"Thwarting the Child-Takers" Log Date: 3/29/01 Log Cast: Roki (NPC emitted by Julian), Marth (NPC emitted by Julian), Jek (NPC emitted by Julian), Wretch, Hunts-the-Truth, Moirae (NPC emitted by Julian), Nine-Fingered Rab (NPC emitted by Julian), Julian Log Intro: In the long years he's been in the city of Haven, Julian Nemeides has had time to make a number of enemies who know him by a plethora of names--the kinds of enemies who would not scruple to take advantage of any perceived weakness of the Rook's if they could. The Rook is well aware that the four young people under his protection, his daughter, his nephew, and his two Mongrel wards, are prime vulnerabilities through which his enemies might try to strike at him. Since his dual ascension as the Deus of House Nemea and the Master of the Thieves' Guild, he has taken great pains to make certain that his new family is as protected as he can make them. But with the rise of his own power comes the rise of the power of the enemies he attracts, for not even the redoutable Rook is completely invulnerable. And sometimes he still needs the assistance of the lowliest denizens of the city, among whom he himself once dwelled.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Afternoon Date on Aether: Wednesday, January 27, 3908. Year on Earth: 1508 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waxing Crescent Season: Winter Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Chilly *==========================================================================* Old City Garden - Haven A strange thing, to some, to see such a thick, unbridled mass of forest within the city walls. Even during the brightest days, it is shady here; looming tree branches above filter out the sunlight, casting shadows that might be relieving during a warm summer day, or alternatively fearsome by night. The heart of the garden is most often alive with the chirps and chitters of the wildlife that makes its home here. Still, some civilization prevails, if only tentatively. A wide, roughly cobbled road stretches east to west, suitable for the usual traffic of a city street, if a bit precariously. Benches line the various man-made paths, reminding the visitor that this is indeed intended to be a respite from the bustle of the town, and is not merely some uncontrolled mass of trees within Haven. Contents: Wretch Obvious exits: Streets Garden Archway Winter afternoons in the city garden aren't perhaps as soothing and fragrant as those of spring and summer, but one can argue that they are in their own way as peaceful. Snow has a way of blanketing all in sight, muffling sound, making it seem as though the very earth has curled up for a slumber. And thus, in the garden, peace reigns-- --until it's shattered by the screech of a young boy's voice. "OW! OW OW OW! LEMME GO! Help me, somebody, HE--" "Curse it, Jek, shut up the whelp afore 'e brings th' Hounds down on our 'eads!" This urgent hiss is delivered by the shorter of a pair of gentlemen of significantly less than savory appearance, currently pelting into view as though a veritable pack of wyverns were on his tail, or perhaps every Hound in Haven. His larger and bulkier companion is doing a credible job of keeping pace with him, for all that he is hampered by the struggling, writhing form of... something in a gunnysack? Whatever that sack contains, it is assuredly the sound of the furious, frantic shrieking. "T'hell wi' th' Hounds!" the bigger man pants, casting a wide-eyed look over his unburdened shoulder. No sign of pursuit -- yet. "It's 'is Uncle I'm afeared of. 'E's gonna skin us, Marth, 'e's gonna _skin_ us!" Hounds and uncles are known dangers. A Sylvan that might as well be a mongrel, from the look of her, is less threatening. If she were seen at all, anyways. At the first cry from farther down the trail, she drops aside into the underbrush, out of sight and out of mind, meekly watching with one eye from behind a tree as the men run by. Normally, she'd remain uninvolved, but that was a child, and they're off limits. "You better b'lieve 'e's gonna kick your arses! Uncle Richard's gonna cut out yer 'earts an' Rab's gonna stick 'is knives in ye an' 'Ari's gonna burn yer fingers off LEMME GO LEMME GO--" The screaming continues, in a high-pitched, piercing wail. Within the gunnysack, Roki, son of Lighthands Jacob, ward of the man Jacob trained up to be the Rook, struggles with every scrap of strength in his small wiry body. Young hands pummel. Young feet kick. And even if it gets him a mouthful of burlap, young teeth strive their best to bite. It's enough that the big Mongrel called Jek abruptly lets out an oath and goes down hard on one knee, almost dropping his burden. And Marth skids to a halt, his thin, pinched face turning livid with fury. "Shut 'im UP, by th' gods, or I'll do th' whelp 'ere an' now, we ain't told not to bring 'im in bleedin'!" When they're still, conveniently near, the waif of a girl finally launches from her hiding place, the abrupt rustle of the shrubs the only warning as one foot flies from nowhere at the back of Marth's knee with all her weight behind it, an elbow already rising for the back of his head when he falls. Wretch Dark, glossy brown hair with only a touch of a wave is gathered into a loose tail at the nape of this woman's neck by a strap of leather, fanning out thick again down her back, covering her ears and framing her simple, oval face. Her lightly tanned skin is touched with the flush of youth, her body toned and lithe, though the feeling of youthfulness about this girl is greatly belied by her hard emerald eyes, bright and cold all at once, clearly having seen more than her short time should allow. Clothes chosen more for utility than appearance shield most of this woman from the elements. Mottled brown and gray leather, supple and soft from constant use though scarred with wounds and mending, covers her body, blending into the tone of her exposed skin almost perfectly. A thin, worn pouch belted against the small of her back is all she carries, and her only jewelery is a slender wooden ring fitted snugly to her right middle finger. For just a flash of an instant both of the Mongrel men panic, half-wondering if the man who claims this child as his own has already caught up with them. A great grunt of pain exploding from him, Marth drops like a stone towards the ground -- but although he is down he is not quite out. He certainly retains enough consciousness to bellow, "GET 'IM, JEK, GET 'IM!" Him. Her. The gender of their attacker is a trifle irrelevant at the moment, as Jek forgoes the boy he'd been hauling to hurl himself at the small figure that's just attacked his partner. Never mind his own qualms about kidnapping a child, even if the two of them have been paid extremely well. Somebody goes for his mate, it's _personal_. And in that same instant, the boy in the sack freezes, hearing the sounds of what to _him_ certainly seems like the beginning of a scuffle. In the next instant, he starts up his shrieking again in a desperate attempt to attract the attention of the rescue he _hopes_ is at hand. "Uncle Richard! I'm in 'ere I'm in 'ere I'm in 'ere!" Hunts-the-Truth steps onto the main trail, emerging from behind a leafy bush. Hunts-the-Truth has arrived. Hunts-the-Truth slips silently through brush and overgrown weeds from the south. Attracted, perhaps, by the noise. Narrow feline eyes study the scene for a moment, trying to make sense of it. A corner of her mouth twitches and her upper lip lifts to bare sharply pointed teeth. Silently, she lifts the strap from her shoulder and over her head, laying the rolled animal skin down in the long grass before she starts toward the group she can see. Hunts-the-Truth At first glance, this young woman might look almost normal for a Sylvan. Long, sandy brown hair is tied into a braid that drapes over her shoulder and falls almost to her waist, revealing the pointed ears typical of her race. She has a broad face with a firm jaw and a nose that appears slightly flattened. It is here that one sees the first evidence of something different. Though her eyes are the typical green of the Sylvan's, they are slitted like a cat's. This, combined with her nose and wide, thin lips gives her a decidedly feline appearance. Six feet tall and broad-shouldered, she has a solid, muscular build that moves with surprising grace. Her clothing is a strange combination. A long-sleeved shirt of white cotton hangs untucked over a pair of deerskin leggings. A matching deerskin vest covers the shirt, held close at the waist by a woven, beaded belt. Her feet are bare, as sun-browned as her face and hands. The rolled skin of some animal is slung across her back, the leather strap that holds it in place crossing her torso from left shoulder to right hip. Out, up, and around. Her weight's still moving, and all she has to do is tuck in her shoulder and keep twisting to gracefully hit the ground and roll aside, away from where Marth fell. That's probably not enough to outsmart Jek, but in the process of getting back to her feet one foot clips at the side of his kneecap, the other spasming out as it passes by his crotch. Those are distracting enough that she should have time to get up and back away, by the time she's still a dagger in each hand and a sneer on her face. "You're going to need more men," she offers calmly, standing at ease with her arms and weapons at her sides. The group at hand: a small Mongrel man, who by the look of him may have some Sylvan in him, though his ears aren't _exactly_ pointed. His face is thin and sharp, his eyes possessed of a glimmer of street cunning. Which is clearly more than can be said for the big, bullish Jek, with a bit of the Children of Fire about his dark face and frame -- and something of their temper as well, for even though Wretch sends him landing solidly on the same knee he'd hit when Roki'd provoked him into falling, the man starts to haul himself off the ground in a gathering roil of strength to be hurled into another charge. Marth, in the meantime, produces a knife of his own out of a sheath buried beneath one sleeve, and if he knows to be at all daunted by Wretch's display, he certainly doesn't give any sign of it. "Two t' one, girlie, an' we're both armed, too!" he sneers. They'd damned well better be armed, thinking to steal one of the wards of the Rook. "Looks like pretty dem even odds t' me!" And then there's their prey, who's still wriggling for all he's worth in the sack in which they'd stuffed him. Girlie? Roki ceases his own treble screaming for a heartbeat, unsure now of who exactly has come to his deliverance? "Uncle Richard?" he wails, forgetting in his childish fear to call his guardian by his true name. "You've got it backwards," the streetrat Sylvan parries in an oddly cultivated voice for her look. "I outnumber you one to two. If you want to live, run." Taking her time, she spreads her feet to a more stable stance, all her body relaxed, letting them come at her. The time for silence is over. Hunts-the-Truth growls, deep and loud. "I'd suggest listening to her." She stalks forward, hands held loosely out to her sides, sharp teeth bared and fingers slightly hooked, as if into claws. In a city where the keepers of the law are wont to patrol not only the streets but also the skies, it behooves those of law-breaking inclination to learn very quickly to remember a very simple rule: don't forget to look _up_. Given their distractions at hand, one may forgive Jek and Marth their failure to keep tabs on the sky above their heads. Whispers on the street say that the Rook in the last half-year has undergone certain changes that make his moniker all the more appropriate for him -- but that he hasn't yet truly lived up to his name. He hasn't taken to the air. And so the two Mongrel thugs, even as Marth lunges with his blade and Jek lunges forth with his fists and the sheer bulk of his brawny body, do not notice a slender white-winged, black-haired figure circling high overhead. The Rook may not yet have regained the air -- but the Rook has a daughter, and Moirae Julia Nemeides abruptly changes the angle of her flight as soon as she catches a glimpse of the commotion below. _There_! Just as they do not see the girl scouting from the air, the Mongrel men don't hear the second woman coming until they've hurled themselves at the first. But the captured boy, anxious ears seizing upon a new unfamiliar voice, screeches anew: "Get me outta 'ere help me help UNCLE RICHARD!" Jek's in front, by virtue of being closer. Ah, logic. His stone-crushing right hook catches only the wretch's hair as she leans out of the way into an S-shape, her leg slipping around behind his and her hips following. Her right hand presses against his right shoulder, her dagger unfortunately in the way, and a shove with her whole body giving just the right change of direction to tip him over her hip - and into Marth, and his bared blade. Hunts-the-Truth's almost glad the men don't hear her coming. It's more fun that way. With a snarl, she launches herself into the fray, stepping up and twisting, sending a kick full-force at the small of the rear man's back just as the man in front is hurled back at him and his knife. "FATHER!" comes another piercing cry -- but this one in maidenly soprano and from up in the air, rather than in the boyish treble of the captive in the sack. Moirae swoops down until she is a scant ten feet above the treetops, and the moment she gets a good look at the tell-tale sack, she follows it up with: "THIS WAY, FATHER! THEY'RE HERE!" Her voice peals like a bell, an angel's on high, and it serves as the clearest of beacons to those she is guiding. Jek lets out a scream of his own this time as Marth's blade pierces his side, and intermingled with the howl of his partner as Hunts-the-Truth attacks him from behind. With the fray in full force now, it could perhaps be forgiven all four combatants for failing to hear the cry of the winged girl -- and of the thundering hoofbeats of a blood-bay stallion galloping at full tilt in from the east. It's an odd sight to behold, for at first glance it might seem as if the creature sports great black wings. But the seemingly fantastic animal soon resolves itself into two men upon the horse's back, one small and fair-haired and clearly in control of the ride, while behind him rides... an Empyrean? Aye, a Son of the Air, and darkling at that, hanging on for dear life as Nine-Fingered Rab manages to make one long spectacular sequence of bringing his mount to a screeching halt, vaulting lithely out of the saddle, and sending three razor-sharp daggers sizzling through the air just over all four combatants' heads. The blades strike home in the nearest tree trunk, and over their hiss of passage a clarion tenor voice slashes forth like a whip: "STOP!" Already disengaging herself from the mess of people to prepare for anything else, at the cry the wretch spins away from the huddle of people and former people to face the horsemen, nonchalantly interspersing herself between the new arrivals and the gunnysacked boy, taking up a more wary stance than the warning she gave the kidnappers. The first sound to catch the graisha's attention is the thunk of the knives burying themselves in the trunk of the tree. Her gaze flickers in that direction, and back to the men just arrived, then back to the pair of thugs. Narrowed, feline eyes remain on the pair as she grows again, teeth bared. The wretch seems to have the newcomers well enough in hand for now. Hunts will make sure these two aren't going to make the mistake of moving. "UNCLE RICHA--JULIAN! 'M'here!" Now, the frantic calls from the captive in the sack take on a more jubilant air, though little Roki has practically screamed himself hoarse. Now, too, the big Mongrel Jek blinks in evident bewilderment at the sight of Marth's blade stuck in him... and as Marth, aghast of face now, pulls the blade back, the bigger man sinks heavily down to the ground. "Jek? Jekkie?" Marth wails, flinging himself to his knees at his partner's side -- but as soon as _he_ catches sight of the horse and the two men it's brought in, his thin face goes stark white. The girl who cried the warning comes in for a landing near the horse. The fair-haired Mongrel man, short, deceptively youthful of face, and sporting black leathern armor on his whipcord frame, keeps the half-crouched stance he'd taken -- and where the first three daggers came from, two more seem primed to follow. Julian Nemeides is not anything resembling a horseman, so he can't match his guardsman's leap. But he can and does dismount in a tightly controlled economy of motion, his anger reflected only in the sapphirine crackle of his stare and the tautness of the sizeable black wings sweeping up from his back. "Roki!" he calls first, without taking his eyes off any of the fighters. "Speak to me, lad!" Hunts-the-Truth pays no attention to the men from the horse. Less, even, now that the voice from the sack seems to recognize at least one of them--and happily at that. For now, she concentrates on watching every move the thugs make ... and trying very hard to convince herself that she shouldn't eat them, or even chew on them just a little bit. That sort of thing, she's been told, is frowned upon. Which is really too bad, as it couldn't happen to a more deserving pair. The kidnappers might know who this Empyrean is, but the Sylvan girl doesn't. She edges backwards closer to the bound child, defensive and wary to their terror. They're behaving as friends, but she's going to need to be convinced before standing down. "I'm okay Uncle Julian get me outta here!" the boy pipes from the sack, unable to hide the pleading in his voice, but not bothering to try to hide the relief. And because he is Roki, because despite his fear -- he _is_ a ten-year-old boy, after all, and he's been _kidnapped_ -- he has a fierce little heart, he adds for good measure, "But kick their arses first!" At last, now that he's not being carted about like potatoes bought in the Rialto, Roki finally begins to win free of his sack. A grubby little hand emerges, followed by a pair of dark eyes full of his intermingled childlike wrath for his assailants and joy for his rescue. Black -- black of wing, black of hair, that's the man who advances on the group now. Where Rab bears his beloved knives and even Moirae from behind the cover of the restive horse brings up in her slender and inexperienced hands a small crossbow, Julian unsheathes a sword from a scabbard at his side. His finely sculpted mouth twists in a small crooked grin at Roki's outcry, as he replies, "A most excellent idea, lad. I assure you, that is exactly what I have in mind. Would you be so kind as to point out of the -- ah, yes, two Mongrels and two Sylvans I see beside you which is responsible for _daring_ to lay hands upon you?" Most of these words are uttered with a crisp, mannerly enunciation, almost conversational in tone, as if the darkling were asking the boy to tel him about his studies or whether it happens to be raining outside. But on those last few words, Julian's voice rings like a sword-strike and his eyes blaze with twilight fire. And before Roki can utter another word, Marth's composure snaps. "It was us what done it, Rook, don't kill us, please don't kill us! Jek, I stabbed 'im, f'r th' love o' th' gods lemme 'elp 'im please oh please--" _His_ voice climbs higher and higher of pitch as he babbles, teetering over into hysteria. That's enough. The Sylvan's daggers vanish and she straightens, stepping away from the mongrels and out of the way of Roki. She pauses, looking over her shoulder at the boy, before raising her eyes to Marth. "Children are off limits," she snaps, a touch of finality to her voice. Hunts-the-Truth's growl breaks off in a snort as one of the men on the ground breaks into hysterical babbling. Feline eyes, narrowed in anger, open to normal again, full of contempt. Arms come up to cross over her chest as she takes a step back, so as not to get in the Empyrean's way. A quick glance toward the boy climbing out of the sack, and she looks, briefly, satisfied, before shifts her gaze to the winged man. Roki wrestles his way free at last, proving himself to be more or less intact, though with a bruise on one dark-hued cheek, his clothes in torn disarray, and his hair a riot. The moment he's out of the sack, he charges for the Empyrean man, flinging himself at Julian's waist and embracing him tightly. Julian loops an arm around the boy -- and that, perhaps, is an odd sight indeed, an Empyrean embracing a Mongrel child. But he does hug Roki close for a moment before bidding him, "Go to Moirae, lad." In a flash, the child's scampered back to the white-winged girl, leaving the Rook free to advance upon the others. His sword is still out, and he snaps his incensed stare from one face to another: the stony visages of the Sylvan women, the increasingly dazed one of Jek's, the frantic one of Marth's. The sword snaps forth then as well, the point of the slim blade coming in at the unwounded man's throat. "Children are off-limits," he affirms in echo of that last uttered statement. "And _my_ children, mate, are a boundary you've just crossed." The blade does not move, not a fraction of an inch, but the darkling directs his next words to the women. "Might I call upon you ladies to suggest a reason as to why I shouldn't run these two through here and now?" One eyebrow creeps upward on a feline face. -Not- run him through? Personally, she thinks they should both have their throats torn out and be left for the scavengers. But she's just a touch savage, and she's in the city now, where things are supposed to be different. You won't hear -her- pleading for the life of anyone who'd hurt a child. But, rather than answer aloud--which might come out a little too much like a growl--Hunts only shakes her head: right, left, center. "Certainly I can," the city Sylvan chirps. "I'd much prefer they died slowly. They should at least have a chance to contemplate why they didn't run away." A glance to one side to the one with the catlike features; to the other, to the smallish and unprepossessing one he'd seen putting away her blades. Then one corner of Julian's mouth curls up again, though this time the knife-edged smile has absolutely nothing to do with mirth and everything to do with the dangerous gleam in his eyes. "You appear to be on your own," he informs Marth. "And you have ten seconds to dissuade me from sending your friend here to meet his maker, and you right along with him. Ten." Jek, now lying in a crumpled heap half in and half out of Marth's lap, one meaty arm wrapped around his wounded side, lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. Marth, trembling violently, pleads, "We're dead men if we tell!" "I find myself hard-pressed to be sympathetic. Nine." "Please, Rook, please, we dunno who forked out th' zechins--" "Eight." "It was a third 'un that brought th' job an' th' pay, I swear!" Hunts-the-Truth shifts her gaze briefly down to the pair of thugs, eyes narrowing once again, lip curling to bare her teeth again before she manages to school her expression back to stony blankness. She watches the pair, one bleeding and one pleading, as a predator might watch its prey. She's given her opinion now, and it's into the Rook's hands. The slip of a girl silently attends to brushing herself off, swiping away the gathered dust from her bouts with the ground. "The name of your contact," comes Julian's demand, his voice crystalline and cold, his blade unmoving, his countenance implacable. "Seven." Marth begins a wordless little groan of protest -- but flashes a look between his badly bleeding friend and the avenging black-winged man that looms over them both. "R-Reshano," he finally squeals. "'E's Atlantean, 'e is! Reshano!" And, with a subtle flick of his wrist, Julian pulls back the sword. In a flash of steel it's re-sheathed, though menace still lingers in his expression as he pronounces, deliberately casually, "Congratulations. You've just earned yourself and your mate the right to live, under the following conditions: one, you will head immediately to the Bastion; two, you will present yourselves to the Hounds, confess to the crime of attempted kidnapping, and accept whatever punishment they deal you; three, learn this, if you learn nothing else in the course of your wretched lives. If _either_ of you come near _any_ of my family again, you _will_ die. Have I made myself perfectly clear?" That eyebrow creeps upward again, and the graisha almost looks disappointed. Almost. That expression she manages to keep from her face, though with some effort. The proof lies in a twitch of the lips, and a green eyed gaze flickered up to the Empyrean and back down again to the would-be kidnappers. "A-aye, Rook," quavers Marth, as he begins to try to help Jek to his feet. The fear in _his_ face hasn't diminished in the slightest; if anything, now, the man looks actively ill, forced to choose between the prospect of the ungentle handling of the Hounds... and the wrath of the darkling Empyrean. "W-we ken ye, right Jek? We ken ye!" "Aye," croaks the bigger Mongrel, swaying unsteadily as his compatriot hefts him up. "We ken..." Julian's thin imperious smile speaks volumes now of an impatient master finally beholding his hounds performing a desired trick -- though he does not condescend to offer anything so overt as voiced approval. Not for such as these. Instead, he flashes a brief glance sideways, back towards his knife-wielding compatriot, and calls, "Rab! If you would be so kind as to escort these gentlemen to their new abode?" "I'm on it, Sirdar!" The fair-haired Mongrel leaps smoothly to his feet, saunters over to claim his knives, and saunters then to poke and prod the two captives out of range of the Rook. Hunts-the-Truth waits for the man with the knives to prod the thugs away, and immediately steps up to the tree the knives had found their way into. As she reaches up to touch the gashes in the tree's trunk, sadness flickers in her eyes. Obviously, she's more worried about the tree than either of the thugs limping away. With a quiet sigh, she turns back to look over toward the boy who came out of the sack, then back at the Empyrean. A nod, and she starts back toward the weeds where she left her rolled skin. As Nine-Fingered Rab -- grinning rather darkly, it might be noted, a near-manic gleam in _his_ eyes that suggests he's just looking for an excuse to help Jek and Marth bleed a little more -- hauls the two ruffians away, the Empyrean turns his full attention at last to the Sylvan women. Although the air of command he wears about him like a cloak does not fall away, not entirely, something of the rage drains out of his fine-boned face and is replaced by the beginnings of gratitude. "If you two are responsible for the delay of those villains, I owe you my thanks and the life of my ward. Anything I have the power to you provide you is yours for the asking; seek out House Nemea in the Empyrean quarter. Vale, to both of you; now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get my children home." And with that, the darkling turns at last, walking away... but opening his arms to the boy who flings himself at him once more. The white-winged girl, the one the darkling had called Moirae, flashes a brilliant, melting smile in the Sylvans' direction, even as Julian hauls little Roki up into his arms. Black wings are the last either of the two Daughters of Earth can see of the darkling, but the girl lifts a hand and waves her farewell and her own thanks, before turning to follow the man and the boy to safety and to home. [End log.]