"A Midnight Intruder"

Log Date:
	9/5, 9/16/00

Log Cast:
	Julian, Timin

Log Intro:
	Transfers of power among the criminal elements in Haven are rarely
peaceable -- and the ascension of the new Master of Thieves has been no
exception. Blood has been spilled, money has changed hands, and a skilled
thief who's spent the last fourteen years building his reputation without
the assistance of the Guild has with the help of the Lady of Thorns herself
taken control of said Guild from the outside.
	With a situation like this, it is inevitable that someone will 
take issue with Julian Nemeides being the man now at the helm of the Guild.
And even though the Rook has striven to divorce his public face from his
shadow one, even though he has put out a great deal of money to ensure that
his identity remains as secret as possible -- and his new house in Haven as
secure as possible -- there is only so much one man's resources can do.
	Especially when challenged by more than a little magic....

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================* 
             Time of day:  Night
          Date on Aether:  Thursday, January 17, 3907. 
           Year on Earth:  1507 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Crescent 
                  Season:  Winter 
                 Weather:  Snow 
             Temperature:  Freezing 
*==========================================================================*

The house in the Empyrean quarter is better defended, these days, than it had 
  been in the days of the last Master of Thieves -- indeed, the sentries 
  stationed in the obvious places as well as the not-so-obvious ones are alert 
  tonight, lean, hungry. The fastenings and locks on the doors and windows 
  have been improved as well, reinforced with sturdy materials checked and 
  re-checked, not only by the skilled artisans who made the locks but also by 
  surreptitiously employed shaper-mages as well, to confirm the lack of flaw 
  within them.
But to a suitably determined -- and suitably gifted -- intruder, these things 
  can be dismissed, with care. Even the most alert of guards, strong-willed, 
  can be subtly coaxed to turn their attention elsewhere for the crucial 
  moments it takes for a shadow to jimmy its way through even the most 
  intricate of locks. They can be persuaded to hear no suspicious footfalls, 
  to see no extra shape in the darkness where no shape should be. Inside the 
  house, there are watchers on the wing where the children sleep -- and 
  watchers as well on the corridor that leads to the room where the master of 
  the house now sleeps.
Julian Nemeides, Richard, the Rook, sleeps differently than the last master of 
  this house had done, as well. His slumber is light, balanced on a knife's 
  edge between sleep and awareness, as though the slightest sound might 
  provoke him into full consciousness. The bed on which he reclines is fine, 
  and his lean wingless form is sprawled beneath the bedclothes in deceptively 
  casual disarray. One hand is flung out to his side... but the other, his 
  right, is under his pillow.

The halfbreed who roams your house tonight has no need for subtlty. Not 
  anymore. Though he still practices it, and often, his patience wears to the 
  point where the game grows thin on that front, and his methods are far less 
  graceful than effective. He walked through the front door. Past the staring 
  faces of your many guards and spies and miscreants, keeping the premises 
  safe from exactly his kind. And they will never remember his boots ever made 
  a sound (they didn't) in the Nemeides house. But a shadow, now, a slip of 
  darkest cowl and writing black, circumventing the lock on your door and 
  slipping through noiselessly. Moving, through the room, and a hand will slip 
  out from beneath the voluminous robes. Catch an ornament, polished, carved 
  silver, and knocking it from its perch. Clattering, to the floor, a 
  thunderclap in the dead silence of the bedchamber.

That's more than enough to wake the Rook, no doubt; as soon as the thud of the 
  silver statuette against the floor sounds in the darkened room, his hand 
  flashes out from under his pillow, carrying a knife with it. Julian's body 
  flings itself up out of its previous languid sprawl, casting aside blanket 
  and sheet as he moves, rolling over and landing with a thud of his own upon 
  the floor, making himself as small a target as possible. The knife is poised 
  in his hand, ready to throw, as the wingless one scans the room for a sign 
  of his intruder. "If you're looking for something to steal," he announces in 
  the sort of lofty, sardonic tone that many men can affect but only an 
  Empyrean born and bred can really seem to master, "you're looking in the 
  wrong room. I don't keep anything of particular value in this chamber."

Timin
Best not to say 'handsome' or 'beautiful'; it would be a lie. 'Handsomish,' 
  and perhaps 'striking' are suitable. Dusky skin, a shade or so lighter than 
  a deep golden brown, smooth. The face wants to be angular, sharp, cut from a 
  harsh, rough stone, but it isn't. Smoother features: a soft edge on the jut 
  of a cheekbone, a rounded, yet somewhat protruding chin, with a touch of 
  jet-black stubble. Slim, on the way towards near-gaunt. Thin lips, an 
  ordinary nose. Azure eyes, nearly half-lidded, stare out. An unmarked face, 
  decorated only by the starburst tattoo around the right eye, and perhaps a 
  lock of the short-chopped black hair, trimmed neatly above.
It's a tallish figure, even with the hint of a slouch that effects it from 
  time to time, and wiry. Lean muscle, most like, were it visible. Clad in 
  simple attire: a large tunic, deep charcoal grey, is belted at the waist. 
  The belt with a buckle of dull brass, leading into simple breeches. At the 
  end, near-obligatory leather boots, carrying this one through a firm, 
  assured stride, languid and utterly relaxed in its execution. To cover it 
  all: a cowl, voluminous black material sweep down from deep hood to brush at 
  the halfbreed's ankles. Protection from Haven's elements.

No motion, from the figure. Barely visible, until the eyes adjust to the light 
  (or lack thereof), and the faint outline of cloak and cowl melt from the 
  thick darkness of the bedroom. "I know," comes the voice: baritone on 
  velvet, a murmur born of arrogance and amusement, riding along sibilant 
  tones and cast out for the lucky ones to hear. "I've not come for your 
  valuables. Sit down, Julian." A command, delivered in the soft tone of the 
  utterly, dangerously confidant.

A voice he doesn't immediately recognize, coming from a conveniently robed 
  figure. His name uttered, and only his first name, for that matter. The 
  corridor is silent, without guards raising an alarm. And he is not dead -- 
  or even injured. Yet. The Rook's twilight eyes narrow as he swiftly 
  assimilates all of these things, conclusions crystallizing in his thoughts. 
  His intruder is clearly competent enough to elude his night guards. Possibly 
  a mage. Worry later about finding and employing telepaths, he tells himself. 
  Worry now about what's before you. He does not yet rise, however. "I don't 
  make a habit of sitting down to converse with potential assassins," he 
  drawls lazily, the tone mildly amused despite the utter lack of mirth in his 
  expression, "so if you're here to kill me, if it's all the same to you, I'd 
  rather skip the pleasantries and get right down to the business of defending 
  myself. If you're here for some other business, identify yourself."

Have it your way. "I said." Still, again, soft, arrogant, indignant. And your 
  muscles will begin to move, cramping, twisting against your natural 
  positioning. "Sit down." Legs suddenly shifting backwards, in a perfect, 
  sweeping set of steps back towards the bed. Motion in perfect concert, to 
  plant you firmly on the edge of the monsterous mattress. And keep you there. 
  And the figure doesn't move at all, still a disembodied voice from a clump 
  of stray shadow.

Tyche--?! Julian grunts, eyes flashing wide in alarm as he is abruptly yanked 
  up out of his crouch by the bed, his limbs out of his control, his motions 
  suddenly as stiff as those of a wooden puppet. When he is finally deposited 
  upon the edge of the bed sweat has broken out across his brow and lines of 
  strain have etched his pale visage; sweat beads, too, across his bare chest. 
  He doesn't bother to expend the mental energy on the conclusion of 'Mage, no 
  doubt about it' -- no use dwelling upon the obvious. Instead, he diverts as 
  much of his strength as he can to making sure his hand isn't about to let go 
  of his knife without his willing it -- and lifting as bored and as frosty a 
  stare as he can manage to his mysterious assailant. "All... right," he 
  croaks breathlessly, achieving a ghost of a sneer, "we've established... you 
  have... magic." Bully for you. "Do you have actual... business with me, or 
  are you... just here to prove your... magical superiority, eh, mate?"

"Your tone is not appreciated, swan. Correct it, or I will show you the full 
  extent of my gifts." And you really, really don't want that. The cloak will 
  stay across the room, for now, still hovering his comfortable space of 
  darkness and ambiguity. "I would not waste my time on you or the gaggle of 
  childish pretenders..." Hand flicking out, sweeping, motioning towards the 
  door. "You no doubt call guards, without purpose." Face, unseen, tilts 
  gently, still watching. "We need to talk, Guildmaster."

Albeit paralyzed, the wingless darkling smirks, while taking a moment to 
  determine that he can get his breath back, at least for the time being. All 
  right. Fine. Twilight eyes narrow, and although he neither apologizes for 
  his tone nor resorts to fulsome deference to placate his intruder, the Rook 
  does at least allow the sarcasm to drain out of his voice. "You'll note," he 
  pants, "that I haven't yet bothered to raise a cry. Under normal 
  circumstances, I wouldn't need to." These, clearly, are not normal 
  circumstances. He doesn't bother to actually put it into words, but his 
  expression eloquently conveys 'And kindly do not take me for an idiot', 
  along with the words he does actually utter. "You've got my attention. I'm 
  listening."

We'll hope, for your sake, that you recognize the utter stupidity of calling 
  for guards in this circumstance. Your life has no value to the intruder. He 
  hopes you've gleened that much. "Since you've made your presence known in 
  Haven, Julian, I've had a small...problem." Shakes his head gently, with the 
  whisper, shadow-sigh expelled from the hood. "Your foolish moniker and 
  dramatic tactics create...noise. Focus. Attention." The last, nearly spit in 
  crisp, precisely pronounciation. "We need to talk about your methods, 
  Guildmaster. They are unhealthy for our cause in general." Moving, smoothly, 
  to point his hood at the fallen piece of silver, as if it were the birth of 
  a sunset, amazing and brilliant, awe-inspiring and curious.

Julian actually smiles now, feeling a flash of startled amusement that is 
  doubtless easily gleanable to a telepath powerful enough to usurp control of 
  his body. This arrogant intruder is actually here to take issue with his 
  _nickname_? Black eyebrows arch almost up to the Deus' hairline, and even 
  though he has more than enough intelligence to refrain from mocking this 
  clearly powerful mage, he doesn't scruple to let his disdain for such a 
  trivial issue reflect itself in his eyes. His voice, however, is sublimely 
  mild, and he doesn't even bother to dignify the issue of his calling himself 
  the Rook with a reply. "Are there any particular dramatic tactics of mine 
  you have issue with?" he replies instead.

A dark, lingering pause, as the hooded figure turns his head back to you. And 
  suddenly, the air is gone, vanished, and your muscles refuse to bring oxygen 
  into your lungs. "You make noise, swan. You dally about with your 'gentleman 
  thief' antics, and thus bring attention to our kind. This is 
  *unacceptable*." Another squeeze on your lungs, as your body rebels against 
  you, obeying a voice and instinct not belonging to you. Sibilance flowing 
  from the shadow across the room, sliding out in malice and impatience. "Your 
  behavior will not go tolerated in the Guild."

As his sight dims and fire sears itself through his lungs, Julian squeezes his 
  eyes shut and struggles to ride out the asault. He doesn't consciously think 
  of it -- but there is a core of determination and strength within the man, 
  on which he instinctively draws, the same core that let him ride out the 
  pain of having his wings ripped out of his body. There's a healthy respect 
  for his intruder's power, and yes, a touch of fear there as well; he'd be 
  foolish not to fear a man who can do such things to him. But nevertheless, 
  Julian Nemeides is not cowed. Fully aware of his tormentor's power, aware 
  that this man clearly thinks very little of him, his race, and his tactics, 
  he doesn't bother to quell his own mental reactions -- once he's capable of 
  having a reaction besides a desperate need to breathe. He lets his 
  resentment swell through his mind, not only at the abuse he is being given, 
  but also at the unjust accusations. When he can pull more than a teaspoon of 
  air into his lungs, he grunts out hoarsely, "Bollocks. I'm... hardly... the 
  only thief in Haven... with a nickname. Only... dramatic thing I've done... 
  last six months... recruit people to take back... House and daughter. Stayed 
  low... since I returned. Know so much, you should... know that." With a 
  profoundly painful effort, he lifts his head, eyes blazing. "Furthermore... 
  I don't... torture my underlings. You got a problem... with my methods... 
  take the damned Guild... for yourself."

Torture is extremely useful, at times. Don't knock it. "Oh, my dear swan. You 
  simply don't understand, do you?" Shaking his head again, letting you draw 
  enough air to keep you consciousness, and not a shred more. Words, at this 
  point, are impossible. "My goals and the Guild don't not match entirely. I 
  simply insure that Cynara's judgement was...accurate, and that she picks an 
  appropriate leader for her organization." If you think your tormentor is a 
  simple thief, you're an idiot. Period. "Unfortunately for you, I disagree 
  with her decision. You are loud, arrogant, brash, and do not understand the 
  scope of what you are dealing with." Just a little more air clears the black 
  threatening to swallow your vision. And the cloak doesn't move a fraction.

He can't speak, but he can think. And what Julian thinks right now is that no 
  matter what his tormentor is, thief or mage or something else, he's full of 
  as much prejudice as any of the worst of the Empyreans. That despite his 
  clearly impressive power he clearly is making a lot of unwarranted 
  assumptions about exactly how 'loud' Julian Nemeides is -- for there is no 
  untruth in his thoughts, about how he's kept as low a profile as possible 
  ever since he set foot back in Haven. This man might have taken over a 
  House, but he does not live extravagantly. He is an Empyrean -- that doesn't 
  mean he's a foolish fop. Nor does it mean that he's been foolish in how he's 
  applied his resources to protect the people that have pledged loyalty to 
  him. There are no stolen goods in his house. And lastly, he thinks that any 
  man who feels compelled to make his point via brutal application of magic 
  and dictating his own will rather than working _with_ him is the lowest, 
  most contemptible kind of thug. He's been tortured before. And you, midnight 
  intruder with your face hidden behind a cloak, are no better than the 
  white-wingers. Kill him if you wish, his mind slashes out. You clearly are 
  abusive enough and contemptuous enough to do it.
Beneath that swirl of furious half-conscious thoughts, like a pearl in the 
  midst of underwater silt, is one final thought. Apology to the four children 
  who slumber unknowning elsewhere in the House. The desire to give them a 
  good life, a safe life... a desire which is apparently going to be thwarted 
  because a merciless assailant is getting his jollies off of attacking him 
  and treating him like offal. Rather than trying to get him to listen with 
  reason.

This is the least of the things he is willing to do. And spill forth whatever 
  kind of rhetoric would you like. It doesn't change the facts. Give the 
  children a good, safe life? One built on theft, crime, and the machinations 
  of the Underworld? A House, run by the right hand of Cynara? Who's deluded 
  here? You are the one with no options. Reason is not effective, with men 
  your assailant deals with. They understand force. Dominance. Power. They 
  understand the edge of knife, the strength of will, and the rush of magic 
  that Delphi itself would treasure, could they find him. Your will, as much 
  as you may think your 'core of determination' or stony will is 
  insignificant, next to the power he has culled. And the intruder is tired of 
  your kind. Too many before you. None after you.
"Rule the Guild carefully, Julian." His voice cuts throught he black of the 
  bedroom. "'The Rook' has no place as Cynara's right hand. Drama has no place 
  as Cynara's right hand. The Guildmaster is one of secrecy, level mind, and 
  complete command. Do you understand?"

He understands he's being tortured by a man who knows absolutely nothing about 
  him -- and that's an impressive feat, for such a powerful telepath. He 
  understands that this midnight intruder clearly hasn't talked to Cynara, who 
  last _he_ checked has no issues with either his moniker or his methods, and 
  who in fact helped fund his takeover of House Nemea. He even understands a 
  surge of dark resentment within him at the possibility that Cynara might 
  have sent this assailant -- and if she did, how he is going to have to have 
  a word with her about failure to take her issues with him to him directly. 
  And he understands that he appears to have little choice in his answers, at 
  the mercy as he is of a man who apparently can choke him with a thought, and 
  who could apparently care less about the truth of his own accusations. With 
  the abuse his body's taking, Julian has barely enough strength left to 
  breathe, much less to speak. He hauls as much air as he can manage into his 
  lungs, focusing his energy on that... and on managing a single, tight nod.

And you can breath. Releasing your lungs, and your mind, and your body, in a 
  rush of relief. "Your predessecor was a complete failure. I do hope that you 
  keep from following in his footsteps. Should you prove his better." Should 
  you. He's still waiting. "You will have my support. If you do not." 
  Well...the figure is silent, on that account. Turning, towards the door, and 
  stepping gently over the fallen statuette at his feet. Swish of cloak and 
  shadow, and the intruder will move from the bedroom. Your guards are 
  unharmed. Your children are unharmed. And the house will be unharmed, as the 
  sun tips over the horizon, and bathes your home in warmth and light. To push 
  out the memories of the black figure in your bedroom.

[End log.]