"Caught in the Act"

Log Date:
	3/22/01

Log Cast:
	Julian, Nine-Fingered Rab (NPC emitted by Julian), Aurora

Log Intro:
	It has been some months now since Cynara, the Lady of Thorns, returned
to him the wings that Julian Nemeides had lost in his youth. Months in
which he has labored to become accustomed once more to the weight of plumage
upon his back... to his wings' effect on his balance... how to move with
them, how to walk, how to lie down. 
	But only as of late have his new wings gained the strength to do what
the Rook has not been able to do in over a decade and a half: haul himself
into the sky. And today, eschewing the company of everyone in his family and
House, all except his trusted guard Rab, Julian has determined to try at last
to fly.
	What he does not know, however, is that he is about to have a little
bit more of an audience than he'd expected....

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================* 
             Time of day:  Night (Dawnside) 
          Date on Aether:  Thursday, January 14, 3908. 
           Year on Earth:  1508 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Gibbous 
                  Season:  Winter 
                 Weather:  Clouds 
             Temperature:  Cold 
*==========================================================================*

Beach - Haven
     Soft sands from years of gentle ocean currents greet the feet of those 
  who explore the expanse of beach that leads from the streets of Haven to the 
  edges of ocean. The hushed roar of the waves can be heard, a lulling sound 
  to the attentive ear. The sand stretches out for about a quarter of a mile 
  and allows for plenty of space for pursuits of leisure. Depending upon the 
  time, you may be graced by the awe-striking sunset, the peaceful glow of the 
  moon, or the comforting rays of the midday sun. Several ocean birds fly 
  overhead as if frolicking around and playing in the air, occasionally 
  swooping down towards the ocean surface to retrieve a tasty morsel.
     The ocean itself seems to be calm and relaxing near the shore for several 
  hundred feet before the sands slope harshly and drop. There, the water is 
  safe only for experienced swimmers and boaters. There is a small path that 
  leads towards the town that is paved with sand and lined on either side by 
  flowers.
Obvious exits:
Path to the City <N>  Haven Bay <SE>

Aurora soars in from the skies above.
Aurora has arrived.

Julian
     Empyrean. This is proclaimed in no uncertain terms, for when the eye is 
  drawn to this man, it cannot help but stop first upon his most obvious 
  feature: the wings that sweep up and back from his shoulderblades. But what 
  may command a second glance even from those accustomed to the pinions of the 
  Children of Air is not their existence... or even their size, for they could 
  well reach a good thirty feet if fully extended. Rather, it is their color, 
  for where most Empyreans bear pinions of snowy white, the wings of this Son 
  of Air are a pure raven black too natural for any dye to create, gleaming 
  with highlights of deep blue and purple. Wings that proclaim him not only 
  Empyrean, but also darkling.
     If one glances past or around those dark wings, one might then register 
  the rest of their owner. At just over six feet in height, he is tall but 
  slim, leanly muscled, finely boned. The hue of his skin is certainly as pale 
  as any Empyrean could wish, but his short and often rakishly tousled hair 
  matches his wings, and for all that his eyes are still blue, they are the 
  blue of deep twilight rather than the lighter hue of morning.
     Darkling he may be, but he comports himself like a lord. His manners and 
  accent are impeccable, his every word uttered in a lilting velvet tenor, 
  though it is every so often punctuated by a sardonic drawl and a glint of 
  irony in his eyes. He conveys to the world an aura of unspoken assurance and 
  vitality, befitting a man who appears somewhere in his mid-thirties.
     He is clad for the moment, at least from the waist down, in attire that 
  one could easily find on a nobleman of any other race: sleek black breeches, 
  tucked into soft leathern calf-high boots, also black. From the waist up, 
  his garb is a strange mix of Empyrean and other races in cut and design, a 
  short chiton of dark blue beneath an outer long-sleeved tunic of storm-cloud 
  gray, both wrapping snugly about to lace beneath his wings at the small of 
  his back.

The dead small hours before a winter's dawn aren't exactly the most amiable of 
  times to be out and about -- but as far as Julian Nemeides is concerned, 
  he's not going to get a better time, not for purpose he has at hand. Just to 
  the north the city has not yet really come to life, and save for a single 
  distant ship whose crew are rising early to sail with the sunrise, even the 
  docks are quiescent for the time being. There is just enough light to allow 
  one to make out the pale strip of beach that fringes the water -- and 
  perhaps also the fair head of a Mongrel man with a torch in his hand, for 
  all that Nine-Fingered Rab is clad in his customary black from head to foot. 
  Slightly more obvious is the dark-winged figure making a shaky launch into 
  the air.

Teeth gritted, a sweat of effort sheening his brow despite the season's chill, 
  Julian gains ten feet into the air. Twenty. Raven-feathered wings upon the 
  back of a grown man should _not_ be so clumsy, and he tells himself fiercely 
  that for all that it's been nearly half his life since he's done this, the 
  first half _did_ get him plenty of practice. _Tyche! I -will- do this!_

Out here on this lonely stretch of sand, there is no fragrance but that of the 
  salt sea. No sound but the waves caressing the shore, and the occasional 
  far-off bark of a seagull. And no view but the sweeping vista of waves and 
  sky. Out here, it is easy to forget the city; to forget one's duties, 
  family, position -- to forget everything but what it is to just *be*. So it 
  is little wonder that this spot is often chosen as a sanctuary, regardless 
  of weather or time. 

Above, there is a feathery flap, a sudden rush in the breeze. And then, you 
  are no longer alone here above the earth. Suspended by the snowy swan's 
  wings at her back, a slender woman dressed in common garb. She smiles softly 
  as she watches your efforts, offering no comment of ridicule or assistance, 
  as if she senses this is something you must do on your own. Her own efforts 
  at maintaining altitude seem unfairly meager, while you struggle and strain, 
  she simple alights on the vapors of air as if they were solid, watching you 
  with pale grey eyes.

He is Deus of Nemea. Guildmaster. The Rook. And, by gods, Julian Nemeides! He 
  will _not_ let a little thing like the protests of muscle and sinew long out 
  of practice get in the way of his returning to the skies -- or the protests 
  of new wings which have never carried him up off the earth. Fiercely 
  concentrating on snapping out those sizeable dark pinions in downbeats to 
  push himself higher, the darkling Son of Air for once does not remember to 
  look _up_, for _down_ and the need to keep from plummeting in that direction 
  is of rather more immediate concern. And so he does not see the new figure 
  gliding into view overhead, not yet.

Rab does, though. The Mongrel man's head snaps up with an alertness belying 
  apparently youthful features, then he lifts up his free hand to gesture 
  sharply to the man struggling to keep himself aloft.

Julian recognizes the signal, of course -- to warn him of impending arrivals 
  is, after all, one of the reasons he's entrusted Rab to come with him. But 
  he hadn't expected the signal so quickly, and it's just enough to throw his 
  concentration off balance. He starts to fall, slanting down in a black arc 
  farther along the beach than his guardsman. At the last minute he pulls in 
  his wings, praying that the hard-earned knowledge of how to fall without 
  breaking every bone in his body holds up now that his shape has been altered.

Nothing breaks -- but still, Julian crashes ingloriously into the sand, 
  winding up stunned and breathless while Rab hastens to his side. Sure that 
  the darkling isn't likely to look kindly upon a joke, the Mongrel knifeman 
  restricts himself to murmuring dryly, "Caution, Sirdar; I believe we have 
  company."

A flicker of concern passes over the woman's eyes as she witnesses your 
  plummet to the earth. Icarus at least had the waves. 

At the last moment before you make contact with the ground, a rush of wind off 
  the sea slides between you and the sand catching flight feathers. A push to 
  buffet you up before dropping you once more, thus breaking the seriousness 
  of the impact. The well-timed breeze perhaps cushions your fall that you 
  would not so easily break your neck this night. It would seem Tyche favors 
  those who strive.

The woman drops slowly to the ground, the length of her cloak billowing out 
  around her slight form as her wings come to rest against her back. Long 
  tendrils of gold fly around her face and shoulders, brought to life by the 
  winds that dance here this night. She maintains a respectable distance from 
  where you have fallen. Though her expression is one of worry, she does not 
  approach, choosing instead to give you and your guardian, the space 
  necessary for a feeling of security. 

"Dominus, you are alright?" A slight tilt of her chin. Her voice is soft, 
  laced with apprehension. Somehow it manages to make it across the roar of 
  the waves to meet your senses.

For a few moments, lying on his side with one wing splayed out behind him and 
  the other a skewed blanket of feathers along his crumpled frame, all Julian 
  can think is _Ow..._ But then it occurs to him that something had felt odd 
  just before he struck, and a frown knits his ebon brows together even as he 
  pulls himself laboriously to his knees. Julian begins to whisper tersely to 
  his companion, to get a report on what and who is headed their way -- but 
  there is no time for that, as the voice that calls out makes gender, at 
  least, obvious.

If he'd still been alone with the Mongrel, perhaps Julian would have let 
  himself take the knifeman's hand to help him up. But under the circumstances 
  he hauls himself to his feet unaided, motions a bit stiff, sand falling down 
  off his feathers as he turns towards the newcomer. Behind him, Rab 
  deliberately makes himself as unobtrusive as possible, his expression 
  entirely guileless. Between the torch he's still holding and the shadowy 
  shapes of Julian's wings, it's a trifle difficult to get more than a glimpse 
  of fair hair and blue eyes.

As for Julian, the moment he realizes he is being addressed by a white-winged 
  woman of his own race -- and one, perhaps, of breeding if her manner of 
  speaking is any indication -- he too schools his expression. Fine-boned 
  features go casual and bland, though he cannot entirely conceal a certain 
  lingering awkwardness of carriage. Lessened his impact might have been, but 
  still, he's going to bear a few bruises tomorrow. "I believe so, yes, 
  Domina," is his reply, delivered with a polite inclination of his disheveled 
  dark head. "Thank you for inquiring."

Aurora
        Your initial impression is one of delicacy. The woman is slender -- 
  quick and light of movement in the manner of most Empyreans. Broad, ivory 
  wings mark her race as easily as do her fair hair and pale eyes, which are a 
  changeable grey. Light as mist one moment, dark as stormclouds the next, her 
  gaze exhibits emotions that are otherwise hidden beneath an exterior of 
  placid, composed calm.
        Her flaxen hair is swept back from her face and bound in a braid, and 
  her clothing, too, seems designed for comfort rather than grandeur. A loose, 
  linen shirt, with the back slit in such a way as to allow for her wings, is 
  cinched at the waist with a colorful belt. Her legs are clad in doeskin 
  breeches, while travel-worn boots and a dark grey cloak complete her attire. 
  Such garb, akin to what a Sylvan or mongrel might wear, grant her an 
  anonymity that is ruined only by that ivory plumage, which even the cloak 
  cannot hide completely.

Storm grey eyes watch intently as you rises from the beech, as if to make 
  certain of health with her own mind then trust the polite words that escape 
  your mouth. Stiffness and bruises perhaps, broken limb, thankfully not. A 
  quick glance to the mongrel who slips behind your person, acknowledging his 
  presence, but paying him no more mind for the moment. 

Her own features are shrouded in shadow, but surely the delicate lines of 
  cheek and chin indicate the exquisite features most Empyreans possess. As 
  for rank, that is something a little more difficult to discern. Were she 
  anyone of import, surely there would be lurking guardsman in the near 
  vicinity, none of which are detected. Perhaps, she is a herald, come from 
  the Palladium having just delivered a message and now seeking a quiet 
  evening. Or maybe, she's brought you a message? A possibility, considering 
  how conveniently she seems to have found you. 

The woman takes an easy step forward, hands at her sides in an unspoken 
  assurance that she offers no threat. She moves no closer then it would take 
  a man of your size to take three lunging steps before reaching her. At this 
  distance, she will not need to shout if a conversation is to be perused. A 
  slender fingertip raises to brush back an escaped tendril of hair from her 
  face. "Do not thank me for my concern, considering it is from my own actions 
  that I needed to inquire in the first place." The concerned tilt of her lips 
  fades briefly into a weary curve. "I did not mean to surprise you. Let 
  alone. . ." Her hand then gestures to the ground to indicate your fall.

Ignored is exactly as Nine-Fingered Rab wants it, though he lingers 
  thoughtfully behind the Rook, keeping his torch out of the way of dark 
  feathers -- and keeping his face out of immediate sight -- even as he 
  listens intently to what he can catch of the stranger's voice.

Well aware of Rab behind him, and that the man's best bet of remaining 
  unnoticed and unrecognized is _not_ to try to slip away, Julian too gives no 
  apparent sign of acknowledgement to the Mongrel. Later, they'll compare 
  notes on the woman. For now, the Deus keeps his twilight gaze upon her, his 
  measuring expression perhaps hinting that he is indeed running through the 
  possibilities suggested by her presence. "It is of no consequence," he 
  assures, velvet tenor smooth and unruffled now that he has his breath back. 
  One corner of his mouth momentarily curls upward, and Julian drolly allows, 
  "There will probably be more where that came from." Whether the 
  self-deprecation is there as a means of disarming this stranger (at least, 
  figuratively speaking) and putting her at ease, or whether it is a simple 
  acknowledgement of the fall which she did after all witness, he does not let 
  on. But nevertheless, it's there, though he does not pause as he crooks up 
  one brow and concludes, "But as you wish, Domina; in the meantime, is there 
  something with which I may assist you?"

All of this is carefully watched with an interest that is perhaps more akin to 
  an audience in the theater then a stranger who has just randomly stumbled on 
  a man learning to fly. Which in itself, might be the reason for her 
  interest. Such things are not everyday occurrences, especially when they 
  concern those born of the Air. Yes, possibly it is just the absurdity of the 
  entire situation that has garnered her rapt attention.

"Ah. . no." She gestures dismissively with her fingertips. "Nothing at all. I 
  simply, came to the shore for a walk." Unlikely true, considering the 
  weather and the hour. Unfortunately so very little is ever simple or honest. 
  Especially in this city, and doubly so with Empyreans. Then if she is not a 
  herald to deliver a message, then it is possibly more believable that she 
  has come here for a tryst with a socially unacceptable lover. 

A light smile touches her lips, her expression compassionate as if she could 
  somehow understand and sympathize with your predicament. "Besides, it would 
  seem you have plenty to occupy yourself with, and I would hate to interrupt."

Julian _hopes_ that the possibility of a lover's tryst isn't actually this 
  woman's goal -- he and Rab had thoroughly searched this beach, and at least 
  as of when they'd done so, the surrounding area had been unoccupied. If he'd 
  managed to miss someone lurking about, the Rook tells himself, he bloody 
  well should put himself back through the same strenuous exercises in 
  perception through which he's been ordering his people, both obvious and 
  covert. But the possibility that an illicit lover might perhaps be on the 
  way doesn't escape him, either -- and if someone else is headed this way, he 
  isn't about to try to resume his practice. One witnessed fall is enough. "I 
  would not dream of depriving a lady of the opportunity to take her 
  exercise," says he, as easily as any who play the game of manners could 
  wish, though with a steady forthrightness that keeps the pleasantry from 
  being too fulsome. For a moment or two, as he detects the signs of sympathy 
  in the expression turned up to him, Julian's gaze sharpens -- such an 
  expression is not often directed towards him by Empyrean women -- and that, 
  too, pulls his tone back from being too familiar. With another gracious 
  inclination of his tousled head and a sweep outward of one leanly muscled 
  hand, he offers, "I surrender the beach to you."

The waning evening hour brings the increasing thunder of the ocean. Soon the 
  tide will be rising, and with it in a few short hours, the sun. If the woman 
  is to meet her lover, surely she must be in a great haste. With each passing 
  moment the activity of the docks will increase, ruining any well laid plains 
  for a romantic rendezvous in the sand. 

The woman listens to your words, eyes following the motions of your mouth, 
  narrow chin tipped slightly as if she were some exotic bird. When you have 
  finished, she rights her chin and laughs. 

The sound is melodious, a remembrance of summer. There is no detectable insult 
  or scorn in the musical sound, as one might expect from an Empyrean woman 
  for all things considered lesser (and generally all things are). Instead 
  this seems to be a forthright expression of joy, perhaps amusement at the 
  entire situation. As the laughter disseminates, she offers a shake of her 
  head, "No no, dominus, I insist, the beach is yours. I need it not so badly 
  to. Please, I will take my leave."

Curious, indeed. The airy laughter seems entirely honest to Julian, and for an 
  instant his brows wing down low over thoughtfully narrowed dark azure eyes, 
  as he tries to determine exactly what manner of Daughter of Air would seem 
  to think nothing of expressing pleasure in the presence of an unknown 
  darkling on an otherwise empty beach, at this entirely uncivilized hour. 
  Simple pride suggests that he take her up on her offer, as well as the 
  dictates of tradition and etiquette that state that a gentleman _should_ 
  always defer to a lady's wishes. If she wishes to depart, far it it from him 
  to gainsay her... and yet, curiosity, a perverse curiosity that insists upon 
  unraveling the evident contradictions of this woman before he lets her out 
  of his sight, compels him to suggest, "A compromise, then. There is 
  certainly beach enough to be shared, after all." A bit of that wind in off 
  the ocean riffles through his hair as he glances up the beach and down, then 
  back again to the woman before him. "Or at the least, permit me to offer you 
  escort."

As the wind stirs up, she turns her cheek into the breeze, inhaling the scents 
  of the ocean deeply. The same tendrils of air tease her hair, feathers, and 
  clothing. If she is anxious for the arrival of the unnamed lover, all 
  evidence is contrary. And if she is concerned for her safety, here on this 
  beach and such an insane hour, again, she offers no visible expression. She 
  is, the personification of ease, with her surroundings, with you, indeed, 
  with everything. 

After several long moments of enjoying the sensation of the wind on her face, 
  she turns back towards you. "Thank you dominus, but it is, for such things 
  that I come here to escape." Another mystery? Indeed, she is certainly an 
  enigmatic woman. "I think, I have taken up enough of your time this night, 
  what little is left of it." A dip of her chin, "Again, I apologize for my 
  intrusion, perhaps, next time we meet I might assist instead of cause pain. 
  Vale, dominus." She offers you that same vibrant smile as she begins to turn 
  away from you to take her exit, her cloak lashing out about her calves.

There's just a hint of dubiousness about the darkling's expression, something 
  in the quirk of one brow perhaps, that suggests he isn't exactly convinced 
  that he'll cross paths again with this mysterious woman. But he doesn't 
  actually vocalize such doubts. Instead, he gives a bit of a bow, giving in 
  to this second and stronger hint that the lady does, indeed, wish to depart. 
  "No apologies are necessary, I assure you." As he straightens, and finds 
  himself the recipient of that vivid smile, he permits himself a slightly 
  crooked smile of his own in return; it doesn't reach his eyes, for he 
  doesn't trust this stranger who showed up seemingly out of nowhere, but it 
  does at least imply that if he let loose that smile's full force, it might 
  well work wonders with his features. "Vale and clear skies to you, domina."

And so the mysterious woman's figure recedes slowly down the beach till she is 
  little more then a spec of shadow, that too fading into the pre-dawn 
  darkness.

[End log.]