"On Dreams of Wings" Log Date: 5/24, 6/7/00 Log Cast: Rory, Richard Log Intro: Cynara, the Lady of Thorns, leader of the Outcasts of Haven, has offered the man most of Haven knows as a Mongrel called Richard a chance to recover three things long lost to him: His House. His name. And his wings. Now that Richard -- Julian Nemeides -- has been handed this chance, it has not taken him long at all to realize it is one he can scarcely turn down. Now that he knows he has a daughter whose future could well depend on his taking this path laid before him, he has all the more reason to follow it on top of the two young Mongrels who depend upon him already... Mongrel children who would have a much improved chance at survival were he Master of Thieves of Haven. But there is one other who has grown dear to Richard, and before he will truly commit himself to Cynara's offered deal, he must know what his young fire-haired Auvrey has to say on the possibility of his true nature revealed for all the world to see... and more importantly, for _her_.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Morning Date on Aether: Sunday, July 11, 3906. Year on Earth: 1506 A.D. Phase of the Moon: First Quarter Season: Summer Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Hot *==========================================================================* It is Sunday, her day off, and likely why she is in her quarters at present. Prayers having finished for the morning and with Katri and her sitter searching for fresh fruits, Auvrey is left blessedly alone. Nimble fingers twitch this way and that, plucking up a few leftover girlie things her adopted daughter has not learned to put away herself. Upon her lips is a winsome, distracted smile and a merry little tune to greet the sweltering morn. Curtains thrust back, daylight streams inwards, to banish the traces of last night past. Alone is quite to the liking of Richard. He's slipped into Delphi not long before sunrise, clad in beggar's rags; his hair is dusted with ash, and his cheeks padded within to alter the shape of his face. The Hounds have given him nary a second glance as he's come in hobbling in through the front gates, creeling piteously about the need to see "th' pretty fire-haired lady provost" -- and he's cheerfully crept around into the shadows at the west side of the tower to shed his disguise before slipping on soft-soled boots into the tower itself. There's nary a breath of sound to herald his arrival, at least until the door opens -- and a soft velvet tenor murmurs, "Good morning, amora." "Richard." Sunlight bathes not only the room itself, but Auvrey's husky undertones of welcome. Neatly tucking frilly clothing into the bureau nearby, it is then that she turns, silks whispering elegantly below as she approaches, fidgeting, delicate hands and all. "A good morn to you, as well." The briefest of hesitations, before she inquires, "Kaffe? Tea?" That is, "Could I offer you either?" Nevermind that she already has. A bit scatterbrained is she, being startled thusly, and if the twin pinkening cheeks are any indication, it was from rather distracting thoughts she has been brought. There's still a bit of ash tinging his otherwise ebon hair, but on the whole, his appearance is as it generally is -- save for an unusual dark sobriety within his eyes, not quite overridden by the tiny quirk of a smile at one corner of his mouth. He ventures nearer, holding out a hand palm up in unspoken entreaty and apology; it's been some time since he's managed to visit this young woman, and he feels the intervening weeks all at once as a tightening in his chest. "No, thank you," he quietly replies. "Unless you're after taking some yourself, in which case... well." Clear silver eyes notate and focus upon each nuance of his movements, and the exuberance of which she has succumbed too is just as neatly tucked within a sea of calm and peace. Scrubbed hands fold primly before her, as she offers, "Nay, not this morn in truth. Would you like a seat, then, Richard?" A motion towards the pillows provided before yet again her position is returned to. Before he answers that, Richard steps up to the young Mongrel woman, lowering the hand he'd held out in hope of her clasping it... and then, instead, lifting it and its mate to touch her shoulders. "No, amora, I'm fine," he murmurs, his voice light, but that serious weight still within his twilight regard. "What of you?" His dark head tilts fractionally, as he realizes he should append, "Have I come in at a bad time? You're more or less Provost now--" And for a moment, his eyes soften. "I should congratulate you, amora." A warm, brandied chuckle at that, as a single, buttersoft cheek nuzzles his left hand unconciously. "Thank you, Richard, though in truth Delphi Estrel have been so quiet, I doubt I will secure the position. It has been well, though, maintaining the occupation as long as I have." All she needed was a true touch to warm her once more, the difference palpable, though never has she presented a cold or disturbed shoulder. Firegold lashes lift so that Rory may regard him once more, head cocking to one side. "Something has changed. Is this something you have come to see me about?" Ahh, so the somberness -was- noticed. The soft laugh, the gentle nuzzle, and the welcoming silver gaze are enough to draw Richard's arms about the young woman now. He'd known he couldn't ide this, not forever -- and he's braced himself to deliver news without having the slightest idea whether it will be well received. But the swiftness with which Auvrey comes right to the point assures this wingless one that, at least, his instincts have remained true when it comes to doing the right thing with this girl who's seized far more of his fancy and attention than he could have expected in his wildest jaunts of imagination. Blowing out a breath, he nods first, and then answers softly, "Aye, Auvrey-lass. Something has... changed. Something will change. I had to come and tell you." Heat. Gentle touch. Male strength enfolding her without pain. Her squeeze tenderly delivered is of appreciation, thanks, and encouragement. Carmine locks float angelically around her features, those which are pressed so neatly into such a solid chest, and through it all her mumbled words can be deciphered. "I am glad you have come to tell me, Richard," instead of leaving her in the dark, as so many are wont to do. "I listen." Weeks have passed -- weeks in which this brave, pure-hearted young woman has quietly stepped into the void vacated by Eric, and weeks in which he himself has labored to build up his store of funds. Two very different pursuits, these, and even as he drinks in the sight of Auvrey's delicate visage, Richard feels another sharp pang somewhere within his chest, unable to keep himself from wondering exactly how farther apart their pursuits will inevitably pull them. Twilight eyes darken, even as the Rook cradles Auvrey in an embrace so tender that she might be crafted of porcelain rather than flesh. "Cynara," he breathes out huskily, "has made me an offer that I cannot... for the sake of my daughter... refuse." Cynara. A familiar name, one that sits ill with Auvrey. But it does not cause her to stiffen nor pull away. Trust. Absolute trust keeps the woman within his arms. She has, after all, spoken to him about problems Cynara presents, and Richard -does- have quite an intellect. "I am a curious creature, Richard," comes her light, teasing voice, a playful poke actually directed at his side. Playful is nearly a first for this well-tempered lass. Well, a playful tone is a promising beginning, at least. Richard's mouth curves up fractionally again at its right end, but his eyes remain somber; they cannot help but do so, after all, when the events of past weeks remain at the forefront of his mind. The miniscule smile fades down again as he murmurs in straightforward, earnest tones, "House Nemea... has been out of Haven for some weeks now. I don't know if you might have heard of their departure. But--" That finely cut mouth tightens for a moment, this time, as Rory's morning visitor steels himself to utter his next few words. "--my... brother... has withdrawn the House from the city. Or at least... my daughter. Cynara has offered to help me get her back." Finally do her pale irises raise, understanding deep and penetrating within. "I understand your need, Richard. I am wondering, however, at what price Cynara has offered this.. boon." Too well. Too well does she know the bitch branded healer. Too, such a thought has stolen her teasing smile, though kindness continues to reign within the leggy redhead. And love. Definate, unabashed, radiant love. This, then, is the heart of why Richard is here. Twilight eyes draw in the slightest shift of Auvrey's expression, with the same intensity with which this man normally studies locks he has marked for his prey and Empyrean baubles he has marked for his taking. "She has asked me to lead the thieves of the city... on her behalf," is the first half of his nswer, and that part's easy enough. A trifle more difficult is the other half, and as he utters it, his voice roughens a bit more, turning from velvet to something raspier upon the ear, like the tongue of a cat. "She is of the opinion... that I would do it more effectively as Julian Nemeides." A light nod as she ponders - actually ponders! - this. "You would do well, Richard, as such a leader, as would the gathering of thieves, I am certain." Long fingers caress his backside soothingly. "She wishes this to be a permanent thing, I assume. What does she gain from it, then? Control over you, I imagine?" Her questions are not coldly put, but observantly, after a fashion, and still remaining quite curious. There have been times when Richard has almost let himself forget about the mass of black feathers that once brushed his back, wings whose weight pulled at his shoulderblades... and which gave him access to the liberation of the air. Now, however, is not one of those times. Keenly reminded of how something so simple as a stroke of soft fingers upon his body may well change if the obvious sign of what his true race is restored to him, the thief cannot help but imagine for a moment or two how it would feel to have those hands upon his feathers, to be able to enfold this bright-haired beauty in his wings. Between that mental picture and appreciation for the wit that prompted Auvrey's queries, the Rook can't help but smile more visibly now. Something like amusement begins to glint through the intent blue stare still focused upon the Mongrel woman's countenance. "She freely as much admitted that most of the thieves of Haven already _are_ hers... and that the Master of Thieves is, in effect, her lieutenant." Now his velvet tenor lapses into a droll, ironic drawl. "And she has _claimed_, when asked 'why me?', that she wants a man with a brain. On the face of things, at least, what she would appear to get out of it would be profit." And then, finally, Richard's momentary humor fades as he has to admit thoughtfully, "But there's something about her that's changed, too, Auvrey-lass, and I don't know what's brought it on. She... actually apologized to me, for the arguments we've had over the children." A frown is earned, her emotions openly displayed, as usual. Tugging her chin upwards, into his eyes she stares, searching. "Changed.." The word is tasted, savored, and picked apart simultaneously. "It is well that she has apologized, Richard, but it also worries me." A Cynara that she does not know is a dangerous one, indeed. "Did she seem to have been changed by something within her life, or did her mind seem.." Hmmm. "If I say 'tampered' with, do you know what I insinuate?" Ebon brows crook upward. "I'm no mage, amora," Richard points out. "Nor Atlantean, to be able to read such things by right of my blood." But his head tilts ever so slightly again, brows now knitting down low over his eyes in swift contemplation. "I'll say this; she seemed in command of herself. And deadly as I have ever beheld her, when she asked if I wanted to take back my daughter -- and my name." And as he speaks _this_, the wingless one's face goes still and grim. It is not an expression he has worn often before the Mongrel he embraces, but he does not look away from her. This, too, he presents for her curious gaze to absorb. "With your returned name, will Cynara too give you back what once was taken from you?" If her words cannot be understood, those roaming fingers can, those which tenderly administer light caresses where once his glorious wings did sprout. The tiniest of pauses as she thoroughouly considers, before Auvrey asks with an eerily quieted timbre, "Will I see you but for publically after that, Richard?" It is an honest question, again laying claim to her deeply rooted nature, one that she has not managed nor wanted to rid herself of. Both the Rook's hands come up, deft fingers that have spent a decade and a half learning to seduce forth the secrets of any number of locks now cradling the young woman's face between them. His hands -- they're hard and callused, but they cup those cheeks as gently as feathers might. "Will you wish to, amora?" he murmurs. "Will I still bring a light to those lovely eyes, with my race once more visible for all to see...?" "I will wish to, Richard," confesses the makeshift Provost, her creamy skin gliding against his own, rough male parts - as one head over heals might the carpetted floor. "It does not matter to me that you will be Empyrean for everyone to see, for you will still be the same man I have come to care for." Her words are even softer than her last, the truth a difficult thing to admit for so intimate a level. "But too, when you regain your House and your heritage, you will be brought further into your culture you have left behind. A culture where mongrels as equals are not accepted. If you are to regain your House, you must too consider what it means to the public if you associate with one such as myself." Oh, aye, it's crossed his mind more than once as to what brows would raise, should an Empyrean man be seen in Haven with a Mongrel woman upon his arm. And more than once has Richard considered how his retaking House Nemea would change his freedom to do exactly what he is doing now. Full cognizance of this gleams in his twilight eyes as he rasps, "My sweet young darling... my people are not exactly enamored of men with black wings. Do you know..." And he step closer, one hand sliding down now to once more encircle the fire-haired maiden. "Do you know, Auvrey, that I have dreamed of wrapping you in my wings...?" So they'd be two freaks. Two negatives make a positive, right? Ruddy cheek pressing firmly against his broad chest, a slip of a smile slowly begins to form upon her lush lips. "I know now." No, she had no clue, but by the tremoring desire heating her tone, there can be no mistaking just what kind of an effect such an image has on her delicate being. Squeezing rips lightly, her voice half-buries within his jerkin. "I.. would.. like that." He as of yet has no wings -- but the Rook has his arms, and he enfolds Auvrey within them, pressing her close against his chest. "I woke yesterday," he whispers into radiant red tresses, "with my head full of that image, amora. I had wings again. I wrapped you within them, and there was only we two, sheltered against all else..." And his velvet tenor trails off, but not unsurely; rather, the lilt of his voice leaves rich promise hanging within what little span of air lies between his lips and her nearest ear. Those lips brush feather-soft kisses along her hair then, in punctuation to that dream-vision. A shiver slips into her pores, one by one, tickling down delicate flesh to taunt Auvrey with passionate hints. Unfair, to find her weak points, those which easily might melt her to a blob, a useless puddle of skin quivering for lack of satiation. Unfair, that he can so easily touch and release such a quake within. Pearly teeth scrape lightly there against, lining his collarbone and nipping the underside of his neck in response to such a seige, before a sigh whispers as a breeze. "A lovely image, Richard," agrees she readily enough. "Is there aught I can do to help you, my sunshine? Anything at all?" "Tell me," breathes the Rook, "that you'll welcome me, whether I climb to your window... or fly." A breathless, purring chuckle at that as she nuzzles affectionately once more. Buttersoft fingertips reach up to cup his jawline, bringing lips to lips, before her gaze seeks to pierce his own. "Climb, crawl, fly, sail, or wobble, I will always welcome you at my window." Mischief sparks as sudden as the fire which is captured within her glorious mane. "Clothed or naked, covered in chocolate or dotted with strawberries, my window shall always be open for you." A teasing whisper, "But best you use the window under those circumstances, for Delphites might faint from apoplexy." At that mischievous suggestion, Richard first crushes Auvrey to him, his mouth melding unerringly to her own -- and when he breaks free, he's grinning wickedly from ear to ear. "Minx! Just for that treat alone I might have to take you up on that delightful suggestion...!" For now, though, he settles for another kiss, in which he indulges for a span of several heartbeats. Then another break, and with his brow resting against Auvrey's own he murmurs, "Amora... I cannot say how much you have lightened my heart. I must see if Cynara can do this for me -- if nothing else, because it gives the bairns a chance I could never otherwise give them... and for my daughter. If you're also with me... that alone will help me, greatly." The kisses leave the poor lil' redhead quite dazed, enough to leave her blinking dumbly for perhaps a few seconds too long. But then it is that her half-naughty, half-pleased grin is back, and in full force. "I will be here for you, Richard." How could she not, when so much of her heart has been stolen by this man? Once again she is seized by a delicious little chuckle. What an image. "Please, let me have a painter here so that we might capture that precious moment, should you decide to do so, yes?" Rich laughter bursts forth from the thief, and as it does, he can't help but spin the fiery maid about in his arms. "If you're knowing one who'll paint a darkling wearing naught but chocolate, his wings, and a smile, amora, I'll pay him a bag of gold myself!" he cries. Now -that- is enough to spark an even stronger flame of interest. If Richard dare look, he should perhaps beware of the dedicated look that filters into Auvrey's pale gaze. He will, will he? Wheels ticking, turning, churning, she dares to ask, "So this coming Friday? I think I can arrange something by then." Oh dear. Spitfire cannot stop once she is started! Even despite the dull blush that has taken hold of her lovely complexion. Ahh, the sweet throws of embarrassment. She is a spitfire... and he is a rogue. That fiendish crooked grin is still curling his mouth. But after a moment or two it becomes tempered by a hint of semi-seriousness in Richard's dark azure eyes. "Ach, amora," he breathes then, letting the words roll out of him with a flavor of his street accents, "you're almost temptin' me to climb up the tower without a stitch on... for I'm not knowin' if I'll be winged again by then, or when, truly." A light nod at that, and too her mood takes on a few more serious tones. "Well, sooner or later, if it means I myself must paint little stick figures, I shall have you captured in a light no one else has managed to view." Just for her private little studies. A stick figure with a fig leaf, or something. A wink, before she lightly touches her lips to his. "Is there more news?" Does she hinder him from telling her more? Well, not so much hinder, per se, as tempt him to make up for his lack of ebon pinions in which he might enfold her with the caresses of hands and mouth instead. "There is not too much more to tell," he murmurs then. "I must plan with Cynara. I do not yet know where we will begin -- and there are rumors I must trace regarding the presence of Nemea in Haven." An accepting nod, even as it is most distracted with building infernos within. Through a raspy breath, Auvrey actuallly manages to whisper, "Let me know if I can help you, Richard." She is not without possibilities, but perhaps the man has just as many sources, perhaps more capable than she. "Mmmmm..." That soft, sultry noise rolls forth from him then, a velvet purr of pleasure... and more than a little lingering desire. Both Richard's hands find soft places upon Auvrey's statuesque frame, his palms gliding against her flesh in echo of the way his voice falls upon her ear. "At the moment, amora, I can think of only a single way in which I crave your assistance..." And with that, his head cranes downward again to press his lips to hers, so that he might elaborate. [End log.]