"A Sudden Unsought Music"

Log Date:
	9/9/99

Log Cast:
	Faanshi, Lyre

Log Intro:
	It is not exactly difficult to fluster the healer Faanshi. Eighteen
years of age she may now be, and over a year's worth of experience she may 
have in the ways of the world, but in many ways she still takes in people
and places and events with the eyes of a guileless... and lonely and
frightened... child. To the halfbreed shudra maiden, the world is all too
often a large, perplexing, and disturbing place. It includes purebloods
of all races who scorn her for her mixed blood, even going so far as to
reject her magic due to the heritage of its wielder. It includes a haughty,
domineering priestess who resents being ordered to supervise a mere
halfbreed servant. It includes a dire plague which even after weeks of 
holding Haven in thrall, even after the discovery of a cure which can 
conquer it, still has not yet relinquished its hold on the city. And it
includes the hitherto unexpected and deeply disturbing possibility that she
herself might be prone to suffering hallucinations from exhaustion... for
Faanshi can think of no other explanation for the bizarre experience she
has undergone this very day in the presence of the Imphadis Sevilen and
Timin in the courtyard in Atesh-Gah.
	Little does Faanshi know, however, that the world also includes a
Mongrel bard who has in turn recently discovered that the world includes
_her_...

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Duskside)
          Date on Aether:  Thursday, March 26, 3905.
           Year on Earth:  1505 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Waning Gibbous
                  Season:  Early Spring
                 Weather:  Clear Skies
             Temperature:  Comfortable
*==========================================================================*

Tent City - East of Haven(#649RJMn)
     The east side of the camp harbors a stream and a large pond with several 
  stone buildings on their banks. Extending from the stone structures is a 
  wide square, large enough to serve as a central gathering area. Tents and 
  more permanent wooden structures are arranged in orderly blocks with wide 
  lanes; each group is centered around a firepit. There is a covered water 
  barrel at the corner of every 'block' both for potable use as well as for 
  firefighting, if needed. The latrine pits are south of the camp, a fair 
  distance from the pond, and protected by screens of rushes for privacy. 
  Flagpoles pounded into the earth fly colorful banners with simple images to 
  show were water fetching, laundry and bathing should occur.
     Refugees can be observed moving throughout the encampment; all are 
  Empyrean. Mongrels, Praetors, Velites, Hounds and Varati form a far smaller, 
  but significant, portion of the population. A huge pot--precurser to the 
  soup kitchen--, manned by Velites, provides hot sustenance. Near the pot is 
  a gorgeous tent fit for royalty flying the Empyrean flag.
     At the tail end of winter, the Chinook has blown and the chill air 
  carries with it the hint of spring moisture. The lines leading away from the 
  Delphic healing building--at the far east of the encampment and against the 
  pond--never diminish but are a constant reminder that disease has reared its 
  ugly head. At the end of the downtrodden lane that leads back to Haven, a 
  cadre of Caduceans stand with Hounds wearing the garb of the Death Patrol. 
  While the Hounds discourage the idle from wandering out of the camp, the 
  Caduceans check those with business allowing egress afterwards.
Contents:
Lyre
Optio's Tent
Obvious exits:
Path <P>

Something, she is not entirely certain what, must have happened -- for today, 
  summoned to come and work in the Tent City, Faanshi has not been ordered in 
  to work along with the rest of the healers in the clinic. Nor has she been 
  ordered to follow the Nabi Devaki through the tents yet remaining within the 
  refugee encampment, to seek out and heal what remaining Mongrels and 
  Empyreans remain within the settlement's bounds. Instead, the shudra maiden 
  has been ordered to simply report for laundry detail... and it is with 
  something like relief that she has applied herself to the work for the last 
  several hours, for it has meant that she's been allowed to be alone, with no 
  companion but her loyal dog Kosha. And thus, the maiden bears an enormous 
  basket full of soiled blankets and tunics and sheets towards the appointed 
  washing-place, keeping her gaze demurely lowered to avoid the eyes of any 
  who might not care to come near a halfbreed.

"Surely such a lovely maiden should not be allowed to carry such a bundle 
  alone." A deep voice rumbles quietly from behind Faanshi, touched with a 
  smile, as Lyre rises from his perch atop an old crate, setting his lyre down 
  upon his vacated seat.

A wagon, laden with dried herbs and blankets, rolls to a halt before the 
  clinic. The wagon and its items bear the seal of the Empyre.

It seems to take a moment before that deep lyrical voice catches the attention 
  of the maiden in red and blue and gold -- and then only after the large 
  young dog trotting at her heels skitters around, his intelligent gaze 
  seeking out the man drawing near his mistress. As Kosha barks, a beat after 
  those words are spoken, Faanshi struggles to keep her hold on her basket. 
  "I... I beg your pardon?" comes a softly blurted reply from behind her azure 
  veil. "Do you... address me, imphadi?"

A slow nod, and the man glances down at the dog to offer a smile that crinkles 
  around his eyes. Lyre says simply, "I do. Forgive my impertinence, m'lady, 
  but I could not resist. Will you allow me to help you? T'would be my honor, 
  truly." He crouches, holding out a hand to Kosha to allow him to get a scent 
  of the man. He understands something of guardians and faithful friends.

Lyre
        When there is music in a person's soul, all else about him is silence. 
                                    -- Anonymous
        Eyes as dark as the deep-tilled earth look out of a solidly-hewn face 
  of a man in his late twenties. His sun-streaked brown hair is tied back with 
  a bit of leather decorated with a few silver beads, curling just at the nape 
  of his neck. His build is solid and whipcord lean, with broad shoulders and 
  the tight form of one used to going with little food and much exercise. His 
  skin is almost swarthy, tanned dark by hours in the sun; his teeth are 
  straight, save for one crooked canine that seems more the victim of a fist 
  than nature. His nose also bears the sign of brawls, with the distinctive 
  bump of breakage. He moves with a natural grace, as if counting off the 
  rhythym of a song in his mind and perpetually pacing the dance in his step.
        He wears simple, practical clothing, appropriate to his mongrel race. 
  Black homespun trousers are tucked into a pair of ancient, worn leather 
  boots. Over that is worn a simple pale tunic tucked into the trousers and 
  worn beneath a dark woolen vest. The only decoration on his clothing is 
  found in the small wooden buttons which hold his vest shut -- they are 
  carved with tiny designs of seashells.

Faanshi hadn't yet raised her eyes to the stranger's face, but once the 
  Mongrel man hunkers down to present himself for her canine guard's 
  inspection, he cannot help but cross the maiden's line of sight. She 
  stops... she stares, startled, before fixing her uncertain gaze upon Kosha's 
  fluffy fur. "I-I am no lady, imphadi," she murmurs in a tone that hints at a 
  scorching blush lurking behind that veil, while she tries to rearrange her 
  grip on the basket. "And I, I have the basket... I..." She has, however, 
  spoken too soon. The hound, once he sniffs intently at the offered hand, 
  decides all at once that he approves of what he smells. He changes positions 
  so suddenly that the maiden, startled anew, loses her hold. The basket tips 
  sideways, spilling a pile of garments on and around her feet. A noise of 
  deep chagrin escapes her, and she immediately kneels to try to recover the 
  mess.

Since he's already down there making friends with Kosha, Lyre begins to pile 
  the garments back into the basket almost reflexively as he murmurs, "I know 
  a lady when I see one, Imphada, whatever others might decide to call you. 
  You are the type to inspire devotion and poetry, and should not be wasted 
  upon doing laundry." He absently gives Kosha's head a rub and continues to 
  tidy, watching carefully where he puts his hands. It would be unseemly to 
  startle Faanshi anymore than he already has.

The hands of the kind stranger might be occupied in a safe and non-startling 
  manner -- and as far as Kosha is concerned, it is entirely proper that one 
  of them should be involved in the vital duty of Scritching His Head -- but 
  as it happens, the words of the stranger do what his hands do not. A choked 
  little gasp is the next noise Faanshi makes, and for an instant, she is so 
  startled that she freezes right there where she kneels. Her gaze flies up, 
  leaf-colored eyes gone round above the veil, and she blurts out the first 
  thing that crosses her mind: "I-Imphadi, are you... are you all right?" Her 
  power is lying quiescent, so surely he isn't ill, but given the day she's 
  had thus far perhaps she and her magic just aren't in sufficient communion? 
  Surely a total stranger would not be saying such things to her unless he 
  were feverish? "D-do you n-n-need to see a healer?"

Lyre glances down at himself and offers a soft, wry chuckle, "No, m'lady, not 
  the last time I checked. I came to offer what little help I could to the 
  refugees, though I am but a humble bard. I am not amongst the injured." Keen 
  brown eyes take note of the wide eyes behind that veil which is driving him 
  mad with curiousity, and he smiles again, that slow, eye-crinkling smile 
  that finds his eyes and lights them up. "I have seen you, now and then. You 
  are one of the healer mages, are you not? A gifted one, from what I hear 
  amongst the refugees. They are grateful." And a little afraid, but that's 
  hardly something to mention to such a pretty young woman.

All that is visible of her face are eyes of a summer's green, brows above them 
  and the lashes that fringe them the ebon of night, skin around them deep 
  sun-gold. Skittish, this maiden! Her slender frame jerks as she realizes 
  that the man before her has already gathered much of her burden back into 
  the basket in which it belongs, and once more she blushes furiously behind 
  her veil, ripping her attention away from the warm brown gaze upon her and 
  down to the task of recovering the rest of the dirty bedding and garments. 
  While Kosha sits down on his haunches, tail wagging his benign opinion of 
  this deep-voiced Mongrel man, Faanshi babbles hoarsely, "I... I am a healer, 
  yes, but, but perhaps you mistake me for someone else, imphadi? The Nabi 
  Devaki..." If he is not stricken with fever, then surely he believes her to 
  be someone else.

His head shakes slowly, a faint smile of amused understanding across his lips 
  as Lyre speaks, "Nay, m'lady. I do not mistake you. Nor that...robed harpy 
  that drags you about so cruelly." There is a fine edge of distaste in his 
  voice that cannot be denied. In a kinder tone, almost gentle, he says, "You 
  have been done wrong, m'lady. I do not like to see such a thing in the 
  world."

Oh dear. He's not ill. He doesn't think she's someone else -- and there aren't 
  any other _Varati_ healers working the Tent City for whom she might have 
  been mistaken, aye? Faanshi is left with the deeply disconcerting conclusion 
  that 1) this man comprehends who he addresses, and 2) he said what he said 
  on purpose. _Ushas, then why..._ Her brain, however, refuses to take that 
  thought any further. "I am not a lady," she mumbles in a very tiny voice as 
  the last of the laundry is bundled back into the basket, "b-but th-thank you 
  for your kind words, imphadi..."

"As you wish, Imphada. But please, will you allow me to help you with your 
  burden?" Lyre smiles coaxingly, "It would make my evening of service 
  complete, and t'would crush me if you refuse."

How very, very strange. Now acutely aware of the heat that flushes her face, 
  Faanshi dares not look up again and thus she misses that cajoling smile. But 
  the voice falls warm and earthy and rich upon her ear, and her averted gaze 
  cannot block it. She pauses, clearly uncertain; the glance she finally risks 
  is at the dog rather than the man. But there is no sign of wariness in 
  Kosha, and it is at last that as much as anything else that convinces her to 
  murmur timidly, "A-alright... thank you..."

Lyre straightens with a smooth, graceful movement, hefting the basket easily 
  and lifting it up to his shoulder. With a little grin he announces, "I am 
  yours to direct, m'lady. Where do we go?" He looks just a little bit silly, 
  a grown man carrying around a laundry basket, but he seems amiable enough 
  about the situation.

"The... the pond," is the shudra's tinily breathed reply, as she gestures off 
  in the proper direction. "There are flags... to mark the place for 
  washing..." If she finds this tall rangy Mongrel silly-seeming with the 
  basket hoisted up to his shoulder, she certainly doesn't show it; if 
  anything, his garb, his demeanor, and his eloquent speech strike her as far 
  more incongruous with a big basket of laundry than his age, size, or gender. 
  Flustered with nothing to do with her hands, she beckons nervously to the 
  dog, and sets off gingerly in the direction she's indicated.

Measuring his stride to Faanshi's, Lyre ambles along beside the young woman. 
  He asks, conversationally, "Might I enquire as to your name, m'lady? Or 
  shall I call you my lady of mystery when I write my songs of your beauty and 
  grace?"

About the only thing that keeps Faanshi from tripping headlong on her course 
  is the fact that she is, after all, looking at her own feet. She does, 
  however, come quite close to stumbling. "Songs?!" is the only thing she can 
  think of saying, the single syllable bursting out of her a full octave and a 
  half higher than seems to be her normal range. The dog, loping along loyally 
  on the maiden's other side, whurfs in bemusement; since when does his 
  mistress make noises like _that_?

Lyre pauses and turns to look down at Faanshi, a slow smile on his lips as he 
  drawls, "Oh, yes, m'lady. Songs. You inspire music with your walk, lyrics 
  with your eyes, and every note of your voice." He smiles and says in a 
  lighter tone, "And I write songs, so it would be a pity to waste a source of 
  inspiration." He turns towards the pond and nods with his chin, "Over there?"

_Ushas!_ Faanshi is now officially _deeply_ flustered. Blushing so vividly 
  that it begins to creep up even above the top of her veil, the maiden bobs 
  her blue-saried head, gesturing with a visibly shaking hand towards the 
  flags that mark the washing area. At this hour the place is also marked by 
  torches, casting flickering shards of light out across the water. Torn 
  between staying within polite conversational distance of this unsettling man 
  and fleeing for the water -- all the more quickly to continue the laundry 
  she's been ordered to do -- the halfbreed girl babbles, "But... but, 
  imphadi, there are s-s-so many other things about which to write, to sing... 
  one's gods, w-wondrous places, great deeds... I-I-I am only a humble shudra, 
  I do not deserve... are..." Ah, so she _can_ utter a few more syllables than 
  two or three in a row! And as she utters them, she keeps edging towards the 
  water, till at last she uncertainly halts her steps, simultaneously and 
  distressedly concluding, "Are... you _sure_ you are not ill, imphadi?"

The basket swings down into his arms easily as Lyre moves over to the water's 
  edge, finding a dry-looking spot with a good rock to sit on to set it near. 
  At Faanshi's question he chuckles softly, "Aye, m'lady. I am sure. And as 
  for the rest...I write songs to sunrise and sing praises to the gods. But I 
  think that the gods made beauty to inspire praise of them; how other to 
  honor their wishes than to praise beauty when one sees it?" Lyre does not 
  move an inch, but there is a sudden closeness to his gaze, for just a 
  moment. "And I see beauty in you. So I will praise it."

Unfortunately Faanshi misses that change to the bard's dark gaze, for once 
  again she seems far too nervous, frightened, or both to allow her own gaze 
  to turn to him. While her dog cheerfully wanders right up to the edge of the 
  pond and laps experimentally at the water, the shudra frenetically searches 
  first her sari and then her basket for that big cake of soap she _knows_ she 
  had when she first put this basketful of laundry together. "S-sunrise is a 
  holy time," she blurts out, just as frenetically searching for any topic 
  save that of praising her. "The time of the Holy Mother of the Khalid... 
  worthy of many songs! If I could write a song I would make one for Ushas..." 
  Once she rescues the soap from the side of the basket she throws herself 
  down to her knees at the water's edge, apparently ignoring the possibility 
  of hard rock disagreeing with maidenly knees. While she fumbles for the 
  first of the garments in the basket, she adds, "I-I only know a small song 
  or two... a-a rhyme for the holy surahs... i-if you make songs that is truly 
  a marvelous gift, imphadi..."

Kneeling not too far away, Lyre picks up a garment and dunks it into the 
  water, wringing it out with practiced hands, "It might be a gift, m'lady. 
  But it is something I love to do. Music brings peace even when the heart is 
  most troubled. I like to think the gods love music as much as we do; that it 
  is their gift to us." He's washing clothes with her. Isn't there a rule 
  about that somewhere?

Perhaps, but then, the maiden's not about to tell a man he can't put a shirt 
  into the water if he so desires; besides, she is not exactly versed in the 
  proprieties of bards. "I... do not know much about music," she murmurs 
  timidly as she begins to scrub the crumbly soap across the sheet she's 
  wrestled out of the basket. "Or the gods... I... suppose that the Amir-al 
  appreciates it." A bit of steadiness coming into that soft little voice, now 
  that topic has swung away from praise of her? Very possibly. She concludes, 
  almost inaudibly over the scrubbing, "I... like music."

"You do? Then I shall have to play for you sometime." Lyre continues to scrub 
  away, rinsing out the shirt before wringing it dry. He glances around, soggy 
  shirt dripping onto his clothes, before grinning a bit and asking, "Where 
  should I put this?"

Ah -- made her look! In order to answer the question, Faanshi must glance 
  Lyre's way to see what 'this' is... and once she does, her head stays 
  pointed in his direction even if she can't quite manage to make herself look 
  up at him. "Um... we could make a pile... a little pile, and then carry wet 
  things to the lines for hanging... no, no wait..." Nervous even yet, she 
  begins to empty the basket, saying shyly, "Fold it, and put it back in 
  here... easier to carry that way." A pause, till she has made a pile of 
  clothing just behind her, at which point she adds bemusedly, "I-imphadi, I-I 
  am sorry... you asked a question, I forgot... my... name is Faanshi."

Lyre ahhs softly, folding the wet shirt, "A beautiful name for a good and kind 
  lady. You were named well." The shirt is placed into the basket as he offers 
  the shudra another smile. Hopefully, this time she'll actually see it. "I am 
  called Lyre Talespinner, for my stories and songs."

She does, her gaze coaxed up by the movements of the bard's hands. And it may 
  well be that this maiden is not the recipient of smiles very often, for the 
  one she's given now, amidst the flicker of torchlight, seems to strike her 
  dumb. After a few moments she finally manages to speak again, though it 
  takes her effort, and her voice still seems in danger of snapping like an 
  overplayed harp string. "Lyre? Like... the instrument?"

A quiet nod, "Just like it. Tis not the name I was born with, but it is the 
  name I chose for myself. The Talespinner bit came later, in my travels. 
  After I left the Empyreal City." He lifts out another garment and dunks it 
  into the pond, beginning to wash.

After a moment, Faanshi considers... and then breaks off a chunk of her 
  crumbly cake of soap, reaching forth to set it near the music-maker. "You 
  can have some of my soap, Imphadi Lyre," says she. Without stammering, this 
  time -- it _is_ possible for her to speak thus, evidently. But her hand 
  retreats as soon as the item it relays is offered, and her gaze retreats to 
  the relative safety of her task at hand. Faanshi moves through the scrubbing 
  and wringing, wringing and rinsing with the sort of practiced rhythm that 
  only someone made to do this for several years can have established. Whether 
  she is wasted on laundry she clearly debates -- but at least she knows what 
  she's doing. Then she makes another offering: more words. "I-I have not seen 
  very much of the Empyre, but I know another man who is a bard, and he is a 
  Herald, too... do... bards travel to... many places?" Curiosity, childlike 
  but audibly there, peeks into her voice.

"Yes, m'lady. I was a slave for most of my life, but I was given my freedom 
  when I was little more than a boy. So I left, travelling the world to find 
  my music." Lyre smiles, "And I did. Travelling in the Empyre is difficult if 
  you do not have wings, but there is much to the world besides the Empyre." 
  He picks up the soap, smiling a bit as he murmurs, "My thanks, m'lady. This 
  will make it easier to clean. And then he falls mostly silent again, 
  scrubbing diligently at the laundry.

A... slave, and then a bard? Faanshi goes still, her heart rising into her 
  throat; this is the second man she's met who was once a slave and who made 
  something better of himself. The thought brings a fresh rush of blood into 
  her cheeks, though this is safely hidden behind her veil. But much can be 
  gleaned nevertheless from the nuances of voice, especially for one who's 
  made such things the way he earns his daily bread. There is an oddness in 
  the cadences of the lass's words, not quite the same as her nervousness of 
  before. "Yes... Haven... and... and Masada, and the varas of the Clans of 
  the Varati, and..." A pitiably small list of places to have visited -- or a 
  surprisingly large number of places for a servant girl, depending on one's 
  point of view. "And... Avalon." The pace of her own scrubbing picks up, even 
  as she finds herself adding without really knowing why, "I was... in the 
  Empyre, during the war." A fragment of life's history, offered in exchange 
  for a fragment of same, perhaps.

Soak, scrub, rinse. It's quite soothing, in its way. "You were? With the 
  armies of the Amir-Al?" Lyre even manages to pronounce it right. "The Empyre 
  can be a place of great beauty, and great sorrow, just as any other place. I 
  was sad to see it suffer during the war; but Avalon's birth made it 
  worthwhile." He seems faintly wistful, "I have not been there yet. I keep 
  planning to go, but something always holds me back. As if I am sure it is a 
  dream that is too good to be true, and so I fear actually waking up and 
  going there." He shakes his head, murmuring, "It's just whimsy, I suppose. 
  Still, you have been there...What is it like?"

Several reactions swirl through Faanshi, and she is not entirely certain what 
  to answer first. So many words! One may well conclude, as she struggles to 
  try to decide which question to choose, that she is invited into 
  conversation almost as infrequently as she is offered smiles and praise. But 
  slowly, inexorably, she seems to be growing more at ease between the homely 
  task at hand and the simple act of sharing words and ideas. "Yes," she 
  murmurs then, "I was made to travel with Clan Sarazen... and then the 
  Amir-al took me into Clan Khalida... and yes, yes, I have been to Avalon! 
  But I had to come back..." Faanshi trails off then, sorrow tinging her voice 
  for an instant before she squares her shoulders, calling back with an effort 
  her resignation, her acceptance of How Things Must Be. Very quietly, she 
  finishes, "I had to come back."

"The future is always uncertain, m'lady. Fortune may well guide you back there 
  again someday." Lyre speaks softly, as if not to startle her. "If that is 
  where your heart longs to be, Lady Faanshi, then you will return. The world 
  works mysteriously, but often the result is things ending up just how they 
  should." He tucks another wet cloth into the basket, "I hear in your voice 
  that you liked Avalon. What was it that charmed you? The people? The 
  countryside?" He leans a bit closer to confide, "The idea that it was a 
  place to be free?"

Since his mistress has occupied herself with washing the laundry, and since he 
  has drunk his fill, the dog plants himself not far away, vigilantly keeping 
  watch on anyone who might pass nearby and ready to give alert should any of 
  them come too near to his mistress. While Kosha maintains his guard, the 
  softened rumble of the bard's voice continues to coax words and ideas forth 
  from the maiden, as he might use nuts and berries as bait to attract the 
  shyest of squirrels. "Thomas asked me to come and heal his people," she 
  breathes, "and... and they _wanted_ me to... but they are Mongrels, and 
  Mongrels have always let me heal them... and... I saw autumn trees, I'd 
  never seen that before! And--" That last question, though, catches her hard. 
  There is a significant pause, during which the lass uneasily scrubs through 
  the last of the current garment she's attending. And then, finally, barely 
  loud enough to be heard, she murmurs, "They liked me in Avalon."

There is a pause for a moment as Lyre wrings out another garment, the water 
  tinkling as droplets reabsorb into the surface. "M'lady. They should like 
  you everywhere, and 'tis their great loss if they do not seek your 
  friendship. Those who judge others based on small things like eyes and magic 
  do not deserve the good favor of the gods." There is a touch of steel in his 
  voice, where previously there was none. "They should not treat you poorly. 
  They should not treat any of us poorly." He scrubs at the garment with 
  careful movements, as though containing his ire through the repetitive 
  motions of cleansing.

An empty ox-drawn cart rolls out of the tent city.

Faanshi has spent several days under the wrathful eye of the Nabi Devaki. More 
  than once, she has withstood the Imphada Shakir, Nefer Maat Al'Samar, 
  addressing her as though she has no more wit than a child. She has endured 
  countless Empyreans rejecting the touch of her hand on the simple grounds 
  that she is a halfbreed -- and often, simply on the grounds that she wears 
  Varati garb, and nevermind the name or nature of the girl beneath the 
  clothing. With equal regularity, she has suffered similar rejection from the 
  pureblooded members of the race that currently claims her service for its 
  own. All of this she has undergone with the stoic resignation that a 
  servant very little better than a slave... a position one may well argue is 
  that of many Varati women... a servant who sees no better possible place in 
  life inevitably develops -- if she does not go mad or reject that place. 
  Faanshi cannot yet reject her place in life, and thus she has, so far, 
  endured.
All of it, however, all of her fledgling resolve, all of her exhausted 
  resignation, all of her dull frustrated acceptance of the simple fact in 
  life that practically everyone she meets is liable to ignore her at best and 
  despise her at worst... all of it is laid bare by one man's sympathetic 
  words. Faanshi's scrubbing slows as she abruptly finds her vision turning 
  watery from moisture not borne of the lake. And without her willing it, her 
  voice turned tinier and more ragged as she mumbles, "I... I should... accept 
  my place... sometimes... people thank me, for what I do... but... but..."

Though he is mostly silent, Lyre stops scrubbing long enough to slip a hand 
  into his vest and draw out a scrap of cloth, offering it to Faanshi with 
  softly-spoken words of long experience, "My lady, you are not wrong to long 
  after something better than what you have been given. It is what makes you 
  human, and you are, and from what I know of you, you are of the best sort of 
  person -- a giving, gentle, kind person. I would not have you weep could I 
  prevent it, but if your heart is heavy, by all means -- let it out. You have 
  none but friends here, and we will both listen if you've sorrow to spend." 
  He looks down at the loyal dog for confirmation of his words.

Kosha indeed is as loyal as a dog can be, and instinctively, the maiden turns 
  to the hound first -- her expected only source of comfort when her hold on 
  what she bottles up within her grows too fragile. The young canine promptly 
  wags his tail when he sees his mistress's attention swerve to him, his 
  tongue hanging out and quite unfortunately detracting a bit from his attempt 
  at looking like an ideal valiant guard dog. Faanshi sniffles at the sight of 
  him... and only then realizes that a cloth has been offered to her. 
  Hesitantly, her head turns again, allowing torchlight to catch a damp 
  glimmer in eyes of green, before she reaches for the scrap in the hand of 
  the bard. What in the world is a man doing inviting her to cry, welcoming 
  her to vent her inner sorrow? "I... have... n-never met a man like you, 
  imphadi," she mumbles, dazed. "Did Ushas send you...?"

"Mayhap, m'lady. Who can know what made me come to the camp tonight? But I do 
  know that it is for both of our benefit. You seem like someone who needs 
  someone to listen, and I, well..." Lyre shrugs smoothly before admitting 
  quietly, "I have been singing so loudly because I could not bear to be 
  silent. We are well-matched for friendship. I have felt the sting of other's 
  scorn, my lady Faanshi. Perhaps we can help one another through the worst of 
  it."

An ox-drawn cart rolls down the street laden with bushet baskets full off 
  roots and tubers: potatoes, turnips, radishes, and beets.

The maiden sniffles once again, the tiniest of sounds, as though even with 
  gentle invitation she can barely bring herself to weep. With faltering hands 
  she lifts up the cloth she's been given to dab at her eyes, momentarily 
  obscuring all of her face from view. "P... pride," she whispers huskily, "is 
  the third of the h-holy surahs... but I am not very proud... and... I would 
  be most grateful for a friend, Imphadi Lyre... but... please, I-I am just 
  Faanshi, just a shudra, n-not a lady..."

Lyre ducks a bit to look up at the downcast Faanshi, speaking gently, "If that 
  is what you wish, Faanshi, I shall not call you my lady. But you will always 
  be a lady to me. And please, call me Lyre. I am not fond of titles." He 
  moves back just a touch and grabs another bit of laundry to scrub, chatting 
  in a friendly voice, "We will have this chore finished quickly, I think. I 
  am glad we met tonight, my...Faanshi."

"Lyre," she repeats, timidly trying to introduce herself to the notion of this 
  sound-concept being attached to a man as well as to a frame of wood with 
  strings upon it. Then, something in those last few words makes her blush all 
  over again, dipping her gaze swiftly downward; this time, however, her gaze 
  ventures up again, and this time, leaf-green is caught and held by 
  earth-brown. Dampness lingers in those eyes of hers, but none of it has made 
  it down to moisten the silken veil that hides away half her face. Rapidly 
  then, perhaps as if she fears her courage will fail her if she does not do 
  it as swiftly as possible, she holds forth the cloth she'd been given. And 
  in utmost earnestness she answers, "I am very glad we have met, as well...!"

There it is! That's what Lyre's been looking for -- some hint of a smile under 
  all that veil and sorrow. A twinkle brightens Lyre's dark eyes as he offers 
  a lopsided grin. "I am happy to hear that, Faanshi. Now I've got an even 
  better reason to come out to the tents, don't I?" He reaches out to lightly 
  take the cloth, but stops, instead saying quietly, "I think you should keep 
  it. Just in case you need something to remember me by." His smile is a touch 
  teasing, but he adds, "And it's always handy to have a kerchief near. It's 
  one of the first thing any experienced traveller learns."

Something there like a smile, indeed -- not that her mouth can be glimpsed 
  with the curtain of blue in the way, but the smallest ember of it ever so 
  slightly brightens her eyes, coaxed gently into life just as one might 
  breathe on the red ashes of a fire to bring forth a new tendril of flame. 
  Before she can stop herself Faanshi blurts, "Oh, I will have no trouble 
  remembering you!" Then, *whoosh*, down goes her gaze again as she veritably 
  leaps upon the poor shirt she'd forgotten. "I mean... I-I mean... thank 
  you... and... I should very much like to hear you sing, I do not not get to 
  hear music very often, or even just talk, no one talks to me! I work very 
  hard, and I--" All at once she freezes, jolting as though an arrow had just 
  struck her in the back. She cries tinily, glancing over her shoulder, "The 
  Nabi! I must report back to her, soon--!"

Calm hands pile the rest of the wet laundry into the basket as Lyre rises to 
  his feet, holding out his hand to help Faanshi up. "Then you must report 
  back to her. But there is nothing to fret about, Faanshi. It will be well." 
  His eyes crinkle in a warm smile, "After all, I must still sing to you, and 
  that is a task I greatly look forward to. No grumpy old Nabi will keep me at 
  bay!" He announces dramatically, free hand over his heart, "For I am sworn 
  to the true and wondrous Faanshi, to sing her praises until she finds 
  herself worthy of them." He glances down and offers the young shudra a wink.

Perhaps the only way Faanshi can be made to even half-gracefully accept 
  compliments is if they are couched in terms of the dramatic, the theatric, 
  the teasingly ridiculous... for even though she blushes so hotly she is sure 
  it must somehow be seen through her veil, still, nevertheless, a new noise 
  escapes her. It sounds suspiciously like... a giggle. The dog leaps up when 
  Faanshi does, sharp ears catching that tiny sound, his plume of a tail 
  wagging in vociferous approval. It is a good sound, one that means his 
  mistress is pleased! Moreover, his mistress manages to find enough bravery 
  to keep looking up at the countenance of the bard as she's helped to stand. 
  "You might have to sing for a very long time," she murmurs -- in what very 
  might well be a hint of wryness lurking somewhere beneath the concealing 
  veil.

"That, Faanshi, is something I would be more than happy to do." Lyre glances 
  down and smiles again, quietly, before glancing over his shoulder. "May I 
  walk with you a-ways? The tents can be dangerous at night. I would hate for 
  something to disrupt our friendship so early." He shows no signs of 
  relequishing the laundry basket, either, sort of making his escort 
  inevitable. At least for a while.

She barely knows this man. But her discovery of him, so unlooked-for in the 
  midst of sickness and spite and strife, has surged through the halfbreed 
  maiden like the warmth of a sunbeam piercing gathered rainclouds. Faanshi 
  finds herself strangely loathe to part company with him... and so she seizes 
  thankfully upon his offer even as he takes up her basket for her once more, 
  forestalling her from doing it herself. "All right," she whispers. Just two 
  simple words, but delivered with guileless, hopeful trust and the beginnings 
  of a blossoming warmth of her own. Once more, she beckons to her faithful 
  hound, and then she gestures ahead in the direction of the place where wet 
  laundry must be hung to be dried by the breezes or by what warmth can be 
  made by what fire-mages can be spared for the task. It is not far to walk... 
  and it is a walk that can only end in the Nabi Devaki. But it begins to seem 
  to Faanshi that with her dog on the one side and this new, alarming, 
  fascinating friend on the other... for once, it will be a walk without fear.

[End log.]