"Outflying the Storm" Log Date: 4/9/01 Log Cast: Aurora, Julian Log Intro: To regain the sky that is his birthright as an Empyrean man has been one of the most driving goals as of late for Julian Nemeides -- never mind the legitimate profits of his House, or the illicit ones of the Thieves' Guild of which he is Master. With stubborn determination, he has seized every opportunity he can to steal away to private places on the outskirts of Haven where he may practice in peace, away from the eyes of anyone who may wonder at the strange awkwardness of a full-grown winged man in the air... or who, worse yet, might recognize him as the Rook, in a particularly vulnerable position. Thus far, he has had to challenge himself to find places where he knows for certain he will not be caught. Twice now, strange women have found him at his self-appointed practices, one a nameless Empyrean woman, and one a fascinatingly lovely Daughter of Fire who still periodically haunts his thoughts. No harm has come to him from either encounter -- nothing more than the results of his own rusty skill in the air, at any rate -- but still he is paranoid by years of long habit, and so Julian has diligently and regularly altered where he has been going to practice his ability to fly. Little does he realize, on an afternoon where his power to stay in the air is challenged by an incoming storm, that Tyche is guiding the path of one of those two women he's met to cross his own once more.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Afternoon Date on Aether: Monday, February 16, 3908. Year on Earth: 1508 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Last Quarter Season: Waning Winter Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Cool *==========================================================================* Eastern Beach - Haven A bit further east than the last of the houses, this beach spreads out its length along the shoreline in broken dunes. Unlike the gentle and smooth rolling ways of the western beaches, rocks thrust from the sand at almost regular intervals. The far eastern edge of the beach trails off into jagged rock. To the west it ends in a containing wall where the waves lap against the stone, held back from the delicate, private gardens of the Empyrean quarter. The beach itself is quiet; not one of the more popular spots--as the swimming is dangerous. Instead, the privacy here calls to quiet meetings of many sorts. The sand is studded with craggy pillars that thrust their granite bulk from its deceptively soft grains--and the ocean is as well. The shelter the stones present is ideal as a shield from prying eyes--as are the caves that riddle the bluffs to the east. Off the shore, blue waters churn into frothy white foam. Contents: Aurora Obvious exits: Path to Haven Ocean Late afternoon on the wild and windy shores of the city. It's a lonely windswept section of beach, not many desiring to brave the winter weather. While far out on the horizon a dark thunderhead looms, promising more frigid rain in the next several hours. From here, one can watch the last ships making their way into the harbor before nightfall. The captains are trying to beat the storm front, unwilling to be caught outside the safety of the harbor when the wind kicks up. Those who are unable to make it into the passage take refuge further out at see where the risk of being swept against the rocks is lessened for the tide will be coming in soon. It promises to be a very interesting for those at sea and those on shore. From the relative safety of the shoreline down the beach, the lone figure of an Empyrean woman stands. Tendrils of hair and cloak dance about her form, caught in the sea breeze. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she seems to be watching the reeling and plunging shapes of the gulls as they search for their evening meal. The sound of their cries is distinct above the crashing of the surf. At her back, the distinct white wings open flightly to arch back against the wind, as if at any moment a gust may pick her up and take her far above the landscape. The gulls aren't the only thing wheeling through the air this afternoon. Julian Nemeides is a significantly larger -- and significantly darker -- airborne shape, higher up in the sky than the birds and therefore perhaps not nearly as noticeable to anyone who isn't bothering to look up. Not that anyone is likely to -- which is exactly as he's planned it. This particular rough stretch of beach, combined with the tide _and_ the storm front moving in, should insure a nicely underpopulated beach on this particular blustery afternoon... and if the challenging gusts of wind coming in from that advancing front make keeping himself airborne a bit more difficult, well then, he'll just have to consider it a challenge. Sixty feet skyward, ebon wings wrestling to carry him onto the wake of one of those fractious breezes, Julian does not yet notice that the beach is not as underpopulated as it was when he'd first taken off. Not yet, at any rate. The simple fact that he is in the air, and for the time being staying aloft, is too captivating a distraction for his attention. As the airborne man has not noticed the lone woman, she too has no apparent awareness of the man in the twilight above her. Perhaps this is why she spreads her arms outwards at her sides, allowing a gust of wind to fill her wings and carry her several feet upwards off the sand. She hovers there for a moment, exerting no visible energy to keep herself aloft, simply riding the wind as would one of the gulls. The moment ends, the wind moves on, and the woman once more finds her feet on the side. Arms remain outstretched, wings remain expanded to nearly their full capacity behind her. She laughs. It is the kind of laughter one makes when they are certain there is no one else to hear them. Uninhibited, without restraint. A warm sound of a forgotten summer carried on the cool air currents. It's the sound, then, that rides up to catch the Rook's attention. Twilight eyes flash their gaze downward from above, and what had been a strangely carefree expression of his own suddenly goes shuttered, alert. From his distance he can't yet identify a specific individual, but the sweep of white wings is unmistakable -- and it fills him with immediate caution. Who exactly that is down there is less relevant to him than whether he or she will go away-- --and, he realizes as the front bucks his shoulderblades, requiring him to jerk his attention hard back towards keeping himself aloft, whether that'll happen before or after he has to land. A sudden gust in from the ocean lifts the woman's wings. Once again she rises on the air current, this time much higher then the previous. Ascending rapidly, she lifts her chin into the current. For a moment, those carefully sculpted features exhibit an expression of blissful rapture. Her hands twist indicating in the air stream, as though stroking the very breeze itself as if it were a pet. And then she sees you. Her approach up beside you halts, wings taking their first beat of the air that height might now be maintained. The expression in quick to fade, checked quickly by a mask that falls easily into place. Though the twinkling in her grey eyes takes longer to dim. Instead, she offers a slight smile, perhaps a little embaressed by being discovered in such an intimate moment of expression. Where identity is still suspect, the woman's appearance is easily recognized. _You_. That word isn't actually voiced, but it shoots nevertheless across the darkling's expression, bringing a keenly piercing wariness with it into his eyes. He is not nearly at home up here amongst the gusting winds as you -- that is obvious, from the laboring of his wings and the look of fierce concentration knitting an otherwise elegant set of features. Somehow he nevertheless manages to toss a nod back in your direction, almost as evenly as if he'd just met your gaze across a gathering of the upper tiers at the Palladium itself. The look is fleeting, though -- for the buffeting of that incoming front is demanding every scrap of his attention. He drops a few feet as it is, in the seconds he spares for glancing your direction. Yes, me. Her smile softens from the forced expression. Almost a tender quality that you recognize from your previous encounter. The air pulls and plays with the long tendrils of her hair, such that locks twist and stream about her face and shoulders. Hovering several feet away from you, those pale grey eyes watch your strained labors. Here, where the wind buffets and knocks you both, she has managed to find a stability that suggests she is far more comfortable here in the clouds the on the ground below. And then she does perhaps something perhaps wholly unexpected. A slender hand, perfectly groomed, reaches out towards you. It is a silent offer of support, of help. You're jesting, right? Julian's eyes narrow at that hand as well as your expression, their implied message quite obvious to him -- but the motives behind that message rather less so. Nor is he at all certain exactly how you propose going about assisting him, not when his wings span a good thirty feet and he's doing well to keep himself off the ground, much less carry out a maneuver like joining hands with someone else in the air nearby. Nor does he have much time to consider. The wind abruptly knocks him sideways, carrying him several feet away from you and forcing him to beat those raven pinions harder to balance himself out. No, she doesn't seem to be kidding. Her expression remains soft, tender, without accusation or challenge. Though the motives may been unknown, the offer of assistance seems quite genuine. She would perhaps stay that way for a great time, the effort of her own actions so minimal, but when the gust of wind knocks you sideways, she is quick to act. If you will not take her aid when she offers it, then she now moves in to give it regardless of your wishes. Her movements are executed with the slightest dip of her wings, a marriage between feather and air that is a most perfect union. Like the gulls over the ocean, she darts over to where the wind has taken you. Suddenly you are face to face, a mere few inches between you both. Behind, her wings have scooped the air, well away from the beating of your own great wings, and yet still permitting her to remain nose to nose. Slender and slight, here above the ground, the height difference is not so great. Reaching out she takes your hand in her own, strong delicate fingers entwining in yours, as if she along will hold you aloft. "I would not have you fall, again, dominus." Voice low, heard only for the close proximity of your bodies. The scent of honeysuckle lingers on her flesh and clothing. Somewhere far out to sea a distant flash speaks of lightning. One second, two, three, four, and then the thunder reaches the shoreline, carried by a stronger blast of wind that tastes of salt waves and rain. It hits Julian's wings with such force that he half-expects to start plummeting -- but all at once there's a hand clasping his, a seeming sphere of calm about him, and your face close enough for the determination of your features to be easily read. Julian's own go visibly startled, twilight eyes going wide, and he stares over at you speechless for a few seconds before he manages to breathlessly call back, "I hadn't planned on doing any such thing--" One might therefore wonder why he's out here pushing his luck with a storm coming in, then, but he doesn't bother to point that out. "It is often the things we do not plan on, dominus, that we find ourselves doing." And still she smiles at you, expression unchanging. In the span of a few moments, she has used the winds to rotate both your bodies so that she now provides a windbreak for your. The assault from the sea will measure some taming after passing through her before it gets to you. Her fingers remain twined in yours, grip strong. She will lot let you go. Though you may doubt the ability of this slight woman to hold you aloft against the buffeting winds, she apparently has no such worries of her ability. Perhaps, there is some measure of security in such a thing. Albeit, the situation itself is very unexpected. Pale eyes remain locked on your own, as if she would hold you with her very gaze. Astonishment jolts through the darkling's eyes yet again. It has been some time since he's been in the sky, to be sure, but he's almost entirely certain that he remembers the capriciousness of storm-born winds, and he _knows_ they do not typically turn one about in so neat a half-circle. Not without help, at any rate. _She's a mage?!_ Nor does it escape him in the slightest that his wings, still beating at the air, seem now to not have to work quite so hard. You can see him teeter even as you turn him about, his free hand instinctively flying out to his side as though he were trying to keep his balance atop a wall. And you can see an ever so slightly shaken expression overtake the elegant countenance of the man, as he begins to realize what manner of person you must be. And what it means if you've deliberately appointed yourself the only thing between him and a bone-jarring re-introduction to the beach. "Who are you?" he bursts out, a little more agitatedly than he intends. Whether or not the woman is a mage, is at this moment pure speculation. Perhaps the overworked spinning of a tired imagination, fatigued by the continual effort to keep yourself in the air. A flap of those great wings as they slice through the sky, flight feathers cutting a great swath as you are turned a little shakily, both of you buffeted by a forceful current. Surely if she were commanding the air, her own wings would not have to work so hard to keep her alight, and she would better protect you both from the wind. "A friend." She smiles that soft enigmatic smile. "Come, you should not be out here in such weather. The storm will be on us shortly." Even the gulls seem to agree with this statement, for they are rapidly vanishing from the sky which is growing ever darker by the moment. The stars, which soon would be visible in the evening light, are fading behind a dense blanket of storm clouds. In a few moments, the rain will fall. He has to admit -- his shoulders and back are starting to vehemently protest the continued exertion. Sweat cools from his skin almost instantaneously, thanks to the mounting winds, but it does nothing for the strain etched into his face and frame. Julian risks one look out to sea, his hair as wildly disheveled as your own by now for all that it's much shorter, and then a glance down to the beach. Had he really made it out this far over the water? It's not fear in his expression now, not exactly -- but there is just a passing glimmer of nervousness. "I... believe landing would be a good idea, yes, domina," he calls back. "Come then. I will help you. . .?" Though she asks it as a question, it is apparent she has no intention of just letting you go. The water does look particularly cold this evening. Dark foreboding waves that are increasing in height by the moment. The tide has turned, and soon the great sections of revealed beach will be swallowed beneath its relentless approach. Your wings may not be made of stollen feathers and wax, but she has no plans of allowing this fledgling Icarus to test his skills against the crashing surf. "We will land, over there. . ." Her free hand points to a stretch of sand, high up the shoreline. Perhaps sensing your tredpidation with the water, she offers a slight squeeze with her hand. "I will not let you go." He never was much of a swimmer in the years he spent exiled to the ground -- and now, Julian has even less faith in his ability to handle the water, with his wings restored as they should be. But truth be told, alien an element as the ocean is to a Son of the Air, right now the sky seems to him to be growing almost as hostile a territory. The wind reaches both darkling and white-winged stranger at last, bringing stinging raindrops to pelt them both, How in the name of Tyche is he going to land, he wonders, wrestling back a surge of alarm, when he's facing _you_? "I can't watch where I'm going, if you've got my hand--!" he yells, tenor voice rising over the incoming gale. "Relax, dominus. . . do not force it. . .You will tire too quickly." Her words are soothing, even though they must be shouted across the distance to be heard above the surf below. A stranger, yes, but at least you are not alone out here above the black ocean. "Your body remembers what your mind does not." Surely a reference to these midnight flight lessons of yours. Perhaps she has fabricated an explanation for a grown Empyrean just learning to fly. "Trust your instinct. Trust your wings." The woman's own wings quit beating for a heartbeat. This allows her to drop several feet out of your line of sight so that she is nolonger directly before you. "I will not let you fall! Keep your thoughts on that stretch of land. . " She shouts, now that she is no longer so close to you. "Trust yourself, dominus. The soul remembers." And then she lets go of your hand, fingers sliding away from your own. He is _already_ tiring, and now as the contact between the two of you is broken, he struggles to orient himself for that distant target. You might be a mage. You might not. But for all your encouraging words, he's not yet completely certain he trusts you. Julian has, however, no time to argue. With the storm now upon you both, something in him breaks past a barrier erected by his own intellect, from memories dulled by over fifteen years' worth of time. He isn't sure he trusts you _or_ his restored wings-- But he does trust his instincts. They've saved him more than once over the decades, with wings and without. And so the Rook angles himself sharply in the rain-laced darkening air, wings spreading wide to catch the wind and carry him to the shore. While beneath you, skimming several feet above the waves, the white shadow of your 'guardian angel' follows. Movement for movement, the speed of your flight back to the shore is matched. Occassionally she glances up towards you, assuring herself of your security. The beach grows closer and closer. . and then you are over it. Should you fall now, it will be simply to the sand. A bruised backside and ego far preferable to drowning in the surf. _Down_, past the outcroppings rapidly disappearing beneath the incoming tide. Wings, pulled in. Legs braced to take the impact -- and Julian slams into the earth, pitching forward headfirst and remembering just in time to pull his body into a roll so that he doesn't break his own neck. And even so the landing forces every last ounce of breath from his lungs and momentarily shorts out all thought in his head, as he winds up in an ungainly sprawl of black, soaked feathers and equally soaked flesh and clothes. The rain begins to fall from the sky in earnest. Great fat raindrops descending from the boiling clouds overhead. Even the ship lights far out at sea are not visible through the torrent of descending water. "You did it!" Landing softly down beside you, the woman touches toe to earth with the same effort she might use to step from a bath. A moment of silence as she mentally calculates the position of your figure. "Dominus. . you are all right?" Her voice is concerned as she stands looking down at the heap of soaked feathers and clothing you have become. Certainly, she feel remorse that each of your encounters has resulted in your landing none-to-gracefully. Once again, a hand is offered, to help pull you up from the sand. "Let me help you? We should seek shelter." Julian does, indeed, look none too graceful sprawled there on his back -- but as he hears you land beside him, he opens his eyes. He's down. He's intact -- exhausted, but reasonably intact. And all at once he grins, a broad, lopsided, and devilish grin that drops years off his countenance and kindles a spark of mischief in twilight eyes. "Quite the ride, eh, domina?" he gasps out, one hand coming up to grasp the one you've offered him. The other, as he pulls himself up off the sand -- and lurches dizzily -- abruptly shoots up to his own brow. Seeing that you are indeed intact, and none-to-worse for the wear, Aurora laughs softly, noding her head. The laughter isn't quite as carefree as what you witnessed earlier, but there is definitely the sense that she is at ease here in your presence. Though you sense, that somehow this woman would be at ease just as equally in a chamber full of rampaging Varati. The sense of calm that emenates from her is quite amazing. "Oh, yes. Indeed dominus. Quite the ride." She braces herself as you pull on her hand, rising up before her. The laughter is short lived as your hand finds your brow. Concerned she narrows her pale eyes, scrutinizing your head as if to find a wound. "You are not injured I hope?" With rain now plastering his dark hair to his head and streaming down his face, with the light level dropped considerably, it might be a bit difficult to tell if the darkling's managed to damage himself -- but then again, that rain could also be washing away traces of blood as soon as they emerge. Julian grimaces as his inquisitive fingertips find tender-feeling flesh along the side of his skull, but no moisture he can differentiate from the downpour. "It'll keep," he decides gruffly, looking up again and gesturing ahead now. "At least as long as it takes to fulfill your excellent idea of finding shelter. Have you anywhere in mind...?" "There is an outcropping of rocks, over there. . ." She offers a gesture with her hand. Long dark-blond hair lays flat against her face, rainwater dripping down her features. "That should provide some measure of protection till the rain has slowed. These, squalls do not usually last long." It seems she has no intent of flying off into the night, if even her wings which have become saturated with water would be able to perform such a feat. "Come. . you will catch your death if you stay out in this. And I do not wish to be responsible for any more pain you may endure." Still holding your hand, she begins to direct you away from the waves up the shorline to a stand of rocks. Though it has indeed grown considerably darker since the rain began, you are able to see the indicated make-shift cave. Though it will not provide flawless protection, you will at least be spared from the brunt of the passing storm. His own wings are equally saturated, and pulling all the harder now against thoroughly tired muscles in his back -- but Julian sucks in a breath and inches his pinions upward till he is assured that they will not drag on the ground behind him. Tired he may be, wet to the bone and with a pounding head, but under no circumstances will the wings of Julian Nemeides _droop_. Nor does he let himself stumble as he follows you, and neither does he speak until he's ducked his head and his wings in to step into this little hollow within the rocks. Only then, as he settles himself gingerly down to lean back as best he can against the wall of the cavelet, does he remark, "You have a most curious sense of responsibility." Stepping into the small shelter, her wings ruffle themselves, throwing off excess water in protest of the rain. It will take some time for the magnificent plumage to dry, especially without the warm air of a fire and a good heavy towel. She turns to lean against the wall of the cavelet opposite you. From here she is able to see a sliver of beach and the surf crashing against the sand. "And you dominus, have a most curious sense of self-abuse." Tilting her chin slightly, she smiles across to you. This time his grin isn't quite as broad, but it's still there and still lopsided, and this time it is punctuated by an ironic gleam of twilight eyes. With one lean hand he pushes his drenched hair out of the eyes in question, though a few errant strands escape his fingers and curl wetly across his pale brow. "You speak with a surprising amount of authority on the subject," he drawls, a bit more vigor coming back into his voice though his chest still heaves for breath, "for someone whose acquaintance I've barely made. Is it something about me in particular, or do you make a habit of rescuing drenched darklings on beaches?" "I think perhaps, dominus, it is you who seem to make the habit of needing to be rescured by mysterious women on beaches." There is no sense of prejeduce at your mention of being darkling. Surely if she felt any hesitation at such a thing, she would have long before shown signs of it. Instead, there is only the mischievious twinkle in her eyes that suggests she is amused at the entire situation, though certainly not ill at ease. Reaching up, she brushes several of her own long tendrils of hair out of her face. Outside the shelter, the rain continues to pound into the earth as the sky grows ever darker. "I do?" is Julian's arch reply as he crooks up a black brow. Granted, your words are truer than can be readily known -- you, white-winged stranger who might well be a mage, are not the only woman to have discovered him at his practice. But the Rook is not prepared to speak of the other who'd found him out. "How very curious. My habit appears to be slipping, then, as you appear to be the only woman in the immediate vicinity." His voice drops down, tired and husky, though his gaze remains entirely level as he studies you. He draws in a long breath, then drops the bantering to go on, "Thank you... for helping me make it back in." Straightforward, quite deliberate, though somewhere beneath his tone may lurk just a hint of awkwardness. Is he accustomed to having to say these words to such as you? Perhaps not. "Certainly, dominus." Her voice is soft beneath the thundering of the rain. Here in the darkness, both your forms are masked. It is only with the explosion of lighting overhead that she becomes silhouetted with brilliant electricity. In that moment, you are able to see her turn from you. This woman who you have known for less then a few hours of your entire life, stands as anonymous in the dark as she does in identity. A few seconds pass before the thunder rolls across the sky almost directly overhead. "Though I imagine you would have done just fine on your own. You seem to be quite the capable man. Even if you have not yet mastered your wings." Perhaps it is the darkness that makes her bold. Without the lightning, you can no longer see where her attention is directed. Her next words are softer then the first. A hint of vulnerability tainting the edges. "How long have you been without the freedom. . . of your wings?" He smiles faintly at the compliment, though that is out of sync with the crash of the lightning and so doubtless goes unseen. It fades, too, at the question and the tone in which it is delivered. The masking darkness and the pelting of the storm are equally effective in cloaking the furrowing of his brow as he considers exactly how to answer that. How much to trust. At last he settles for murmuring wearily, succintly, "Years." Perhaps she offers a nod, there in the darkness. Or a sympathetic smile. It is impossible to see exactly her expression, or the body language of her mood. Her words are slow, heavy with great pause, and left to hang without elaboration in the frigid night air. "Yes. . years. Torturous years." Then she falls silent, lost in the solitude of her own thoughts. The only sound the pounding of the rain. Even that too begins to fade away after several moments. The rush of water down the makeshift roof of the shelter slowly to a few drips as the clouds pass by, taking the downpour further inland. A few more moments and the faint sliver of the moon as it rises over the horizon is visible. "And see. . the rain has passed. . " She turns towards you, offering a faint smile as she pulls up the hood of her cloak. Apparently she is readying to leave. "You should go home dominus, get warm before a fire." Long familiar with Haven's weather -- he might not be a swimmer, but he _has_ been in the city half his life, and seen winter squalls and summer sunshine alike -- Julian glances out into the storm-washed night. Then, as you pull up your cloak, a small sound escapes him. A chuckle, low and silken. "Permit me to tender you the same advice, domina." Before anyone else he might perhaps not yet bother to rise -- but you _have_ helped him, and for all his tumultuous history he is too much of a gentleman not to give that some sign of gratitude. And so, despite the fact that his aching frame points out that continuing to sit is a marvelous idea, he rises up beside you in a wet rustle of ebon feathers. Pulling the voluminous hood up around her head, she turns once more to face you. Reaching out, her fingertips brush your shoulder in a brief gesture. "Your advice will be heeded, dominus. Please, take it yourself soon as well?" Then she turns and steps outside of the cavelet. Once outside, her wings burst open, wingspan extending a great many feet from her small frame. Those magnificent feathered twins shake out the previous wetness, dim moonlight catching in the plumes. Snow white were yours are coal black. Turning back to where you stand in the cave, she offers a smile, dipping her chin, "Perhaps we might meet again dominus, though I hope under circumstances that are easier on your person. I fear any more meetings such as we have had, would damage you. Vale, Darkling. May you find warmth and peace this evening." Raising her hand in farewell, there is a brief rush of captured wind as her wings push her up from the ground. In a moment she is gone, up into the evening darkness. And you still don't know her name. [End log.]