be 
  distancing himself from his old compatriot? _My kind,_ he echoes to himself, 
  not liking the sound of it, coming from the man who has so often defended 
  his back. 'My kind', not 'our kind'. There is a difference, and the ears of 
  the Rook can hear it. "I am what I've always been, old friend," he says 
  quietly. "I do not intend to forget what I've been doing for the last 
  fifteen years -- nor who the friends and allies I have made in that time 
  are. Roki and Elette will be raised alongside Momus and Moirae; I don't care 
  which of them have wings and which do not. No Mongrel will be a slave in 
  Nemea, nor anyone else, for that matter." He smiles again, but small and a 
  trifle sad this time, as if he does not entirely expect to be believed. "I 
  do not expect that those who are more respectable than I will approve of 
  these things. But that is the way it's going to be."

Even under the flickering firelight, Nox can still spot how Julian's 
  expression changes, takes on lines of hurt. He raises one arm half, palm 
  open, fingers outstretched, in an appeasing gesture. "Forgive me, Richard," 
  he says, more seriously, but not as biting as before. "I should not blame 
  you for using the chances you have used. Nor should I pass judgement, 
  because of what you are." He inserts a thoughtful pause. "I got carried away 
  with my memories and my grudge against...some other respectable people," 
  Another pause here, just for effect, "/my/ people -- and you got unjustly 
  the target." He returns the smile, and it seems friendly and genuine, rather 
  than mocking, for once. "I'm glad you don't strip yourself of what you have 
  experienced and learned. And I'm glad you will try to teach this to your 
  children. Despite the odds you have to face."

Richard's smile broadens a little, and for the first time in this 
  conversation, it does actually reach up to lessen the shadows behind his 
  eyes. "Apology accepted," he answers without hesitation, "and for what it's 
  worth... when Cynara restores my wings, I'll be having her do them black."

Nox shuffles his own wings and reaches out behind his back, touching some of 
  his own sheltered, pale pinions. The apologetic smile turns to a rogueish, 
  teasing grin. "If she leaves you the choice, that is. You've seen what she 
  did to mine." More seriously, curiously, he asks, "That's the way they were 
  before, I assume?" Of course, he reflects 'before what?' But he doesn't 
  speak that out. Despite the friendship Nox keeps, he still considers some 
  things private. Not to private to hear, maybe, but too private to ask of 
  them.

As far as Richard is concerned no Empyrean would have elected to be born with 
  wings of any hue but snowy white, and he smirks just a bit as he sips at his 
  ambrosia and takes a moment to let it slide, warm and golden, down his 
  throat. But he does also answer the question, even as he muses that if a man 
  must recollect the loss of his wings, he might as well do it in a 
  comfortable chair before a warm fire and with a cup of fine liquor in his 
  grasp. "Aye; they grew in black. My father deafened our servants for six 
  months with his rage, and it took another year after that before he'd utter 
  a civil word to my mother. You'd think they'd have known it was coming; 
  after all, my hair was just as black, and it grew in first."

Nox folds his wings back neatly again, leading the ends drop lazily on the 
  ground, while he settles back against the doorframe. He scratches his chin 
  thoughtfully as he studies Juilian. "Hmmm. I suppose that the wingcolor 
  often matches the hair. And that runs in bloodlines, or so I've been told. 
  Oriane Tritonides bears certain simular traits as you, and the House must be 
  stuck with dark family members for generations." His lips twitch. "I doubt 
  the question of my own wings posed itself." Is it by chance that he folds up 
  the sleeves of his arms, rubbing absently over smooth, hairless skin of dark 
  complexion? Is it the heat of the hearth? Unlikely.

"I've heard of her," Richard acknowledges. Difficult not to hear of Oriane 
  Tritonides, after all; her mother _did_ marry the God-King of the Varati. A 
  narrow smile continues to tug at one side of his mouth as he swirls what's 
  left of his ambrosia about in his cup, watching the play of color and light 
  beneath the delicate crystal. "Perhaps I shall have the luxury someday of 
  discovering whether one of my esteemed forebears played on the wrong side of 
  the bed with someone from House Tritonides, or perhaps flew even farther 
  afield. Until then..." With that, Richard draws in a faintly ragged breath; 
  if one didn't know better, one might almost suspect him of being nervous. 
  "I'll occupy myself with letting Cynara do her business."

"Servants," is the first tip of Nox, delivered in a clear, cool&dry fashion 
  that is hard to surpass. "Mongrel servants make excellent bed companions who 
  even clean up the sheets in the morning." Violet eyes study once more the 
  other, not so unequal, yet still dewinged man. "You'll be amazed. I still 
  remember how Dawn used to look without her wings. But I suppose that's an 
  aspect of our Empress some nobles prefer to forget." He lowers his eyes, 
  studying the pattern on the ground, "Sometimes, I wonder how far Cynara's 
  talent actually reaches. Whether she could manage to grow Elette or Roki 
  wings. She still is still a healer, after all. Yet I have seen and felt 
  things that have little to do with restoring a body into the shape that it 
  was meant to be in."

Servants. Richard's mouth quirks at this possibility. "There aren't any 
  Mongrels in Nemea to whom I bear a suspicious resemblance," he drawls 
  thoughtfully, "but if one goes back far enough in generations... who knows? 
  Perhaps." He has, of course, also heard of Aurora... and her past position 
  as Cynara's predecessor; to this, he merely nods. But a faint trace of 
  nervousness plays again across his features as he admits roughly, "I... am 
  hoping I shall not have to answer such a question, from the children. They 
  know what I am. But it... might not yet be real to them."

Nox smiles once again, but this time, a shadow falls over his feminine 
  features. Perhaps it's just a trick of the light, but it does look like a 
  deep bitterness is etched into the haggard lines of the younger man. "Real. 
  Reality is...what you tell them. What you make them belief. That's how I got 
  to know the world, who I am and what I am. One step below all proper ones. 
  It took me years to get over those teachings." More confidently, 
  reassuringly, he adds, "You have remade reality before, Richard. You will 
  continue to do so for the rest of the world. Reshaping it for the eyes of 
  your children could be just the start." With that, he takes another step 
  back, finally leaving the room. With an almost formal inclination of his 
  head, he intones, "Fare well. Vale, Deus Julian Nemeides." The twinkling 
  light in his eyes, however, betrays this grand, respectful gesture.

Will he get used to being called that? Perhaps. Perhaps only if he gets used 
  to once more having wings upon his back... and Richard... _Julian_... isn't 
  yet entirely certain he's ready to face that. But Nox is right, and the 
  prospect of what he's already done as well as what remains for him to do is 
  strangely humbling. "Vale, my friend," he says softly in reply, thoughtful 
  twilight gaze tracking the younger darkling until at last he is left alone 
  with his ambrosia, the firelight, and the silence of the winter night.

[End log.]