"A Most Shocking Proposal" Log Date: 7/30, 7/31, 8/1, 8/6/01 Log Cast: Acantha, Julian Log Intro: For all that he has managed to acquire a veneer of respectability in Haven -- and a most useful veneer it is as well, one which provides him the ability to keep his darker identity as the Master of Thieves as secure as it can be made -- Julian Nemeides is nevertheless a man on the fringes of what his race considers proper society. He may possess wealth... but his wings are still black and his family still mismatched. Eyebrows still go up that he chooses to raise Mongrel children not of his blood as his own son and daughter. He must therefore take care to look through the city to find places where he can conduct his legitimate business unchallenged -- and it has turned out that one of these places is a herb shop run by a highly atypical example of his race's women. Redheaded Acantha has flinched neither at a darkling as her customer nor at the care Julian has given to his wards. Today, however, Julian is about to discover that Acantha is more atypical than he could possibly have guessed.... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Afternoon Date on Aether: Sunday, September 8, 3908. Year on Earth: 1508 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Crescent Season: Late Summer Weather: Clear Skies Temperature: Hot *==========================================================================* Interior Shop - Acantha's Herbs - Haven "Acantha's Herbs" reads the wooden sign swinging merrily over the doorway. A large green leaf has been painted below the letters for those unable to read. The heavy wooden door of the shop is designed to hit a small golden bell suspended from the ceiling to signal that a someone has entered. The room is rectangular; the window to the street and a long counter running all the way to the rear of the store are on the left. The counter is hinged at the near end, allowing passage between the common area and the rear of the store. Most of the herbalist's wares are on the shelves behind this counter, neatly arranged according to type: tea, tonic, lotion, cosmetic. On the right-hand side of the room, a couple of tables with chairs line the wall atop a woven maroon rug. The sharp, pungent scent of herbs permeates the room; heady, yet refreshing. Contents: Acantha Obvious exits: Out Acantha's Backroom Acantha Acantha holds an erect and graceful posture. Her red hair varies between the nearly gold color of a lit candle and the darker shades of sunset. The effect is striking against her sleekly feathered wings, particularly since her hair hangs long down her back; a cascade of flames. Her blue-gray eyes are like the sky, varying from stormy to cloudless depending on her mood. She wears a linen chiton, decorated at the hem and neckline in abstract scrolling. Her himation is a muted dark blue and clasped over her left shoulder with a delicate silver fibula. She uses her earthy green palla as another colorful layer aganst her himation, or as a veil of modesty when appropriate. Acantha is a voluptuous, but not overly rounded woman. Her skin is lightly freckled and when prompted, dimples can be found in both cheeks. Carrying: Leather Bag The afternoon sun burns down upon the streets of Haven. Few are out and about, either needing to be, or avoiding the crowds that will be out at the first sign of the cooling of the day. From within the shop, the re-headed herbalist fans herself, and contemplates shutting the long, rectabngular window of her shop. She's not likely to get any walk-up customers from there today. She walks the length of the counter to the front of the store, pulling the shutters closed and latching them to create a dim, slightly cooler interior. Julian Nemeides never was a man to do what is 'likely', and even if black pinions are in summer's heat rather more conducive to overheating one than white ones, he deliberately goes about his business today unruffled by the weather. And today, his business brings him to one of the few shops in the city where his custom appears to be not only acceptable but even welcome. His arrival is heralded by the bell at the door, and the door itself swinging open to admit his tall frame. Today, for once, he also appears to be alone. Twilight eyes cast their considering gaze about the place, finding the mistress of it without effort; upon immediate sight of her, the darkling inclines his head in greeting. "Ave, domina." That 'domina' again, as with the first three times he's set foot in this establishment. But perhaps, that cool countenance of his might be a little less unreadable today than normal. Perhaps his tone might be a little easier. Acantha smiles easily, dimples appearing in her lightly freckled face. "Ave, Deus," she says, having heard from Jenara about your status. "Would you like someting cool to drink?" Little wisps of hair have sprung free from her coiffure and are coiled in the heat. She pushes at them impatiently. Though the man somehow manages to carry himself as if he were a wind-mage and had his own personal breeze cooling his brow, a suitably close glance at him would give the lie to such an assumption. There is just the barest hint of sweat along his temple, and an ever so slight suggestion of relief now that he's come into the relative coolness of the shop's interior. Turning to take his wings clear of the door, he closes it behind him, while proffering a small one-sided smile at the young woman. "That would be most welcome, thank you. I hope this is not a bad time for me to come by?" Acantha pushes at her hair rather artlessly, and pours a glass of cool fruit juice for you, and then one for herself. "Not at all. My business drops off in the heat of the day. I'll do well again in the evening." She encourages you to take a seat at the counter. "Would you care for a meal?" Amusement glitters in Julian's dark azure eyes as he settles himself upon the backless stool, ebon pinions rustling into place behind him and casting shadows down across his fine-boned countenance. "Thank you," is his immediate reply, as the juice is accepted, the glass lifted and drunk from in a deliberately artless gesture. He drains it half-dry before lowering it again, saying with one black eyebrow arched, "Is it just me, domina, or do you make a habit of greeting all of your customers with offers of food?" Acantha quirks a grin, dimpling just one side of her face, "I think it would stroke your ego far too much if I said that it was just you, Deus." Her countenance sobers slightly, "People may buy herbs and teas regularly, but they will not need them again until they run out. Food, on the other hand, one needs at least once a day." She refills your glass without further comment. The darkling is apparently one of those men who has the talent of raising one eyebrow at a time, and he does so now as the contents of his glass are replenished. Now he takes his time, his gestures with the goblet a trifle more those of a man of refinement rather than those of a man who simply _thirsts_. But most of his attention is upon the young woman, and he drawls with a deadpan expression, "You are of the opinion that I have an ego, then?" Acantha returns the expression with equal sobriety, "Don't all men?" Her storm-colored eyes carry a trace of cynicism. Perhaps she's had an encounter or two with an ego? She sips from her stoneware cup slowly, seeming to steel herself... either for something or against it. "I have met many proud men, domina," Julian says then, with only a touch of irony as he lifts his glass to take another sip from it. After that, he goes on, "Many of whom hail from our own race. But in fairness, I must also note that I have found that in their own ways, the women of our kind share an equal measure of pride with the men." A thin smile curls one side of his mouth once again, as with a slight thump he settles the glass back down before him. In his eyes, there remains a keen glitter that suggests he didn't miss anything else that was said, though the pride of Empyrean men and women is all he chooses to address for the moment. "But to answer your immediate question -- if you plan to eat yourself, I would not mind a small repast. Otherwise pray do not trouble yourself." Acantha smiles and takes the last sip from her cup, catching a droplet with her tongue. A trace of laughter at her own actions colors her voice as she murmurs, "No sooner said than done, Deus." She dissappears behind the heavy drapery and returns with a heavily laden tray. Setting it on the counter with a soft thump, she hands a plate to you, so that you may fill it with whatever you please. Crusty bread, olives, figs, and soft white cheese are offered. After settling back onto the stool, the red-headed herbalist tops off your cup of juice. A low velvet chuckle sounds from somewhere within Julian's throat, while he waits for you to return and resettle yourself as you please. Only then does he bother to begin attending to the food, and even now, most of his attention stays with you rather than with the victuals. "I see," he notes, "that you have been conversing with my people." That uttered, he slices bread and cheese and stacks them upon one another, then commences to neatly nip at them. All the while, however, his gaze remains up and alert, slightly shadowed beneath the dark folds of his wings behind his head. Acantha nods as she splits a fig with a knife, "Some of them have been in here." A small frown crosses her face as she looks up to hold your gaze, "Would you rather I called you something else?" Her long fingers deftly remove the skin off the fig while she meets your eyes. "Julian will suffice, if you wish," is the darkling's even reply. "I don't tend to stand on ceremony, though the House appears to have this idea in its collective heads that I should." A challenge? Or a test? One of a chain, perhaps, if this man's servants coming into the shop accompanied by the odd assortment of children under his care could be called a test. But if he is offering this tidbit of information in the same vein, it can't necessarily be gleaned from his countenance. He simply presents it, elegant features calm, dark blue eyes veiled. Acantha places the fig on your plate, saying, "I would like to call you Julian, if you would -like- to call me Acantha." She lifts the knife to split a second fig for herself, dragging her teeth over a portion of her lower lip in concentration. "I do not think I should call you by anything less than your title in the presence of others." Her fingers again peel back the velvet from the fruit. "Empyreans, as a rule, tend to take such a dim view of such things, don't they?" "Acantha it is." He inclines his head as graciously as any nobleman would do, though the glint of irony in his eyes abruptly sharpens. So does his smile, for all that it doesn't grow necessarily any larger as he slices off more portions of the cheese. "They do. But then, Empyreans tend to take a dim view of _me_ in general, so I can't say I am particularly concerned with the niceties of titles." Acantha shrugs off your statement, and snitches a slice of cheese. "You live your life by your own standards, do you not?" She nibbles, "Ultimately, you are only accountable to you. If you have not dissappointed or dishonored yourself, then you have nothing to worry about." She pops a pitted olive into her mouth with relish and swallows. "It is only because we choose to live in groups that we establish rules that govern those groups." "I am content enough with my station and life," says Julian, leaning casually onto one elbow now, more playing with the knife he'd been using to slice delicate layers of cheese than actually using it to any constructive purpose. "Whether it is dishonorable, well..." He does not elaborate, but he does smile again, cryptically and fleetingly. "Under which group's rules do you therefore choose to live, eh?" Acantha considers this, "I have lived a largely nomadic life." She pushes at a few wisps of hair, that immediately fall back into her face. "My mother died when I had seven years." A fact, simply given. "After that, my father had trouble staying there, running the business they had created together, in the building that they had planned together. We lived lots of different places, some good, some not so good. But each place has its own rules. I find Haven flexible enough, and have had no reason to compromise my beliefs." She sips her juice. He listens, as thus far has seemed to be his wont to do. Discreetly, neatly, he nibbles at cheese or bread or sips at his juice, and only when his companion has finished speaking does Julian answer, "Haven _is_ a good place for those who wish to see a bit past the traditions of what any of the races would teach, aye. In that respect, I most certainly approve of it." Acantha agrees. "I like what I have seen so far." A moment of silence reigns as both Empyreans eat and keep counsel with themselves. The red-haired woman tops off her own juice contemplatively and then seems to reach a decision. She brings her storm colored eyes up to meet your own blue gaze. Her expression is a jumble; concern, hesitation, and a bit of worry, all mixed up with something else. She might be a puzzle, but not because of her gaming-face! "Julian," she says, drawing out the syllables of your nomen in her low voice, "We're friends, aren't we?" This time, Julian raises both his ebon brows, and while the overall collected set of his features does not shift overall, there is a subtle, momentary flash of... no, not surprise, exactly. Perhaps expectation. "I am amiably disposed towards you," he answers readily enough, "for if nothing else, merchants who will sell their wares to me at reasonable prices rather than overcharge me ridiculously or refuse to let me set foot in their premises simply due to the hue of my wings are in decidedly short supply. More importantly, so far as I can tell, you are not inclined to shun me because I choose to raise Mongrel children as something more than servants, an attitude which is also in short supply among our kind. I am not exactly easily inclined to make friends--" And he delivers this point-blank, without a trace of irony at all in his visage, yet his eyes remain unreadable. "--but I will acknowledge the potential on our short acquaintance thus far." Acantha flexes her fingers together anxiously. "I want to ask you something. Something I can only ask of someone I feel comfortable with. Someone I can trust." She delivers that statement looking straight at you, then drops her eyes to the actions of her nervously fidgeting fingers. "I am afraid that you will be angered, but... I have thought about this for a long time. I had to think of all that would be involved, you see, and consider my options." She smiles sadly at her hands, "I even made a list, you know. A-a list of my 'options'..." She worries at her fingers further. He wants to think to himself, 'Ah, here it is. Now we get to the vital question -- what it is she wants.' And indeed, that very thought does cross Julian's mind, bringing a weary detachment into his twilight eyes for a moment or two, so long as the young herbalist is not actually looking at him. She may be uncommonly friendly, she may be even liberal in her views... but she is still an Empyrean, still a woman, and to date, with the exception of his own daughter, he has yet to really find an Empyrean woman who didn't have some motive up her dainty sleeve for gestures of kindness in his direction. Even if they were apparently beneficient motives. He studies this Empyrean woman now, noting her nervousness, noting the restless motions of her hands. Either she is an excellent actress... or genuinely uncomfortable. The possibility that she might in fact have begun to consider him a friend sits uneasily with him -- he is not a man who can afford too many friends. But then again... "Go on," he says then, almost gently, not without sympathy. Acantha bites her lip, considering the best way to say this. She makes a visible effort to calm her nervous motions and present herself well. "I..." The herbalist's red hair glints in the dim light of the room. She looks you in the eyes, her face open with naked emotion. "I would like you to give me a baby, Julian." It takes a great deal to surprise Julian Nemeides -- but the herbalist has succeeded this day and then some. Blank shock displaces the usual casual elegant mask of the darkling's features, widening his eyes and making him straighten up in his chair with a rustle of the wings behind him; those dark pinions flex for a moment in involuntary startlement before he settles them down again. And then his brows pull in low over his eyes, but this only takes the edge off the consternation in his gaze and does not hide it. "You can't," he says then, "be serious...?" "I am," Acantha takes a moment to nervously wet her lips before continuing, "Julian, I want a baby very badly. I thought about this for a long time." She clasps her hands together tightly. "By society's standards, I am on the shelf; I don't have any real prospects. I know I'm not attractive enough to find someone persuing me. I'm not rich, nor do I have a dowry, and my parents are both dead. My family name is nothing that will draw anyone to it, though it be honorable." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "If I am going to have a family, I have to do it by myself." He listens to all of this, his expression going shuttered again, all save for an uncommon piercing clarity to his eyes that suggests this talk of family has struck somewhere deep beneath his normally cool exterior. And he says nothing, at least not immediately. As you speak of your looks, his gaze flickers intently over your face, your wings, the shape of your neck and shoulders -- though it does not, out of courtesy, go lower. At last, all he says is a very quiet, "And you have settled upon... me, as a prospect for this child's father?" Acantha flushes, a stain of bright pink painting her cheekbones and her neck to past her collarbone. "I, ah, I m-made a list," she confesses, "Of the gentlemen I knew, and eliminated ones I was not comfortable with, and ones I did not think I could trust." The grip of her hands, the one clasping the other, is so tight that her knuckles are whitening. "You are at the top of the few that are left." Again there is a subtle flicker of something undefinable behind his eyes, as you speak of trusting him. "Do you mean to tell me," he quietly inquires, "that of the men you know, I am the one you trust the most, despite the relative newness of our acquaintance?" His velvet tenor is absolutely steady, but there is nevertheless that strangeness in his gaze. A glittering sharpness, remote, distant. Acantha nods at you, her knuckles growing whiter, her turbulent eyes meeting yours, "Yes." The sound is a bit hoarse, and she tries again, "Yes, Yes, I do." It strikes him, and it strikes him hard behind his chest, what strange combination of innocence and cynicism this young woman must carry within her that the man she trusts the most is a darkling she barely knows. He doesn't want to be told this; he doesn't want to have to carry the burden of a near-stranger's trust, even if she is friendly to him and his family and has a laudable appreciation of some of the finer artists in Haven. Not when the simple reality of what he is would by almost anyone's standards violate such a trust. Because you are the Rook, he tells himself, you should tell her no. Without elaboration, and leave. Withdraw from this entanglement, before it gets too complex -- and puts this young woman at risk. But because he is also Julian, he does not flinch and instead gravely tells you, measuring his words as he does, "I am flattered and honored that you tell me this, Acantha... but I must tell you in reply, I am not a good man to be... under consideration for this." Acantha looks stricken, "Why?" Her voice contains the barest whisper of tears held in check. She impulsivey reaches across and touches your hand with hers, the fingertips just resting on your skin. "You are courteous, kind, you take care of your family... What could possibly be wrong?" Even as she finishes speaking, something has occured to her. She whips her hand back, leaving it fluttering at her mouth, "It's me, isn't it?" Julian is not unmoved, but neither does his resolve waver. "It is not you, my dear, I assure you. You are intelligent, you are lovely, and you have initiative and the desire to pursue what you want. The issue is with _me_." His voice remains low and quiet, all irony departed from the velvet tenor, absolute seriousness foremost in the dark sapphirine eyes. "I care for my family, yes -- but I have barely enough of myself to look after the children that are mine now. I cannot risk another." That's truth enough -- though he keeps the why of it to himself. "You have spoken of doing oneself honor, or dishonor. Well, I would be doing that latter, if I sired another child and did not do everything in my power to be a father to it. And I simply cannot. I am sorry." Acantha nods slowly, not at all understanding and trying to be strong. She would be convincing, were it not for the tell-tale quiver of her lower lip. Tyche. He keeps the sigh to himself, though inwardly he makes it anyway, world-weary heart feeling a stirring of guilt at the stoic face the young woman is putting forth. Quietly then, Julian rises, though he does not yet move or look away from the chair he has occupied. "Let me also tell you this. If it is a family you seek, there are dozens of children all over Bordertown who would give their lives for caring arms to hold them, a roof over their heads, and regular meals. Some of them are even Empyrean. If it is a family you desire, not necessarily a child from your own body -- I can suggest this as an option. There are two Mongrel children who are glad I chose it." Acantha nods, apparently not trusting herself to speak. She glances down, her hands drifting down to rest on her barren abdomen. The sun glints off wisps of hair from her bent head. "I will think about it," she whispers, then chokes on it. "Sorry. I'm sorry." Her shoulders clench, rustling her wings with her nearly silent sobs. The darkling's face remains ostensibly impassive -- all save his eyes, which have gone liquid at the effect his denial has had upon the woman before him. "There is no need for you to apologize," he murmurs. Go now, his instincts advise him, though the ones that belong to the Rook war against those that belong to the man. It is too dangerous for you to stay here. "It is I who should apologize for troubling you," he adds then, and with a single inclination of his ebon head, he turns away at last for the door. "Let me remove myself; I will trouble you no further." Acantha sniffles rather helplessly, "I didn't mean to cry. That's why I'm sorry, Julian; I m-meant to be calm." She snifs once more, and raises her chin up. Her eyes are quite shiny, "I understand. You have to go." She even manages a watery smile for you. He has to admire the attempt to put on a brave face, and to see it prompts a small one-sided smile upon the face of the darkling Deus. "I do," he says, soft and solemn, though he allows a touch of his regret to show in his gaze. "Vale, Acantha." No longer than that does he stay... and more than that, he does not allow himself to utter. There is only a rustle of raven wings, and a final glance of twilight eyes out from under the side of those pinions... and the chime of the bell to mark his passing as he takes his leave. [End log.]