"A Visit at Dawn"

Log Date:
	2/27, 3/4, 4/5, 4/12/00

Log Cast:
	Rory, Richard

Log Intro:
	It is not exactly easy, sneaking into Delphi at odd hours of the
pre-dawn morning. It is even less easy to sneak in with climbing equipment
and use it to scale a tower on the Citadel grounds -- and do it without
being caught by the Hounds. But the Rook is not without his resources...
or his passions, which have a way of surging up out of him at the strangest
times, until he must for the sheer challenge of it all yield to impulses
that seize him. As of late his impulses have been roiling with particular
vigor within him, for between striving to find a way to get his daughter
Moirae safely away from the control of his younger brother and having to
begin to explain his true self to the Mongrel children under his care, he
has had to willfully suppress them for some time now. He can, however, only
go so long until he must expend his energies. And when the reward is another 
visit with the young beauty who has against all his reason managed to ensnare 
his heart, Richard is even willing to risk infiltrating Delphi itself.
	Of course, it helps to have bribes on hand to make sure that certain
of the Hounds are not looking his way -- and it helps all the more to know
that if he makes it up to the young lady's chamber, she's hardly likely to
alert the guards....

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Dawnside)
          Date on Aether:  Wednesday, February 3, 3906.
           Year on Earth:  1506 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Gibbous
                  Season:  Waning Winter
                 Weather:  Clear Skies
             Temperature:  Cool
*==========================================================================*

Assistant Provost's Quarters - Delphic Citadel - Haven(#1616RJ$)
      Dark, rich mahogany encompasses the far wall in design of a four-posted 
  bed. Plainly sculpted and bereft of fancy etchings, an elegant spread of 
  brushed navy silk gifts its surface. Tucked at the forefront is a miniature 
  nightstand, upon and under which any number of books may be discovered. An 
  ancient, weathered trunk rests at the foot, unpolished silver and rough, 
  scratched oak bearing silent testament to many years of harsh treatment. 
     Twin, bulbous vases of hip height and huge proportions, constructed of 
  pottery and graced with a gently sweeping ivy pattern, are in each of the 
  far corners. Protruding from within is a gathering of carefully dried 
  flowers, pale pink and daffodil-yellow blossoms having maintained their 
  pastel hues. A wide, snowy ribbon has been femininely tied around the pair 
  of skinny necks expertly.
      Shaped within the right wall, with a canopy of dried wood at its marbled 
  base, is a generously sized fireplace. Before it spreads a thickly woven 
  carpet of indigo, plush and inviting to the touch. Situated central to this 
  veritable bonfire is a low-lying table of Varati likeness; long and sleek, a 
  variety of plump sitting pillows spatter the floors beneath.
     A frivolous scent of husky cinnamon wafts lightly throughout these quaint 
  quarters, a subtle hint of ripened fruit lingering within. A few ivory 
  candles are found nestled within simple silver holders, their sooty wicks 
  akindle come the fall of evening. It is then that a flickering display of 
  light and shadows can transform this barren room into a visual delight.
                         (+views are available)
Contents:
Rory
Obvious exits:
Hallway <O>

It is near dawn, yet the welcoming rays of pre-spring wealth have yet to bless 
  Haven with a hint of it's divine presence. Instead, the quiet room is banked 
  with the dying ember light of a captured fire, before which sits a woman 
  with similar, enchanting tresses. Chin situated upon her tucked knees, it is 
  into the flames she has flown, mesmerized by the random patterns of flare. 
  Upon the bed, sound asleep and snoring like any drugged banshee is Katri. By 
  her sounds, it would take a building falling on her to wake the wee mite.

Nothing so disturbing as a building falling down or a shaking of the earth 
  promises to disturb the child's rest; indeed, the soft tenor voice that 
  wafts into the room from the direction of the window is the barest touch of 
  velvet upon the ear, more pitched towards encouraging dreams than unsettling 
  them. "'What visions dance within the flame / That captive hold her 
  wand'ring eye?'" that voice inquires, quoting with a touch of ironic 
  appreciation.

Well, perhaps in reality there is nothing quite so drastic as that, true. Yet, 
  the unexpected arrival, greeted with whispering fabrics and a tantalizing 
  breeze that tickle her senses - /that/ is what jerks her enflamed head 
  upwards, precious silver sparkling with merriment and untampered greeting. 
  Unfolding from her absorbed curl, Auvrey's lithe body strides as any 
  appreciative cat across the expanse of floor to find a few feet from 
  Richard. "An interesting way to access a woman's private chambers," twitches 
  her lush lips wryly, voice husky with enforced quiet and freelance emotion. 
  "But welcome you always will be, Richard." Intensity radiates from the 
  woman, a nearly tangible question hovering as any swarm of fairies about the 
  young mongrel woman.

There he sits, his lean wingless form perched as comfortably upon the sill of 
  the window as if he'd flown up here, or as if he used wind-magic to make the 
  ascent. A far more likely explanation would be the rope coiled at his belt, 
  along with whatever he might have in the leathern pack settled comfortably 
  in his lap. That pack's contents, however, he does not bother to disclose 
  even as she whose reverie he has interrupted comes to the open window. "A 
  nice night it was for a climb," he drawls softly, before his twilight gaze 
  turns a trifle more serious. "And to hear those sweet words upon your lips 
  tells me my exercise was not in vain. Hello, Auvrey-lass."

Usually so composed before the masses which abound within Haven's walls, 
  twisting hands are instead gripped so firmly as to produce whitened knuckles 
  with a cold viciousness before her, until at last an inner calm is regained. 
  The anxiousness does not -feel- as an unwelcome one, but instead as an 
  unsurity. A hesitancy to this continually new and unfolding portion of 
  universe the lass has yet to experience completely. Too, it shows in her 
  greedy step forward. Greedy for his welcome sight and honeyed words. 
  Fingerstips at last raise, until silk connects with his gruff jawline, 
  feminine unto the core. Her secret is wrenched with subdued agony from 
  within. "I have missed you, Richard." A deep breath, and her flashing smile 
  is one to ease the situation in which she has created.

With only the softest of *clinks*, the pre-dawn intruder of this quiet room 
  drops his pack inside to the stone floor. And then he swings his feet 
  within, lifting a hand to Auvrey's soft cheek in mirror of her gesture to 
  him. His fine-boned features are indeed roughened at this early hour by days 
  away from a razor, lending a shadow to his pale skin -- and even further 
  blueness to his eyes. His other hand quests forward to see if the Mongrel 
  maid might be drawn into his arms, though most of his attention is upon 
  drinking in her visage with the gaze of a man who has not beheld something 
  dear to him for many weeks. "It's a rake and a scoundrel I am, lass," he 
  murmurs gently, his street accents roughening his otherwise velvet tones 
  even as his beard does his jaw. But those blue, blue eyes do not quite match 
  that airy rejoinder. "Missed me so very much, did you?"

Vulnerable. Her one weakspot has been invaded, entranced, captivated so 
  thoroughly as to leave all barriers broken, resigned to a fate of upheaval. 
  "I did," is her velvety confession, as into those welcoming arms she seeps, 
  fluid and transient as lapping, soothing waves of a pristine, unexplored 
  lake. Arms folding about him similarily, into his chest she mumbles those 
  next words. "I.. am glad you are well, Richard." Could anyone doubt it, 
  after the man managed to scale Delphic walls?

Wingless he might be -- but not for naught is this man called the Rook; there 
  are ways to fly, after all, that do not require one to be a bearer of pinion 
  and feather. In evidence of this, the scent of the exertion that must have 
  brought him up the tower still lingers ever so faintly about him, though the 
  early morning breezes have cooled the sweat from his form. "And I missed 
  you, my sweet," he whispers into rich auburn tresses. "A welcome like this 
  gives me hope that I might find forgiveness for my absence."

Her laughter is as a meadowfull of flowers, rustled by a mischievous wind, 
  husky with the scents of pollen. "Forgiveness need not be given, for there 
  is nothing to forgive, Richard." Earnest are her words, a wealth of meaning 
  lying within. Easily discernable are her thoughts, should one pay attention 
  the the glint of her gaze or malleable clay of her posture. What remains 
  unspoken can be plucked from the tangible mass of floating thoughts. What is 
  to forgive, when there is no promise of tomorrow? What is to forgive, when 
  too Rory has known how busy he has and will be?

To Richard's experienced eyes, sifting the implications of expression and 
  stance of the pliant young form in his arms is easy enough. His own 
  expression softens as he cradles Auvrey against him, stroking a hand across 
  the top of her hair -- and striving to keep his pulse from skipping beats 
  within his chest at her proximity. 'Busy' is certainly one way to summarize 
  his regular clandestine activities, but then again, 'dangerous' and 
  'illegal' are others. He's told himself this often over the last few weeks, 
  reminding himself sternly that she who serves the Provost is kept safer if 
  he stays away from her as much as he can, making contact only for the sake 
  of the children... and yet, here he is. Deft fingers reach for Auvrey's 
  chin, drawing her face up towards his, and once twilight eyes meet silver 
  the Rook breathes, "You say that so easily." Then, he interrupts himself by 
  brushing his mouth against that soft one before him. He has never promised a 
  tomorrow. This here and how, however, are imbued by his kiss with an ardent 
  relaying of exactly how much he has yearned for this very moment.

A whispering sigh of private thanks, as Auvrey's lips are molded easily to fit 
  his with perfection, drawn from as one might lap from a rambling river's 
  edge, until, at last, she gingerly retreats. Not, truly known, from the lack 
  of need for that special intimacy, for instead for a more urgent desire to 
  express what broils within. "It is what is within." Indeed, honesty reflects 
  within those mysterious mists. That he has read her so easily is not 
  questioned, as she has never sought to hide her essence from him. One 
  delicate hand frees to brush an absent caress alongside his gruff jawline 
  once more, administering those tender tendrils from within.

What spell has this young witch cast over him, that he finds himself more and 
  more tempted to emerge from his night-time existence and leave behind his 
  thieveries? What has she done to him that he's shunned the Siren's Song for 
  the last several weeks, telling himself that he should not further endanger 
  this lovely Mongrel maid -- yet loathe to find consolation in another 
  woman's arms when Auvrey haunts his thoughts? As Richard stares down into 
  those limpid silver eyes, his consternation etches itself into his features 
  along with the weariness of the night he's just undergone and the climb up 
  the side of this tower. And before he can really stop himself, those very 
  words find voice in tenor velvet. "So young," he murmurs, studying the 
  features in his sight as if seeing them for the first time. "Auvrey, lovely, 
  what have you done to me...?"

Confusion seeps through the edges of her gentleness, puzzlement so very 
  readable within her widened gaze. "I pray that it is not something painful, 
  Richard, for I would sooner harm myself than allow harm to befall you from 
  my actions, unwittingly though they may be." True worry begins to infuse the 
  intermix of emotions, a strange concoction to have developed, yet no less 
  sincere for all this. Velvet smooths over his brow, seeking to iron out that 
  which wrinkles, to sooth that which might broil beneath. Still her touch 
  remains tentative, laced with inexperience for initiating physical contact. 
  "Does it hurt, this which I have done?"

Dawn's light upon Auvrey's delicately sculpted features holds Richard's 
  attention rapt, and for a moment his smile quirks out across his mouth, 
  laughter almost escaping him at the notion that this radiant vision is 
  concerned about causing him harm. "Do not fret, sweetling," he whispers in 
  assurance. "Pain... is the last thing I am feeling, at the moment."

Pleasure replaces confusion within the span of a heartbeat, no question nor 
  doubt given to his quiet statement. Inhaling deeply, fingertips touch his 
  lips, a butterfly's caress upon that full and inviting mouth, before, with 
  her exhale, she dares to ask, "Can I offer you a drink? Something to break 
  your fast?" Now that the questions have started, Auvrey is of a mind to get 
  more than a few out of the way. "How are the children? How is Roki? Did your 
  night go well with him? What of your daughter? Is she well?"

Those lips under Auvrey's shyly stroking fingers turn ever so slightly to kiss 
  the source of that same caress, before the Rook admits wryly, "A spot of 
  wine would not go amiss, lass." With reluctance, he slides his hands down 
  till they rest with the barest of pressures near the Mongrel maid's hips, 
  giving her space to step back should she wish it. And then his smile dies 
  down a little as he goes on, "Roki... is less than pleased with me, I fear."

Unable to resist the devil's temptation so readily placed before her, and 
  despite those crimson cheeks with blaze at her own audacity, Auvrey's lips 
  press to the corner of his own, before she does indeed step back and away. 
  Whirling gracefully, silks splicing through the room with a sound that 
  remains drowned by Katri's aweful snoring, it is to a small hutch that she 
  whisks, goblet and bottle of red wine soon procurred. As slow as any 
  unhurried turtle is her blush wont to depart. "I am not surprised, but the 
  boy maintains a great amount of faith in you, Richard, despite this, does he 
  not?" Offering the simple silver goblet forth, delicate hands prepare to 
  splash the ruby liquid as directed.

Twilight eyes flash a glance towards the little girl Richard had already 
  marked slumbering nearby, before his attention returns to Auvrey's form and 
  Auvrey's words. As he slips off the window sill and turns to draw the panes 
  more securely closed behind him, he grimaces and answers, "I... hope so. I 
  told him what I am, Auvrey-lass."

Surprise does not register, but an odd sort of relief instead. Issuing a 
  feminine nod, half a goblet is filled and gifted to Richard with a tender 
  smile. "I am glad. Though I do not believe all have a right to know, it 
  means quite a bit if you share this secret with him, even though he may not 
  quite realize it yet. You place love and trust and faith in him, as well." 
  Settling the bottle aside and upon the bedstand, clean hands fold demurely 
  before her. "If you choose to introduce Roki and Elette to your blood 
  daughter, it saves explanation as well."

For once, Richard does not elegantly sip the contents of the cup given to him; 
  no, at the moment, the Rook is more inclined to belt back the wine, for 
  tower-climbing is thirsty work, and once the drink hits his throat all he 
  can consider for an instant is refreshing himself. He might be one of a 
  hundred different ruffians drinking in any tavern in Haven in that instant, 
  but then, once he is satisfied, that oft-hidden elegance of his manifests 
  itself anew in his almost dainty dabbing with a miniscule corner of his 
  sleeve at his mouth. "I spoke to Roki of Moirae as well," he says in husky 
  tones. "And I intend to tell Elette."

Gaze easily captured and pinned upon the goings on of Richard's mouth, Rory 
  remains thankfully coherent, despite her slight.. distraction. "I am glad." 
  That he making room for the children in his life to fit with each other, 
  instead of deceiving. It is always cleaner to resort to truth, despite what 
  pain and frustrations it may bring. Touching the rim of the wine bottle, she 
  offers in half a purr, "More? Richard?"

He lowers the glass, amusement glinting in his dark azure stare. Richard has 
  emptied the goblet he's been given, and he glances from it to the bottle and 
  then up to the maiden's silvery eyes. "So quickly?" he asks, feeling fey and 
  reckless and needing to do _something_ to banish the feeling of edginess 
  that's only increased by his visit to Auvrey's chambers. "It might go to my 
  head, dearheart."

A twinkle blazes within Auvrey's gaze, merriment easily prodded into existance 
  by the teasing banter, and continuing to encourage a sassiness that she 
  thought had long ago left her. Yet still solid control keeps this lass in 
  check, her impertenant thoughts clamped within irons and locked behind 
  soundproof doors. Instead, lips twitching, she murmurs, "Then might I offer 
  a massage? You are tense with this conversation, and I seek only to put you 
  at ease within my quarters." A genuine hostess, but the concern draws from a 
  deeper, more intimate source.

With an offer like that, Richard can't help but close the distance between 
  himself and the young woman anew, slipping an arm around her, inviting her 
  near. "There's a child in this room," he points out, voice sliding down into 
  velvet, softening as the contents of that goblet he's drained begin to warm 
  him through and through. "We should not disturb her."

Blinking those sunrise lashes with an innocence not uncharacteristic to 
  Auvrey, despite her shaded, sordid past, she imparts, "But I do not make 
  noise when I give massages. Think you we should forgo it, then? Is there 
  another way I can help you to relax, Richard?" Easily she is enveloped, 
  tall, lithe body snuggling against his with a nuzzle to the underside of his 
  chin. Truly, the woman absolutely loves to be cuddled. It is something 
  foreign and delightful, all at once. Arms slipping about his waist, she 
  nestles closer with a half-sighed purr of contentment.

"You make a most persuasive argument," murmurs the ebon-haired thief, 
  increasingly enchanted by the guileless way Auvrey willingly presses her 
  body to his. This is not at all helping his resolve to try to go gently with 
  her... or with his ability to try to figure out, rationally and calmly, 
  exactly what kind of effect she's having upon his mind and his heart. "I am 
  not certain I could deny you anything at the moment, dearling..." And then 
  Richard's mouth quirks anew, wryly. "Come to think of it, my shoulders _are_ 
  a trifle fatigued."

Immediate is her response, though no less fluid than her usual, flowing self. 
  Ducking beneath his arm, Auvrey slips light-footedly around to his backside. 
  Deft fingers lift, soothing up Richard's musculature, before easing into the 
  aforementioned 'fatigued' shoulders. Masterful skill is what, indeed, is 
  applied to the protesting body parts, a warmth and firmness used to relax 
  her victim while massaging past those creaking kinks. Quietly her voice 
  sounds, a dozen bluebells whispering with the single breath. "You have been 
  working hard and have had many pressures from day to day. It is natural..."

"Ach, well, that's one way of putting it... " Richard has to stifle the dry 
  chuckle at the thought of his illicit activities within Bordertown -- and, 
  for that matter, the Empyrean quarter of Haven -- being described as 
  'working hard'. His hand with the goblet dangles loosely at his side now, 
  while the other attempts to quest around behind him and to the slender form 
  now behind him. Then his head turns as he tries to cast a twilight glance 
  over his shoulder. "But then, perhaps you're only speaking of my method of 
  arrival, eh? I'd think you'd have a dozen young men wanting to climb up a 
  tower wall to get to you."

"I must admit," murmurs Auvrey with a trace of humour lingering within her 
  mezzosoprano and a sparkle decorating her eye, "That you are the first to 
  attempt such a feat, to my knowledge." Lips twitching, she adds a bit more 
  quietly, "But no, in sooth I spoke of your.. ahh.. occupation." She is 
  pretty well aware of what it is, exactly, Richard does. Naivity does not 
  come with innocence -always-, mind you. Pausing only to place a chaste kiss 
  upon the curve of his neck, her massage resumes with mastery.

To this, the Rook blows out a very soft breath. "Aye," he agrees in a husky 
  murmur, "I'm not exactly a miller or a carpenter." Uttering these words, the 
  wingless one finds himself reminded all over again of the strange 
  ambivalence he's been recently suffering each time he considers this 
  flame-haired maiden and what kind of place she holds within his life. 
  Turning around again, dismissing the strokings of his shoulders as less 
  important than once more meeting Auvrey's gaze with his, he slides his arms 
  around her and asks earnestly, "What do you think of that, lass? What it is 
  I do?"

"I think it is a part of life, Richard." Fingertips gliding up his chest to 
  rest comfortably thereupon, Auvrey's head tilts slightly as she explains 
  further, a smile still present within her gaze. "You have a kind heart and 
  just mind. These are what make you a fine man, Richard. I too once lived 
  upon the streets, if you will recall. I too used what you have chosen to do. 
  It is neither good nor bad in act, but becomes only one or the other when 
  chosen by a person." Spoken like a true survivalist, but the words do not 
  mean less for it. "Do I make sense?"

Certainly Richard comprehends the words -- though they weren't entirely what 
  he is seeking, at the moment. His dark blue stare never wavering from the 
  soft sculpted lines of the face that dominates his line of sight, he asks, 
  dark brows arching, "Do you think I steal to survive?"

Grinning lightly, Auvrey responds with repressed humor. "No." Palms cup the 
  lining of his jaw, stroking lightly, before slithering downwards to dither 
  at the nape of his neck in an idle fashion.

For a moment, Richard lets himself dip his mouth down to brush delicate kisses 
  across those hands, but now that he has begun to pursue this topic that 
  haunts his mind he isn't quite ready to release it. "Why do you think I do 
  it then, Auvrey-lass?"

"I suppose I pressume a bit, Richard," furrows those brows, indicating she 
  does not like this side of herself that is being revealed. "In truth, I feel 
  there may be a few reasons. For the thrill, aye, and perhaps for the monies. 
  I do not know you completely, Richard," murmurs she, voice as fine as heated 
  brandy, "But others do it for revenge, for their ideals of giving to the 
  poor, out of habit, because someone tricked them into a contract. There are 
  many reasons.." A light shrug, and Auvrey murmurs, "Though I am curious for 
  yours, I do not feel a need to pry. As I said, you are a good man. The 
  occupation is not what makes the man, but instead the man is what makes an 
  occupation."

With this, then, Richard's right hand glides up to stroke across Auvrey's 
  cheek, back along her ear, her hair. "You wish to know," he murmurs then, 
  plucking forth from those words what seem to be the most immediately 
  relevant. "What would you say if I replied that you have already fathomed 
  several of my reasons?"

Nuzzling the simple caress with an unintentional sigh of pleasure, Auvrey's 
  voice changes from vibrant to dark. Husky. Honied. "I would say what I have 
  before. That you are a good man, Richard, and that I place my trust in you 
  as surely as I do myself." A gargled sound emits from the bedside, a snort, 
  followed by a shifting, before the snoring begins once again. It is lost to 
  the woman within his arms, however, as her attention is fixated completely 
  upon him.

He hasn't forgotten the child -- and only the presence of the little one 
  slumbering not far away stays the Rook from doing more than seeking Auvrey's 
  mouth with his, kissing her, dismissing too some of the nagging doubts in 
  the back of his mind in favor of the pleasure of the moment. But not all of 
  them. When he pulls back again, just enough of a fraction of an inch to give 
  him space to breathe, he whispers, "My nights are full of danger, Auvrey. 
  And I grow... uneasy, about my days. It could spill over onto you."

Breathless from the savored kiss, it takes a few moments to harden the moosh 
  made of Auvrey's brain into something more.. coherent. Words finally 
  recognized and understood, her response is in two parts. Accompanying her 
  nod, she murmurs, "I know this, Richard, and it is something that sits fine 
  with me, should you w-wish.. wish to continue seeing me." Averting her gaze 
  downwards, sudden timidity enters her presence, from the fidgeting of her 
  balled hands at his chest to the twitching toe below.

Richard draws the maiden more securely into his arms as her silvered gaze 
  wings downward, part of him feeling the churl for what he's having to ask -- 
  but the rest of him still advising in grim practicality that it's for the 
  best. "My dear girl," he murmurs, each syllable a caress of velvet, "very 
  few things in life sound finer to me than the idea of kissing you, of 
  holding you on a regular basis, of expressing to you exactly how lovely you 
  are... but I do not want to put you in danger of any kind. I _must_ be 
  practical." One agile hand slips down, then, to stroke along that downturned 
  chin and try to coax the face that goes with it back upward. "Amora..." For 
  a fraction of an instant he catches himself as that word slips out of him, 
  for he is not at all sure how you will react to an Empyrean endearment... 
  but then, he lets it stand, earnest and forthright as the blue gaze holding 
  you as surely as his arms do. "I know you live by the beliefs of the Varati 
  people. And... well, it warms my heart to know you consider me a good man, 
  but those you serve might not necessarily agree with you. I'm a thief, 
  Auvrey. An ethical thief, perhaps, but a thief nevertheless. I could harm 
  your reputation simply by being here."

Flushing with immediate relief and pleasure merely upon hearing his words of 
  desire, Auvrey's chin is easily coaxed upwards, her gaze unwavering despite 
  the acute tinge. "There is much you do not know about me Richard, but in 
  time perhaps we can learn of each other. My reputation is not something that 
  is unblemished, nay, nor is it something I am overly concerned about." Hand 
  covering his gently, she imparts, "There is no danger that you could place 
  me in that I have not already been within, alone, myself." This is as firm 
  of a belief as existance can maintain. That she has come out relatively 
  unscathed only attests to either luck or skill. Or a bit of both. "Those 
  that I serve, as you say, do not concern themselves with whom I conduct 
  myself, but merely what lies within. This too I can assure you." And then? 
  The curiosity takes a firm hold. "What is 'Amora'?" Nothing condescending 
  nor judgemental underlies her question.

Gaze of twilight settling itself upon the young Mongrel woman's features like 
  a velvet cloak upon waiting shoulders, Richard murmurs simply, "It means... 
  beloved." Something ever so slightly awkward makes its way into his 
  expression now, the same sort of vulnerable something that shows behind his 
  eyes when his scarred back is bared to view.

For a moment, silence reigns, though surely the thundering of Auvrey's heart 
  can be heard, so violent as it beats. "Do you mean this, Richard?" Or is it 
  merely a losely coined phrase of affection? Again, a forthright question, 
  one very carefully placed without the mess of emotions that undoubtedly have 
  been locked securely behind steel, invisible doors. For now.

It takes him a moment to form an answer. His mouth does not exactly open; 
  rather, his lips part, just enough to release a slightly unsteady puff of 
  breath, and all the while his eyes drink in the visage before him. "I... am 
  not the most learned of men when it comes to this particular emotion," he 
  breathes at last, "but aye, Auvrey." There. It's out. And now that he's 
  actually managed to utter those soft words, his mouth quirks up faintly on 
  one end while his thumb gently strokes the lines of her cheek. "You are very 
  dear to me."

Heavens. Auvrey never thought she would hear a soul utter such to her, let 
  alone one of male persuasion. Shock registers upon her dainty features, even 
  as her velvety cheek nuzzles against roughened thumb in a thrumming purr. 
  Courage builds with difficulty, her words as foreign as the concept of 
  someone bothering to love her useless self. "I am glad," says she, first, 
  future words lodging hesitantly within her throat. Heart on sleeve is fine 
  and dandy, but admittance is a bear. "You, without mistake, I love. And, 
  even more nerve-wrackingly, have fallen in love with, as well." Strange to 
  her, it is. "I, too, am new.. to such things."

He is not particularly surprised to see that shock upon the fire-tressed 
  maiden's face; indeed, Richard gathered some time ago that the healthy 
  affection of a man is a foreign thing to Auvrey. And never mind tenderer, 
  deeper emotions to which he can barely admit himself. With his one hand 
  cupped against her cheek, the other comes round to nestle beneath scarlet 
  strands at the base of her neck, holding her head firmly and gently, with 
  all the care he might exhibit if cradling a precious vase within his grasp. 
  "The question, amora," he says then, finding the endearment a bit easier to 
  voice this second time of its utterance, "becomes now: what do we choose to 
  do about it."

A difficult question it is, burdened with unsurity, at least that which weighs 
  heavily upon Auvrey's mind. Her opinion is tested first, spoken carefully. 
  Quietly. So softly, in fact, that the thundering of her fragile mongrel 
  heart can easily be detected, even if eyes were not to notice the frantic 
  pulse lodged within her swanlike neck. "I am not one to make demands, 
  Richard, I would assure you of this. I love you, and as such I am content 
  with what you can afford to give me, and what you are most comfortable 
  receiving from me." A pregnant pause, even as her cheek nestles more firmly 
  against his palm. "What would you like to do, Richard?"

What would he _like_ to do? It seems to him that an easy answer leaps of its 
  own volition into his thoughts, as though propelled by the wings he no 
  longer bears upon his shoulderblade. Putting tha answer into words, 
  though... that's another matter entirely. Something that might almost be 
  wistfulness colors his eyes for an instant, as the Rook finds himself 
  stricken with a tantalizing fantasy: himself, with this woman at his side. 
  Little Roki and Elette growing up strong and healthy under their care. But 
  the moment he thinks of the children, another child's face shoots across his 
  consciousness -- and with the image of Moirae comes a host of other 
  recollections that remind him that he can hardly allow himself to be 
  considering turning... respectable. Not now. Not yet. Not when his past 
  still shadows him, and when his present could still get him -- and Auvrey -- 
  killed. "For now," he murmurs, "I would like to hope you'll let me keep 
  coming to see you... though I may be putting you in danger to do so. And I 
  may not be able to come often."

"Again I must remind you, Richard," murmurs she, petalsoft fingertips drifting 
  over his rough features with a smile in their wake, "That it is impossible 
  for you to place me in danger I have not yet known." Or know at the time, 
  given the amount of people attempting to kill her on a weekly basis. But 
  Richard need not know that. "I will, of course, allow you to keep visiting 
  me. Whenever you can manage it, I will be most welcome to see you, Richard." 
  Lips twitching in an unconcious, seductive manner, it is not difficult to 
  discern where she has found humor in this situation.

Assurance of his welcome does much to bring a swift crooked grin back to 
  Richard's fine-cut lips. His dark head cranes forward, diminishing the 
  distance between his mouth and that of the maiden; his twilight eyes glimmer 
  momentarily, a warm light within the blue. "Then I will continue to come," 
  he promises softly before brushing his lips against the soft ones of the 
  Mongrel maid. "I've never been a man to turn away from risk."

A sassy grin slashes impishly across Auvrey's lips, as the kiss is returned 
  and her hands glide downwards to press against his chest, and then away. He 
  did say that temptation would be best nipped at the bud with a sleeping girl 
  in the room. Or something to that effect, after all. "I believe as much, in 
  sooth."

Yes. The child. Much as Richard would like to tarry to demonstrate to Auvrey 
  the details of the ardor that has gripped him, it would never do to begin to 
  get amorous when an inquisitive little girl might suddenly awake. There are 
  times and places for these things -- and right now, right here, do not 
  qualify. Nevertheless, the thief flashes forth another broad crooked smile 
  as he pulls out the kiss, pledging in that husky tenor, "I won't be long 
  till my next visit, amora, now that I know you'll wait for me."

Wait for him? With bells on, if the dazzling silvers are any indication. One 
  longer finger extends slowly, brushing along his full lower lip, trickling 
  downwards, before an unconcious sigh of near-bliss parts unknowingly from 
  Auvrey's own lush mouth. La. "I look forward to seeing you again, Richard. 
  Thank you.. for visiting me this morningtide."

"More than welcome you are," is Richard's breathed reply. With utmost 
  reluctance does he then begin to pull back, casting a glance over the window 
  and seeing morning gaining a greater hold upon the sky. Then his glance 
  flashes back again to the young woman's face while his hand lingers against 
  her cheek, last part of him to break contact before he must at last take his 
  hook and rope again from within the sack he's brought up the tower wall. 
  "Farewell for now, amora. Look for me again, when we need not startle young 
  eyes." That twilight stare of his shoots to take in Katri's slumbering 
  little form, and for a fraction of an instant a hint of the same paternal 
  softness he may well be unaware he's shown towards his own charges adds a 
  depth to a countenance already dominated by ardor... and something 
  tenderer... for she who has taken the child into her care. No, the Rook is 
  not a man to eschew risk -- but then again, neither is he a man to disturb a 
  sleeping waif with his own passions. There are, indeed, other times. In 
  moments he's poised halfway out the window again, ready to descend the way 
  he's come... and there he pauses, haloed in growing sunlight, to give one 
  last look to Auvrey. "Farewell," he whispers.

"Until anon, Richard," is the husky reply, a 'goodbye' unable to form with so 
  permanent of a resonance upon Auvrey's rusty lips.

And with that, swift as he'd come, the Rook smiles... and climbs out the 
  window, vanishing into the burgeoning morning.

[End log.]