"A Rook Among the Gypsies"

Log Date:
	3/26, 4/18/2001

Log Cast:
	Julian, Sarasvati

Log Intro:
	Julian Nemeides is a man who's gone after many goals in the course of
his life. It's arguable, indeed, that he's accomplished a great many of them.
The most important goal he's ever gone after has been the recovery of his
daughter Moirae from the control of his brother Erasmus. But not even that 
ever stirred his determination quite the same way as a much more elemental,
primal desire that's now taken over his days, now that he's had his wings
restored: getting himself back into the air.
	Fact of the matter is, though, Julian hasn't flown in fifteen years
and he's sadly out of practice. But because he's a man of pride, he's headed
out to uncrowded stretches of the Haven beaches to work on this problem--or,
at any rate, what he's _thought_ are uncrowded stretches of beaches. A 
mysterious white-winged Empyrean has already caught him once at his practice,
and Julian, being Julian, disgruntledly changes his plans in an attempt to
keep that from happening again.
	Never let it be said, though, that Tyche is a constant goddess. She
certainly seems to have decided that the Rook isn't about to go unwitnessed
in his attempts to regain his skills at flight....

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================* 
             Time of day:  Afternoon 
          Date on Aether:  Wednesday, January 20, 3908. 
           Year on Earth:  1508 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Crescent 
                  Season:  Winter 
                 Weather:  Clear Skies 
             Temperature:  Bracing 
*==========================================================================*

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.
Contents:
Sarasvati
Obvious exits:
Path to the City <N>  Haven Bay <SE>

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 extremely 
  simple garb one might see on any working Empyrean male -- basic blue 
  breeches, well-used buskins of supple brown leather and laces. His upper 
  half, however, is garbed in a gray tunica that strikes a strange compromise 
  between Empyrean and non-Empyrean styles, looking almost like a shirt a man 
  of any other race would wear until one notes the way it wraps and is laced 
  in layers about his lower back and waist, clearly cut to accommodate his 
  wings while mimicking the look of a tunic a wingless man would wear.

It could have been nothing, that mysterious white-winged woman who happened 
  across his pre-dawn first attempt at regaining the sky -- but Julian 
  Nemeides has not become master of a House and a Guild without being paranoid 
  enough to acknowledge the possibility of trouble from a woman of evident 
  breeding, showing up unescorted and alone on a beach at entirely uncivilized 
  hours, and who made quite the point of not attempting to identify herself in 
  the slightest. Granted, he hadn't bothered to identify himself either, but 
  the Rook is rather certain that _he_, a darkling with evident problems 
  getting himself airborne, is rather more identifiable to that strange 
  Daughter of Air than she was to him. It is a disadvantage he does not 
  appreciate... and so, today, intent on preventing a repeat of the incident 
  just in case she might in fact be following him for nefarious purposes, he's 
  opted to take his second practice further westward along the shore, farther 
  out of the city. It's required his having to be a bit more obvious about 
  leaving the House than he'd have liked, for the walk alone to get this far 
  and back again will eat hours out of his day. It's also required bringing 
  Nine-Fingered Rab and Corlan to wait for him farther east, with strict 
  instructions that if they don't hear from him in two hours, to come looking.
Today, Julian Nemeides does not want to try to fly even within view of his own 
  trusted men. He is just a touch paranoid -- he can't afford not to be. But 
  he's also prideful, and an inglorious crash in front of two witnesses on his 
  first attempt is something he appreciates even less than that unnamed 
  Empyrean woman having seen him in far too vulnerable a state. This 
  afternoon, on as long a stretch of beach as he's been able to find with the 
  whim of the tides, he's launched himself shakily into the air and even now 
  cuts an unsteady dark swath in towards the line of trees some distance from 
  the edge of the water.

It's not often that Sarasvati has time on her own, let alone a whole day to 
  herself. When she heard that the Rommish caravans were passing by Haven for 
  winter provisions, she could not help but leave the city for awhile, to 
  commune with those "gypsies" and "vagrants" that Haven held in such disdain 
  and that she held more precious than gold. Thicker than blood. The closest 
  she's had to kith and kin since she left Clan Behzad, they welcomed her in 
  with open arms and loving hearts. Over fires they shared tales of woe and 
  stories of love, flights of fancy and recounts of history. But it was Anjali 
  who garnered the most praise and attention of all. Annointed with oils, 
  praised and prayed over by the elements, given the name Wild Rose for her 
  tempestuous birth, sweet disposition, and habit of being swathed in pink 
  silks, she captivated each member of the tribe. In truth, Vati was beginning 
  to wonder if would ever be allowed to hold her daughter again, the clan 
  insisting that they each had months to make up for ... otherwise how would 
  she ever remember her aunts and uncles? And gradfathers and grandmothers and 
  brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews?
So left to her own devices, Sarasvati turns to the peace and solace of the 
  sea, a source of both fear and fascination, pleasure and pain. Though the 
  cold does not touch her, she wraps her cloak closely about her slender 
  figure ... for comfort. Her bare feet pad against the frosty wet sand, 
  flickering designs of burnt amber flickering in and out of sight with each 
  step as she draws closer and closer to Haven, though in truth she is still 
  many hours walk from the city. She releases a soft sigh, the air clouding as 
  her heated breath mates with the cold, the soft chiming of her anklets 
  sounding silent as she stops and seats herself. It will be time to go back 
  soon ... or to make the choice to leave once again. Now it is for Anjali's 
  sake that she wrestles with this decision. So many reasons to go, so few to 
  stay ... 
Her eyes narrow suddenly as she realizes that something dark and sizeable is 
  heading up the beach toward her? Some sort of heron or crane? No. it is too 
  ungainly for that ... perhaps an albatross or penguin? It does not take long 
  before she realizes that this flying creature is much much larger, with arms 
  and legs as well as wings!

No bird this, no indeed -- for aye, even if the size did not give the figure 
  away, gray-clad arms and blue-clad legs betray themselves in their lack 
  of coordination with the black wings beating erratically at the air.
He'd thought, when his wings were first restored him, that he'd forgotten how 
  it feels to have pain and strain several feet out from the main portion of 
  his body. But that was before he'd tried to lift his own weight skyward, and 
  now, it seems to Julian that every one of his new feathers is becoming 
  disgruntled at the task he's setting before them. Teeth gritted in 
  self-directed annoyance, he wobbles earthward and strives to aim for a patch 
  of clear sand just beyond a scattering of tiny pebbles and a half-buried 
  driftwood log. _Level out, damn you, you remember how to do this -- ah, 
  -Tyche-!_
It's a better landing than the first one, that much can be said for it. But a 
  decade and a half's worth of habit of falling like a Mongrel is a hard 
  streak to break, and Julian winds up jolting to earth on his hands and 
  knees. He misses the log, but one hand scrapes along the tide-strewn 
  pebbles. The other, along with both his knees, takes the brunt of the 
  impact, and his wings slump down along him and to either side. His head 
  drops a moment as well as he pants, breathless.

~Amir-al, he's hurt!~ She doesn't think really, simply rises up and runs 
  toward the downed figure now that she realizes what he is. Empyrean! It 
  isn't that she's unfamiliar with the race, not by any means! Why just 
  recently she had a long and fascinating encounter with a most portly and 
  peculiar member of that race. But her encounters with the winged people is 
  rare and occasional at best ... and she has never seen one colored such as 
  this. His wings are, oh Ushas, his wings are as black as your son's! There 
  is the soft rythmic sound of her feet upon the sand punctuated by the 
  ringing of bracelets and jewelry. It takes her little time to near him, her 
  dancers body strong and limber, her feet fast and graceful as she nearly 
  skims over the sands. "Dominus? Are you alright?"

For just a moment Julian starts, for the call to him is almost exactly the 
  same as the one the nameless Empyrean woman had made to him -- but before he 
  can really consciously be startled, other perceptions kick instinctively in. 
  The jangle of ornaments that other woman had assuredly not worn. The sound 
  of footsteps running lightly across the sand; the other had descended, 
  naturally, from the air. And a different voice entirely. Still, though, 
  there is a touch of dismay and surprise in the Deus' finely sculpted 
  features as he lifts his head. For just a moment, all he can think is _What, 
  another one?_ And then he's pushing himself up off the sand, grimacing at 
  the scraping he's dealt his left palm, curling and uncurling his right hand 
  as he tries to convince it not to complain at him so loudly. But as he 
  realizes that the woman hastening near must surely be Varati, he has to 
  blink, still surprised but now also strangely relieved. "I... believe I'm 
  still whole, yes, Imphada," he calls back in reply, velvet tenor coming out 
  hoarse.

Sarasvati
     Slight of figure, though sweetly curved, Sarasvati gazes upon you with a 
  gentle smile which curls the corners of her mouth and brings a delighted 
  light to her eyes. She moves with an easy gait and innate grace. As she 
  speaks, her delicate hands trail through the air expressively, their motions 
  betraying her training as a classical Varati dancer. Upon her hands as well 
  as her feet are intricate mehndi patterns - swirling complex yet delicate 
  designs - drawn in an earthy potent burnt sienna. They cover palms and soles 
  as well as the back of each hand and foot from wrist to fingertip, ankle to 
  toe. Large near black eyes, almond shaped and upturned at the ends, are 
  fringed with dark lashes, framed in a heart-shaped face. Her skin is a warm 
  rich honeyed brown, her voice an equally honey contralto. She considers the 
  world around her with a curious and intelligent gaze. Her raven's wing hair 
  trails down her back to mid-thigh, carefully braided and intertwined with 
  golden chains and the occasional jewel. She wears a considerable quantity of 
  jewelry - exquisitely handcrafted out of gold, adorning her throat, ears, 
  ankles, and wrists, musically jingling with her every movement.
     Sarasvati is clothed in an elegant silk sari of lush purple, intricately 
  stiched with patterns of gold thread and sequins. The silk is translucent, 
  allowing an underskirt of rich eggplant to pale amethyst, sprinkled with 
  gold accents, to add depth and beauty. A simple choli of plush plum is worn 
  upon her slim torso. The sari makes a skirt about her, the fabric wrapping 
  from her hip, over her front, and catching at her shoulder to allow the 
  handsomely stiched silk to swing over her back from shoulder to hips, the 
  embroidery covering the whole width of the fabric in a cascade of glittering 
  gold.
     Over this array of silks and jewelry is yet another layer. A deep emerald 
  green cloak wraps about her frame, keeping her warm during the winter months 
  and cold nights.
Carrying:
baby

She reaches out instinctively toward him to check injuries, her hands hovering 
  just short as she recalls the impropriety of such actions. So like two 
  restless hummingbirds they flutter, waiting for permission, some sign of 
  aquiecense to free them from their restless state. She crouches next to him, 
  looking with her eyes, not with her hands, to determine if he requires any 
  assistance. Men are such children in these cases, either complaining too 
  loudly over slights or too softly over serious injuries in the effort to be 
  stoic and 'manly'. Her smile is quick and genuine as she shyly notes, "That 
  looked like a painful spill ..." The air about them warms gently, as if a 
  stray southern breeze, lost and wandering aimlessly, looking for spring, and 
  blown against them. For awhile Sarasvati siply stares. Black hair, black 
  wings, blue eyes .... but of course the set of his features is too 
  aristocratic, his skin too pale to be anything other than Empyrean.

A dark-winged Son of the Air he is, and with a great deal of dark wing to his 
  name to boot; even as he hauls himself to his knees, those black pinions 
  shake themselves and more or less settle behind him, giving room for the 
  anxious Daughter of Fire to crouch. Well aware of her scrutiny, Julian 
  returns her stare with a measuring one of his own and strives to divine her 
  intent... but what he sees seems straightforward. Shyness, but that seems 
  rather common amongst the Varati women. Concern that _seems_ honest enough. 
  And... ah, Tyche. Something in the way she's glanced not at his face but 
  just behind it looks familiar; several Varati have looked at him with 
  varying degrees of awe and bemusement as of late, since he's taken his 
  daughter and nephew and wards to the more public events of the Dipavali 
  Festival. It turns his own expression a trifle sheepish now while he 
  grudgingly admits, "It... was not the best landing I have ever made, no." He 
  turns his left hand palm up, fingertips out, and casts a disgruntled glower 
  at the reddened, abraded skin there.

She chuckles softly, a rich unabashed sound as her smile curves a trifle 
  wider, her murmured assessment proffered as she cocurs, "no, it was no very 
  graceful, but considering that I cannot flyat all, I should be the last to 
  judge your prowess." That shyness melts away beneath the warmth of her 
  smile,easy to see without the traditional secretive veil hiding most of a 
  woman's finest features. "It does seem that perhaps your pride suffered a 
  greater blow than your person?" She leans over to peerat his abraded skin, 
  pursing her lips to blow a cool steam of air against it. "The salt water 
  will take away the sting," comes a mild suggestion.

No veil. That, indeed, has not escaped Julian's notice, and he marks this as 
  implying that either this woman comes from a rather liberal Clan -- or else 
  she claims no Clan connections at all. Because she is out here, a goodly 
  walk away from the city, he finds himself suspecting the latter; after all, 
  if it's unusual for an apparently well-to-do Empyrean woman to be alone on a 
  beach at odd hours, it must be equally odd to find a Daughter of Fire out on 
  a more remote stretch of the shore. If not more so, given the tight watch 
  the Varati tend to keep on their women.
Something in that smile, though... without his precisely willing it, one 
  corner of Julian's mouth curls upward. "Am I showing it that apparently, 
  then?" As he speaks, he unthinkingly turns his head to glance at the waves, 
  and finds his own wing in the way of his line of sight. The sign of effort 
  is subtle -- but it's there nevertheless, a drawing together of his ebon 
  brows, a slight tightening of his features as he shifts the wing enough to 
  look where he'd wanted. Then the dark azure stare comes back to Sarasvati, 
  as does the small crooked grin, though it twitches a bit at the tickle of 
  gentle breath against his hand. "I hadn't," he remarks lightly, "been aware 
  that Varati women could speak with authority on matters pertaining to water."

One brow arches upward in mock dismay, a most uncharacteristic expression for 
  a well born and bred Varati woman. She seems an odd mix, for certain 
  mannerisms seem highly proper by Varati high court standards and others 
  decidedly not. "It is rare Dominus that a Varati woman will reveal the fact 
  that she possesses a mind, eyes, and a keen intellect, but it has been known 
  to happen," she whispers conspiratorily to Julian, " ... every now and 
  then." Her quick and attentive gaze does not miss the wince, or the 
  difficulty he demonstrates in the shifting of his wing. While she is no 
  healer, she knows of muscles, pain, and the theraputic advantages of heat. 
  Her hands reach out boldly, touching his wings as she murmurs, "You are 
  straining yourself ... you'll do yourself harm if you are not more attentive 
  to your body's needs." Those dusky fingers are gentle as she finds and 
  coaxes tense muscles, a flood of warmth settling into those strained 
  appendages. "And yes, I could tell by your palms and your tone of voice that 
  you are not comfortable with this ..." Her eyes turn to meet his, curious 
  and ingenuous as she suggests, "If you care to rest for awhile, take in some 
  hot drink and a warm fire, there is an encampment not too far off where you 
  would be welcome?"

It _is_ winter -- and although Julian has warmed himself significantly with 
  his exertion, it hasn't taken long for the comparative chill of the air to 
  drive that warmth off his skin and dry the sweat from his brow. _Now_, as 
  that rush of unexpected heat wells through the muscle and sinew of his 
  wings, the one beneath Sarasvati's hand abruptly droops and shudders just a 
  little in involuntary reaction, giving the Empyrean a slightly lopsided 
  balance. Just as involuntary is the widening of those twilight-blue eyes and 
  a distinct lessening of strain in his elegant features. Healer? Or 
  fire-mage? Not sure which yet -- though surely if she were a healer, she'd 
  have offered to mend his hand herself? -- the Deus sucks in a relieved 
  breath and rasps out, "If... you plan to continue doing _that_, Imphada, you 
  make for a compelling invitation indeed." His smile's still crooked and 
  rueful, but a little more easy now; less steady is his attempt to haul 
  himself up to his feet. Mind the wings -- try not to hit her with them, eh 
  Rook? And oh yes, while we're on the topic, you _do_ have knees and they 
  _are_ rather put out that you slammed them into the sand. Partway up Julian 
  realizes this, and grimaces again at this second round of protests.

Her eyes widen in turn for a moment at his words, her eyes gleaming with 
  amusement and mischief. As he strives to rise up, Sarasvati sees herself out 
  of harms way, ducking when one wing reels toward her. As he starts to 
  falter, knees complaining bitterly, Vati gives up any pretence of delicacy 
  or proper distance. She slips easily to his side, one arm curling around his 
  back, her shoulder slipping beneath his arm to help catch and support his 
  weight, her other hand resting across his chest as she helps to balance and 
  steady him. "Dominus, I think that I must insist that you accept my 
  invitation ... can you walk?" Gracious but she is warm, her slender strong 
  figure nestled against his side like the blaze of a warm hearth

Considering that he can't exactly get himself into the air at the moment, much 
  less stay up there for any considerable length of time, Julian tells himself 
  sardonically that he'd bloody well better be able to walk -- though all of 
  that thought that makes it out to his expression is an ironic twist of his 
  mouth. That drops away as the lithe-figured Varati helps brace him up. The 
  warmth of her... it's just enough to set him a little off guard, just enough 
  to take down the shield of sardonic detachment from his expression and let 
  through the intensity of the questioning sapphirine gaze. Forward, this one, 
  but nothing evidently sexual in her contact. Nor are those delicate dark 
  hands seeming -- even surreptitiously -- to try to search him for potential 
  valuables stashed upon his person. Either she is an excellent actress, 
  possibly planning to lead him into a trap... or else neither seduction nor 
  robbery are her motives, and she is genuinely concerned for him...
"I can, if need be," he allows, glancing now towards the trees in search of 
  some sign of this alleged camp, before returning his attention to the woman. 
  His hand has involuntarily grasped her far shoulder, he realizes. Though 
  warmth seems to soak into him from her entire body, it feels most delightful 
  at his palm... and abruptly the Deus is tired. Not only from his exercise, 
  but also of the need to have to second-guess the motives of everyone he 
  meets. But even now, he doesn't yet unbend enough to dismiss potential 
  danger. "Does your Clan camp nearby...?"

Her gaze is open and honest, her touch direct and forthright as she helps him 
  hobble to the driftwood he so nearly collided with. Her lips purse in 
  concern, the gesture unwittingly sensual as she lowers him down carefully to 
  the log, murmuring, "It is not very close, but I have a better idea." She 
  keeps a hand upon his shoulder, as if she did not trust him to be able to 
  remain upright without her assistance, her face lifting to the wind. She 
  pulls her lips back into what looks like a smile, a loud whistle rising up 
  over the shush of the waves and the sighs of the wind. Poignant, but not 
  piercing. There is a whistling in return, though it sounds not human. After 
  a minute the brush at the top of the beach breaks, the soft thundering of 
  horse hooves against the sand pounding into the air. Vati lets out a short 
  click ad snort, the sleek black horse whinnying brightly and tossing his 
  head, his long black mane twirling tempest tossed in the wind's caress. "Can 
  you ride?" she inquires instead, pleased bright eyes flickering back to 
  Julian. Her hand lifts absently, the horse coming straight to Sarasvati to 
  place his muzzle in her palm. "He's very gentle," she assures the dark 
  Empyrean.

Sitting down -- especially on a seat as low down as that log -- has been 
  something of a tricky affair for Julian for half a year now, determined as 
  he's been not to let his wings drag behind him. Here and now though he has 
  no choice, and as he sinks stiffly down onto his impromptu chair he has to 
  spare at least some of his attention to settling his pinions behind him as 
  best he can. They wind up almost crossed behind his back, one over the other, 
  their tips sticking out several feet to either side of him. But some of his 
  attention remains upon the woman, certainly enough for him to note the way 
  her lips purse together. His gaze remains there for a extra moment -- though 
  not more than that, for her whistle and its result provide a solid 
  distraction. The Deus draws in another breath as he watches the stallion 
  come into view.
"Not... very well," he has to admit gruffly. That in and of itself is another 
  oddity to add to the hue of his wings and his hair: how many Sons of Air can 
  speak of any acquaintance whatsoever with a horse?

"Well, it is a day for new experiences, yes? Come, I will help you mount ... 
  after that all you need do is sit and hold on, yes? Very simple." She 
  pirouttes, clucking to the horse who obediently snorts and steps back, ears 
  flicking forward and back curiously. Her hands reach down to Julian, 
  wrapping about his wrists as she braces to help him back up to your feet. 
  "We get you up, onto the log, and then mounting will be easy," she notes 
  with a bright and almost frivolous smile. Her head crooks at him, taking in 
  those fine elegant features ... oh how me must find this distastefully 
  awkward!

There is, indeed, growing bemusement in the darkling's countenance at this 
  entire notion of climbing onto a horse -- and although Julian lets Sarasvati 
  help him up again, he pauses for a moment with his lean wrists still caught 
  within her hands. Some of his attention must devote itself to arranging his 
  wings yet again, and for that matter keeping them out of the way of the 
  horse... but most of it stays with the woman, taking in her smile, her 
  encouraging tone. Does he trust her enough to head to an unknown camp in her 
  company? Wariness has not yet silenced itself within him... and neither, for 
  that matter, has awareness that Rab and Corlan are waiting for him. What 
  finally sways him, though, is that blessed _warmth_ that he can still feel
  radiating from her, as if she were a walking hearthfire. "I can come with 
  you for a couple of hours," he relents, the velvet tenor turned a trifle 
  husky. "Then I'll need to head back towards the city."

She laughs, delighted, as he bestows upon her permission to take care of him, 
  to spend some time in his company, like it was a rare gift. "A few hours 
  will be more than sufficient I think to get you back in walking shape," she 
  muses with an impish grin as she helps him step upon the log. A soft click 
  and a jerk of her head brings the stallion round and in front of Julian. 
  Place your left foot in the stirrup," she instructs, pointing out the half 
  circle of metal hanging from a strap. "Place your hands on the top of the 
  saddle," she notes pointing out the pomell. "You're going to swing your 
  right leg over the back of the horse and then sit up ... like this." She 
  deftly swings about him with agile grace, planting her foot in the stirrup 
  and mounting the horse. With a small laugh she flips her legs over to the 
  other side, dropping gracefully to the ground. Returning to his side, 
  Sarasvati stares into Julian's gaze for a moment, inquiring, "Ready?"

He _has_ actually done this before -- once on a journey that involved a 
  restive horse, and once that involved a griffon. But certainly not often 
  enough to have developed anything like comfort with riding beasts of any 
  ilk. And furthermore, both of those times had been _before_ he got his wings 
  back and had his sense of balance, location, and the amount of space he 
  occupies thrown off by their restoration. The Rook is a man of many talents, 
  but as of yet, riding has not become one of them.
He knows enough to identify saddle and pommel, aye, and enough to lift dark 
  brows at the facility with which this strange Varati woman climbs aboard and 
  then off of the creature. As he watches her Julian steps gingerly up onto 
  the log, aristocratic jaw set against additional protests from his knees, 
  and finally nods his tousled head. "Aye," he breathes, trying to look as 
  casual as possible. Intellectually he knows that horses in the right hands 
  are in theory perfectly friendly... but from the look of him, one might 
  think he's about to try to brace himself to climb upon a snarling wyvern.

Her hand shifts to his back, rubbing there reassuringly without realizing it. 
  "You'll be fine ... She'tan won't let you fall and neither shall I." 
  Sarasvati does not hurry the Empyrean either, both woman and horse patient 
  it would seem. Well, the woman is at least. She'tan snorts, shaking his head 
  and pawing the sand with one foreleg as if to say, ~Oh come on already!~

Well, here goes nothing. One foot into the nearer stirrup. Grab the pommel, 
  swing the leg over the wide black back -- and curse it, man, remember to 
  hold up your wings! Once again Julian's teeth grit as his legs are no more 
  enamored of this concept of mounting a horse than they'd been about his 
  standing upright. The darkling does manage to hold his balance in the 
  saddle, though it takes an extra moment or two before his wings adjust to 
  this new position. And then he manages a smile, aware of that warm hand at 
  his back even as he tries to settle himself upon She'tan. "I'm no proper 
  judge of horseflesh," he notes, "but he seems a fine beast...!"

"He is indeed," murmurs Sarasvati with no small degree of pride. "I gentled 
  him myself." Once she has assured herself that Julian is settled and steady 
  she slaps the black stallion along his neck affectionately, leaning into his 
  glossy coat to whisper sweet nothings into his ear which flickers back 
  obligingly to hear what she has to say. "Sit as far back as you can," she 
  instructs Julian. Once he has complied she draws her figure up with a lithe 
  leap upon the beast's neck and withers, twisting till one knee is curled 
  over the pommel, her legs hanging both off the left side. "I need the 
  stirrup," she explains, curving her cheek toward Julian as she speaks, 
  though in truth they are too close now for her to turn and face him. The 
  slender line of her back is pressed up against his torso, her rear snug 
  against his hips. "Wrap your arms about my waist," she instructs as her 
  hands take up the reins. She wears a light scented oil, the air between them 
  mixing fragrantly with amber, ylang ylang, and orange blossoms.

It takes a bit more negotiation, but eventually Julian's feet manage to yield 
  the stirrups to those of the Varati woman, the rest of him surrenders as 
  much as can be spared of the saddle, and the darkling winds up with leanly 
  muscled arms looped in low about Sarasvati's middle. And he pauses, just for 
  an instant, unable not to react to an armful of warm, fragrant dusky beauty 
  immediately before him... even if he lets it register as nothing more than a 
  brief intake of breath. "I think I'm as steady as I'm going to get, 
  Imphada," he murmurs, chagrined.

She slips her left foot into the stirrup, sitting makeshift sidesaddle, her 
  voice musical and amused as she tells him, "The right one is all yours ..." 
  She turns her face toward him again, dark hair trailing over her shoulder as 
  she tries to gain a sense of his readiness. "Just hold on, we won't go fast 
  ... and you may call me Sarasvati if you like ... titles hold little 
  impotance where we're going." Her leg taps lightly against She'tan's flank, 
  the horse mving out at a slow and sedate pace. After a few moments she turns 
  her cheek to him again, inquiring, "What were you doing?"

There is a certain subtle tension to the Empyrean's lean frame -- possibly 
  born either of the punishing exercise through which he's been putting 
  himself, and possibly of being on a horse. "Julian," he replies after a 
  moment, relaxing a fraction as he begins to find something of a rhythm of 
  how to move with the horse's movements. It helps to have a seeming beacon of 
  warmth against his very torso, coaxing his annoyed muscles to relax whether 
  he really wills it or no. And then he pauses. He doesn't have to pretend to 
  scan his surroundings as the stallion moves -- he _does_ want to se where 
  he's being taken. But it also provides the Deus an opportunity to decide 
  exactly what to say, and eventually he settles upon, "I was... practicing."

He can hear the arch of her brow as Sarasvati echoes softly, her voice tinged 
  with confusion and curiosity, "... practicing ..." She mmmms softly under 
  her breath before inquiring, "Did your wings get terribly injured?" That 
  would make sense ... an injury would preclude use which would weaken muscles 
  which would have to be re-trained. Practicing. One of her hands covers his 
  wamly, her voice lulling as she murmurs, just relax and let your hips move 
  with the horse ... it's not all that different from mak ...." but her voice 
  stops abruptly, a light cough issued to clear her throat as she finishes, " 
  from a rocking chair ..." Her hands barely move the reins at all, the horse 
  easily picking it's way over the sand, through a barrier of tall dried 
  stalks of grass and out upon a field. In the not far off distance a curl of 
  smoke can be seen rising up from a copse of trees, the sound of guitars and 
  music scenting the air like a freshly lit pipe, tangy and sharp, exotic and 
  yet somehow soothing.

_Well, I suppose 'ripped out' qualifies as 'terribly injured'..._ "Aye," is 
  Julian's reply, though at least for a second or two it might be unclear as 
  to what exactly he replies. Quite conscious of the fingers against his own 
  and of the brief hitch in Sarasvati's offered analogy, he abruptly wonders 
  whether his initial assessment of the lack of seduction in her demeanor was 
  entirely accurate... no, he amends to himself, conscious seduction. There is 
  a certain ingenuousness about her, set off against that heady warmth and the 
  scent of her, both impossible to miss at such close proximity. It appeals... 
  and provokes Julian to add, trying to set her at ease, "They, ah, were. I 
  haven't... been in the air in some time." It's truth enough, though he 
  doesn't elaborate. Instead he shifts his position in a rustle of great black 
  wings, still trying to keep them out of the way, and peers past his 
  benefactress to see if he can get a glimpse of their destination.

Aye, there is a sensual quality to the woman born out of pure innocence and 
  beauty, that comes across without any effort or intention. Her form pressed 
  against his own is not merely warm and strong, but sweetly curved. She shows 
  little hesitation, touching him openly, often, yet without seductive 
  intention. As if touching were as natural to her as breathing. As they draw 
  closer to the copse, voices can be heard, raised in song, raised in 
  arguement, and raised in laughter, though the words are strange and foreign. 
  Two children break through the brush, dashing past the horse without so much 
  as noticing the mounted figures. "Duck," she advises as her hand lifts to 
  press a low hanging branch up and out of their way. Faces lift, weathered 
  and old, shining and young. Mongrels for the most part, though most hold 
  strong Varati features and coloring, dark haired, dark eyed gypsies. Like 
  the Varati everything is lavishly appointed, even if their means are clearly 
  poor. A circle of caravans are festively painted and lovingly tended. 
  Lanterns hang off railings and eaves, from tree branches and poles. A 
  central firepit holds court, a group of men playing stirring and passionate 
  music unlike that heard in Haven - strumming guitars, a singing violin, a 
  drum, and percussion created by the overlappib synchopated clapping of 
  hands. A man and woman dance, her blood red skirts flaring out as the stamp 
  their feet, hands catching at each other like impatient lovers. As the enter 
  the sheltered enclave some understandable words rise up. "Alle'! Dancing 
  Blossom, did you bring us a guest for dinner or did you bring us 
  dinner?!"There is goodnatured jeering and calls, the horse prancing and 
  sidestepping at all the noise and commotion, Sarasvati turning him in 
  circles to keep him under control. "Ah, Thorn-in-my-Side, he is my guest and 
  not your dinner you lazy greco! Be a good host and fetch a healer, eh?"

Ducking is a little easier said than done -- when his wings, folded behind 
  him, add extra height to Julian as well as extra breadth in back. He must 
  lean in low against Sarasvati's back and neck, enough that for a fraction of 
  an instant he can breathe in nothing but the rich scent she wears. Almost 
  reluctantly does he straighten up again when the branch is passed, though by 
  now this means he can get a very good look at this place to which he's been 
  brought. Recent much-practiced habit makes him begin to pull about himself 
  the mantle of cool reserve worn by both his Guildmaster and Deus faces... 
  but something about the colorful, chaotic surroundings makes him keep it 
  back. Something that speaks to a face he once wore by the name of Richard. 
  And so he smiles a lopsided, rueful smile, meeting this pair and eyes and 
  that, bending first one of his wings and then the other to not only give 
  himself a better line of sight to what's around him, but also to let his 
  face be seen. "Namaste'," he tries by way of greeting. And then, "Hello--!"

To Namaste' he receives puzzled looks, but his offering of 'hello' raises up a 
  bright and cheerful cry of, "Ola!" It would seem that any who is a friend of 
  Sarasvati's is a friend of these people. Explained lso is her natural 
  inclination to touch, for once her call goes out, the pair and horse are 
  crowded about. Perhaps requests are asked in that strange language that 
  rolls so musically off their tongues, but within minutes helpful hands help 
  Julian down from his seat on high. Wings are touched and stroked 
  appreciatively, hands supportive as he is nearly carried to a high stool and 
  set upon it. Sliding from She'tan's back, her hands covering her mouth to 
  hide the huge grin lurking behind it, Sarasvati follows in the wake, calling 
  out between laughs, "Don't worry, they won' bite or try to cook you, I 
  promise!" There is some raucous laughter and a comment made that causes the 
  Varati girl to blush fiercely, hands playfully punching those closest.

It is not exactly easy, most of the time, to make Julian Nemeides blush. But 
  so many strange faces surrounding him with such expressions of welcome comes 
  close to pulling it off -- and those hands on his wings actually pushes him 
  over the brink. His dark head swivels left and right, twilight gaze narrowed 
  bemusedly at the little throng that's whisked him off the horse, and a 
  little more of his other faces fall away from his expression. What's left is 
  a man who looks suspiciously as if he can't quite figure out why much is 
  being made over his wings -- though he gamely grins at the sound of 
  Sarasvati's voice, using it to regain enough equilibrium to look the 
  immediately nearest of her apparent... friends? Family? Clan?... in the eye 
  and drawl straightfacedly, "I'd make a horrible dinner, Domina, I assure 
  you; I'm all feather."

A hand lands upon his arm, squeezing the muscles beneath the fabric of his 
  shirt experimentally, a wizened face of an elderly woman with shock white 
  hair trailing over one shoulder drawing before him with a sharp gaze that 
  suggests that despite her years she is still at the top of her game. She 
  calls out something in that rolling tongue as she squeezes his flesh that 
  brings another racous explosion of laughter from the group and an even 
  redder flush to Sarasvati's cheeks as she draws even with Julian. The crone 
  waves her hands, shooing those clustered near with a growling, "Vaminos!" 
  Music resumes, voices lift in conversation once again, though by the looks 
  flashed at him and Sarasvati, it would seem likely that the topics have 
  shifted somewhat. "This is All-Mother," Sarasvati introduces, "she wants to 
  look at you, see what needs tending." The elderly woman mutters something 
  under her breath as she runs her gnarled hands down Julian's thighs, tracing 
  lightly over his knees.

Oh, is _that_ what she's doing? The Empyrean does manage to keep that to 
  himself, though, as he catches the changes in the expressions trained upon 
  him and the Varati woman. And if anything, the venerable countenance of this 
  old woman does appear to command respect. Hoping his own blush has faded, 
  Julian inclines his head graciously to the grandame, addressing her directly 
  with, "Hello, All-Mother." And for lack of any more obvious evidence to show 
  forth, he turns his left hand out for her inspection. Dark azure eyes once 
  more find Sarasvati as he feels compelled to point out, "Though she doesn't 
  need to trouble herself -- that _was_ actually my best landing ye--" Ah yes, 
  his knees. It seems that the darkling's hand isn't the only part of him 
  that's taken abuse. The cloth of both of the knees of his pants shows damage 
  akin to what his bare hands have taken, and if the way his breath trails off 
  on that last syllable is any sign, the actual knees beneath the cloth are 
  suspicious of even that light competent contact.

Sarasvati tries not to let the relief she feels show too keenly upon her 
  features when Julian does not request a translation of the venerable crone's 
  first observation. Blessed bee the small miracles of life. The branch like 
  fingers, knuckles knotted and brown, press over his knees, soft approving 
  grunts given every time she causes an unfavorabe reaction or reaction of 
  pain from Julian. She lifts his hand, probing that, then barks out some 
  orders to a man standing by her shoulder. Turning to Sarasvati, she as a 
  question, which in turn Vsti translates for the darkling. "She says you have 
  a choice," her cheeks coloring again in a mixture of embarassment and 
  amusement. "You can either remove your pants, or have the knees cut open and 
  exposed ... which do you prefer?"

No, dropping twenty feet headlong out of the air and landing hard upon them is 
  not generally a good way to be on good terms with one's knees, and 
  All-Mother does not have to work very hard to win a tautening of his brow 
  and a barely suppressed hiss of breath from her patient of the moment. It 
  must also seem that this Empyrean is a man of at least some modesty, for his 
  grimace of mild pain yields to a surge of consternation. "If, ah, she wishes 
  to tend me right here," he begins, his own voice a little less casual in his 
  ears than he'd like, and then he catches himself. He can, naturally, spare 
  the pants; his wardrobe, along with his station, has shown considerable 
  expansion as of late. But does he necessarily want to let on to that? "I, 
  ah... think cutting the knees'll do. Just save the cloth, eh?" This last he 
  directs back towards All-Mother, smiling a trifle wanly.

Sarasvati giggles softly, as All-Mother sighs in disappointment, proffering 
  Vati a wicked smile and a shrug as if to say, ~I tried my best~ She pats 
  Julian on the thigh lightly before shuffling toward one of the caravans, the 
  man hovering by her shoulder in tow. A different touch rests upon his wings 
  now, a familiar heat sinking into those tired muscles as Sarasvati slips 
  behind him, concentrating on those closest to his back which seem to have 
  taken the worst of the strain along with the forward edge. "She's gone to 
  prepare you a poltice," explains the Varati woman as her fingers press and 
  release in time with the music, a love ballad most likely considering its 
  pace and tempo.

It can be argued that this other touch has even more of an effect than the old 
  woman's deft fingers on his knees -- for as soon as the warmth touches his 
  feathers and flesh, Julian shudders reflexively in reaction and then droops 
  forward a little on the stool. "All right," he manages to answer, though it 
  modulates almost into a groan as he goes on hoarsely, "My dear woman, I 
  shan't object too strenously if you'd like to keep that up for the next six 
  years or so..." There's a great deal of wing at Julian's back, and even as 
  he senses Sarasvati coming in behind him, the pinions move awkwardly to try 
  to accommodate her presence.

Her laughter is husky and musical, as heady as the rich perfumed scent of her 
  person. Her fingers stroke over his dark pinions curiously, a soft shush 
  proffered to those feathered appendages as if they were a seperate entity 
  from the man they are attached to, needing gentling and reassurances. "I 
  cannot do this for six years to come ... I have other things I need to do as 
  I'm sure you do too." While her hands move over him, fingers sensing which 
  muscles are strained and knotted with nearly the skill and accuracy of a 
  healer mage, the combination of heat and pressure coaxing those muscles to 
  yield to her touch. Eyes gaze past his shoulder toward the guitarists by the 
  fire, a number of couples dancing now, young and old, bodies pressed 
  together as they move slowly to the romantic melody, the bittersweet 
  songline. "You live in Haven, yes? I cannot recall seeing you there, but 
  then we must travel in different circles ..." Her head crooks as she notes, 
  "You've come a far way out to fly ... for the solitude or lack of witnesses?"

"You have it in one," the darkling replies, lifting and turning his head 
  slightly to better address the Varati woman, though his voice stays husky, 
  heavy with the relief of what is being accomplished with his shoulders and 
  back. "Or rather... four." Julian pauses a moment then, aware that he has 
  given the confirmation of truth to all of Sarasvati's surmises, yet not 
  entirely comfortable with elaborating on any of them either. In profile, his 
  brow might be noted to furrow a bit beneath the ebon strands of hair fallen 
  loosely across it. And at last he acknowledges, ever so slightly sheepishly, 
  "Yes, I... wanted to be alone for the flying." Then he looks forward again, 
  taking his expression out of immediate sight, though the dry self-directed 
  annoyance might still be detected in his voice. "Or, as the case may be, the 
  hard landing."

"MmmMMmm, I thought so," she notes with a light tease in her voice. "Men never 
  care to look foolish in front of others. They can be such children 
  sometimes." His shoulder is patted in commiseration as she notes, "You will 
  soon be stronger and able to fly well, I have no doubt of that. You have 
  determination." She turns to consider Julian's features for a moment, 
  musing, "You especially want to be regal, but it's not really your nature to 
  be so. Be patient with your wings and yourself." There is a tug at one wing, 
  both Vati and likely Julian turning to see a woman with a babe in her arms, 
  the little girl holding onto one black pinion with great determination. 
  "Hie, Vati, this squirrel of yours has been fussing for you ... if you could 
  tear yourself away from your handsome guest for a moment perhaps? Give us 
  other girls a chance with him, neh?" The dark eyed dark haired gypsy woman 
  is all curves and enticements, her eyes roving over Julian with wicked 
  delight and interest.

Twilight eyes swivel their gaze back at Sarasvati, and again Julian's brow 
  furrows -- though he cannot say exactly why, whether for the commentary on 
  his sex in general or upon him in particular. His stare turns searching -- 
  what _is_ she? Healer, fire-mage, some kind of clairvoyant? All three, 
  wrapped up into one? Or just possessed of a disturbingly accurate insight? 
  Or, Tyche, is he just being exceptionally easy to read today?
But he has no time to do more than stare for a moment or two before the tiny 
  hand closes on his wing. It is not the first child to be sure to grab hold 
  of his wings -- even lately. He does after all have four youngsters of his 
  own waiting for him at home, and by now he's managed to get at least 
  somewhat accustomed to the feel of small curious fingers exploring his 
  feathers. A trifle more unsettling are _adult_ fingers on his wings, and he 
  is still acutely aware of the warmth of Sarasvati's hands even as he summons 
  up a lopsided smile for the newcomer and the babe she bears. "Good day," he 
  says graciously, inwardly half-hoping that only Sarasvati amongst this camp 
  of strangers is carrying enough insight to see so much into him. _I'm not 
  sure I can handle -two- of them..._ But back to Vati his attention goes, 
  something new coming into his eyes as he looks for her own: the 
  understanding of a fellow parent, perhaps. "Don't let me keep you from 
  attending to your child, Sarasvati--" And he has to cut himself off, 
  distracted by the tug of those miniscule fingers. His grin turns a bit more 
  crooked.

One last press of those adult fingers, heat curling into those muscles, and 
  Sarasvati does indeed turn to take the babe into her arms, those hennaed 
  fingers gently prying the tiny fist free. "Anjali .... and here I thought 
  Kita's cat taught you the wisdom against pulling on fascinating black 
  things?" Raising her gaze to the saucy woman beside her, Sarasvati somewhat 
  reluctantly introduces, "Kita, this is Julian ... please don't hurt him, 
  neh?" The comely wench sweeps past Vati with a bright laugh, perching 
  herself boldly upon Julian's thigh. "Tush tush, I'll be as gentle with him 
  as a lamb." Heh ... and by the looks of it she's planning on having roast 
  leg of one tonight for her supper. Anjali gurgles, clutching at Sarasvati's 
  breast hopefully, though her eyes remain on Julian ... bright pale green, 
  dark hair with brown highlights curling about her features, delicate points 
  of her ears peeking through the curls. It would seem that he is saved Vati's 
  keen probing at the moment ... but at what cost?

_Halfbreed,_ Julian realizes, the signs far too obvious to miss. That the babe 
  displays them is almost less relevant to him than by the implications they 
  raise about Sarasvati, and again his dark azure gaze considers her for a 
  moment before Kita provides an entirely different sort of distraction. 
  Around the Rook's gaze swivels, back to her, and his dark brows go up a bit 
  over his eyes. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he drawls, a bit 
  relieved that someone else here does speak an understandable tongue -- even 
  though Kita is not nearly so intriguing as the woman with the warm hands, 
  exotic scent, and an infant who by her very existence hints of secrets and 
  history. For Sarasvati, something of the true Julian shines through. But for 
  Kita, he retreats behind his masks again, gracious, even almost lordly, but 
  without any surprise for her unmistakable intentions.

"Vati?" the woman pouts prettily, "How come you always find the handsome 
  ones?" Arms coil about Julian's neck, Kita snuggling closer as she intones 
  contentedly, "Likewise ..." The blush upon the Varati woman's cheeks is 
  palpable, but her hand is firm as it catches Kita's elbow, pulling her off 
  of Julian. "The blessings of a virtuous life," she chides lightly, "and as 
  you have mentioned, -I- found him and he is -my- guest. His knees are 
  injured, and you, my dear, are poaching. Now go hassle your husband instead, 
  yes?" With another pretty pout and a blown kiss, Kita slithers off of 
  Julian's lap, coyly calling over her shoulder, "Another time perhaps!" With 
  a soft sigh, Sarasvati steps closer, one might almost say protectively, eyes 
  proffering a silent warning as she profers in turn, "My apologies ..." 
  Anjali, however, is growing impatient, her mouth hungrily pressing to Vati's 
  breast, trying to suckle though the silks, but only wetting the fabric in 
  the process. Blushing again, Sarasvati draws the girl away gently, bouncing 
  her soothingly in her arms.

A benign and entirely noncommittal inclination of his dark head is Julian's 
  farewell to Kita -- but when he looks up to Sarasvati the mask slips again, 
  letting a rueful twinkle into the darkling's eyes, letting the corners of 
  his mouth quirk up. "None necessary," he assures. Then he pauses, dropping 
  his attention slightly to the child, then back up again to the woman. There 
  comes again a hint of that shared understanding into his expression -- for 
  all that he is father and uncle, not mother, and as of yet he has not had 
  the challenge of dealing with an infant. Especially a hungry one. Still, 
  though, he gently notes, "Your little lass there seems quite insistent. I'll 
  keep, if you'd like to feed her. My me--" Though his catching of himself is 
  barely detectable, it is nevertheless there, just a slight bump in the 
  otherwise lilting tenor accents of his voice. "--friends can certainly do 
  without me long enough for her to get her sustenance."

"What, and leave you to these wolves?" she teases lightly. A glance espies a 
  scarf, and gathering that to her she tosses it over her shoulder, covering 
  Anjali's head and her own torso. There is a subtle shifting of fabric, a 
  slight wince, and then Sarasvati settles herself down at Julian's side with 
  a soft breath. There, problem solved ... Anjali can feed, modesty is 
  protected, and Julian is as well. She glances up at him from over her 
  shoulder, a shy smile gracing her lips. A caravan door swings open as the 
  old crone returns to the pair with an avid gaze. Gnarled fingers are 
  surprisingly strong as they tear away the fabric upon Julian's knees, 
  rubbing a minty poltice upon them that seems to simultaneously cool and heat 
  the tissues beneath his skin. She rasps something to the darkling Empyrean, 
  gazing at Sarsavati who, remembering herself, translates. "She says to sit 
  still if you can with such dancing music in the air, till the sun sinks 
  behind the trees." The music has swept up again, several men and women 
  dancing passionately with stamping boots and clapping hands. "You are 
  welcome to join us for dinner if you like ... there will be light enough to 
  see you home."

Willing enough to indulge in companionable silence while this intriguing, 
  contradictory Varati woman settles herself and her child down beside him, 
  Julian just answers that shy smile with an easy one of his own. Something 
  about the sight of Vati nursing, though... it makes his eyes go a little 
  distant, a little thoughtful, colored with shades of memory that vanish when 
  the one called Allmother returns. _Then_, the downed Son of Air straightens 
  up again to attend to the elderly dame's pronouncements, though he must 
  divide his attention between her and she who translates. At the verdict of 
  how long exactly he should stay put, however, Julian's brows knit. "Sunset," 
  he mutters, before blowing out a breath and inquiring of both women, "I can 
  sit still... if a message can be sent to two who wait for me, back on the 
  beach?" And to Sarasvati, specifically, tinged with a hint of wry humor: 
  "Back towards the city a short distance from where we, ah, met."

That softening of his gaze catches Sarasvati's attention for a moment, for men 
  rarely turn soft at the sight of a woman nursing. Nay, it usually embarasses 
  them acutely. "If you think that necessary ... but the All-Mother did not 
  say sunset ... the light of the sun will be hidden by these trees that 
  surround us far sooner than it will disappear from the cradle of the sky. 
  Several hours at least. But if your friends are expecting you sooner, I'm 
  sure word can be sent." Sarasvati considers the darkling for a moment before 
  murmuring, "I take it they will require some proof though, of your well 
  being? If they see a gypsy boy, surely they will not trust his word, yes?" 
  It is difficult to say if she address the type of 'friends' that wait for 
  him, or the treatment and beliefs about the Rommish people that most hold.

There is no surprise in Julian's face as the people around him are identified; 
  indeed, there's rather more a look of comprehension dawning. But there's no 
  disdain there, either. If this man has any preconceptions about gypsyfolk, 
  he gives no indication of it. Instead he merely levelly nods, acknowledging, 
  "Yes. They'll expect it. If there's a lad about who can carry the message, 
  I'll give him the words he'll need." One hand rises up, rummaging in under 
  the tunica he wears and pulling forth a small crystal set upon a silver 
  chain about his neck. "And this." His grin returns, though ruefully, even as 
  his gaze goes out over the lively camp and the men and women indulging in 
  the infectious beat of the music. "Rab and Corlan expect me in less than 
  half an hour, by now. Though your Allmother makes a persuasive argument for 
  lingering about."

"They are welcome to join you if you like?" Vati offers thoughtfully before 
  she turns, lifting her voice in a musical call that must be in fact a name, 
  for a dark haired child of seven runs over to her with bright eyes and a 
  bright smile. "This is Teluvelo, he will take your message," she informs 
  Julian, rising up gracefully despite the still nursing babe. A sharp whistle 
  escapes her, familiar in pitch and tone, as is it's result. A replying 
  whinny preceeds the massive black stallion who draws up to the woman, 
  snorting and pawing the ground. She leans close, whispering something into 
  She'tan's ear that seems to steady him. The boy draws closer, grinning like 
  a thief who just had a fat purse handed to him as he gazes at the pendant. 
  In that soft rolling tongue Sarasvati explains to him what he is to do, 
  where he is to go, the boy holding out his hand expectantly for the 
  necklace. Turning to Julian Sarasvati inquires, "How will he know them and 
  what words must he speak?"

It's a small shaped chunk of glass, without much in the way of ornamentation, 
  but whoever made it gave it facets that seem to catch and refract the light 
  into miniscule rainbows. Julian slides the chain over his head and then 
  holds it out to the boy, saying, "Yours, lad. Call it payment, if you like." 
  Up to Sarasvati, he adds, "Two men. One Mongrel, fair-haired, shorter than 
  me, in black leather armor. He has nine fingers. The other's Empyrean, white 
  wings, light brown hair. They'll be waiting on the beach -- Rab's probably 
  juggling his knives." A slight smile, at this, though it lingers just a 
  touch as Julian goes on, "He should say... 'the ground is steady beneath the 
  black bird's feet'."

The child takes the amulet, drawing it over his head with a fiendish grin. 
  Sarasvati lays a hand lightly upon his shoulder, speaking fluently, fluidly, 
  the only familiar words the last ones that Julian spoke. Like a mynea bird 
  the boy bobs his head, parroting 'the ground is steady beneath the black 
  bird's feet' with his thickly accented high voice. Nodding, Sarasvati 
  strokes her fingers affectionately through his hair. The boy leaps 
  effortlessly up to the massive black horse's back, catching up a handful of 
  mane in his fist. He looks incongrous, a tiny burr upon She'tan's withers. A 
  light kick to the horse's ribs and the pair are off, wending their way out 
  of the camp carefully before applying speed, the thundering sound of hooves 
  eventually lost to the powerful strumming of the music. With a soft sigh of 
  relief, Sarasvati draws Anjali out from beneath the draped cloth, glancing 
  about for a moment uncertainly before extending the child to Julian for a 
  moment. "Would you mind holding her for a minute?"

To this, the darkling blinks, but the same lack of embarrassment he'd shown at 
  the nursing shows now to the notion of an infant held out to him. "Not at 
  all," he replies, taking the little one into his lean and agile hands, then 
  smiling a softer edition of that crooked smile of his down at Anjali. The 
  Empyrean must surely have held a baby before, for he seems comfortable 
  enough with shifting this one just enough to find out how well she can 
  support herself in his grasp, and propping her up with his hands where she 
  needs it. "Hello there, dominilla," he murmurs.

The girl is nearing two years of age, well able to support herself it would 
  seem. Anjali offers Julian a happy smile, wiggling between his hands 
  contentedly while her mother straightens her clothes beneath the drape of 
  the modesty-protecting scarf. Tiny fingers pluck at whatever they can reach 
  ... Julian's hands, his sleeves, the front of his shirt. She grins up at him 
  again and gurgles, "Ma-m" before giggling delightedly. Sarasvati removes the 
  scarf, tying it absently about her waist in the meanwhile as she studies the 
  pair with a grin. "Congratulations ... you've just been promoted to 
  motherhood," she chuckles softly.

Grabby little thing, isn't she? Julian wrestles down the urge to make a crack 
  about a pickpocket in the making, while counting himself fortunate that 
  certain objects of the metal and edged persuasion are still safely hidden 
  about his person and out of the reach of inquisitive fingers. "Ma-m," he 
  drawls to the tot, echoing her intonations back at her. Then he adds to Vati 
  dryly, "I'll have to break it gently to my brood at home. They've gotten 
  used to calling me uncle and father." Politely avoiding looking at the woman 
  directly while she restores the state of her garments, the Deus tickles 
  little Anjali under the chin.

There is a bout of giggling as two young women round Julian, but their eyes 
  are not upon him, but the the child, one casting a hopeful glance to 
  Sarasvati, cajoling, "Vati .... can we borrow Anjali for awhile yet? Shivana 
  says that she has not yet had any time with her, and we know that you're 
  heading back soon? She won't give us any peace if she doesn't get to spend 
  time with her niece .... pleeeeease?" With a soft sigh and chuckle, 
  Sarasvati rescues Julian from the clinging grasp of her daughter with a 
  small roll of her eyes. "I'll be lucky if she remembers who I am after this 
  'visit'." she murmurs to him conspiratorily. The child is handed over to the 
  pair of girls without question or doubt of their trustworthiness. "Very 
  well, tell Shivana that she has until dusk, but Anjali sleeps with -me- 
  tonight, understood?" The babe is already giggling in delight as the girls 
  are lifting her high into the air and turning her about in circles. "Watch 
  yourselves .... she's just eaten. You make her sick and -you- will have to 
  take care of the mess, understood?" The girls call back in unison, "Yes 
  Vati!" With daughter and girls gone, Sarasvati's attention returns to Julian 
  as she draws closer to him. "And off she goes again ... already a social 
  butterfly. So you have children of your own then?" she inquires with 
  parental curiosity. "How many?"

Once again the darkling provides gracious smiles for the two girls, and 
  another one for the youngster as well as a murmured "Vale, little lady" to 
  her. His hands now empty, Julian taps the fingers of one against his thigh, 
  keeping to the rhythm of that dancing across the way. And he turns his 
  attention back to the Varati woman, considering for a moment. Children of 
  his own, aye, more or less. That's how he opts to put it, as well: "More or 
  less, aye. Four. None so small as that bold little charmer of yours, 
  though." Parked there upon the seat he's been given, between the ready 
  camaraderie of the people he's seen in this place, the warmth that's been 
  lavished into his muscles, and the poultice now easing the sullen throb of 
  his knees, he's grown more relaxed now. His gaze settles fully upon his 
  companion, keenly attentive, yet now at ease. "She looks strong... healthy. 
  A beautiful child."

She flushes with pride and pleasure at his compliment, but murmurs in reply, 
  "Four children? You must have a happy wife then Dominus, to be so blessed. 
  Will she not be worried at your absence, or are you often away on matters of 
  business?" The music is fine and contagious, Sarasvati's feet and hips 
  moving of their own volition as the rythmn seeps into her blood, enticing 
  her to join in the celebration. "I am indeed blessed with Anjali ... she was 
  born two months too soon, but has grown to be strong and healthy indeed, 
  though for her beauty I can take no credit. That is her gift and heritage." 
  Her gaze swivels, a warm smile bestowed upon Julian as she inquires, "How 
  old are your children? Do you see them often?"

The Rook makes a small face at the notion of himself with a wife, though he 
  does not elaborate on why exactly acquiring a spouse would be nine different 
  kinds of bad idea. Instead he merely blows out a breath and says as 
  straightfacedly as possible, "I've no wife... but the House knows of my 
  business today, and when to expect me back." Though these words could be 
  uttered by servant as well as master, there is a casual authority to them, 
  one of which the Son of Air might perhaps not even be aware with the 
  majority of his thoughts taken up with the odd domestic situation in which 
  he's found himself the last few years. _Here_ there is a hint of 
  sheepishness, not for children in general, but that the likes of _him_ has 
  become guardian of four almost entirely disparate boys and girls. "Not as 
  often as I think they... or I... would like. They're four... seven... ten." 
  A beat, and then he adds, "Sixteen."

A man of power and position, but not born to it clearly. His comfort with the 
  Rommish people and herself speaks of a tolerance that any Empyrean born and 
  bred for prestige and place would not possess. "No wife? Then these children 
  you have aquired out of tragedy and choice? Kin, but not children of your 
  flesh, yes?" Her head crooks to one side, hips mimicking the gesture 
  unconciously as she muses, "A wide range of ages too ... each with its own 
  benefit and drawback. They care for each other, the eldest to the next, or 
  do you have governesses and nannies to attend to them?"

As it is generally difficult to make Julian blush, so too is it generally 
  difficult to surprise him... generally. His expression opens up again with 
  what can only be a kind of shock, twilight eyes going a bit wide as he 
  stares at Sarasvati, wondering again exactly what kind of seeresses the 
  Varati raise up amongst their women. Or perhaps, in this case, cast out from 
  amongst them? "I, ah... have a woman who looks after them, and my daughter 
  helps," he rasps, his voice reflecting a measure of his surprise. His regard 
  doesn't waver, though, staying on Vati half in bemusement and half almost in 
  challenge for what she might think to say of him next. "I must say you have 
  a remarkable intuition about you."

Shaking her head with a light laugh, her earrings ringing out lightly, 
  Sarasvati shrugs. "There is nothing to intuit really, it is a question of 
  logic. Few men take on children of their flesh unless they have to. You have 
  no wife, so unless she died and left you with the children, they must come 
  from somewhere else. Men spread their seed readily, but they rarely are 
  aware of what they sow. So it is more likely that these children were taken 
  under your literal wing by choice. Which means that some tragedy likely 
  befell their birth parents or themselves." Her shoulders lift and fall with 
  a soft laugh as she notes, "See? Simple logic. Women do possess brains, no 
  matter what men might think ... even Varati women for all our submissive 
  ways. Having children of a wide range of ages make it easier, because they 
  can take care of one another, harder because they cannot always relate to 
  one another with the differing levels of maturity." Her head cocks to one 
  side as she continues blithely. "You speak as a man of power and some 
  position, though not great or overbearing. Your tolerance of me and the 
  Rommish indicates that while you have grown up in high society, understand 
  its rules and requirements, you have not always resided there. You are 
  neither shocked nor disgusted, which suggests that you have led a broader 
  life than most of your race, where such high airs are a detriment, not a 
  desireable trait." She glances down at the hand resting upon his thigh, 
  noting with a degree of humor, "If you think me intuitive, best not ask me 
  to read your palm ... then I might really frighten you."

Simple logic... yet the Deus cannot help but be impressed. Already this 
  intriguing creature has proven herself a blend of innocence and wisdom, 
  beauty and gentleness all rolled into one. That she now proves herself a 
  woman of reason raises her a few more notches in his estimation, bringing a 
  distinct light of admiration into twilight eyes. "My dear woman, I've found 
  that leading a broader life than most of my kind has been essentially a 
  survival skill, and well--" Her last words are a challenge if he's ever 
  heard one. Julian's long slim fingers stop their tappings, and up comes that 
  right hand, turning the unscraped palm up for Sarasvati's inspection. 
  "--I've been frightened before. I think I can take it."

One brow arches fractionally, for the last time she had done this, she had 
  rendered that particular Empyrean nearly speechless. Her head dips though in 
  aquiescence, her dusky fingers taking his pale palm in a warm firm grasp, 
  fingertips delicately tracing the lines of his hand, brows knitting in 
  concentration as she reads the story written there. "This is your life 
  line," she notes, "tracing one. "It is ... unusual. It is crooked and 
  crossed with other lines, suggesting betrayals, pain, something precious 
  taken from you. Here," she points out, "is the most unusual though ... this 
  other line joins it, indicating a return of that which was taken from you. 
  The line grows stronger, suggesting that your true path is becoming revealed 
  to you. But this line here?" she notes, trailing along a divergent path. 
  "This line is not supposed to be here ... it is a fainter shadowed life 
  line, off from the center. It perhaps suggests that you are divided in your 
  loyalties or choice ... perhaps that you live a double life." She frowns, 
  leaning closer. "This is your love line ... it crosses your life line early, 
  suggesting a betrayal of the heart. It is not very deep, suggesting that you 
  give your heart rarely, though your body is more readily available." She 
  turns her head, pursing her lips as she notes, "You were recently in love, 
  it grows deeper here, but something went awry. She didn't love you, or 
  perhaps she was arranged to marry another or was simply taken away from you 
  ..."

He is not frightened per se, but Julian is struck to the core nevertheless, 
  stunned as every single statement offered forth finds something to fill it 
  out within his past. His hand remains utterly steady, kept so by years of 
  practice picking locks when he was drunk, fatigued, in a desperate hurry 
  with the Hounds barking on his heels... and so his astonishment channels 
  itself into his expression, unseen shields falling away from his finely 
  drawn features until there is nothing in his eyes but the look of a man 
  fundamentally shaken by what he is being told. _Clairvoyant?_ The thought 
  shoots wildly across his brain yet again, feeling more likely to his 
  instincts than _spy_, for what spy could possibly guess the sentiments he'd 
  been barely able to admit to himself and fire-haired Auvrey, much less 
  anyone else?
He is shaken, rattled, thunderstruck. Bizarrely enough it has an almost 
  intoxicating relief to it, the way this woman has seemed to look right past 
  all his masks... but he cannot quite yield himself to the suggestion that 
  here, with her, he can set aside at least for a time the weight of the 
  conflicting faces he must wear for the world at large. Not yet. The habits 
  of years spent guarding his innermost self are too strong.
"Strange," he murmurs, "all I see is my hand."

With a soft chuckle and a reassuring pat, Sarasvati curls his fingers till 
  they cover his palm. There is more that resides there, more than she read, 
  but she has the sense that he has heard enough for one day. "That is what 
  Apollonius said as well, I believe ..." Her eyes lift, taking in the stunned 
  shock that is confirmation of her sight. "It is an old skill, not born of 
  magic but the flesh, and eyes that can be trained to see what it tells one 
  about its wearer." She reaches out instinctively, brushing away the tendril 
  of hair that has fallen over his features. "This goes no further than here 
  and now," she assures him. "Your life is your own, not mine for sport or 
  gain." A small smile curls her lips though at what was left unsaid. 
  Potential only, but still intriguing. "May I offer you some advise though?"

Dark as any Son of Fire's, that hair of his, contributing to a localized burst 
  of color at the touch of dusky fingers to his brow: his white brow, her 
  cinnamon hand, raven hair, azure eyes still intently focused upon the woman 
  who has found Julian's life riding around on the very palm of his hand. 
  Attraction kindles there in the twilight blue; Julian, feeling its stirrings 
  elsewhere within him, isn't entirely sure that he minds. "By all means," is 
  his reply, grin quirking up again and bringing slightly fey, reckless humor 
  with it. "Though I suspect this isn't about to be a confirmation of this 
  sudden impulse I'm having to acquire a pair of gloves...!"

Her smile is both shy and suggestive, catching that glint in his eye perhaps, 
  or responding to his humor. "There are few outside the Rommish who have 
  mastered the art," she assures him with a soft laugh. Sarasvati's features 
  grow somber however as she reaches out, pressing her hand over Julian's 
  heart. "Find someone, someplace," she advises, "where this can be free. The 
  Spirit is a wild creature, not meant to be locked away. Be careful how far 
  down you bury it, keep it hidden. You will either cause it to wither and 
  die, or it will seek vengence, turning on you when you least expect it ... 
  betraying you."

Julian's own levity eases away, partly for the advice now earnestly offered 
  him... and partly for the warmth of that dainty dark hand against his chest. 
  For a moment, just for a moment, he wonders if the repeated touches of 
  Sarasvati's fingers are somehow pulling his secrets right out of him... then 
  he shakes off the fancy, half of his mind sternly pointing out that he hit 
  his knees, not his head, and the other half firing back that a little flight 
  of fancy fits right in with what the Varati woman is advising. He smiles 
  then, a little more openly than he has before, and with his free hand 
  gesturing up skyward he ventures, "I'm working on it." Then both of his 
  hands come together to lightly enfold her own while he appends, "Till 
  then... today is proving an astonishingly effective substitute." Eyes of 
  dark blue flash sideways, out across the camp, towards the dancers and the 
  musicians. "Will you dance with them, Sarasvati? I'd like to see it... 
  before I must return to Haven."

[Whether Sarasvati was going to dance was a question that never got settled,
 for this scene was never finished. Logged for posterity nonetheless! End log.]