"The Names Behind the Faces" Log Date: 5/8, 6/6/01 Log Cast: Aurora, Julian, Corlan (NPC emitted by Julian) Log Intro: Twice now has Julian Nemeides encountered a mysterious fair-haired Empyrean woman while he has been at his flying practice. She has not given him her name, and practically no other personal detail about herself; all he has been able to glean thus far has been that she seems to be of noble breeding, that she seems strangely sympathetic to him -- a darkling, and one crippled in his flight at that -- and that she may, just may, be a mage. He's tried to track her down, of course, but to no avail. It does not help when practically all Empyrean women can be described as fair-haired... and without so much as a particular part of the city he knows for sure is hers, the most the Rook can advise his people is to get him as much data as possible on women who may fit the profile of the one he has met. Deep within he has the very beginnings of a glimmer of suspicion as to her identity... but as of yet, he has no proof. Why _is_ she sympathetic to him? And will this trend of hers continue? Tonight, as he puts himself through his paces with the help of some of his trusted people, Julian is about to discover that Tyche is not quite yet done having him cross paths with this strange woman. But this time, he will find out something more about her -- that the two of them may well have a few things in common... And something, indeed, of _who_ she is. *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Evening Date on Aether: Thursday, April 8, 3908. Year on Earth: 1508 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Gibbous Season: Spring Weather: Breeze Temperature: Comfortable *==========================================================================* Private Garden - City Park - Haven A more private garden unfolds before you. The area is dominated by the maze in the center, a seven foot tall hedgerow crafted into a labyrinth. At its center, a large marble fountain cascades water off its tiers into a wide, shallow basin below. Scattered throughout the maze and around the periphery of the garden are marble benches, with different beds of flowers ringing each one. Rose bushes circle the central area, and in the warmer months, their scent is a heady aroma that pervades the entire garden. Along the periphery of the lawn, myrtle, lilacs, and honeysuckle bloom in abundance. This garden sees the celebrations and gatherings of the more elite within Haven, the labyrinth a favorite socializing place for those invited. It is said that after each gathering, the configuration changes, whether by some natural or magical phenomena is unknown. A small arbor leads back into the open grounds of the common garden. Contents: Aurora Obvious exits: Park

Early evening a light blanket of mist has descended across the landscape. The gardens are cast in nebulous grey shadows. It is through these patches of earth-bound clouds that the cloaked form on an Empyrean woman can be seen. Dressed in grey herself, she is a wraith drifting ghostlike among the solitude. Her pace is leisurely as she passes by the flower beds, the roses just once again beginning to wake after a winter sleeping beneath ground. A light tune can be heard from her lips, adding her own soft melody to the birds just waking. There are certain birds that go out and about as the sun goes down, birds that do not tend to announce themselves with song as their diurnal cousins do. Indeed, as the last few twitterings of sleepy songbirds punctuate the music of the woman, at most what might be heard of waking nocturnal avians is the occasional "to-hoo" of an owl. No song at all is voiced by the two-legged, black-winged Rook who has joined the lesser birds arising with the night. Indeed, the only sound Julian makes as he flies by overhead is the slight snap of his pinions -- and the ever-so-slight *thump* of his landing as he touches down fifty feet away in the shadows from the cloaked one. He does not see her, not yet. But he _does_ see the white-winged man who melts out of the shadows from a much closer distance, a blade drawn. A third sound -- the *snik* of steel launching forth from a scabbard as Julian's own sword is produced, followed by the ring of blade against blade. It is such a sound that would capture the attention of the woman. Winged back to the action, she thought herself alone. At the hour of the evening meal, there are few out and about. But who can resist the first warm breath of Spring? A chance to be outdoors without the frigid rain. The shadow of Winter growing ever shorter by the day. And now, her evening stroll, interrupted by the music of steel on steel. Before she might recede completely down a side path, her gaze is drawn over her shoulder to spy the two dueling men. Shadows they both are, there among the new growth of the garden. What little moonlight plays easily enough against their blades, that the sounds of steel can be attributed to nothing but what they are, though for the moment she recognizes neither. The sight brings her around to face the couple as they dance their deadly waltz. A moment's hesitation as she decides whether to involve herself in its progress or not. Empyreans, both of them, neither cloaked -- though whether this is out of desire to keep from hindering mobility or utter unconcern for hiding their race is impossible to tell. What _can_ be detected is the snap of wings as the two of them lunge and parry and lunge again. The sheen of the pale moonlight upon their flashing blades... and upon the pale feathers of one of the combatants. Less distinct are the wings of the other -- until Julian launches himself off the ground again, taking the duel into the air. Then might he be glimpsed, or more specifically, the shadowy shapes of the wings that mark him unmistakably as darkling even when his face and frame are not so easily noted. What is but a woman to come between two men? The argument, she does not know. Now the reasons of this midnight tryst of blade. At this time of year, coming across the secreted forms of lovers as they join together among the shadows, is not so uncommon an occurrence. Perhaps it is over such an encounter that the two men trade steel words. It would not be the first time that the soft lips of a woman have driven men to dueling. But again, such is only simple speculation. Too difficult to tell if one is in the right, the other in the wrong. And so Aurora merely changes the direction of her stroll to take her closer to where the forms have launched themselves over the ground. Subtle movement at the periphery of the action, a white shadow moving into the halo of the men's fight. Though she does not yet intrude on their meeting, her expression is stern. Stern, too, are the expressions of the men: the white-winged one with the sandy golden-brown hair... and the darkling with the black hair and twilight blue eyes, whose face is momentarily illumined as he dives under the blade of his opponent. But for the one who watches from the ground, something else might be detected as the two Sons of Air battle it out. Though the blades come close to connecting with flesh or feather, neither one seems aimed for the heart or the neck or anywhere else where a strong enough blow could quickly end life; moreover, though each man moves with fluid grace and speed, neither seems to carry _truly_ lethal intent. And even if this observation were not made, it could not help but be drawn regardless when the white-winged man abruptly pulls backwards in reaction to the darkling's last agile slice through the air -- and grins in what can only be pleased approval. "You're getting stronger in the air, Rook," he calls, not loudly, but clearly enough. Such things are noticed by the woman's keen grey eyes. Especially the later. The man has indeed improved his flying prowess since their last encounter some weeks ago on the lonely stretch of beach. Diving, lunging, pivoting - it is these motions she watches. Terse expression melts into calm neutrality on her delicate features. With the intent of the duel proved to be practice and not death. Crossing her arms over her chest, she fades back into the lengthening twilight shadows. Only a moment or two, she promises herself. Did she mean to intrude, surely she would call out to them. But it seems that such is not her desire. Those who come here at such hours, usually wish to be left to their own devices. Instead, she will watch a little while longer, then slip out into the darkness of the city. Julian's elegantly cut mouth quirks up on one side as he manages to hold his place in the air, black wings pumping. More agile and strong has he become, but still there's a hint of exertion in the lines of his features -- and he's short of breath as he calls back, "Not yet strong enough. Go -- give me fifteen minutes, then find Rab and tell him I'll be ready for the next test." With that, then, he descends and touches to the earth once more, this time with his feet rather than his knees, though he hasn't yet quite re-mastered the art of landing. He still winds up half-crouched, swaying a little and pulling his wings in tight, before he's taken control of the momentum of his own impact. The white-winged man tosses off a salute with one hand, and with his other, sheathes his sword. "As you wish, Sirdar," is his reply, and he doesn't bother to land at all. Instead, his white wings unfurl further out, thrusting him higher into the night sky until he vanishes entirely from sight. Now that you are alone and landed, the session done, does she make her appearance known. A soft rustle of leaves against linen as Aurora steps from the shadows of her lookout. As before, she is dressed in casual fashion. The hood of her cloak is lays on her shoulder revealing the thick honey-wheat rope her hair has been functionally plaited into. As always, she is surrounded by a halo of simple elegance. The bearing of one who needs no pretension or title, but who just be the very nature of being is Elite. "You have improved greatly since we last met, dominus." Her words are liquid amber, tinted with the exotic accent of some far off land. A slight dip of her narrow chin to acknowledge you in greeting as the edges of her full lips curve upwards. To continue lurking would be rude. As it is, there have been such a number of random encounters that one may wonder if the Fates were not somehow aligning coincidences. Perhaps he will simply think her enamored. A better prospect then to consider her a threat by these continual circumstances. If he is surprised that this mysterious woman has emerged yet a third time to greet him under unexpected circumstances, the darkling does not show it. Much. He does raise one ebon brow as he straightens up from his crouch, permitting himself that much of a hint of polite surprise, but his bearing and his voice are otherwise entirely composed as he bows and graciously replies, "Thank you. I have been working at it." The eyebrow stays crooked, though, over twilight eyes that momentarily glint with irony. "I had wondered when I would see you again, domina." "Really? How flattering." She steps forward a little further into the moonlight kissed landscape. "It would seem are paths are continually destined to cross in the most unexpected and peculiar of places. Surely, I am not following you." The curve of her lips quirks up a little further. Her manner is such that to imagine any of her actions predetermined is a difficult undertaking. "And if you are not following me, then it must be some, divine intervention, which I might not so easily believe were we not continually tossed in front of each other's path. Easier then to say it is just. . ." A graceful gesture with her hand. "Random happenstance." His sword is still out, gleaming pale in the reflected moonglow, undimmed by any drawn blood; with a shimmer along its edge and a slide of steel into leather, the darkling resheathes it now that he stands straight and tall. That he had managed to bow with the weapon still unsheathed, and avoid knocking it into his wings, silently attests to his improving comfort with those great black pinions -- but only silently, for he has made both bow and the sword-sheathing seem as casual as possible. "I can state with assurance," he drawls, "that I am not following you." Neither are certain persons in his employ, but not for lack of trying. Difficult to follow a woman only passingly encountered, and who as of yet has given their employer no name, after all. Twilight eyes turned almost as dark as his hair and eyes by the night glimmer faintly with amusement as he adds, "Though I cannot imagine what, if anything, the gods must intend if they happen to be dictating the intersections of our schedules." If his tone is any indication, the man considers the idea patently ridiculous -- but at the same time, there's a leavening of humor there in his velvet tenor, as if at the very least he's willing to wait for the joke he expects must be coming. A gold eyebrow arches against her sun-loved brow. The punch line of the joke never comes. Aurora simply smiles. Looking away into the shadows for a moment, her expression is shrouded in enigmas and half-whispered secrets. This is the pause in a conversation where the means of continuation are unclear. What to talk about? The weather? The success of his flight? The approaching summer and the newly blooming flowers around them? A thousand mundane possibilities stretching into an eternity of polite, pleasant, and dreadfully boring topics. Yes, uncomfortable indeed. Or at least, it is enough to set many people ill at ease. Instead, of scuffing at the ground, stuttering over half-attempted words, she says nothing, just breathing in the atmosphere of the garden. Just, being. The Rook never was one for small talk. It's been a rare woman indeed that he's felt comfortable enough around for such a thing -- and to have it be a _real_ pleasantry, rather than a mask worn over the feint and parry of thinly veiled intrigues and recriminations that are, as far as he is concerned, the hallmark of his race and that of this mysterious woman. Not knowing yet into which category she falls, the common supercilious female who can be ignored, the rare friend, or something else entirely, he crosses leanly muscled arms along his chest and stares over at the white-winged stranger. And remarks, without preamble, "I am not exactly gifted in fathoming the will of the gods. I may be able to do a bit of a better job at it, as long as they appear to be bent on throwing us into one another's company, if you let me know your name." "The gods. . they are. . ." The woman's gaze raises up to meet yours across the midnight expanse. Certainly she is fair of face, graceful of form, and mighty of wing, as the rest of the race shared between strangers. But all other similarities end with her eyes. The windows into the soul. Those grey irises, they are peculiar, distant and opaque; minerals from the moon. "Capricious. Fickle. And not. . secure for the safekeeping of one's faith." A pause as the smile fades from her features. Tilting her chin in silent contemplation, perhaps determining whether or not this unknown man is secure for the safekeeping of her name. Finally, she offers meeting your eyes with her own again. When she speaks, it is a single word. Like, the exhale of a dying man's last breath, the relinquishing of a great burden that has been hauled to Hades' gates and back. "Aurora." He bears the scrutiny without discomfort, this darkling, long years of keeping those aspects of himself he'd prefer go unseen safely shielded behind the reserve of his eyes. But yet, here and now tonight, he recognizes in this thrice-met stranger's face a few small signs of the same caution -- the same search for something, perhaps, that might be trustworthy -- in his own thoughts. Perhaps because of those small signs of something held in common between them does the black-winged one let a hint of a smile curl his mouth at the opinion she expresses about the deities so many claim oversee life as all know it... And perhaps because of that slight lessening of his reserve, then, might that smile's flickering out be noted, along with the subtle straightening of his frame, as the name is given forth. His eyes even widen for a fraction of an instant... but he recovers just as swiftly, equanimity returning to his elegant features. "Julian," he answers simply, and if he has indeed reached a conclusion about what goes with the name he has been given, he shows no sign of it. No title has been uttered, no House identified; he acknowledges none now. What he does acknowledge is the sense of a risk taken in her expression and eyes, and his own have gone solemn. "Well met." Certainly there could be a number of women named Aurora in the city. But, with the way these encounters have proceeded so far, it would be too easy, too tidy, to imagine that such a name belonged to anyone other than the mysterious, and often distrusted dowager empress. A great many rumors spill forth from the mouths of the gossip mongers. Storm-bringing, child eater, Varati concubine, husband slayer. Looking at the woman, it is difficult to imagine any one of them true, or false. She is, quick lightning, every name, title, half-truth, and imagining sliding off her. Perhaps this is why she did not offer a title or House with her name, because none of them fit other then simply, Aurora. A faint dipping of her chin. "Yes, Julian. . ." The name plays across her tongue like a cool spring breeze. Or his reaction, or lack thereof, she offers no acknowledgement. Considering all your other encounters, this one is certainly no different. In this garden, at this hour, dressed as she is, anonymity is preferred, relished. It becomes painfully obvious, with just the simple confession of a name, why she chooses such places and such hours. "Well met. Thank you." He has heard the rumors, of course. Even one such as he who lives a midnight existence -- or at the very best, a twilight one -- in Haven cannot help but hear the rumors that spread through the city like wildfire about those in the highest reaches of power. But he had never quite expected to cross paths with such lofty personages, and deep within beneath layers of breeding and composure, Julian's inner self has jolted as if he'd been hit by a battle-axe. Who else _could_ she be? He hadn't, he's sure, imagined the odd behavior of the winds when he'd met her aloft. Nevertheless... he is all too familiar with how it can feel to have to juggle a number of faces before the world, whether those faces are of one's own devising or imposed by the wagging tongues of the gossips. More than once, especially lately, he has grown weary of having to present so many different selves to different spheres of his existence. And so he is not surprised to see nothing more than a woman before him now, a slightly tired, slightly haunted-seeming woman. Again he inclines his head, a grin quirking up this time to curve one corner of his mouth. "We appear," he notes, "to share similiar philosophies on the gods, though Tyche and I appeared to reach an understanding some time ago. If any of them are trying to tell me anything, I'd be laying my wagers on her." The soft melody of her laughter reaches out into the dark corners of the gardens, muffled by the intimate press of surrounding foliage. With the sound, the tension seems to lift from her mood, revealing for a moment the worriless expression of common woman met by chance in a park. Since it seems the man will not dwell on such as title, House, rumor, or hearsay, neither will she. These topics, will remain forever unmentioned. That there were even brought up, to be exposed, is a disappointment. That there were even a few short encounters without the superimposition of identity to cloud the moment, is to be cherished. A rare luxury to be savored. "Ah. . Tyche." The name is uttered as if by one who is close friends with the bearer. "She is one worthy of having an agreeable understanding with. Though I have discovered through the years, that even she will turn away when her mood has passed, and the enjoyment of the moment is gone." A wry twist to her lips. "I do hope, dominus, that you and your family remain in her favor for a good many years. Personally, my communications these days seem to have become arguments with the ill-tempered Kronian." That he has had his perceptions altered by identity revealed -- or at least implied -- is inevitable. Still, this darkling who calls himself Julian does seem to prefer the luxury of conversation unadorned by the burdens of what great names bear in the light of day, for oddly enough something seems to ease ever so slightly in his fine-boned face. As if, paradoxically, the challenge carried in all the implications of that single uttered name is one he has decided he can meet... by going around it. And now, his face even softens a trifle at the mention of family. "I find that Tyche best favors those who make their own luck," is his reply, "and I make the luck for what family I have." "Family. . " Aurora meets his gaze, a softening of her own expression, a greater sense of sorrow that hangs like a thin veil across her presence. "There is nothing else that matters, nothing more important, then those that we love." Her attention shifts then to the sky, the impending pull of dawn. "I should. . be going." Unspoken, the implications of all the trappings of her life are evident, where before there were none. Before, she might have just been returning to some small household in the Palladium at best, at worst a commoner's holdings somewhere on the narrow streets of the city. Now, images of stoic Schola guards, massive empty chambers of marble, cold, unfriendly. All the things that one hates about the lifestyle of nobility. The things so many long for without ever realizing what exactly it is they would wish on themselves. Now, it is known, especially by one such as himself, that she is returning to a cage. "I. . thank you for these random moments. . .Julian. They have been, very much relished." And here it is, the allusion to the cessation of these random encounters. With identity revealed, how can such things continue? Stolen moments in gardens and beaches in the middle of the night? Entirely possible, but . . . it is that word that hangs heavily. Is there something here, some connection, some worthwhile pursuit to build bridges between strangers? Or have these few encounters simply been, random. He is not exactly a sterling example of the Sons of the Air... but nevertheless, Julian _is_ Empyrean. And if there is anything he understands in his blood and bones, it is that in order to thrive, a bird must be able to touch the sky in freedom. He has learned that very lesson anew these last many months; he is reminded of it now. And he finds that if this particular bird must return to her cage, he cannot let her go without offering at least some manner of key. "They need not cease," he says softly, and then his grin quirks up again, both sides of his mouth this time, bringing a gleam of something that might almost be merriment into his dark azure eyes. "And may not, regardless of what we will. _If_ Tyche is trying to tell us something, I doubt she'll let us off that easily." "Rarely do the gods ever let anyone off easily." Her own lips curve upwards. Slender fingers reach for the hood around her shoulders, drawing it up over her head to hide her face. "Especially when they have something to say." In this way, the offer is accepted. There is no definite yes, or no, only the acceptance of something more. What? Unmentioned. Unresolved. Giving names to such things, would be putting expectations on them. Dangerous things, those expectations. Especially when there is no certainty of what the gods are attempting to make apparent. "It grows late." With that said, she offers a parting smile. A rush of air as her wings stretch upwards to caress the fleeting midnight and launch her upwards into the sky. Delicate footprints left in the grass to confirm her presence there moments ago. [End log.]