"The Healing of Morgan" Log Date: 6/2/00 Log Cast: Morgan, Faanshi, assorted NPCs (emitted by Morgan and Faanshi), Cynara Log Intro: For all that she has entered the service of Thalia Tritonides Khalida, this has had no real impact upon that which Faanshi considers in some ways her highest, truest duty: the healing of those in need. Generally her daily rambles through Haven take her into the more destitute areas of the city -- for Bordertown, where the Mongrels and city Sylvans can be found, is where those who do not have access to more socially acceptable healers dwell. But sometimes the shudra healer ventures into the wealthier parts of the city, if the need is great enough -- and aye, if the need _is_ great enough, she might even enter the Empyrean quarter, where she is even more likely than among the Varati to be turned away and reviled. The Children of Air do not as a rule even care that she is a halfbreed, for it is difficult indeed for many Empyreans to see past the Varati clothing she wears. Still, though, when Faanshi finds a lost Empyrean child, her compassion commands her to aid the boy... and when she happens across a fight brewing between a pair of Empyrean men, a fight that results in the drawing of blood, she cannot help but offer her aid. Even if the knifed victim is disturbingly beautiful... and even if her efforts are witnessed by the infamous Cynara, Lady of Thorns.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Night (Dawnside) Date on Aether: Tuesday, July 27, 3906. Year on Earth: 1506 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Last Quarter Season: Summer Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* Main and Vicina - Haven The closer one gets to the center of the city, the more variety there is, architecturally. Although the feel is predominantly Empyrean, there are hints of Atlantean and Varati influence--even Sylvan, in the more organic curves and flowing lines of some of the structures. It is far busier here, too. Shops, inns, taverns, and market stalls outnumber private homes, for the famous Rialto is only a block away, and merchants are quick to settle on the fringes of that thriving marketplace. A whiff of the sea wafts in, and one can catch glimpses of the water between the buildings to the south. Were the noises of the city to die down--carts passing by, pedestrians in conversation, merchants haggling and children at play--one might catch the sound of the waves, beating a steady, timeless rhythm against the shore. Contents: Morgan Obvious exits: Elysium Music Emporium Streets Pantheon

The Rialto Morgan One word describes the youthful form of this young man. Beautiful. He stands tall and lean though his body is noticeably toned, hours spent swiming, yes, swimming, having carved his form nicely. Violet eyes look outward like pools of amethyst floating in a sea of copper skin. Large wings which glint with a healthy sheen beneath the sun are of the palest lavendar hue, almost white, and their mere size and excellent maintainance are enough to make others swoon. His nose slopes downward in a gentle arc, ending nobly above a well shaped mouth. A square jaw seems carved from purest marble, attention drawn to a cleft in his chin. Chestnut hair lies in wavy locks about his face and his firm frame and young face lends a boyish charm to his gorgeous visage. In the early hours of the morning, indeed before even the sun has risen for the day, a warm breeze picks up along the street, kicking up some sand. The partly cloudy sky rests black above the faintly lighted streets, torches burning faintly to lend an eerie atmosphere to the surrounding buildings. The Pantheon, however, seems to be bustling with business, as the elite of all races gather here to party, socialize, and scheme even into the wee hours of the morning. People come and go as they please, and it is not uncommon to see a sari with one glance, and a toga with the next. Even a few Atlanteans, their skin a veritable display of unusual color, can be seen walking into the Pantheon, limbs moving below loose robes so as not to restric their movement. In the street just before the tiered entrance to the restaurant stand two figures, and they face each other in the street from the distance of but a few yards. "What did you do with my wife, Dominus?" comes the voice of the taller, gruff man. His sizeable gerth belies the presence of not only excess fat, but hidden muscles, as he stands in his dim blue toga. He breathes heavily as he stands there, lifting an accusatory finger toward the form of the other man, his breath reeking of the scent of ambrosia. The other man stands before him, a sight of absolute serenity and regal calm. Violet eyes gaze upon the other man with apathy, and he speaks. "And who is your wife Dominus? I'm afraid I cannot remember the husbands of all my clients." Wings a shade of lavendar so pale as to be easily mistaken for white tense a bit as he surveys the man before him, and passersby move away at the sight of an obviously impending drunk altercation. Into this scene of probable impending conflict comes, indeed, a figure in a richly hued but still rather worn and oft-mended sari -- though it is a trifle difficult to make out the shape of Faanshi, for she is carrying what can only be a winged child in her arms, and the drooping wings of the little lost waif are the first thing one can see coming as the maiden makes her way eastward from the Rialto. Well -- the wings, and the dog trot-trot-trotting along at her side, trying to keep his muzzle away from the lowermost pinions of the exhausted Empyrean boy who'd managed to get himself separated from his parents yesterday in the marketplace and has been wandering around crying ever since. Desperate enough to accept help even from someone wearing _Varati_ garb, the boy's latched his limbs around Faanshi's slender frame as if in complete desperation, and his golden head now lies lax against her shoulder. "You know damned well who she is," slurs the larger man as he shakes his finger at Morgan. "She is the most beautiful woman in all the Empyre!" Anger tinges the man's words and stance, but a note of genuine sorrow is evident in his eyes as he stares at the man whom he suspects has shared his wife's bedchamber. Perhaps it is his own failure as a husband which enrages him so, but regardless, Morgan will most likely be the channel for his anger in just bit. He staggers slightly as he take a step toward Morgan, alcohol flowing as easily as blood through his veins. The man with a more lithe frame watches the other approach, and violet pools of amethyst glance to either side of him, as well as up, looking for possible routes of egress should the situation call for such a hasty retreat. "And does this creature of such fine beauty have a name?' he asks then, loud enough for all to hear. More than a few have stopped in their tracks, lingering to see what the commotion is about, and wondering what will come of it. A pity that such a low crime area is so infrequently patrolled by Hounds. It seems that Bordertown takes more of their attention this evening. With a crowd gathering, Faanshi cannot help but notice some sort of commotion in progress, even with an exhausted child drowsing in her arms. Green eyes momentarily peek above her veil, as well as above the lad's snowy feathers, to try to see what lies before her -- and how best to avoid it, for she is weary herself, and craves an opportunity to return to Atesh-Gah and achieve a few hours of rest. Dismay flickers across those eyes, though, as she hears voices lifted up on anger. Oh dear. The larger man looks around him then, at the faces of those few who stand to watch. A few varati, a mongrel or two paused in their tasks. But most of all he takes note of the Empoyrean faces which gaze in his direction, not wishing to bring shame to his house. Even in his drunken state, this apparent noble knows not to broadcast his identity to all. "You know damned well who she is!" he barks gruffly, and perhaps he even believes it. For who could forget a woman so soft and graceful, so beautious and living as the woman he loves. And this man beofer him has defiled her. He takes another few staggering steps toward the man then. "Perhaps if the Deus did not spend so much time at various drinking establishments, oogling the maids there, his wife would not have sought me out," comes the reply from one who seems to know a little too much about the man's matives than he should. Could it be that he knows exactly of whom the drunken man speaks? And Deus? He called him Deus? The eyes of those gathered light up as a few squint to make out the face of the Noble, attempting to discern his house. Not all of the bystanders, however, are entirely occupied with the brewing argument before them. One turns and catches sight of the maiden in Varati silks -- carrying an Empyrean boy in her arms. And while the boy stirs, blue eyes opening sleepily as the argument begins to penetrate the haze of his bone-deep tiredness, the man narrows his eyes at this new distraction. "You there," he can be heard to coldly and loftily call out, "What do you think you're doing with one of our children, girl?" So much for discreetly making her way past this mess. Faanshi blinks, as the Empyrean fellow's annoyance distracts a couple of his friends as well, and she's caught between trying to soothe him, bow reflexively in the face of male ire (for Empyrean or not, these _are_ men), and murmur out a hasty explanation. "Forgive me, Imph--I mean, Dominus... but this child, he is lost, I thought I would take him back to his home...!" "Haven't you Varati had enough of running roughshod over us without taking our children?" one of the first man's friends snaps. "I want to go home," the boy mumbles plaintively. As a few Empyrean men turn to confront another, the drunken man smiles a bit, happy for the distraction. Eyes narrow then upon the form of Morgan, and the man advances some more. "You shared my wife's bedchamber!" he yells at the man, the anger in his ice blue eyes growing by the second. "In my own house!" The servants must have informed the man well then, for how else could he know of such things? Clenching his hands into fists, the man continues. "How dare you insult me before these people? I love my wife! And she loves me!" Blinded by anger and pain the man moves ever forward, oblivious now to that which goes on around him. Making quick judgement of the situation, Morgan's eyes flicker briefly toward the Varati carrying the Empyrean boy, but do nothing more than flicker on in another direction. He has his own problems to worry about, and at so late an hour, it is not likely that the Hounds will intervene. That is, perhaps, a good thing, he thinks to himself. Thoughts of Delphi and its minions unsettle him greatly. Annoyed by the situation, he returns his gaze to the man who draws ever closer, and with a look of insidious malice, he says, "Had the Deus been home at the time, I would have been more than happy to employ my arts for you as well." Gasps come from those who watch, as Morgan dares to taunt the man, provoking him toward further anger. He cannot be seen to fear anyone, for his reputation would suffer. And so he stands, the picture of perfect calm amidst the storm which brews about him. The big dog at Faanshi's side bristles, not liking the way the three men are now turning on his mistress. Perhaps Kosha's ire only incites the Empyreans, for the first one lunges at Faanshi, reaching out to seize the now fully awake and even more dismayed little boy. "Give him to me, Varati filth," he sneers. "How _dare_ you even think of treading the streets of _our_ part of this benighted city? Do you honestly believe you'd be welcome near any of our houses?" "But--" Faanshi's eyes turn swiftly liquid, between her automatic, instinctive reaction of submission to the anger now lashing out at her -- and the desperate look the boy shoots his gentle savior. He'd liked Faanshi! "I only wished to help, Dominus, I--" "You are not wanted here, girl," the third man bites out, drawing a knife and waving it at the dog. "Or your beast! Leave, at once!" "You dirty beast!" yells the drunken Deus suddenly. The words of Morgan seem more than enough to incite the man toward violence, and he lunges toward Morgan, his fists flying outward ahead of him in a direct path for the young man's face. Such weight behind the man would make him difficult to stop, even for one with a frame as enticing as Morgan's. Violet eyes flicker quickly as he moves, stepping aside and bowing down slightly to let the arc of the man's swings fly mere inches over his head. Fighting is not one of Morgan's best skills, for his hands have mainly been used for a much more pleasureable purpose. Pivoting on his left foot, he turns then, bringing him up behind his attacker. The force behind the intended blow was perhaps a bit more than the man thought, and he swings hard, throwing his weight out of balance. He falls in an almost comical fashion, flailing his other hand wildly as he yelps, and soon his side tastes of the hard stone of the Aetherian earth. Landing with an audible "Oof!" the man lies prostrate upon the ground. Shouts burst out from the onlookers still watching the two arguing men -- some of them in encouragement, one or two in alarm. Some of the crowd, however, is diverting its attention to the girl in those brightly hued silks and the angry men ordering her about. "Here, now," someone calls out, "that's hardly sporting, three against a slip of a girl like that--" "Why _can't_ she be here? It's a public street, isn't it?" "Can someone please take me home? Please...?" And in the midst of it all, Faanshi shoots an increasingly nervous glance in several directions before surging down to her knees at the side of her growling dog, deeming it first and foremost necessary to keep the growling creature from leaping upon the man with the knife. "Kosha and I will leave, Dominus," she breathes in supplication. "Forgive this humble one--" Morgan smirks at the form of the fallen man, and he stands above him, looking down. Violet pools which float like gems in his face cast a hard look at the man, and he says in a barely audible tone, just enough for the man upon the ground to hear. "Perhaps if you could please your wife half as well as I, she would need no one else in her bed." With that taunt only a moment out of his mouth, Morgan howls as a knife is plunged deep into his left shoulder from behind, pain arcing in a spider web fashion across his muscles. he goes down under the force of the blow, landing upon the ground with his hands before him, and rolling quickly to his left. Above him stands another man, obviously a friend of the drunk. He glares at the masseur and spits, saying, "I will kill you for disgracing my cousin's house you dog!" Perhaps he is a little intoxicated as well, though not so much that he cannot walk straight, or plung a knife into someone's back. The man moves quickly toward Morgan, the cold look in his ice blue eyes a perfect mirror of that of his cousin. As the knife drives home, the shudra maiden jerks as though the blade had struck _her_. While a woman with silver in her otherwise golden hair strides up to confront the three angry men, especially the one who'd pulled a knife on the hound, Faanshi goes as pale as it is possible for her to be under her veil. Her magic snarls into life in reaction to the hot blast of agony from the now-wounded man, riveting her attention inexorably upon Morgan even as he collapses to the ground. "I'm _talking_ to you, girl," the first man bellows, seeing her attention distract. But now that blood has been spilled the crowd's mood is rising to a higher, more frenetic pitch. More shouts erupt. Several heads turn this way and that, wondering if the Hounds are about to arrive. At at least one person yells out a well-intentioned plea for the combatants to stop before anything else occurs, but the old fellow is promptly drowned out in a flood of cheers from the younger and more aristocratic rakes in the crowd. _They_ understand the need to uphold the honor of one's House -- clearly, the insolent fellow had this coming! Morgan groans as the second man advances upon him, bloodied knife in hand, and his back aches with a searing pain. He mustn't let the pain overwhelm him though, his wits will be necessary in this situation. Springing to his feet proves to be a far from pleasing process, as the movement of his wings and arm seems to tear at the wound. "Now Dominus," he says to te man before him, eyes wide with what could potentially be fear. "Are you sure that this is adviseable?" How he despises these nobles and their gods forsaken honor. He'd sacrifice every last one of them if he could. But for now, he contents himself with sleeping with their wives. Violet gems flash quickly to the form of the nervous Faanshi every few seconds, as magick springs to life within her. Mages are a dangerous thing, he thinks to himself. He is a prime example. He can feel the girl's fear as well, and how it makes her cringe. An echo of his own pain is felt within her, and he squints for a second. A healer? One who feels his pain as does he? The shock she recieved when he was injured still rings in her mind. Perhaps she can help him when this is all done. Oh, aye, that's fear in the girl in the veil there now -- though it's being rapidly overwhelmed by a surge of pure, unadulterated worry, apparently for the simple fact that there's someone there before her bleeding and in pain. Over the rising din of the crowd surrounding the lovely young man with the chestnut hair it is impossible to tell whether she says anything, but the seemingly instinctive way she attempts to press through the onlookers towards the wounded man speaks clearly enough. Kosha, in the meantime, barks out three deep-throated snarling barks at anyone who dares come too near his mistress... but it seems the three Empyreans who'd originally stopped her aren't yet convinced to let her pass. The silver-haired woman has taken command of the boy, and in between trying to calm him down she's still shooting irate commentary at the leader of the trio while one of his friends blocks Faanshi's path. Injured and bleeding, Morgan shifts nervously as the man approaches, His cousin remains silent upon the ground, either asleep or simply unconcious from his intoxication. No one seems to care as the crowd cheers on the second man, though more than a few call out for it to stop. One woman in particular, a Dea of a rich house, screams in fear for Morgan, yelling, "Don't hurt him!" It seems that the violet-eyed Empyrean has low friends in high places. With a nod of her head, the woman intructs her body guards, who step firmly into place before Morgan. Huge mongrel men, stocky and thick, they are quite the intimidating sight, especially with their large clubs. The man with the bloodied knife pauses instantly, and his eyes go a bit wide. morgan's gaze simply smiles upon the woman whom he knows to be behind this, and his gaze floats quickly then to the worrying Varati woman whom he can no longer see. he can feel her, over there, somewhere. "Sweet merciful lares, finally, someone else in this conglomeration of idiots is making sense," snaps the golden-haired woman with silver in her mane -- Praetorian, by the look of her armor, and she grins lopsidedly as that frantic Dea finally does something useful. In the meantime, as Faanshi blurts out something indistinguishable in the general babble of voices but apparently comprehendable to _her_, she goes on briskly, "What, girl? Healer? Well, why didn't you say so?" Patting the anxious boy on his tousled head and ordering him to stay put, the Praetorian woman abruptly shoves all three of the troublemakers out of her way with one sweep of her left arm -- the hand of which is suddenly sporting a glaive -- and informs them contemptuously, "If you three would start thinking with your heads instead of your privates, maybe you'd realize that just because she's Varati doesn't mean you have to treat her like dung. Get on over there, girl, and do your business." Cynara travels in from the west, where the Rialto lies. Cynara has arrived. The man with the knife stands motionless for but a moment as Morgan's blood drips silently off the tip. He's had a taste, and years desperately for more. "This is no longer my fight alone," he says as two more men who bear the same icey gaze as him step to his side, rapiers bared. "This man has dishonored our house, and we demand retribution." The two mongrel body guards raise their clubs as the Dea gasps. She has brought only two guards, what can she do. "Defend him to the death," she says to them then before turning to the three armed men. "You're slut of a cousin in law dishonored your house," she booms. "You will not harm my beloved masseur." Morgan wavers then, blood flowing out of the wound faster than one would think possible, drenching his back. he blinks as his vision blurs, and suddenly drops to his knees. "Wha..?" is all he manages to say as vision blinks out, and he lays in a pool of his own blood. The Dea screams then, having forgotten her pet in her confrontation with the other nobles, and she drops to his side, screaming for help. On her way toward the Patheon, Cynara is halted in her steps by the crowd that is gathered before the upscale resturaunt. The wounds that have been inflicted immediately call to her senses and golden brows immediately dip downward in anger. "What is going on here?" She demands in a cold, calm voice that does not even need to be raised to call attention to the lady of thorns. Threatening flames of ice blue meet the gazes of everyone who looks back at her. Wings held tight to her back, which is stiff and straight, the branded healer steps through the crowd, and most have the good sense to step aside for her. Faanshi is spotted, and Cynara nods her toward the fallen man while she turns to face the foes he has so quickly acquired. "What is going on here?" She asks again, this time with a more serious and commanding tone that is directed toward the crowd. Conciousness drifts in and out as Morgan lies face down atop the cobble stones. The Dea is on her knees before him, wailing out for help, as the mongrel guards stand as protectors above the body. The three men with rapiers cast smoldering glares at the men, and the middle one says, waving his bloodied knife before him, "Out of the way dogs, or we'll gut you like the inferior wehlps you are." "I beg of you, Dominus.. Domina...?" The voice is Faanshi's, now managing to register as audible as the girl reaches the guards. "I am a healer, I can help--" The shudra girl swallows hard at some of the hostile glares she's getting; the anti-Varati sentiment in this crowd wasn't entirely limited to those three troublemakers back there. Kosha snarlingly pads up alongside her, too, though now the dog is settling down now that knives aren't being waved at him. In the meantime, the Praetorian woman, the one with silver streaking her golden hair, turns to Cynara and replies, brief but not unpolite, "There's a man down; Varati girl there says she's a healer. It seems he was sampling another man's wife, Domina." Next to her, the lost little boy mumbles, "I just wanna go home..." Cynara looks back at the woman and then again meets the several gazes that are moving between her and the men bearing swords and the mongrel guards. Raising her voice enough to be heard over the mutterings of the crowd, she announces. "Enough of this. The girl is a healer, she will see to the wound. Faanshi, heal him." She orders the young halfbreed, as if she had every right to do so. Then turning her eyes toward the men with weapons, she glares. "There will be no more blood shed here today. If you wish a duel, then challenge him like gentlemen, do not attack him on the street like common thugs!" She is well aware of the disdainful glances that are now being directed at her, and the new mutterings of 'branded' that are filtering through the small crowd, but she remains firm and confindent. One might almost think she believes she could take all these people on by herself, if necessary. Arrogance incarnate. Yet, the cold that surrounds her might make some wonder if in fact that were close to the truth. The two men beside the one with the bloodied knife seem to grow somewhat uncomfortable, and they mutter to their cousin whose anger clouds his judgement. Faint traces of the hisses can be heard, and 'mage' is a word which figures prominently. The man glares at Cynara, muttering something about a useless whore before sheathing the knife. The three men turn away then, withdrawing through the crowd, and two of them bend down to lift their drunk cousin from the ground. "This is not over," calls the man with the knife, and the three begin their trek toward home. The Dea who kneels over Morgan's form looks hopefully as Cynara instructs the Varati woman to heal him, and she lifts her gaze to the retreating forms of the men. "Your pride will bring your honorless house down about you Alcander!" she calls, voicing aloud the name of the house who has been defamed by the masseur. More than a few gasps and chuckles run through the crowd as word spreads as to who it was, and the Dea grins smugly to herself before turning her concerns toward Faanshi. "Please, help him." Cynara? _Here_? For a fraction of an instant fear shoots through Faanshi's thoughts again, but she spares the branded healer only a quick, humble nod before she turns her attention to the injured man. The Dea gets that same nod, and then the shudra maiden's sungolden hands rest themselves gently upon Morgan's shoulders. Kosha watches as intently as if he actually understands what's going on, while the little boy who'd gotten Faanshi into this mess in the first place blurts out, "Lares -- she didn't tell me she's a healer!" But indeed, Faanshi is. And her magic, already roused by the blood spilling out of the masseur, now pours forth to enfold him in its strength. She does not rival Cynara. But the maiden has a deep spring of power within her, from which she freely pulls to mend knife-rent flesh. Cynara smirks darkly at the men as they sheath their steel. "It is over until you learn the correct way to defend your House's excuse for honor, dominus. If your wife is seeking what she desires in other men, then it is obvious that her husband is not man enough to perform his own duties well enough to satisfy her. Perhaps you should redirect this passion for vengence into a passion that will keep her from wishing to stray, hm?" She suggests. Another cold flick of her eyes goes over the remaining people still looking on. Challenging them silently to even -try- to do something. The crowd disperses at the sight of the cold eyes which seem to need only the slightest provocation to attack. The mongrel body guards seem to sigh with relief as the armed men leave, and they both look with a bit of wonder upon the form of the small woman who's mere presence and indomitable will seemed to cause them to depart. Brows arc at the sight of the X, and they both look away immediately, awaiting the word of their mistress. The Dea gives Faanshi a smile of extreme thanks and stands then, frowning slightly at her blood soaked toga. A faint smile dawns upon her features then, as her mind creates a vision of her compassion, on her knees in blood to aid a man. How the other Deas will see her after this! And she knows that Morgan will make it up to her in ways which her simple mind cannot hope to fathom. With a tingle of delight for the future, she gives one last longing look at the man who has caused her to smile more than all four of her husbands combined, and moves off toward the east with her guards. A minute... two, three. Faanshi has enough power to do a knife-wound's healing both swiftly and cleanly, though as she pours her concentration into the closing of the gash in Morgan's flesh and bids it to Be Right, it begins to tax her control to make certain the mending is both fast and true. Her haste has the flavor of great nervousness, as well as a growing need for rest, though it is not yet acute. At last, after five minutes creep by, the maiden pulls back from her task at hand, her magic instinctually content with what it's done for all that Faanshi herself has stopped consciously thinking about it. Cynara watches the people leave and then finally sighs as she turns to see the wound is closed completely. A very small smile forms upon her lips as she inspects the rightness of the flesh with the empathy that reaches out from her. She does not have to touch it to know if its right. An approving nod is given to Faanshi. "Very well done, Imphada." she compliments. "Get up Morgan." She tells the man who has no reason to be unconscious now, as if he were faking it. She told him he would not feel her magic again, and for now, she's keeping her word. For now. "Go inside and get something to eat, Treg will show you to the back room to get cleaned up." There is no concern in her tone. He's healed now. What reason would there be for concern. "You should go and get some rest, Imphada, do you need an escort home?" The violet-eyed Empyrean blinks before the sight of the cobblestones and rolls over, his wings pressed tightly to his back. He coughs, clearing the dust from his breath, and sits up, looking about him. A blank look is given to Cynara before his gaze lands upon Faanshi, and eyes like pools of amethyst hold the woman's visage. "Thank you," he says to her, his voice holding a tone of purest crystalline truth. He could feel the woman's power throughout the course of his injury. And it was her presence that gave him hope enough to hold on to his senses. He looks about him then, wondering where the plump Dea went, and shrugs, making a mental note to make a midnight visit to her chambers sometime soon. Free of charge. Standing, he looks once again toward Cynara, his blood soaked clothing a mess, and his wings full of dirt. Quite a sorry sight indeed, but still, that face, regal and tanned, with those deeply violet eyes, seems inviting and enticing as ever. With one last look to Faanshi, he says, "Thank you Dom...err Imphada. If ever you are in need of anything which I can provide," his eyes take one a quite seductive glance now, dark lashes framing twin jewels, "do not hesitate to ask." With that said, he moves off toward the Pantheon. Inviting as Morgan's gaze and visage might be, it's difficult to really make much of a visual impact upon a girl whose gaze now solidly rivets itself to her feet, even as she gingerly stands up. However, this doesn't stop his voice from falling thrillingly upon her ear. Faanshi is an innocent -- but she is not deaf, and not entirely immune to the practiced charm of Morgan's cultured accents. It's not often someone speaks so charmingly to her, after all. "It... it is my duty and honor to heal," she whispers, a hot flush surging through her cheeks. Towards Cynara she manages to shake her head, blurting, "If someone... can just take the boy home...!" "Me," pipes the golden-haired lad. He's wide awake now, he is, and looking vaguely disappointed now that the excitement appears to be dying down; it's made him forget entirely about being lost. "I'll escort him," puts in the Praetorian woman, briskly picking up the child and wrapping her strong arms about him, then launching herself into the air. "Ave, Imphada, Domina...!" This is her farewell to both the healers, before she is lost to immediate sight. Cynara watches Morgan's reaction and listens to the purr of his words as he directs them to the other healer, whose magic he did -not- jump away from. A dark smirk comes to her lips, melting any approval from her features as she looks back at the bowed head of the younger healer. "Lift your head, Faanshi. You are not our servant, you are a healer with a skill that has saved this man's life. You are not among your oppressors right now, we won't mind if you look us in the eye as you have every right to do." She snaps at the girl, finding the subservant additude in a fellow healer completely uncalled for. With a shake of her head, she follows Morgan into the Pantheon so as to rush him through before too many guests get a glimpse of his blood-covered form. Kosha, having learned some time ago that after his beloved mistress places her hands upon someone she is pretty much always in need of a good Doggy Nuzzle, promptly thrusts his muzzle into her side and whines hopefully. The maiden's sungolden hands brush in comfort both sought and given against the hound's furry skull, even as Faanshi peeks towards Cynara's imperious face. A flash of uneasiness crosses her eyes -- perhaps caused by referring to the Varati as her 'oppressors'? She doesn't say anything more than something that might be a farewell, though, as she takes the opportunity to withdraw and hasten back to Atesh-Gah as quickly as she can go. This night has had more than enough adventure... not to mention causing more than enough confusion in her troubled young heart. In moments, even as the crowd breaks up around her, she too is gone. [End log.]