"Alliance in the Making"

Log Date:
	5/15, 5/16/00

Log Cast:
	Cynara, Richard

Log Intro:
	House Nemea has pulled a hasty retreat out of Haven... and ever since
then, Richard has thrown himself heavily into trying to pull off as many
thieving jobs as he can, determined to build up funds. A good bit of what he's
made on his illegal acquisitions he's turned around and spent on his young
Mongrel wards, keeping them in decent clothes and shoes and food, though he
has been able to see little of them and has had to trust to his scant small
handful of loyal friends to aid him in looking after Roki and Elette. He has
also seen very little of Rory, the red-haired Mongrel woman who has grown 
quite dear to him, except when he brings the children into her company... and
except when he leaves little unobtrusive gifts in her Assistant Provost
office within Delphi.
	For the most part, though, he has been consumed with the need to build
up funds. For Richard is determined to discover why his House has pulled out
of Haven... and to find any means he can to fulfill the request his young
daughter Moirae has made, to get her out of the clutches of his brother
Erasmus. Little does Richard know, however, that the ability to liberate his
darkling daughter is closer at hand than he realizes....

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================*
             Time of day:  Afternoon
          Date on Aether:  Thursday, June 24, 3906.
           Year on Earth:  1506 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Gibbous
                  Season:  Summer
                 Weather:  Partly Cloudy
             Temperature:  Warm
*==========================================================================*

The afternoon sun dapples its way down through the leaves to the garden floor, 
  occassionally wanning and then re-igniting in a playful dance of light and 
  shadow. It may or may not be common knowledge that there is a particular 
  tree which is favored by Cynara, it is in this tree, the tree near the 
  bench, where she sits now. A thin black cloak with faint silver threading 
  along the edges is laid out on the bark of the thick branch beneath her to 
  protect the delicate black silk that shimmers over her form. Her hair is 
  drawn down to cover the brand upon her brow and her wings are pressed 
  against the bole of the tree as she leans back against it. One slender foot 
  dangles over the edge of the tree limb with a very slight swing to it. The 
  other foot is propped up, with the knee bent so that her arm may rest upon 
  it. On that arm is a falcon to who she feeds strips of dried meat.

Regardless of what is or is not common knowledge, Richard knows the tree he's 
  looking for this day as he steals into the city gardens. Afternoon; it's a 
  fairly safe time of day in Haven, at least when the sun is still high enough 
  in the sky that shadows are not too thick and most of the ones who stalk the 
  streets at night are still asnooze in what passes for their beds. There 
  isn't _too_ much need for stealth... but then again, this doesn't stop the 
  trader-thief from habitually scanning the green growing things he passes, 
  looking for some sign of any handily placed assailants as he heads towards 
  his appointed rendezvous. His walk up into Cynara's presence is uneventful 
  -- but his eyes are still wary, nevertheless, as he announces his presence 
  first with the soft sounds of his footfalls and then with the velvet tenor 
  of his voice: "Ave, Cynara."

It is Alecto's fierce yellow eye that turns upon Richard first, having heard 
  the footfalls. The healer's gaze follows that of her pet and watches the 
  approach of the wingless Empyrean. A faint smile curves her lips as he comes 
  nearer and when he halts, she nods politely down to him. "Ave Richard, thank 
  you for coming." With a quick lift of her wrist, Alecto lets out a sharp 
  squawk and then flies off of her arm and onto a branch nearby. Turning 
  herself on her own branch, Cynara spreads her brilliant white wings and 
  pushes off, floating easily to the ground before him. Blue eyes scan his 
  face.

Richard's visage is easily studied, since he's had to uplift it to the woman 
  and the bird in the tree, regardless. He stands down there upon the ground, 
  slim and dark and wary of stance, his weight balanced slightly forward upon 
  his feet as though he expects to have to jump one way or another in reaction 
  to assault. Black brows have knitted together over those twilight eyes, 
  which are themselves narrowed just a trifle, though the wingless one's 
  elegant features are otherwise composed. The Rook's gaze flickers up 
  momentarily to mark the falcon, before returning to its apparent keeper. Is 
  that surprise there in his eyes, at the polite tone? Perhaps. But if he is 
  surprised, he keeps it out of his voice, saying simply and coolly, "I was... 
  curious."

Cynara
        The heavens cast down a ray of light, a single beam to grace the world 
  with warmthless radiance. Its glow is captured and refracted within the 
  crystalline aspect of a young woman. Lustrous locks of spun gold sweep 
  carelessly over her shoulders and swiftly down her back. Only the foremost 
  strands are kept shortened to frame a fair face.
        Somewhat squared features hold the semblance of the ray's direct 
  touch, known to fade rival colors a degree while enhancing those it cannot 
  hope to match, such as the stunning blue of a winter's sky, which is itself 
  caught and held within her gaze. The hue of innocence and the chill of frost.
        An ominous shadow claws its way upon this luminous visage marring the 
  image forever with a scrawled x, deep pink in color. A brand which names her 
  the terror from a thousand children's stories. It rides just above the 
  slender arch of her brows and is usually concealed beneath the golden 
  curtain of carefully cut hair.
        Darkness seeks to assert its dominion over the sun. A partial eclipse 
  rising in the sheer black silk which floats about her slight frame, 
  contrasting the lambent essence of her natural appearance with a sinister 
  arrangement of fluid-like material. Bare shoulders and supple curves no 
  longer denied, but strategically caressed by soft ripples of fabric to 
  entice the eye while subtly warning of the danger within. Snowy wings, drawn 
  close to her body lend their own gentle voice to the fray, leaning the 
  battle toward day.
        A shimmer of silver circles her waist, lightning striking within the 
  storm. The flashes extend to her feet where barely used sandals of silver 
  straps glint their defiance at the ground.
Carrying:
Alecto
glove

Richard
His skin is pale; accordingly, he must not be a Varati. There are no visible 
  gills or fins along his slim frame; thus, he is surely not Atlantean. No 
  Sylvan would have eyes of that stormy gray-touched blue, and his ears are 
  not pointed. Surely no Empyrean's hair would be as black as coal, as black 
  as shadow -- and at any rate, he has no wings. So, then, he must be a 
  Mongrel. That, certainly, is the race he claims if he is asked. Such claims 
  of his, along with most everything else he utters, are delivered with an 
  ever so slight glint of irony to those blue eyes, and in a tenor voice whose 
  faint lilting accents add a touch of music and refinement to the rough-edged 
  street patois of Haven. Refined, too, are his fine-boned features, despite 
  the shadow of a beard that darkens his jawline and the generally disheveled 
  state of his short dark hair. One might guess him to be somewhere in his 
  early thirties; his face and frame and movements are all those of a man past 
  youth and not long into his prime.
He is currently clad in a black shirt tucked into trousers of a dark twilight 
  blue, in turn tucked into a pair of battered old boots of brown leather that 
  appear to have seen a great deal of use. The only weapon he carries in 
  immediate sight is a knife whose sheath is strapped to his upper right thigh 
  for swift ease of drawing if he needs it.

Cynara smiles, and it might even be considered a warm smile, by those who know 
  the woman. "I'm certain you were." she returns in a slightly amused tone. 
  "It has been some time since we spoke." She observes calmly, "And I thought 
  it might be a good idea. ...There are a few things that I would like to 
  discuss with you, but first, I'd like to get the matter of the children out 
  of the way." She begins. Her tone is civil and calm, holding no implications 
  of harbored feelings of any kind. "I realize you were offended by what I 
  said at our last meeting. Is that behind us or are you still upset about it?"

This time there can be no doubt of the surprise in the Rook's eyes; they widen 
  a fraction, and he even draws in the faintest of breaths. Cynara, civil to 
  him? _Pleasant_, even? But the look of astonishment vanishes behind the veil 
  of Richard's reserve as swiftly as it appeared, leaving in its wake a keen, 
  searching azure gaze that studies the healer as closely as she'd just 
  studied him. "That depends," he evenly replies then, "upon whether you meant 
  what you said, and whether you intend to bring it up again." No man likes to 
  be called a fool to his face -- especially when it has to do with matters of 
  his family, whether they be his natural blood or no. He could say this. But 
  Richard does not, perhaps in testament to his startlement at the attitude 
  with which he is being greeted... and willingness for the time being, at 
  least, to meet manners with manners.

The Lady of Thorns has undergone a few changes since last he saw her. Donning 
  a posessive black silk where once she wore a sturdy cotton, allowing her 
  lips more freedom in their desire to smile, and even her speaking voice has 
  gained a softer, more dulcit tone. There is still no question as to the 
  power she wields or the commanding, regal nature which seems inherant within 
  her demeanor, but there is something more refined now. A knowing sort of 
  confidence which eminates from within, where once she radiated a more cocky, 
  arrogant persona. The arrogance remains, of course, but is not so readily 
  displayed as it used to be. Pale eyes wander down the man's body and then 
  back up to meet his eyes, before she nods slowly, "I meant it, when I said 
  it." she admits quietly. Then, shrugging one bare shoulder she continues, 
  "But at the time, I did not realize that you had any other means available 
  to you in which to educate them. I have not approached them, and I will not, 
  but I have heard that they are learning all they will need to know. I am 
  glad to see it." Her voice carries a touch of apology tinged with genuine 
  appreciation. "I did not know you were so resourceful." another 
  acknowledgement flavored with apology. "While what I said was likely hurtful 
  and unkind, I hope you know that my intentions were only to help and provide 
  the children with what I could." Her head tilts slightly to the side, brows 
  rising in a questioning manner.

Richard has been looked over often enough -- what man could not, who spends 
  any sort of time at all in the Siren's Song? He merely raises an eyebrow as 
  it is done now, and if he wonders what Cynara might see as she looks his 
  frame up and down, he gives no other sign of it. That frame of his is still 
  whipcord lean, and though he might try to hold himself like the earthbound 
  Mongrel he claims to be, there is still nevertheless a hint of airy grace in 
  his carriage. His face, too, is lean as always -- a fraction too lean if 
  truth be told, but this is hardly unsurprising for a denizen of Bordertown. 
  His clothes, like his face, speak of just enough attention paid to keep up a 
  good, serviceable condition; this, too, may well be unsurprising, given 
  reports that the man's been spending most of his recent profits upon the 
  very children just mentioned. And Richard listens, that dark brow quirked, 
  until she who leads the Outcasts is done speaking. "Apology... accepted," he 
  says at last, a trace of his surprise leaking through into his voice. He's 
  not bothering with the street accent he affects, though that too haunts his 
  voice, giving just a bit of a lilt to the roughly uttered words.

She is a healer, perhaps her perusal of his body is only a clinical interest, 
  though there was no indication of what thoughts lurk behind the pale blue 
  gaze. A nod is given to his acceptance of her unspoken apology, a small 
  curve of squarish lips lending a more pleasant aspect to her expression. 
  "Thank you." she murmurs. Centering azure eyes upon his own light colored 
  orbs, she pauses a moment before speaking again, still wearing that small 
  smile. "You are looking much better than the last time I saw you." she 
  observes, "Though, you should eat a bit more." a slightly amused sort of 
  admonishment. Drawing a deep breath, she flashes a bit of a brighter smile 
  as she steps past him a few paces and then turns about with a soft rustle of 
  feathers and silk. "There are a few things I wish to speak to you about... 
  Rook." A knowing sort of grin, mildly teasing, sent toward him. Yes, she 
  knows the name, and uses it for the purposes of this conversation. "First of 
  which is... your talent for thieving. I've heard you have refused to join 
  the Thieves Guild on several occassions. Might I ask why?" Her head tilts 
  again, curious, nothing more.

No surprise in his stare, this time; instead, one corner of Richard's mouth 
  curls up in the crooked grin he tends to display when he's amused. "Lean, 
  hungry men, in my experience," he drawls, "tend to have greater inspiration 
  for... relocation of valuables." His stance hasn't changed, and neither has 
  the attention he periodically slides to either side of him as well as just 
  overhead; though he might simply appear to be enjoying a casual conversation 
  beneath the tree to any who might happen to pass by, he is still on his 
  guard. His voice, too, has dropped a notch in volume, down to a near-murmur. 
  "As for the Guild, I've yet to be convinced that they need me -- or I them."

Cynara has been a street rat for many years now, and so is always prepared, 
  should something sudden come upon her. That readiness has kept her alive 
  more than once. And just as it is with the man she talks to, she has no 
  trouble appearing completely relaxed while retaining that readiness. A small 
  grin responds to his, followed by a low chuckle. "Yes, well, it seems you've 
  got that covered then." she replies smoothely, with an appreciative lift of 
  her brows and a quick glance downward. Back to the subject at hand without 
  the slightest trace of the blush that once might have accompanied such a 
  statement, "The Guild is a group." she states the obvious, "Several 
  thieves all working in unison, pulling in a great deal of money... You don't 
  have a use for that?" She wonders.

"What man in Haven doesn't have a use for money?" is the wingless one's bland 
  reply. Again his grin flashes, even if only momentarily, before he appends 
  in equally bland tones that do nothing to offset the shrewd gleam in his 
  eyes, "Are you here to plead their case?"

A low chuckle comes from deep within the healer's throat as she looks back at 
  him. Giving a shake to her golden locks. "Plead? No. But... I do know that 
  you have a great deal of talent in this area, and I think it is you who 
  could benefit from them, even more than the other way around." A devious 
  glint within her gaze, still holding that same curve to her lips. 
  "Especially... if you gain their trust and respect." A meaningful lift of 
  her brows as her chin lowers. "Such backing, though it be perhaps unseen... 
  could be very useful in many things, could it not?"

Though he doesn't change position, one hand hanging lazily at his side and the 
  other with its thumb hooked into a pocket, something subtle changes in 
  Richard's bearing. An increased alertness, perhaps. Certainly his gaze turns 
  speculative at these words of the Empyrean woman's, and once again he crooks 
  a dark eyebrow upward. "Such backing," he murmurs archly, "never comes 
  without a price."

Cynara's lips curl a bit more at one corner, forming a lopsided sort of smile 
  as she nods. "Very true." Taking a moment to glance around the garden as if 
  for some sort of inspiration for her next words, she pulls her gaze 
  meaningfully back to Richard. "But I don't believe you are one to cower and 
  neglect a chance just because of a challenge are you, Rook? For, it will be 
  a challenge to gain their backing, though I can help you with it... and the 
  price, plain and simple, would be that you ..." Her fingers snip a leaf from 
  a nearby tree, both hands holding it before her absently as she pokes her 
  fingers through the center without seeming to notice, since her eyes are on 
  him, serious, testing, "... run the Guild for me."

It takes a great deal to surprise this man -- but although Cynara's managed to 
  do it twice already in this conversation, that was nothing compared to the 
  shock that courses through his system now at those ostensibly casual words. 
  For a heartbeat he goes rigid, eyes visibly round, and for another heartbeat 
  he's actually struck speechless. Possibilities shoot through his thoughts, 
  intoxicating in the potentials they lay open within his grasp. He who 
  commands the thieves of Haven could very well be argued to command the wealth 
  of Haven -- or at least enough of it to accomplish anything he might desire. 
  Like the feeding and teaching and shelter of two Mongrel children... or the 
  liberation of another child from the heavy hand of her uncle.
Or the ruin of an enemy... even if that enemy is his own brother.
A third heartbeat, and Richard finds his voice again -- though when he speaks, 
  his words come out hoarse. "Why me?" he rasps.

Cynara's cool gaze reflects the knowing cunning of a woman used to leading and 
  making decisions. She looks back at Richard for a heartbeat or two before 
  lifting her chin marginally, keeping her voice soft, "Because you are the 
  Rook." she replies first, and then adds, "And... Because you have it within 
  your means to be completely annonymous in the position, as is the current 
  guild master, if you wish it, that is." Another leaf is plucked and casually 
  destroyed within the healer's fingers.

The shock ebbs a little, enough to let Richard regain something of his 
  composure; his stance eases a fraction, but his gaze remains piercingly 
  inquisitive. "Aye," he says then, softly. "I'm the Rook. But what can you 
  get from me that you can't get from the current master?" _And,_ he wonders 
  to himself, _does this mean -you- aren't the current master -- or are you 
  holding back from me on this, eh, Domina?_

Cynara smirks at the question and lets out a soft snort, "A man with a 
  -brain-, perhaps?" she replies with a roll of her eyes, apparently for the 
  current guild master. Returning to her serious, calm demeanor, she explains 
  quietly. "You see, the current guild master is growing fat and lazy. He does 
  nothing with the Guild and is becoming lax on his training the new thieves 
  as well. That is not acceptable. I do not have the time to run the guild 
  myself, nor do I have the exceptionall skills that you posess, which would 
  be needed in such an endeavor." She allows his mind to fill in any blanks on 
  his own, unless he cares to ask, providing no more than necessary. Perhaps 
  it is a method of testing his true interest in the proposition. What 
  questions will he ask...

He doesn't blurt out a question immediately; indeed, there is an active mind 
  behind those twilight eyes, and it is now actively at work. He brings up a 
  hand, two fingers uplifted as if to forestall the Empyrean woman, though she 
  has in fact paused again to wait for him to speak. "The thieves of Haven are 
  helping fund your own people," he surmises, though that's hardly a difficult 
  guess. "If you have an ally leading the Guild -- how much of the take are 
  you asking? And how many of the Guild are already yours?"

Cynara shows no reaction to the questions she expected. Had he not asked, she 
  would have been dissappointed. "Most of the thieves are Outcasts, and the 
  guild does, in fact, provide a good deal of our income. On average, the 
  Outcasts take just over half of the overall revenue of the Guild, the rest, 
  is divided among the thieves and some is held by the Guild Master to fund 
  future hits. What do you mean by 'already mine'?" she asks to clarify what 
  information you are looking for by that question.

A swift, wicked grin flares up across Richard's fair-skinned face, bringing 
  glints of a mercurial humor he's but infrequently displayed before this 
  woman into his eyes. "If most of the Guild thieves are already Outcasts," he 
  drawls, "the Guild _is_, in essence, _yours_... and the Master of Thieves, 
  your lieutenant, aye?"

A gentle curve comes to Cynara's lips, a silent confirmation of his 
  observation. After a moment she adds her voice to it, "Aye. Something like 
  that." the smile grows a bit. "Though, he need not be an Outcast himself." 
  It is much better to have one accepted within society who can learn the 
  secrets of such things which are trusted to those sorts of people.

The grin turns deadpan, but the spark remains in Richard's stare. Deliberately 
  slipping back into the street patois he pulls into and discards from his 
  voice as adroitly as a master acrobat walks a wire. "Ach, well, Dom'na, when 
  it comes t' countin' Mongrels as Outcasts or nae -- six o' one, half-dozen 
  o' th'other, y'ken?"

Squarish lips press together in a gentle smirk as she nods. "There is truth in 
  that, of course, but you and I both know you are not a mongrel." she states 
  flatly, though she does lower her voice as it is said. "I think the Master 
  of the Thieves Guild is a position best served by one those in society 
  accept as their own, and therefore have no qualms about letting things slip 
  while in their company..." letting the thought trail off a bit to sink in...

By now, Richard is beyond surprise. He goes very still nevertheless at the 
  implications interwoven through Cynara's words, and for all that he doesn't 
  so much as crook up one brow, his gaze is so sharp now that he might well 
  cut with it. Wary. Expectant. And perhaps full of an unvoiced wondering as 
  to what exactly the Lady of Thorns knows. "Suppose you enlighten me," he 
  says then, his velvet tenor the barest breath of a whisper now, "as to what 
  you have in mind."

Yet another leaf is plucked from the tree near her, after the others have 
  fallen in green confetti at her feet. Cynara looks over him a moment before 
  choosing her words. "A man of breeding, with a home, and children... would 
  be much more trusted among the Accepted of society than would a streetrat 
  mongrel. Few would suspect such a man of leading Haven's most skilled 
  thieves, and therefore having the entire city's wealth at his disposal." She 
  shrugs a bare shoulder and adds, "More or less." to the idea of the city's 
  wealth. Her smile is cunning as she focuses it upon him again, "The children 
  would be well cared for, in a good home of their Empyrean benefactor and he 
  would have the respect of all his peers..." She lifts a brow.

Despite his raffish appearance, the Rook _is_ Empyrean, through and through -- 
  and there is a man of breeding lurking behind that crude portrayal he's 
  presented to Haven for over a dozen years now. Such a man can easily fence 
  words without blinking, parrying implication with implication, meeting hint 
  with hint. But there are times to take refuge in insinuations, and there are 
  times to come to the point; now, it seems that Richard is opting to do the 
  latter. "I see but two problems with that plan -- no, three" he answers 
  airily, the glibness of his voice doing absolutely nothing to lessen the 
  hard clarity of his stare, and the way he's holding himself as if in 
  expectation of something more about to reveal itself to him -- or strike 
  him. "One, perhaps my information is insufficiently fresh, but I'm 
  unacquainted with any unoccupied fine houses to dwell in in this city. Two, 
  as far as the Children of Air are concerned..." His mouth twitches into a 
  ghost of his crooked grin. "I happen to lack peers at the moment. Or at 
  least respectable ones. Three--" And he falls silent, but he doesn't really 
  need to say anything else, not while he's got a hand with which to gesture 
  almost negligently over his own shoulder.

Completely undaunted by the points he makes, Cynara leans back against the 
  trunk of the tree, her brilliant white wings parting to either side of it. 
  The expression upon her visage is one of complete control and certainty. "I 
  did not say it would happen overnight, Richard." she points out with a 
  slightly teasing sort of grin, "The first is only a matter of ... relocation 
  of goods, isn't it?" she asks, "The current guild master has a very nice 
  home." she points out blithely, "And since he will no longer be needing it, 
  and has no heirs with any sort of claim on it..." Then on to the next issue, 
  "Peers always seem to come out of the woodwork when they see that a man has 
  a nice house and perhaps some money. Moths to a flame, our race, if they see 
  you, and you comport yourself in a manner befitting the image you wish them 
  to see, they will flock to you most assuredly. Perhaps we can even find a 
  suitable name and make a new House for you." There is an edge to the tone 
  that is slightly questioning, digging. "What is your family name, Richard?" 
  She asks then, as if it had just occurred to her.

One does have to wonder whether this means the current Master of Thieves is 
  about to take an extended vacation -- but then again, Richard is a thief, 
  not an assassin, and he is far too familiar with the aspects of both those 
  professions that he doesn't even have to think very hard about whether to 
  pursue the notion of how exactly this individual is about to be relocated 
  out of his dwelling. And at any rate, that last question has so clearly 
  captivated his attention that the fate of the current Master is for the 
  moment almost inconsequential. Once again he pauses a moment before 
  answering. And once again, the casual delivery of his reply is entirely at 
  odds with the hard sapphirine glint of his stare. A crucial moment, this; 
  does he want to trust Cynara with this information? But then... she already 
  knows much of what he is. And if she's half so clever as he's always 
  suspected, who's to say she doesn't know this already? Moreover, if she is 
  making this offer in good faith... He doesn't bother to finish his own 
  thought. But its effects can be read in his face nonetheless, a subliminal 
  shift, a trace of the inner decision to cross the barrier, to make the 
  gesture. "Nemeides. Not that I've used it any time recently. For reasons 
  that I'm sure are quite clear."

The gesture is accepted and appreciated by the smile that comes to the 
  healer's lips. Her eyes narrow in thought as she asks, "Nemeides... isn't 
  that a minor noble House?" Perhaps she is searching her brain for a fit of 
  the name, or perhaps she already knows its standing. Never the less, she 
  continues on the train of thought, "Would you wish your own House back, or 
  shall we start another for you?" She asks simply, not sounding at all as if 
  the response will tell her a great deal about him. And the tone implies that 
  his acceptance of her offer is very likely.

"Commoner," drawls Richard, entirely straight-faced now, "though Nemea has 
  struggled for generations now to improve the blueness of its collective 
  blood." And then comes another pause, the irony draining from his eyes, 
  leaving something grimmer in its wake. He draws in the softest of breaths, 
  then releases it -- and these are the only signs he allows himself of how 
  much that seemingly offhand question has affected him. "Nemea... has made it 
  exquisitely clear that they are... no longer my House."

Cynara only nods to the answer, her eyes cold and determined. "And still, my 
  question remains the same." she states evenly. If he wishes his own name, 
  she displays complete confidence that it will come to be.

And such a question it is, isn't it? Richard's countenance, by now, is as 
  stony as the face of an Empyrean man can get, the fine lines of his visage 
  so grim despite their blurring by the shadow of a beard across his jaw that 
  his features might well be cast from marble. A dire thought indeed must have 
  just seized him -- but he does not give it voice. Instead, his tone turned 
  harsh, he rasps, "There is... a girl in House Nemea. My... only interest in 
  them is to get her free of them."

The sky blue eyes of the Lady of Thorns narrow at this. "The one with the dark 
  hair and white wings." she nods as if she's answering her own question. "Are 
  they cruel to her?" Pale brows draw downward a little at the idea. "You say 
  'free of them' rather than saying that you wish her to be with you..."

Richard's stony expression doesn't alter -- save for the quick flare of 
  emotion in his eyes and a twitch of a muscle in his cheek. "She is my 
  daughter, Cynara," he murmurs then, his velvet tenor doing nothing to soften 
  the bluntness of that pronouncement; if anything, it strangely accentuates 
  it. "And the man who destroyed me now holds Nemea. You tell me if he's cruel 
  to her."

Cynara's lips part silently as this puzzle piece is revealed. Her eyes wander 
  over his face for a moment, devious blue eyes sparked with bitter 
  indignation. "The man who destroyed you now holds your daughter and your 
  name in his hand, Richard." she pauses only a heartbeat, a blaze of deadly 
  determination in her eye, "Do you want them back?"

Blue eyes to blue, lethal fire to cerulean ice. There's pain there, lurking 
  somewhere in Richard's visage, not entirely buried beneath the cold mask 
  that has descended across his features. The face of a rogue... the face of a 
  gentleman. And though he hasn't admitted to the sentiment, the face of a 
  father whose flesh and blood is in peril, out of which he will do whatever 
  it takes to deliver her. A healer's senses, so powerful as those as the Lady 
  of Thorns, cannot help but catch the quickening of his pulse and the tension 
  in his frame -- and even without the aid of the aether, the keen eye upon 
  him can catch the outer physical signs as well despite his control upon his 
  composure. The keen ear attuned to his voice can catch the steel beneath the 
  velvet tenor rasp as the Rook puts forth the final critical question:
"Can you give them back to me?"

"I can." Comes the cold voice of ruthlessness wrapped within the sultry purr 
  of a dangerous woman. There is no need to use her magic to know the 
  responses of his blood and muscles to the things she says, and yet she does 
  not stop her senses from providing the information so readily. Confidence 
  incarnate, her head remains high, winter blue eyes centered upon his own 
  awaiting the response.

Richard's face is already hard of line -- and thus it is his eyes alone that 
  reflect the resolve that seems to settle into place across his soul at those 
  two simple words. He has been trying for months now to build up his own 
  private funds, enough to let him steal into the Empyre or at least send a 
  trusted proxy who can travel more swiftly than a man restricted to the 
  ground, and who could bring him back word of what has befallen Moirae Julia 
  Nemeides -- and of his brother. But one man can handle stolen good only so 
  quickly. He does not know if it's Tyche's right hand holding out this 
  opportunity to him or Her left; incredible fortune, or impending doom? He 
  does not know if he is bargaining his soul away to agree to the deal laid at 
  his feet. But he does know one thing: his daughter has asked for her 
  father's help. And the Rook is going to give it to her. If Cynara is 
  confidence embodied, then _he_ is sharply focused Purpose. His next words, 
  succint and intent, need no other elaboration.
"Then I'm in."

[End log.]