"The Re-Fledging of the Rook" Log Date: 12/5, 12/6, 12/7/00 Log Cast: Julian, Cynara, Jenara, Nine-Fingered Rab (NPC emitted by Julian), Grace Log Intro: The bargain forged between Cynara, the Lady of Thorns, and Julian Nemeides has come to fruition. Julian has back not only his name, but also the control of his House and the care of his daughter and nephew -- and Cynara has a man she trusts at the helm of the Thieves' Guild of Haven. But there is one last aspect of the deal between them that has _not_ been seen through, for all that a good six months have now passed since the abrupt rise in Julian's power both public and illicit. And so at last, Cynara takes an opportunity to come to House Nemea and its new Deus in the dark of the night to discover exactly why he has not yet asked her to carry out her one remaining obligation to him.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Monday, July 2, 3907. Year on Earth: 1507 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Last Quarter Season: Summer Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* In the dark of the night, the depths of the latest hour that begins to edge torward the earliest, in the silence that hangs heavy upon the world, there is a knock on the door. Quiet yet firm. Julian these days has a doorman -- Malcolm, one of the Mongrels who's followed him to Haven from House Nemea, willing enough to throw in their lot with him rather than remain in the Empyre. But at this hour of the night, that worthy is asleep and the task of watching the entrances into the home of the Rook is in the hands of his less... obvious associates. The figure who's entered the small courtyard goes unchallenged, however. If there is anyone who can arrive at this place in the dead of night and be permitted to pass by Julian's night-time watchers, it is the Lady of Thorns. Tonight, too, Julian is actually awake. And downstairs, staring broodingly into the small hearth in the sitting room just off the front foyer... and therefore close enough to hear the quiet knock. Perfectly aware that anyone who would be knocking at this hour is _probably_ an ally of the Rook rather than a business contact of the Deus of Nemea, he snaps up his head... and opts to answer the door himself. There's a knife sheathed at the small of his back, and one of his hands remains casually back there upon its hilt as he comes to the door... just in case. It's _probably_ an ally, if trouble is being taken to knock. But then again, it never hurts to be paranoid. It is, in fact, an ally. And one who few people would wish to find at their door in the middle of the night. She is garbed in a voluminous black cloak that even manages to hide the brilliant white wings upon her back. The cowl covers her golden head, but is pushed back just far enough to reveal the flawless features of her visage as the door opens. Squarish lips hold an even straight line, though there is the smallest hint of a curve about them. "Ave, Dominus Nemeides." She greets in a velvet voice tempered with a sardonic tinge. Cynara The heavens cast down a ray of light, a single beam to grace the world with warmthless radiance. Its glow is captured and refracted within the crystalline aspect of a young woman. Lustrous locks of spun gold sweep carelessly over her shoulders and swiftly down her back. Only the foremost strands are kept shortened to frame a fair face. Somewhat squared features hold the semblance of the ray's direct touch, known to fade rival colors a degree while enhancing those it cannot hope to match, such as the stunning blue of a winter's sky, which is itself caught and held within her gaze. The hue of innocence and the chill of frost. An ominous shadow claws its way upon this luminous visage marring the image forever with a scrawled x, deep pink in color. A brand which names her the terror from a thousand children's stories. It rides just above the slender arch of her brows and is usually concealed beneath the golden curtain of carefully cut hair. Darkness seeks to assert its dominion over the sun. A partial eclipse rising in the sheer black silk which floats about her slight frame, contrasting the lambent essence of her natural appearance with a sinister arrangement of fluid-like material. Bare shoulders and supple curves no longer denied, but strategically caressed by soft ripples of fabric to entice the eye while subtly warning of the danger within. Snowy wings, drawn close to her body lend their own gentle voice to the fray, leaning the battle toward day. A shimmer of silver circles her waist, lightning striking within the storm. The flashes extend to her feet where barely used sandals of silver straps glint their defiance at the ground. If the Rook is surprised that Cynara of all people might choose to arrive upon his threshold, the only sign he gives of it is a fractional blink of twilight eyes -- and a surreptitious moving of his right hand to neatly tuck the loose tail of the midnight-blue shirt he wears back into his breeches, and back over the knife hidden back there. He inclines his raven head then, answering evenly, "Ave, Domina; won't you come in?" His right hand sweeps out in a gracious gesture, as he stands aside to pull the door open for his visitor. Cynara's steps are graceful and measured as she steps inside the abode of the man called the Rook. "Thank you." she murmurs as she brushes past him. Pale blue eyes sweep over the room, taking in every bit of it. It has been a long time since she set foot in this home. Eventually her gaze returns to him. She waits for the door to be closed before pushing the cowl the rest of the way off her head to reveal a perfectly golden head. Her expression is almost expectant. It is the same house as it was in the hands of the last Master of Thieves -- but different, in subtle but undeniable ways. Gone are many of the garish objects of art that the previous owner of this place favored, to be replaced by tasteful statuary and weavings. The stonework of the floors has been redone; did Julian somehow come up with a shaper-mage, or did he (as may well be his wont) bother to pay the unmagically gifted to come and do it by hand? Pieces of furniture might be glimpsed out in the main atrium to the left of the foyer as well as to the sitting room where Julian had just been brooding; the furniture, too, is different. Less obviously ornate, but speaking of skill in its making to the eye. Even the door that Julian closes has received attention, though _it_ is the same door that hung there before. But its surface and the carving work upon it gleam darkly now; here, most likely, a shaper _has_ applied his or her gift. It is not likely that Julian is oblivious to the scrutiny given his new abode; he certainly shows no sign of surprise, as he turns to face the cloaked woman before him. As if it were not the middle of the night, he blandly inquires, "May I offer you something to eat or drink? I've a small fire in the sitting room hearth, just enough to warm the room. I find it remains cool, even in the midst of the summer." The curve of the healer's lips extends a bit as she nods her acceptance, "Tea would be quite welcome, if you have any. Otherwise, wine." She does not really care which drink she is offered. Taking in the stonework of the room as well as the new furnishings she comments blithely, "Yes, stone has that effect quite often." She should know, she lives under a rock. "It has been a while since we spoke, how are things fairing for you, Julian?" "I had a pot of tea out," replies the Deus, gesturing on into the sitting room and politely permitting his visitor -- she who is ultimately responsible for the atmosphere of discreet finery that surrounds him now -- to precede him if she so wishes. This _is_ an Empyrean house; the entranceways between the rooms are spacious ones, and there is ample area for winged healer and wingless thief to step into the sitting room at one another's sides, but Julian is the very picture of polished manners. Did he acquire that with the house, or is this his truer, older self, come back to the fore? He goes on as he steps to the hearth into which he'd just been staring, "But I fear it may have gone cold." Next to one of the chairs in this room stands a small table, and upon this is an earthenware pot, which Julian touches fleetingly with his fingertips. Yes. Cold. "If you've the time, I'll reheat it...?" Twilight eyes flicker to Cynara for a moment, and he does not yet answer her other question, giving her time instead to settle herself as she wills. The chair he'd apparently been occupying is meant quite obviously for someone without wings -- but there's other places to sit in the room as well, places where someone _with_ wings could be equally comfortable. Slowly unfastening the clasp at her neck, Cynara removes her cloak, revealing those perfect white wings she is known to bear. "Yes, that would be fine." she replies to the suggestion with a nod, "I've got some time." Her brows lift as she settles down onto one of the chairs for the winged people and arranges her silk skirts around herself. She waits for the answer to the question she knows he heard. With that, then, Julian applies himself to the task at hand, checking the teapot's contents. A bit more water from a small amphora first, then a few more dollops of a spicy-scented mixture of leaves, transferred via small spoon from a delicate silken bag. As he executes the duties of host, he proves that he had in fact heard the question, answering it without any further delay. "In terms of our association, last winter put a damper on things, at least as long as the weather was bitter. Even the most active pickpocket can't be very successful when the marks have nothing to steal." He glances up a moment, archly, one corner of his mouth curled upward. "Aesir goods are still in hot demand, however. My people... relocated two caches of them, though a few of our newer brethren had to be advised that relocation of the same goods twice was not a particularly wise idea." The actions he goes through are watched closely. Not that Cynara has anything to fear from poisons that may be put into her drink, but there is simply nothing else in the room to watch. Her smile is sardonic and faint. "I see, well, I'm glad they were taught their lesson." Almost a chuckle in her voice. "Things are picking up for you now then? I suspect we should have a good bit of Varati goods making their reappearance now, hmm? Are you finding the thieves cooperative enough for you? Are they respecting your authority?" Crouching before the hearth-fire, Julian takes up a poker to stir the embers into greater life, before moving a small wrought-metal stand into place just above them. Upon this he places the teapot, out of reach of hot ash but within range of the fire's heat, and while he stirs at the contents he glances back at his visitor, half-smiling. "Some of them. It's been... challenging, picking out which ones I can trust to see my face. Especially when I get the most fascinating inquiries from individuals who appear to be Delphic Adepts claiming they wish to join our merry little fraternity." Cynara's eyes narrow at this comment. "You've spoken to the one called Nightmare then?" she asks darkly. She does not like that girl. Perhaps it is because the little Delphite so casually threatened Cynara upon her own turf, or perhaps it is simply because she is annoying. "What was your answer to her inquiry about joining the Guild?" She wants to know. Both of Julian's eyebrows arch up. "Not the name I was given," he dryly remarks, filing away this little tidbit of information for future reference.... as well as the expression of his visitor. "She failed to impress me, and I've yet to be convinced of a reason to consider her useful. She claims to wish to traffic in information; I've put her to the task of bringing me information that will result in profit for my people. I have yet to hear from her." He straightens up, waiting for the tea to grow warmer upon the fire, full attention upon the white-winged woman before him now. Cynara's smirk is darkly amused. "I wouldn't count on her bringing you anything of use. She is a useless girl. Ah yes, she would have given the name... Oh what was it... Malantha or something of the sort. In the Delphi, she is known as Nightmare. In truth, she is nothing more than a pest, I suspect, not even those of the Delphi like her. And she is a fool who is lucky to be alive given the manner in which she spoke to me. However, I will leave that in your capable hands." Her head tilts slowly to one side, eyes focusing upon his own. "Tell me now, Julian, why is it you have not come to see me about restoring your wings yet? They are subtle -- but they are there, the fractional widening of Julian's dark azure eyes, a tightening and release of a muscle in his cheek. Signals that the question has entirely broadsided him, though his attention doesn't waver an inch. And there's a miniscule pause in his voice, almost inaudible to a casual ear... but not to one who may be looking for such things. "I've... found that juggling the Guild, the House, and guardianship of four active children" -- not to mention actual fatherhood of one of them -- "makes for a rather full schedule. I haven't had the time." It's truth enough, and the Rook can utter these words with easy assurance... But then again, there was that pause in his voice. Cynara is indeed watching for such hints about the true reasoning behind his waiting on this matter. She had suspected it was a nervousness about receiving the appendages back that he has been without for a very long time. It was rather obvious from the time she first made the offer to him before he even accomplished his goals of taking over the Guild and his House. Her nod is slow and understanding, yet with a discerning spark in her pale blue eyes. "I see. My schedule has become quite full of late, but I have come here to begin the restoration of your wings, to keep my part of our bargin. Are you ready to begin?" What... _now_? Julian is generally a master of controlling his expressions, but that thought nevertheless flickers distinctly across his elegantly cut features before he manages to subdue it. _It's not as if you were sleeping,_ he chides himself, sensing the unease within and annoyed at its presence. Straightening up just a bit, bolstering his resolve with the image of the House's collective jaw dropping should servants and children awaken to find their Deus rather less wingless than he'd been when they went to bed, the darkling answers, "There's no time like the present, eh? What do you require to achieve it, in terms of location, time...?" His velvet tenor is now once again under his control, and there's a slight upward curl of one corner of his mouth; only his gaze still betrays him, strangely vulnerable against the easy set of his countenance. Cynara's cool blue eyes watch his reaction carefully, the slightest of smiles coming to her lips. She is certain it is a rare sight to see this man even the slightest bit unhinged, so she revels in her good fortune to be one of the few who have likely witnessed it. Even if it is barely noticable. There is nothing but calm reserve about her demeanor as she glances toward the tea. "Have you eaten tonight? You will need the energy. Other than that, a bed for you would probably be best, as you will be very weak. Tonight will only see that you have the beginnings of the wings, I will finish the rest in two days time, once you've had enough rest." Despite whatever other engagements he might have had, this will put him in bed for most of the week. "I ate dinner with the children; that was some hours ago, however. I've slept since then." On why he isn't sleeping _now_ Julian does not expound; rather, he focuses upon the cool assurance with which the healer presents her advice and the knowledge that she has done this before. He does not allow himself to consider that restoring wings simply tattered by a great sea beast might well not be in remotely the same league as regrowing them from nothing. She has done this before; he knows it from Nox, and from the whispered rumors he's discreetly gleaned ever since the deal between the Lady of Thorns and the Rook was first forged. He has no intellectual reason for nervousness. That he is nervous despite this -- well. All Julian can do is admit his trepidation (to himself, at least), get on with it... and pray that his white-winged associate will continue to do him the courtesy of pretending to ignore it, for he cannot help but wonder if her timing was as much to catch him as off-guard as possible as it was to give them both the privacy of night. "I... expect we should adjourn to my bedchamber. Will the tea suffice, or shall I fetch something from the kitchen?" She has indeed done this before. Restoring the health to Nox's wings was only a minor act of healing, but she has returned the wings to others since then, and she is very familiar with how it is done. Standing, Cynara nods toward the teapot, "The tea will do." she nods, offering the smallest of smiles. She did chose this night, out of others for the surprise of it. To keep him from being able to reschedule around his fear. The best way to defeat a fear is to face it, so she gives him no other choice. Of course, if he thought to argue, she'd try to convince him that now was best, but she is glad to see that he does not argue. She waits for him to lead the way. For a moment or two, Julian goes still, twilight eyes considering Cynara and her expression, her bearing, her demeanor. One thing with which he must credit her: the dark of night allows him a minimum number of people before whom he must force himself to be helpless. That the one person before whom he must undergo this is _Cynara_ unsettles him in ways he is not about to admit anymore than he will the prospect of flight restored after half his life without it... but still, without his willing, the shadow of apprehension darkens his gaze. It lingers, even as he graciously inclines his head and turns to gather the teapot and other items that go with it, settling them all upon an earthenware tray. "Upstairs," he says huskily, unnecessarily, suspecting Cynara must know the layout of this place almost as well as Nox. It is true that most people who have secrets to hide loathe the very thought of showing any sort of weakness before this branded healer, so his trepidation is quite natural. It is good that she seems not to have noticed it, or perhaps she is just being courteous. Though she has been to this house several times under the cover of night, Cynara has really never taken time to know the house overly well. Draping her cloak over her arm, she follows where Julian leads without comment. In answer to some unconcious summons perhaps Jena appears out of the shadows to silently take the tray from her Deus' hands. She simply glances at the infamous Healer and says nothing. In her dark blue gaze however is compassion and a certain amount of wisdom for one so young. She steps back and waits to follow her betters upstairs to do what must be done. The mongrel will serve. As she has always done, as she will always do. There at the foot of the stairs where Jenara intercepts him, Julian starts and noticeably so; already disconcerted by what Cynara has come to do this night, the presence of the young Mongrel woman is enough to knock another small but nevertheless present chink into the carefully constructed shield of his composure. "Thank you," he rasps after a moment, before gesturing both of the women up the stairs. As he moves up them himself, his shoulders have gone tense beneath his dark blue shirt, his back unconsciously braced. It doesn't take long to get there; the house isn't particularly large, though it does seem more spacious than it once had done, now that its new master has rid himself of much of the detritus of the last occupant and made much better use of what is left. In moments, Julian's study is achieved; through it, his bedchamber. "Jenara," he roughly murmurs as he passes into his private sleeping place, "get the door, will you?" Cynara gives no reaction to the man's start, taking whatever pleasure she finds in it, internally. Her steps are graceful and light as she follows the servant up toward the room in which she is to perform her little miracle. Her eyes wander around the room instinctively as she enters, immediately memorizing any exits, be they window or door. The street-rat's instinct never truly dies. Jenara easily balances the tray on one arm, as one accustomed to such a task, and closes the chamber door. She leads the way in seeking a place to set the tray down. Silent as can be she once again takes a place in the shadows of the room, avaialabe should she be needed. The other House servants have all mysteriously disappeared. Jenara with her uncanny knack of knowing what is needed sent them all abed or to tasks that took them away from the 'action' so to speak. Knowing an audiance is neither desired or required. Old habits do, indeed, die hard. And after fifteen years, one of Julian's most thoroughly ingrained habits is to never, ever, permit anyone to see his back. There is an ever so slight hesitation -- not even as much as a tremble, but simply a hesitation -- in his hands as he begins to undo the tied lacings at his chest. "The... tea should be warm enough, Cynara, if you'd like a cup before you begin." She did ask for tea, after all. And disconcerted though he may be, Julian Nemeides is not going to neglect his duties as a host. Cynara is quite familiar with that feeling, the number of people who have seen her own back are very few. "Thank you." she intones in response to him, finding a chair to place her cloak upon. Her eyes flick to the mongrel girl quickly, uncertain if she'd be insulting the woman by getting the tea herself. Not that she really cares, but still, she is a guest, despite the reason for her being here, no need to offend if it is unnecessary. "If you've a chair without a back, it would be best if you sit." she adds. Chairs without backs? Of course they've got them , it is an Empyrean household after all. With quiet effiency Jenara fetches the chair setting it beside Julian with only a quick glance to his face and the barest of encouraging smiles. She then pads over to the teapot and pours a cup handin' it to Cynara with an impish sort of grin and softly sayin' "I be here..I may as well be workin aye?" , a glimmer of humour before she closes the chamber door and melts back into the shadows. Not entirely certain whether he is more ill at ease or less with the efficient Jenara on hand -- _what in the name of Tyche _is_ she doing awake at this hour? Wonder about that later,_ he tells himself grimly -- Julian hauls off his shirt and tosses it over onto the bed, letting it lie there in a puddle of midnight upon the only somewhat lighter blue of the uppermost blanket. Again there is a fractional moment of hesitation as he simply stands there, features set into stoic lines; then the Deus releases a tautly held breath and settles down onto the backless chair, still facing the women, lean and pale in the candle-lit dimness of the room. Cynara does not need to see his back to do this, therefore, she remains in front of him. Taking the cup from Jenara, she offers the girl a faint smile, almost warm. "Thank you." she murmurs again as she sips from the cup and then sets it on the table nearest the chair in front of the Deus. Her hand extends toward him, palm up. "Shall we begin then?" As an afterthought she turns to Jenara, "Is there any strong drink in the house? He may need it." Jenara nods once and walks the length of the room on cat feet to a cabinet. She purposefully does not look at the man this may as well be afternoon tea for the import she seems to give it. With only the softest clink of glass she returns with a bottle of pear brandy and a glass to her place where the shadows stretch across the floor. She does look on though once enveloped by the welcoming darkness that shields her from view. Were one able to see her one might be surprised by the momentary unguarded expression that drifts across her face..if one could. Night-time is always a time of stealth and conspiracy and danger for Julian, and tonight is no exception. The two women before him are calm, Cynara reservedly so and Jenara seemingly entirely at ease, unbothered by the lateness of the hour -- but his nerves are on edge now in a way they don't generally get unless he's scaling up to a balcony with Hounds below and Hawks above. He has spent far too many years jealously guarding his vulnerabilities for his instincts to register anything but danger in having to show them here and now... And it doesn't help in the slightest when a quiet knock abruptly interjects itself into the hushed atmosphere of the candle-lit room. Julian's head snaps up, an expression of profound aggravation momentarily displacing the hints of nervousness about his eyes, but before he can get to his feet Jenara's stepped to the door and cracked it open. "Th' Deus is occupied," she murmurs out into the study. "So I gathered," comes an equally soft murmur from without, "but this young lady appears to go with our esteemed master's other visitor. Who, I suspect, may be put out if we do not let her in, and we can't have that, can we?" Jenara grimaces slightly -- as Julian flashes a sharp glance at Cynara, one that clearly demands an explanation. "You neglected to mention you weren't visiting alone tonight, domina," he murmurs, the faintest edge of impatience in his velvet tenor. From behind a narrow shoulder peeks an elfin face, drawn in angular lines and narrow arcs. From within, two eyes that war between blue and green dance with curiosity, amusment and trepidation as the green-wrapped 'Sylvan' woman bounces on her toes to peer within. Cynara is not so surprised by the knock as she might normally be at this late hour, in the home of a man as paranoid of his privacy as she is of her own. Pale blue eyes fall to Julian and she replies quietly. "I've asked a student of mine to join me, so that she may see this done. It is not exactly a common occurence in our field." She nods to Jenara to allow Grace within. "Now, drink some of that." she instructs Julian while not looking at him. Jenara notes Cynara's nod -- but not until Julian gives a short, grudging nod of his own does she open the door to reveal the slim black-clad figure of the Mongrel knife-man Nine-Fingered Rab and the winged girl behind him. Rab steps aside, eyes of a paler blue than Julian's glinting in reflected candlelight, full of barely repressed curiosity as to what exactly might be going on -- but all he says is a foppishly drawled, "Go right in then, miss." That, for Grace. For Cynara, "domina." For Jenara, "And thank you so much, my dear." It's almost a parody of Julian, really, but tonight the Rook has no patience for the slightly manic humor of his -- well, at least his _covert_ -- chief guard. "Rab," he grits out between clenched teeth, "I do not want to be disturbed again, unless the Archon herself brings a battalion of Hounds to my door, or unless Haven is about to fall to fire, flood, earthquake, or magic. Got it?" "I live to serve, Sirdar," chirps the knife-man in reply, bowing languidly -- but quickly and quietly taking his leave. Rab may delight in pressing the boundaries of what he can get away with... but he's no fool, and he doesn't miss the temper bubbling behind Julian's sapphirine gaze. He retreats, leaving Jenara to close the door again behind this new intruder upon the scene. And towards Grace, Julian sweeps a narrow-eyed stare. "You're not bringing any classmates with you, are you?" he inquires, tone just shy of the line between polite and curt. Grace quirks a half-grin at Rab and slips past without a second thought for the man. The cloak about her shoulders rouses as if live--but it is live, feathers dyed into a hundred of green shades. Grace tosses her hair and replies saucily, "Y' should b' askin' Cynara tha', D'minus. M' just here b'cause I was told to be." But her eyes sparkle with a hint of more than that, and there's no hesitance in her step towards the pair. Indeed, Julian seems to take second place to that of her teacher. Cynara does not comment on the question that was asked of Grace. If he wants to ask her, he will. If not, its not important, as there are no others expected to join them tonight. "I've asked you to meet me here tonight because I'm going to begin the task of returning this Empyrean's wings to him after fifteen years without them. I thought you might like to watch, as it is not exactly common." she speaks to Grace in a teacher's tone. "Now, if he will just drink, as he was told to do, we'll be started." And with that, she turns again toward Julian and lifts her brows commandingly. Julian's gaze smolders at Cynara's tone; there are very few people in Haven from whom he'll accept such a mode of address. Ordinarily, not even Cynara is one of them. But tonight, when the Lady of Thorns stands as his means of regaining a freedom he hasn't had since his youth, a small, clear core of pragmatic wisdom advises he swallow his pride and let her get on with the business at hand -- even if he has to permit her to do it in front of a total stranger. As Jenara lingers by the door, discreetly invisible, the Deus gives in and lifts up the glass of brandy to toss back its contents. His eyes shudder closed for a moment as the sweet fermented stuff shoots down through his system; then he looks up again. "Let's do it," he rasps, gaze returning to Grace by wary habit he is too on edge now to disguise. She is an unknown quantity, and instincts already churned up by the impending lowering of his defenses before two familiar women now fairly scream in protest at adding a stranger to the mix. Another flick of bright wings, another toss of silver-gilt hair, and then slowly all the dance and smile fades out of the girl's demenor. Grace watches without expression, eyes sharp as a razor's edge. Silent steps bring her hard up on Cynara and thus on Julian as well, where her possibly disconcerting gaze can bore into both as if seeking out some core of inner truth. Cynara knows that this is not a man to be trifled with, however, she is quite aware that she has the upper hand here as well, and Cynara has never been one to not take some small advantage of a situation that is clearly in her favor. She sits in front of Julian and reaches out her hand for his own again, with a small smile of humor and reassurance upon her features. "Alright, lets do this." she echoes him. "Grace, keep your hand on his arm, and watch with your magic rather than your eyes." "Y' want me t' do sommat?" Is the quiet reply to Cynara's command. Grace On a shaded path, one might mistake this child-woman for a spirit of the forest, mischief writ clearly on fey features. A bundle of contradiction, her face and form strain for maturity, but deep in her eyes is a look too wise for the budding beauty of her apparent youth. In the streets she is even more the puzzle, savage Sylvan garb of doeskin decked with porcupine quill and brilliant bead at war with Empyrean idiom and noble manarisms. Upon this curious figure the forest's mantle takes shape, thrown about her thin and wiry shoulders. But, no--at second glance the illusion is revealed. Wings spring from her back, each leaf in reality a single, soft plume of her wide wings dyed to a rich and warm verdant hue. The porcelain curve of her cheek and silver-gilt fall of hair is suddenly obvious as the balance of Empyrean and Sylvan blood in this halfbreed girl's veins. Her ears rise to delicate points on either side of her head, and her eyes seem to be caught in a war between green and blue, unable to decide which hue to settle upon. About Grace's throat is a beaded band, comprised of porcupine's quills and other natural elements. A vest decorated with more of the same is laced over swelling curves, legs wrapped in a fringed expanse of leather marked with the pattern of leaves and herbs. The garments reveal the curve of her neck and throat, long line of her arms and trim ankle above soft moccasins. Green wings, Julian's mind clinically reports, taking in the details of Grace's appearance as an automatic defense against the tension shooting through him, only marginally dulled by the pear brandy. Green wings, pale hair, pointed ears... halfbreed, clearly. Leaning towards her Sylvan heritage if her attire and her speech are any indication. Healer, if she's learning from Cynara. Half his attention lingers on the girl even as he makes himself clasp Cynara's hand with his own. Bare broad shoulders and wiry, lithely muscled arms brace as well, perhaps unconsciously, against the touch of the student's hand. Eyes still on Cynara, Grace steps a half-hitch closer. Her fingers, as they lay on Julian's shoulder, hardly seem to contact the skin--so light is her touch. Cynara shakes her head at Grace's question. "No, just watch." she answers. A slow grin begins to form on her features as she watches Julian take in the wings of her student. She is completely at ease, and so it does not seem out of the ordinary for her to jest, "Shall we make yours a pretty green as well?" She teases the oh so tense man. The Rook, apparently, is not amused. "Black," he grunts, gaze sharp with barely concealed agitation. "That's how they came in the first time." His voice has roughened, though it's anyone's guess as to whether that's due to the liquor in his system or the tightly strung state of his mood. Extremely aware of both the hand holding his and the one on his shoulder, he draws in a breath through slightly flared nostrils and lets it out again, gaze settling on Cynara's face, eyes meeting hers. Damned if he's going to look anywhere else. And he tells himself grimly to think 'down', remembering fighting lessons with his old partner Jacob, about the best way to keep your balance if someone tries to knock you over... _Stop it,_ he orders himself then, feeling his thoughts threaten to wander, and forcing himself to avoid wondering whether it's his apprehension or the brandy getting to him. _Just think -down-._ Grace nods once. Only once. With that, her eyes drift shut. Her touch remains light on Julian's shoulder, but within there is much more than simply the touch of her fingers. Unseen threads spin out to 'watch' as Cynara marshals her own abilities. Cynara only smiles at him in response, seemingly amused by his serious demeanor. However, the smile fades mostly as she begins to see to the task at hand. The aether flows, first going through the preliminary check of his general health and the status of his weariness, and then eventually moving toward his back and shoulderblades. The strands find the place where the bones were severed and murmurs quietly to Grace as she points out with the magic, "You see here? See how it seems as if there should be something more here? What we must first do, is recreate the bones that were once there...." The voice is soft, teaching. Slowly, cells begin to gather and merge, their natures altering into different types, gradually coming to resemble bone. There's a slight blunting to Julian's alertness that suggests a man operating on less than a full night's complement of sleep -- but this is hardly the first time he's done that. What he loses to having only five hours of sleep under his belt he gains at least for the time being by the adrenalin boiling through him and the alcohol accompanying it, just enough to keep too keen an edge off his apprehension, not enough to impair. He keeps staring at Cynara, jaw stoically set, breathing set into a controlled rhythm -- and even though he hasn't managed yet to relax his shoulders, there is at least for the time being a sense of balance and centered-ness in his posture, keeping him firmly settled upon the stool. It's so tempting to try and help. So tempting. Magic seems to have that draw, to add one's own to it. And yet what is happening is far beyond Grace's meagre abilities. She watches eyes closed, nodding to Cynara's quiet words. A faint frown of concentration mars her calm expression. The tightness of Julian's back is not a hinderance to the work being performed, not yet, anyway, so Cynara does not relax those muscles for him. Guiding the cells toward their new life and purpose Cynara continues to murmur to Grace about what she is doing. "See how I transform them, give them new directions and show them where to go?" More cells gather against the others, changing their nature from one sort of cell to one of a completely different nature. However, all have the same intial components to be rearranged. Soon the pain of muscles and skin stretching to accomodate these new bones begins to make its way through the man's shoulders. "You need to loosen your muscles now, Julian, drink more if you need it." Jenara is, again, suddenly at the Deus' side. "Yer glass, dom'nus," she murmurs, still bearing the bottle of pear brandy. Julian is no mage -- and at least at first when the substance of his body begins to respond to the power flowing into it, he cannot sense it. But gradually he becomes aware of a strange, uncomfortable rippling somewhere between his shoulderblades, and the way his flesh involuntarily constricts in response. One of his hands is occupied with Cynara's; the other has the empty glass, and after a moment he lifts it up to Jenara, letting her give him a second shot of the brandy. Another moment, and he drinks it down, a fraction slower this time than before. Jenara, however, is still there. When he lowers down the emptied glass, she takes it from his hand in silence, leaving her Deus to take a moment to let the new flow of alcohol within him begin to kindle a small warmth somewhere in his chest. Then Julian meets Cynara's eyes again, his dark tousled head nodding once to signal his resumed readiness. Throughout his drink, the magic does not cease. This is the hardest part of the proceedure, and the longest. Cynara slept well in preparation for this, and she knows that Julian is in good enough health to be drained enough for this change to be possible, but stopping and then starting again is not a wise idea. So it continues. And throughout the rest of the night, until the dawn begins to stain the sky with its fingers of pink, Cynara works. When she is done, from his back extends two nubs of muscle and bone, which can be moved, but are yet to bear any feathers or wing-like shape. He is exhausted as is she, when she stands slowly from her chair and orders Jenara to take him to bed. As the time slips by, Julian eventually loses track of it. He'd thought he could bear the pain; after all, he'd borne it when his first pair of wings were ripped out of him. But he hadn't expected the fundamentally disconcerting feel of his own flesh and bone changing shape, stretching, molding under the influence of the will of the Lady of Thorns -- a process that rakes through nerves already humming with tension, far more than the comparatively and paradoxically mercifully swift agony of what he'd suffered at his brother's hands as a young man. More brandy is applied, tossed down with growing desperation as the Deus focuses every ounce of his will on trying not to scream. He doesn't scream, but with his awareness sorely battered by the fire raging through his back muscles and blurred by almost the entire bottle of brandy, more of his defenses come down. When at last, a long time later -- how much later, he is now incapable of knowing -- Cynara lifts her hand away from his, his gaze is still on her face. He's managed to hold his attention there throughout the entire grueling ordeal... but as he begins to slide sideways, overtaxed body seizing the chance to shut its senses down, all traces of the Guildmaster and the Deus both have fallen away from his face. He might almost be eighteen again, or even younger, so nakedly vulnerable has his countenance become. "I've got 'im," Jenara says, soft and steady, catching him in her arms as he crumples. She's just as tired as the others... but she manages not to catch him along those tender buds of flesh and bone along his back. "I've got 'im... I'll tend 'im." Extremely weary, herself, Cynara only nods as she makes her way out the door with Grace in tow. "Don't let him out of bed til I return, lay him on his stomach." Are her parting instructions. Her own wings hang much lower upon her back as she leaves. [End log.]