"A Little Beach Adventure" Log Date: 11/19, 11/21, 11/22, 11/25, 11/27/00 Log Cast: Faanshi, Tyler Log Intro: Few people of Faanshi's acquaintance are more temptuous of nature than the Mongrel Tyler, a man who has dizzied her with his propensity to switch with blinding speed between outrageous flirtation, boisterous good humor, and clumsy earnestness. Several times now has she met this man within Haven, and twice since she received the news of her beloved Lyre's death; both times this energetic Mongrel has tried to get her to show him her face, though his final success has come only as his price to let Faanshi heal him of hurts he suffered in a street fight. Guilt-stricken over his own presumption at taking such advantage of her, disconcerted that the healer maiden can even provoke such guilt in him, Tyler last parted ways with her in a surly mood indeed. And so he startles her yet again, when Faanshi comes across him in the grip of euphoria over his latest victory in the Arena Games.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Evening Date on Aether: Friday, June 1, 3907. Year on Earth: 1507 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waning Gibbous Season: Summer Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Warm *==========================================================================* West Main - Haven The very western edge of the city of Haven is notoriously less remarkable to the eye than the eastern vicinities. This end of the main drag sees little traffic, for naught lies beyond the gates but uncivilized forest. Rickety wooden edifices become prevalent over safer stonemasons' constructions, and the majority of the traffic moves via foot, rather than wheel or hoof. To the south one might catch a glimpse--or whiff--of the sea. The prospects east and northeast seem a bit more appealing, their roads lined with arbors and occasionally maintained shrubbery. The city gates loom to the west, but it is dark and quiet there, seldom approached and tended by only a pair of idle guards. Contents: Kosha Obvious exits: Freehold Streets Gate Garden Archway Faanshi At first glance, some things about this individual are easy to discern. The garments worn are those oft seen on Varati females, yet, this figure stands at only 5'9", small for a woman of that race. But woman she clearly is, if the glimpses of slender hands and feet and of the shape beneath her flowing garb are to be believed. What portions of her skin are visible are a warm shade of gold; a hint of a braid of coal-black peeks out from beneath her sari. Shy or perhaps simply trained to submissive silence she must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless specifically bidden, and she speaks so seldom and so softly that it is nigh impossible to determine the quality of her voice. Only the most astute of observers might notice that every so often -- perhaps when she thinks no one is watching -- this silent one peeks with furtive curiosity out from behind her veil at the world at large, with eyes set at a slight un-Varatish slant in her face, eyes the color of summer leaves. She is simply clad, her garments humble but of excellent repair, perhaps the clothing of a servant whose household garbs even its servants well. However, though she wears silks that can be only of Varati make, and although her gold-trimmed red choli and blue silwar are of strong and vivid hues, there is a certain sobriety about her garb over all -- born of the unadorned black sari which covers her head and winds about her slender frame, and the opaque black gauzy veil which hides most of her face from easy view. On her feet she wears simple sandals. Tyler arrives from the east, apparently having just come from the garden. Tyler has arrived. With darkness falling over the city, it's not necessarily the best of times for Faanshi to be out -- but then again, that's never stopped her before. Not when there are people in Bordertown who need her attention... and not, as of late, when there have been the occasional handful of people coming into Haven who have brought to her the word that Avalon has aligned itself with the Empyre. Practically every one of these people have been Mongrel men and women who wanted to journey to Avalon and live there precisely _because_ it was free, a place for Mongrels, governed by Mongrels... but now, that's seemed to change again. And it's with saddened eyes that the young healer makes her way through the western part of the city, peering at the building that had not too long ago served as Avalon's embassy... and wondering if the friends she'd met there still live. "Do you think they're all right, Kosha?" she breathes to the dog at her heels, though she knows he cannot understand her words and merely loves the sound of her voice. "Ianthe... and Thomas? And Milane...?" Right after a fight that sees Tyler emerge victorious, Tyler is a /god/. The world he reigns over is /perfect/. When he strides down the road--West Main, for instance--he feels gigantically taller and greater than all who cross paths with him. Adrenaline and exhiliration course through his body like some addictive drug--and so does a certain amount of the alcohol from the bottle he carries and swings carelessly in his right hand. Royal blue and bright silver paint are smudged over his bronzed flesh after being so carefully applied, mixing with the splashed designs of sticky blood. A lot of pedestrians cast him /very/ odd looks. Odd looks, indeed, from those heading tiredly home after a hard day's labor... or in some cases, rousing up for a hard night's labor. Or a hard night's frolicking, depending upon one's point of view. And an odd look from the dog, who's never quite seen a personage such as this one making his way down the street. Or rather, this particular personage in this particular state. Kosha lets out a low bemused whurf, but it's actually the scurrying of a tired mother shooing her little bevy of children past her that rouses Faanshi. Looking up in time to see the disheveledly painted figure swaggering in her direction, the halfbreed visibly starts. Ushas. That man is _blue_. And _silver_. She takes a step backwards in unthinking bewilderment, thinking to mimic that mother of four who's turned the corner and headed off into the distance and give the strange-looking fellow a wide berth. Tyler Electric blue eyes, always running wild with proof of a turbulent temper, confront the world with keen, contagious excitement. Tyler looks to be in his mid-twenties, his features rugged and relatively handsome, fit for winning smiles and aggressive snarls alike. A shaggy shock of lemon yellow hair is adorned with short braids and vivid feathers, lending him a wild, untamed look. Formidable in construction, cocky in demeanor, Tyler is six feet and two inches of adrenaline and abandon. His athletic musculature thrums with energy, reasonably combining explosive strength with curious expedition. Proud scars dance in sharp patterns across his powerful forearms and hands, while fresh cuts and bruises always adorn his knuckles, strictly exacted by his rough profession. The colors of House Augustus--rich, royal blue and keen silver--fiercely paint Tyler's face and the bare expanses of bronze-toned skin. His minimal attire is built for speed and ease of movement; a skirt of broad, leather tasses keeps him modest and a pair of mis-matched, yet battle-scarred bracers have been locked to the wrist and fore of each arm. From out of his painted countenance, Tyler's excited eyes light up at the sight of the familiar hound-and-shudra duo. The beaming, boyish smile that he sends to them both is at odds with the bloodied gladiator. He immediately dashes in their direction. "I won!" he proclaims with a hop of both feet, realizing only after he's spoken how cheerfully /surprised/ he sounds. "I knew I would," he is quick to add, adopting a more confident tone of voice, "and I did. I did!" He sounds surprised again. "Did you hear that, Kosha? Your friend won." The mongrel crouches as though to make it easier to have a conversation with the hound, even holding a hand out toward him. Kosha actually skitters back a little himself, another small yip rumbling in his throat, before he cranes his head back forward to sniff dubiously at those fingers. Faanshi, wide-eyed above her veil, realizes with a start that she knows this man; it's the voice that lets her realize this, for it is familiar, though on the tail end of that the features beneath the coating of paint and blood resurrect themselves in her memory as well. As it's not an entirely comfortable memory -- she hasn't had a single comfortable meeting with this man, after all! -- she blurts out in confusion, "Won... what, Imphadi?" And she stands there drawing her basket of herbs a bit closer to her with one hand, the other lifted up towards her veil. Almost protectively. "My fight!" he all but chirrups in reply, reaching out to pat, ruffle, or otherwise affectionately torment Kosha if he may. He stands up, gaze soaring up to the twilight sky and drawing some of its beauty in for a taste with a happy sigh. A faint suggestion of the sea is found in the air. "Hey, thought I told you not to call me that," he scolds in good nature, levelling his attention on Faanshi's veiled visage and recalling the face hidden behind. "It's Tyler," says the mongrel with a smile that /might/ be considered charming. "Just Tyler." Hrm. Well. Okay. Kosha finds that the hand that forcefully ruffles his fur smells a trifle strange -- but it IS a hand, and it DOES skitch him, and so the dog decides he's all right with permitting this to happen. As for Faanshi, she starts again ever so slightly as the rather dramatically hued figure before her rises... and smiles... and speaks. "I... do not recall that you had ever permitted me to know your name," she murmurs, gaze shyly averting, "but I shall remember your preferences in the future." The bemusement in her gentle tones is unmistakable, though, as she appends, "You... won a... fight?" "Uh-huh. All by myself, too--well, Emrys helped a little," the gladiator explains, suddenly tasting some of the running blue paint when a sweat-mixed rivulet of it crosses his lips. "Yuck," he reports, should Faanshi ever wish to know what paint tastes like. He wipes around his mouth with the back of his hand, but the stubborn paint refuses to completely leave. "Wanna come to the beach with me?" he then wonders aloud, blue eyebrows lifting curiously. Still not entirely able to ascertain exactly what sort of fight would have required this brash young man to cover himself in blue and silver paint, Faanshi cants her head a fraction sideways, delicate brows of her own crinkling above her uncertain eyes. "If you intend to bathe, Imph--Tyler," she answers slowly, "would it not be best... if you had privacy?" She considers and then is compelled by general concern to add, "I feel no pain from you... I-I hope that the person with whom you and your companion fought is not seriously harmed?" As if she might in fact start looking for some poor hurt soul in one of the nearby alleys, she peeks this way and that. Swiftly and harmlessly, Tyler attempts to take the healer's hand in his own as if to lead her toward the beach. It's true that she would feel no pain emanate from his bare, muscular form, but there /is/ blood on him. He discards his bottle on the ground. "No, they're fine," he says quickly, honestly not knowing one way or another. "Don't worry. Come on, and you can tell me /your/ name on the way. I got something I wanna say to you, but I can't do it with all this paint on my face." On silent command, the mongrel utilizes an ability that comes very naturally: he glows with false, youthful innocence. "Please?" It is safe to say that this is the first time ever that Faanshi has had her hand seized up by a man wearing tasses, bracers, paint, and a boyish smile. Her consternation is palpable; if nothing else, she's already had a long day, and if she compounds it by walking all the way south across the city, she'll have to come all the way back to get home to Atesh-Gah once she's done. But just as palpable is the effect the practiced innocent expression has upon her. Calculated it may be, but it results in a wavering of the maiden's resolve. "I... was unaware you considered yourself on speaking terms with me... I thought you were... angry." This last is humbly admitted, while Faanshi rests her green gaze upon Kosha's still hopefully wagging tail. "I did not mean to anger you by offering healing...!" He gently squeezes the delicate hand that he's surprised to still find in his grasp. "I know you didn't," admits he, "and that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Now comes the hard part. It seemed so /easy/ when he first got the idea. "I ..." His throat constricts. He lets go of Faanshi's hand and takes a step away from her, using that same hand to scratch sheepishly at the back of his head amidst the braided locks of bright yellow hair. A loose, colorful feather is shed and drifts very lightly toward the ground. "... sorry," he tries to resume. Tyler opens his mouth again, looking like he'd rather speak /any/ other words in the whole wide world. "I'm. Sorry." He seems uncertain as he extends this rare offering, watching the shudra with slightly widened, vibrant blue eyes. The affected guilelessness had its effect upon Faanshi, aye, but it's the apology that draws her gaze back up, bringing summer-leaf green back into the range of electric blue. Is she pleased? Confoundedly difficult to tell with that veil of hers in the way, but perhaps, just perhaps, the big Mongrel's sudden genuine awkwardness is responsible for a subtle easing of her eyes. "I too apologize for having roused your ire," she earnestly replies. "All is well." "Don't be sorry," says Tyler in a near-plea, his expression troubled as he holds onto the nape of his neck, bright gaze lowering to Faanshi's little feet. "Sometimes," he adds in a somber tone, turning toward the direction of the sea and dropping his hand to his side, "I dunno what to do or what to think, so I get mad at myself. And everyone else, too." His shoulders rise and sink in a thoughtful sigh, proving that this mongrel's temperament shifts more than the singular grains of sand caught in a desert's violent storm. Then he turns his blue face to pick up the healer in his peripheral. "Come with me?" After an entreaty like that, what can Faanshi do but acquiesce? "All righ," she says then, "for a time... I must not be gone from Atesh-Gah for too long, but I have a little time." She settles her basket into a slightly easier position upon her elbow, then peeks off to the south. "This way, then...? Kosha, come..." And the dog, perking up at the sound of his name, barks. "Great," says the mongrel, a grin etching its way across his rugged, blue countenance as he whips back around to face the young shudra, bouncing once on the balls of his feet. "Come on, I'll race you," he challenges robustly. "You /and/ Kosha!" What -- wait -- her, _run_? Something of Tyler's infectious enthusiasm is beginning to carry over to the hound, who echoes some of the young man's bouncing -- though the wagging of that mighty plume of a tail is all Kosha's own. Faanshi, however, gives quite a start, clutching at her basket a little more as if half-afraid she might drop it. "Run?" she blurts, sounding perplexed by the very idea of doing so for no reason other than the sheer joy of running. "To the beach...?" "Yeahh, /run/, to the beach," Tyler returns excitedly. "I don't remember you hesitating when it came time to run /from/ me." He beams a brisk smile at Faanshi. "So run with me now. It's easy and it's fun--look, Kosha wants to." Again he bounces as if to stir the hound more, energy radiating from his seemingly unquenchable supply. "Don't you, boy?" he asks in a rousing tone, urging Kosha. "Come on, /both/ of you!" There is something almost childlike about the Mongrel's excited encouragement -- and Faanshi, in many ways still childlike herself, finds it extremely difficult to resist. Oh, she's run before. But when trying to catch up with Kosha, or running away from something potentially dangerous, or running _to_ someone who needs her help... never for no reason any more complicated than fun. Not entirely certain whether she'd recognize the feeling if she felt it, she hedges, "I... I may drop my basket, you might outrun me, but..." Kosha in the meantime, reacting to Tyler's upbeat tone (the same sort of voice many an acquaintance of Faanshi's likes to use when asking, "Feed the DOG? Feed the DOG!") as well as the word "run", starts scampering about the healer to add his own vote to the matter. Overruled by her own hound, the maiden concludes shyly, "A-all right!" "It's about /time/ she loosened up some, huh Kosha?" Electric blue eyes watching her, Tyler takes a couple of steps toward the healer and extends a muscular arm toward her helpfully, fingertips beckoning Faanshi closer. "Lemme carry the basket for you. I won't drop it, I promise." He rakes his other hand through his sunny locks, looking altogether pleased. That's his name again! A bark of firm approval pelting forth from him, Kosha wags his tail all the more, while his young mistress looks back and forth between the dog and the man. To the latter she tentatively surrenders her burden, saying, "All right... if you wish... it has my herbs in it, you see, and Kosha's toy...!" Peering into the basket as he takes it, Tyler looks over the things within as he offhandedly listens to the halfbreed. "All set then, aren't we?" he asks, lifting his anxious gaze to her veiled face and then sweeping it toward the hound, his true competition. "Last one there has to give Kosha a kiss!" the laughing mongrel declares without warning, turning to hurtle his way toward the golden sands of the beach. Whoo hoo! Run run run run! As soon as Tyler bursts into motion, so does Kosha; the hound has absolutely no problems with the idea of running for the sake of running. He easily keeps pace with the rangy gladiator as well. Just behind him comes Faanshi -- who, for all that she is a servant girl, still leads an arguably more active life than many servants within Atesh-Gah or in either of the other two embassies within Haven. She is young, she is fit, and her legs are long; when she is provoked into using it, she actually possesses a lengthy stride and can cover distance fairly quickly when she runs. Tyler heads south, toward the sea and the docks. Tyler has left. [And, shortly...] You walk down the winding path towards the beach. Beach - Haven Soft sands from years of gentle ocean currents greet the feet of those who explore the expanse of beach that leads from the streets of Haven to the edges of ocean. The hushed roar of the waves can be heard, a lulling sound to the attentive ear. The sand stretches out for about a quarter of a mile and allows for plenty of space for pursuits of leisure. Depending upon the time, you may be graced by the awe-striking sunset, the peaceful glow of the moon, or the comforting rays of the midday sun. Several ocean birds fly overhead as if frolicking around and playing in the air, occasionally swooping down towards the ocean surface to retrieve a tasty morsel. The ocean itself seems to be calm and relaxing near the shore for several hundred feet before the sands slope harshly and drop. There, the water is safe only for experienced swimmers and boaters. There is a small path that leads towards the town that is paved with sand and lined on either side by flowers. Obvious exits: Path to the City Haven Bay Tyler walks down the winding path from Haven and steps onto the beach. Tyler has arrived. Kosha and the mongrel exchange the lead several times before the beach is reached, bare feet versus furry paws. Tyler looks back over his shoulder often to encourage Faanshi to keep up, laughing and running while he cradles her basket. Only when the sands are below does the yellow-haired mongrel surge ahead of the hound with a determined pace. He lowers an arm and swiftly lets the basket fall a few inches to nestle atop a blanket of sand, its cargo barely shifting within. And then he sprints right into the lapping water, playfully yelping and tumbling forward when a particularly forceful wave knocks his knees out from under him. Oh my, that looks like fun! Wanting to play too, Kosha pelts right into the water a few jumps behind the Mongrel man, sending a great spray of sea-form into the air. While he splashes gaily about, Faanshi finally begins closing the distance that her two companions had gained on her. Young and fit and long-legged she is, but she is not accustomed to hard running, especially over a good distance. The shudra maiden has had to slow down more than once, though as the beach at last is in reach she summons up a final burst of speed and achieves the sands. But this is at the risk of having to stagger to a breathless halt once she draws near to where the basket has been placed. Faanshi's veil hides her panting for breath, but not the heaving of her chest as she hauls air into her slim form. Or the sheen of sweat upon her sungolden brow, just visible in moonlight filtering down through the scattering of clouds in the evening sky overhead. Tasting salt as he recovers from his fall, Tyler gives a holler and attempts to good-naturedly tackle Faanshi's splashing hound in the shallow water. He can feel the dried blue and silver paint begin to melt away from his bronzed flesh as the solid white moon peeks down from above, highlighting the blue-black water as it ripples toward the shore. Ooh! Okay, Kosha knows what this means! It means GAME! Tackled into the surf by Tyler, he cheerfully begins to try to wrestle the big gladiator, paws and muzzle and his big furry head seemingly everywhere at once. "Kosha, do not bite him!" calls Faanshi from the drier sand not too far away, as she tries to decide whether she should sit, or remain standing if she has to scold the canine out of too-exuberant play. But then she seems to decide to sit regardless, sinking down slowly to the sand beside her basket, watching the frolicking dog with an unguarded affection. The mongrel finds the powerful hound more than willing to play with him when he's tackled in retaliation, overwhelmed by the furry, hundred-pound Kosha. "Yes, don't bite me, Kosha!" he agrees in another yelp--this one highly amused--for a certain wet muzzle manages to tickle him. When he frees himself of his canine wrestling partner, Tyler begins scrambling toward the dry sand, panting happily. Tyler had already been rather scantily clad; now, he is scantily clad and wet, and Faanshi is not exactly accustomed to such sights. The girl's gaze dips shyly downward, her hands shooting to her basket in search of a way to occupy themselves. "Kosha... seems to like you," she murmurs, while the hound scampers along in Tyler's wake. In a supreme blissful ignorance of whether salt water is good for silken clothing, Kosha gives himself a mighty shake once he's near enough to his young mistress -- which makes her abruptly squeal and lift up her arms in a futile attempt to protect her sari-covered head. "Kosha!" With that, the dog wags his tail, plopping down onto the sand with a look of being extremely pleased with himself. The soaked mongrel drops to his knees beside the lazing Kosha. With a recreative growl in his throat, Tyler pats at the broad back of the hound and grudgingly admits, "Well, /maybe/ I like him, too." Snorting gently, he proceeds to follow the dog's lead, flopping down unceremoniously onto the beach near Faanshi's feet. Chest-first he reclines, sand sticking to one wet cheek--not to mention the rest of his stretched-out body--as his back rises and falls with his rapid need to breathe. "/That/ was fun." In his own mongrel way, he mirrors Kosha's look of pleasure. "It appeared to be so," is Faanshi's timorous reply, as she draws her basket into her lap with one hand, and with the other gently nudges Kosha's wet nose away from her. "I will scratch you when you are dry," she chides very softly, another glimmer of what can only be affection for a creature very dear to her peeking through from behind her veil. Wet hair gritty with sand and laying in stringy strands, Tyler heaves a sigh and notes after detecting that glimmer of affection, "I think he likes /you/ more, though." His smile is warm and honest as he turns his head up at the hound, briefly baring his teeth in a sportive snarl. "He's a good dog," the mongrel adds after a moment, shifting his attention to Faanshi's veiled face and recalling something she once told him. "A true friend." Memory of what she had said comes back to her, too; for a moment, Faanshi goes still as it does so. Then she does reach out impulsively to scritch Kosha's head, wet fur or no wet fur... and her gaze lifts itself up once again. Green eyes remain shy, but there is a peaceful conviction in them as she agrees, "A very good dog... and my closest friend in the world!" Her tone, too, gains a hint of confidence. "So are you ever gonna tell me your name?" the mongrel wonders aloud from his relaxed position, looking up at the healer with lucent eyes. "Or am I gonna have to tickle it out of you?" Something in the creeping, mischievous expression hints that Tyler is really not opposed to resorting to the latter option. Blinking, realizing that she had in fact not identified herself as of yet, the maiden starts. And then she murmurs sheepishly, "My name is Faanshi. I am sorry, I forgot to say before we ran...!" And then the Mongrel and the dog got to the beach ahead of her, and then she had to sit down, and then she had to get her breath back... and, well. "Faanshi," says Tyler experimentally, trying the name out for size. He seems satisfied with the outcome. "It fits you," he decides with a definite smile. "Faanshi and Kosha." Pulling himself up from his sprawled-out recline, the mongrel slides into a normal sitting position--weaselling himself right next to the maiden with a stretch of chisled arms above his head. "Can I tickle you anyways?" he then impulsively quizzes, eyebrows lifted curiously as he tries to meet her gaze. "I am honored you think so," Faanshi begins, though she does not have a chance to mention that her name's doubtless more apt than the Mongrel fighter knows, drawn as it is from the old dialect of Clan Sarazen. She's distracted by his impulsive proposal -- not to mention his sudden proximity. Tickling is a notion she has a rather harder time comprehending than that of running for pleasure, and for a moment or two she cannot help but stare strangely over the top of her veil, as if Tyler had just suggested she should sprout wings and proclaim herself the next Empress. "I-I do not think that would be a good idea," she blurts, too hastily and in a voice that goes too high. Her gaze can be found, but it turns skittish and flustered -- and then promptly drops to her lap. "Why? Why don't you think that's a good idea?" The question is sincerely inquisitive, yet undoubtedly brash. He pulls his legs in, crossing them loosely. The broad flaps of hard, black leather shift to keep the mongrel decent, seawater harmlessly beaded up on the oil-treated skirt. Resting an elbow on his knee and his chin in the corresponding palm, Tyler points out, "I've never seen you laugh before--or even smile." Sweet Holy Mother, how does she answer _that_? Blushing heatedly behind her ebon veil, Faanshi struggles to find the proper words to express the surge of intermingled shyness, fear, and alarm that courses through her at the notion of this big, half-bare, and wet Mongrel's hands touching her in so familiar a fashion as tickling. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she's been given something else to answer as well, and in an almost desperate relief she seizes upon the second question even as she looks down at Kosha, sungolden fingers scritching him all the while. "I... do not... laugh very often," she admits humbly, a little troubled by this knowledge about herself. Truth be told, she can't remember a time since she set foot in Haven that she ever laughed out loud; at best, she's managed the occasional tiny giggle. "I am not... sure I can...!" "What?" Lemon-hued eyebrows climb as Tyler laughs at her reply. "Not sure you /can/? Trust me, I /know/ you can--everybody can laugh!" He seems certain of this. "Look, lemme show you. It's easy." Before she can grant permission, the mongrel is anxiously shuffling around to sit directly across from the maiden, re-crossing his legs for comfort. "Now let me have your foot." His smile is magnetic, even if his appearance is somewhat wild, coated in patterns of clinging sand and traces of stubborn paint. Kosha yurfs, peering over at his fellow frolicker-in-the-surf, not entirely certain yet what he thinks he's up to. Neither is Faanshi, for that matter. "My... foot?" the maiden echoes, taken aback; her own dark brows crinkle in bemusement, and she involuntarily glances down and a little backwards, where her feet are daintily tucked beneath her. Out of habit she's knelt upon the sand, her slight weight resting upon her calves, rather than truly sitting. And then she straightens up ever so slightly, saying in tones of mild chiding that she might use upon the hound at her side, "You're going to _tickle_ it, are you not...?" "Uh-huh. Your foot," casually confirms the big mongrel, nodding his head eagerly. "It's not gonna /hurt/," he assures her, running one hand over his brow and back through his soaked locks, slicking the clinging strands back out of his shining eyes. "Just sit like me and gimme your foot. You'll like it, I promise." One must give the man credit for honesty -- and truth be told, the smile _is_ magnetic. It's enough to cajole the maiden into tentatively shifting her position, making Kosha swivel his head about to watch her do so. When she settles down again she crosses one leg in mimicry of Tyler, then timidly offers the other out. It's... a foot, sungolden in hue like her hands, and correspondingly dainty; her slender ankle is all that's visible of her leg, mostly swathed in the dark blue silwar she wears. Her sandal is simple leather, unadorned, with much wear upon the sole and laces that tie up around her calf. It is not improper, is it, if a man touches her foot? Faanshi cannot for the life of her remember having ever been taught so, though it's obvious enough that the prospect of physical contact with a near-stranger is difficult for her to accept. "I... will take your word for it, Im--" And the halfbreed catches herself. "Tyler." The sandy gladiator's smile widens considerably for two reasons. She didn't call him 'Imphadi.' And she's actually lending him her slender, little foot. It's the same curious color, he silently notes, inspecting it without touching. Then his attention sweeps to the vigilant hound. "Maybe I should ask /his/ permission, too?" Tyler grins and reaches out a scarred hand to scratch at the peak of Kosha's furry head, letting his attention spread to the back of one hard-to-reach ear. Oh, bliss! Oh bliss! Kosha may be a loyal guard of Faanshi wherever she goes, but he's a guard that can be seduced by scritches of his ears. His tail sets into wagging motion once again, while he forcefully nudges at those strong fingers. Yes. Scritch him. Right there! And when you're done, you can scritch him some more! "Kosha appears to have an alternate plan in mind," murmurs the shudra. Tyler employs his other hand, turning his body toward the hound a little more so that he may all but cup Kosha's doggy face in his hands, fingers tirelessly scratching at the same spot on each ear that he seems to so enjoy. "You /like/ that, don't you, boy?" A soft, encouraging laugh fills the mongrel's throat. Faanshi cannot help but notice that there does not appear to be any tickling occurring here -- but she can't say she minds, either, not when she watches the Mongrel man making friends with her dog. "He has always liked to have his head scratched," she confides earnestly. "Ever since he was a small puppy. There is a spot on his belly, too -- if that is scratched, it makes his paw thump!" And to be sure, Kosha wriggles in utter delight, all the better to bring himself into better scritching range. "Hard to believe he was ever small ... /or/ a puppy," Tyler says with a friendly glance at the healer. He quickly turns his attention back to the huge hound, however, whose transition into wriggling, delighted doggy still rather amuses him. "Okay, Kosha, now it's Faanshi's turn," he explains, easing off on the scritching and scratching to pat at the blanket of sand beside the shudra. "Can I take off your sandal?" the mongrel wonders innocently. Oh. He hadn't changed his mind then. Faanshi dauntedly ducks her gaze again, though it does seem to her that an experiment in tickling a foot probably can't go very far when there's a leathern sole in the way. Even with that logical conclusion in mind it does take her a bit of effort at maintaining her composure before she can bob her head. "All right," comes her voice from behind her veil, very small. "Good, because it kinda gets in the way." Tyler carefully removes the sandal and any necessary straps from her extended foot, lying it aside when completed. "Ooh, you have a cute foot," he observes brightly, letting the foot rest in the sand as he lifts his radiant blue eyes in an attempt to find Faanshi's own. "It's just right for tickling." Faanshi surely can't be very accustomed to flattery, for that statement only makes her murmur uncertainly, "Th-thank you..." A slight questioning rise in pitch lifts up the second of those words, and even as Tyler seeks out her gaze, she seems determined to keep it humbly lowered down. Is she nervous? Is she scared? Her face cannot be read, but her tone of voice can be, and so can her posture. Dainty of frame though she may be, she sits stoically upright as if she has something in common with Khalid Atar's Agni-Haidar warriors aside from the black she wears over her brighter clothing beneath. One might almost think she's braced herself for something unpleasant. And it's that rigid posture that summons a soothing, "Hey, come on ... take it easy, Faanshi. If you're set on /not/ enjoying it before I even /try/, it's not gonna work. You need to relax ... breathe ..." Tyler demonstrates with a deep inhale followed by a shoulder-sinking exhale. "Please?" he all but whimpers, adding plaintively, "I just wanna see you have fun for once." Kosha adds his opinion to this entreaty by rolling over, exactly positioning himself to place his sizeable head into its rightful location: i.e., Faanshi's lap. The owner of the lap in question finds herself caught between steadying her basket as Kosha dislodges it -- and trying to find a safe way to look at a man whose upper body is wearing hardly anything but leftover streaks of paint and sand. There's a great deal of bared skin and broad shoulders and muscular arms there -- and although contact with a maiden's foot does not appear in any of Faanshi's recollections about lessons in propriety given her by her heart-mother, situations involving large quantities of bare male skin are far less unclear. "I-I am sorry," she blurts, blushing despite the blush being impossible to view. "I-I-I-I am nervous... I do not want to be... you seem... kind." This last has a ring of surprised self-realization, as it dawns upon the halfbreed girl that this rake who's alarmed her each and every single previous time she's encountered him has indeed been entirely kind this time around. Impish, yes. Mischievous, most certainly. But also... kind. "Don't be sorry," says the gladiator in understanding tones, flashing her a smile that has yet to fade. "Just try to enjoy, huh?" And then, lifting up Faanshi's dainty foot in one hand, he draws a single fingertip along the length of the bottom with a shockingly gentle, feathery touch that is, like Tyler promised, meant to tickle. He traces a few circles about her heel, rides over the curved arch, lingers briefly on the ball of her foot, then ends on one cute, little toe, playfully brushing at it with his fingertip. His attention shifts rapidly from her foot to her veiled face, looking wildly about for any hints of tickling enjoyment. That's a delicate little foot she's got there, to be sure. A sufficiently large, strong hand (for example, one belonging to a practiced gladiator) could probably snap the bones beneath her skin without too much effort. And it twitches reflexively in Tyler's hold, a reaction that shoots up the maiden's system and ends in her involuntarily scooting back a little, hands flailing out to support herself and keep herself from falling over. The jolt makes Kosha lift his head, peering at the evident cause of his rightful lap's disturbance, and the dog issues a snort that suggests his disgruntlement at Tyler's provoking this, even if he _is_ good at skitching. A small gasp sounds from the shudra: "Ushas--!" Tyler's bright eyes grow wide at this reaction. The tickling stops. He didn't think /that/ would happen, and his expression broadcasts a silent apology for Kosha's benefit. "Whoa, what happened?" he quizzes quickly, not exactly sure whether the jolt of his touch was good ... or bad. "What'd it feel like?" The mongrel cradles her sungolden foot as he looks on, assuming she does not try to take it back from him, in which case he would surrender. "And who's Ushas?" A yellow brow quirks. The halfbreed girl doesn't exactly jerk her foot away; rather, by simple fact of having gotten it into a slightly awkward and uncomfortable angle, it starts to tremble a little until she lets it drop down lightly to the sand. Trying to return to a more dignified posture, Faanshi murmurs sheepishly, "I, um... think it tickled..." While Kosha quite determinedly thrusts his still-damp head back into her lap, she appends, "Ushas is the Holy Mother of the Amir-al... Lady of the Dawn, and consort of Ashur Masad...!" "Oh," murmurs an enlightened Tyler. "Ushas." His nonplussed look slowly transforms into a smiling expression once more as he happily says, "It ... tickled?" Seeming proud, he reaches down to gently touch her foot as it rests in the sand. "Did you like it? Lemme do it some more," he urges excitedly, already nodding his head at her. "I say my prayers to Her each morning, you see... a-as I pray to the Most High each night--" Faanshi cuts off with a sort of tiny little hitch in her voice, struck anew with shyness at her companion's eager proposal. Then, gaze down upon her hound's fur, she blurts involuntarily, "I... perhaps... another time... I-I... you see, I--" In between these stammered syllables, her eyes peek up and then down again, back and forth, as if she cannot decide where she wants to look. Growing more and more flustered, she might almost be a nervous little bird trying to decide whether the sizeable panther nearby is going to devour her. "Come on," counters the mongrel in a voice that is soft yet plaintive. "Let me? Please?" He absently attempts to stroke the shudra's instep with two fingertips, eyes wide and hopeful as they try again and again to catch her fleeting gaze. "Afraid you might actually laugh?" Tyler manages to shift his position a little, moving to his knees and sitting back on his own calves. This time it is Faanshi who must dislodge Kosha, for, regardless of lack of lessons about the propriety of a man's touch upon her foot, Tyler's fingers fire off a palpable memory in the back of her head: another Mongrel man's fingers, doing almost that same gentle touch. And for all that she has tried to think of Lyre Talespinner with joy instead of mourning these last many days, she still jolts with unconscious reaction, scrambling back just a little and fumbling for her sandal. Her voice goes a trifle too high and a trifle too wild as she babbles out softly, "F-forgive me... I... w-we are alone out here a-and you do not have a shirt on and--" As Kosha whines, made ill at ease by this shift in the maiden's demeanor, the healer makes it to her knees and pauses there, clinging to the sandal unthinkingly, eyes squeezed shut. Her last three words come out choked and tiny: "Lyre... did that...!" Upon the mention of a name he is not familiar with and Faanshi's scrambling retreat from his touch, Tyler looks something like a sore loser. As if coming to some realization, he states clearly, "You wanna leave. You don't like me." His rugged features harden and he places his hands in the sand to push himself forcefully to his feet. "If I swim to the other side of the world and back to this beach, will you like me /then/?" He sounds strikingly serious, head turning first to take in the vast endlessness of the stretching water and then returning to search for Faanshi's answer. Tyler might be arguably the most devilish person of Faanshi's current acquaintance. He might be half-naked. He might be still noticeably damp, streaked in sand and lingering little splotches of paint. But he is also a _man_, and twnty years' worth of hard learning make Faanshi unconsciously flinch at what sounds to her like displeasure in his voice. "I-I-I am sorry," she begins to stammer apologetically, "I did not mean to say--" And then she starts, eyes that have turned a little teary at the memory of a dead bard shooting their gaze up in blank uncomprehension of what the Mongrel's just asked, regardless of his state of wild dishevelment. "Y-You do not need to do that...!" "I don't?" questions he, sharp as though her answer was to be of paramount importance. "Why not, huh?" Tyler's lips hesitate between a silent snarl and a precarious grin, never quite deciding, as he begins to back up through the sand toward the sea as it slides toward him, gradually absorbing into the sand. His blue eyes blaze at the maiden before he suddenly turns and rushes into the ocean, hurdling a low wave and landing on the other side to dive forward, muscular arms pulling him through the water with powerful strokes. Well, this is certainly a strange turn of events, and Kosha barks, not quite sure whether this means Tyler wants to play in the water again -- or whether something else is happening, as his mistress' state of agitation seems to imply. And indeed, Faanshi is agitated. Shooting to her own feet, she calls out anxiously, "Imph--Tyler--you do not need--come back...!" "/Why/?" is Tyler's loud call aimed back toward the shore. He pauses only briefly to question the halfbreed, then resumes swimming toward the indigo horizon. "If you try to swim all the way to the other side of the world you will _drown_!" Faanshi is not accustomed to shouting, but she shouts now, already realizing that the Mongrel's putting distance between himself and the shore at an alarming rate. "Y-you are not Atlantean -- you cannot swim that far--!" Standing up on her tiptoes, she squints out into the moonlit darkness, trying to keep track of Tyler's form amidst the waves. "Is that--" A wave momentarily erases the mongrel from view, forcing him below. "--is that the--the only reason?" The shout carries over the water when Tyler surfaces with a gasp, the struggling pauses in his sentence meaning that he pants desperately for breath. With a grunt that Faanshi has no way of hearing, the mongrel turns to continue swimming, but at a /much/ more measured pace. He really can't understand why he's tired already. "I-I did not say I do not like you!" Faanshi cries in mounting worry, since Tyler's voice came back to her softer that time. "I-I just -- I do not _know_ you a-and you are a man--" And she is scared of men for the most part, and this one in particular. That Tyler is a rather handsome one is almost irrelevant; rather more daunting is the unpredictability of the Mongrel, his tempestuous temper, the danger in his sheer physical presence that even an innocent lass like Faanshi can dimly sense. Swallowing down a growing lump of fear, she shouts as loudly as she can, "I do not want to see you drown -- come back! Oh, please... come back!" A successive wave pummels Tyler's head, but he manages to remain afloat, turning in the rugged water to cast his attention at Faanshi's distanced form on the white beach. The muscles in his kicking legs burn with exertion and it feels as fire flows through him rather than blood. He hollers once more, a grin detectable in his voice, "So you /do/--like me?" Tyler looks about at the great expanse of dark, intimidating water completely surrounding him. And when he notices how skewed the angle is between he and Faanshi, he wonders of himself if he's acted foolishly again. The undertow is subtly but consistently carrying him to the east where the shores are rocky and uncertain. Upon the shore, Faanshi turns her head eastward herself as she picks out the Mongrel man's altered position -- more or less. Where _is_ he? Dropping her sandal down next to her basket, she hastens a little along the shore in that direction, trying to keep the impetuous fellow in sight. "Yes!" she cries out in reply, profoundly shyly despite the volume, and frightened-sounding as well. There's a great deal of instinctive willingness to say anything to get him in out of the choppy waves at work within her -- but this maiden _is_ Faanshi. Nothing she utters is an untruth. Later, perhaps, she will consider the ramifications of this admission. Right now, she simply wants to make sure Tyler will not drown. Disregarding any danger he may feel, Tyler gives a cry, "I couldn't hear you!" His legs continue to kick violently and his arms flail about in the patterns of figure eights, keeping his head above water despite the rolling waves that lift him up and drop him with the great swells that seem so anxious to reach the beach. Kosha whines, trotting along in Faanshi's wake and having figured out by now that something is amiss. But the noise from the dog is not audible from out within the waves -- and the healer's frantic call might not quite be either, as a foam-crested swell rolls in seemingly out of nowhere and crashes over the top of Tyler's soaked fair head. "Yes, Tyler -- I-I-I like you! Come back! Please come back!" He never saw that tall wave until its uninvited embrace found him. It sweeps right over him and drags him under with the cold, matter-of-fact efficiency of nature. A completely shocked, accidental intake of the salty water ensues. Tyler then surfaces with a great choking gasp, his bronzed form launching urgently out from beneath but immediately sinking back under so that his yellow hair disappears completely. And for a long moment the only thing visible are the white lines of waves stretching out and heading in, crashing triumphantly. It takes a great deal to make Faanshi shriek, but when the Mongrel man out in the water doesn't answer her, this qualifies. "TYLER!" the halfbreed girl screams as she loses sight of him -- and doesn't see him come back up. Instinctively she begins to dart forward into the surf, but when cold wavelets splash against her ankles and calves she stops short in burgeoning panic. She cannot swim; the ocean is even less her element than it is the gladiator's. _Ushas, bring him safely to the shore, Holy Mother, bring him safely--_ And even as she starts thinking desperate prayers, she peers with urgent intensity out over the moonlit waves and strives to regain sight of Tyler's form. "TYLER!" The mongrel's broad back appears--closer to the shore, yet he doesn't move--his shaggy head face-down in the dark, roughly-flowing liquid. With the great wave's help he was carried in some distance, but is still in danger of the jagged rocks adorning the beach to the east. Another wave slams into Tyler and it tumbles him about, scraping him against the bottom as though to punish him for thinking he could swim its span. The hard, sharp shell of some sea creature slashes into bronzed skin, changing the water around the wound red and foggy for a mere moment before dissipating. But the intense pain of torn flesh and salt water sparks a reaction in him. His eyes flash open and he instinctively swims to where the air is, emerging like a yellow buoy, body on fire and lungs functioning like an engine struggling to ignite. Kosha whines again, sharply, reminding Faanshi of his presence; the maiden casts a swift, terrified glance down to the hound who almost bounces back and forth in his anxiety to know what has panicked his beloved person so. Then inspiration seizes her, and she drops down quickly to point along the dog's line of sight out to where she catches a fleeting glimpse of the Mongrel. "Get Tyler, Kosha!" she cries. "Get Tyler!" She can't swim herself -- but she's been down to the beach often enough, looking for Varati and Mongrels who might make their living off of the sea, offering them her healing, that Kosha has had time to learn how to fetch a child or two out of the water when too-rash youngsters have strayed too far out into the waves. Tyler is no child, but perhaps, just perhaps, the dog can help him back to the shore. And the dog responds to the urgency in Faanshi's voice, springing forward into the waves and paddling a determined course out to the faltering fighter. Tyler catches a glimpse of the big hound splashing through the water toward him just before his eyes refuse to serve him. The blurred blue eyes roll back in his head while he is overcome with cough after ragged cough. A lot of water is forced out of him and little air is allowed to replace it in his distressed state. He is left to float about at the sea's mercy, waiting for the valiant Kosha as the world seems to spin crazily about him in disorientation. "TYLER!" Normally so soft and gentle, Faanshi's voice peals forth with uncharacteristic force and the clarity of a bell. She has been told that her blood from the Children of Fire makes her strong -- and whether it's her Varati blood or her Sylvan, the adversity in which she has grown up, or the simple fact that she is _Faanshi_, the Warlord who told her that is not wrong. All traces of a stammer leave the girl's voice as she shouts with as much strength as she can muster, "TYLER! Hold on to Kosha's tail!" Though he might not match a Varati man in sheer size and muscle, Tyler is not a small man... and what accoutrements he wears are not light, either. Suspecting this, Faanshi bites her lip behind her veil and wings several more prayers within her heart to the Mother of the Hawk of Heaven -- and one or two to Her Son as well. Mercy is the province of Ushas, but strength and power are that of Khalid Atar, and Faanshi mentally begs the God-King of her mother's people to grant His strength to both the hound and the man she has sent him out to rescue. Kosha's tail? Those words pierce Tyler's clouded, forlorn awareness. Tail. His lids flutter, revealing only white. Kosha's /tail/! With a growl of severe mental exertion, the mongrel finds a moment of focus. One hand clamps around the base of Kosha's soaked tail. "Kosha--!" he tries to gasp, trailing off into incoherency as a wave pours over his head. He kicks his legs in an exhausted effort to help, a low groan whispering past his lips as his face rests half-submerged in the water. "COME, KOSHA!" Faanshi's voice rings out again on the edge of the Mongrel's battered awareness. "Here, Kosha, here!" And somewhere closer, as fingers normally skilled at wielding a sword now cling to a dog's tail as their lifeline, Kosha paddles around in the water and strikes back out for the beach. The current that had so easily seized Tyler and hauled him under more than once makes it hard going for the hound as well -- but Kosha is rather more buoyant than a human man, and somehow manages to keep his head above the waves all the way, even when he must ride them up and down with the weight of a barely conscious man dragging along behind him. And, most importantly, it works. It takes several minutes, but at last the water grows more shallow. Sand begins to bump against Tyler's sluggish knees. Somewhere nearby, the whine of a dog intermingles with an anxiously breathed, "Oh, Kosha, _good dog_, _good dog_...!" And a pair of hands is suddenly there, hooking under broad shoulders and putting forth as much effort as they can to pull him out of the water. The mere touch of the dry, shifting sand seems to instill the mongrel with an impulsive burst of energy. He releases the hound and sinks his hands desperately into the beach to claw himself along as Faanshi helps to drag him. When the sea is left far enough behind, Tyler empties his stomach with a terrific, painful heave. Right on the heels of that, he issues a series of violent coughs, continuing to purge himself of the undrinkable water, the visible muscles in his shoulders and back trembling with the physical strain. At last he falls, rolling over onto his back, head pounding, blue eyes staring dispassionately at the heavens. A great sprinkling of water falls across Tyler's form as Kosha gives himself a vigorous shake -- and then the hound collapses upon the sand, almost as exhausted as the Mongrel. The gentle hands are still there, though. They linger as Tyler retches the salt water out of his lungs, letting aether surge up through Faanshi's fingers and into the Mongrel's abused form. His torn flesh closes beneath the halfbreed girl's will, and as he turns over, her veiled visage comes into his field of vision. "Can you hear me?" she breathes, her voice full of worry. With a nod of his aching head, Tyler's slightly trembling lips part. It takes a moment for any sound to come forth--it's almost as though he were trying to find some special words to speak with his final breath, even though it's clear he's not that in that bad of a way. When the words do part with his tongue, the sentence is unusually quiet for the spirited mongrel. "Did you ... did you mean what you ... you said to me?" he wonders, his hoarse voice sounding hopeful as his unfocused eyes fight to settle on Faanshi's veiled face. The trace of a smile peeks through the hardened, pained countenance of Tyler as he feels his wound soothed away by the healer. "Yes, I meant it," Faanshi murmurs, voice dropping down to her more usual shy volume. She knows that Tyler is not badly off -- she has already found and healed the hurts he's taken from being battered about by the waves and by the sharp shells and rocks along the bottom. But she cannot let him remain out here, not when she can also feel that after this little ordeal, he really needs to get to somewhere warm and safe so that he may rest. One slender arm slides in under his head, trying to prop him up so that he may make it to his feet. "You... frighten me, Tyler, but I like you. Come now... up. You need to go somewhere to rest now." The gladiator's eyes hood as he struggles to stand upright with the help of the maiden, bare feet furrowing the sand. "I heard you ... you were yelling," recalls Tyler dreamily, his voice roughened like sandpaper from the wracking coughs. "You must've been ... been pretty worried, huh?" With no small amount of effort in the attempt, the big mongrel gets his feet beneath him and immediately staggers forward. He reaches out to Faanshi for added stablization, else he'll fall dizzily to his knees to collect his wits for a moment. Once Kosha gets his breath back and sees that the shudra seems to have her hands full, he hops up and trots over to where Faanshi's sandal and her basket had been abandoned. Briskly, the hound grabs up the basket by its handle and trots over with it, placing it near his mistress; then, he bounds right back and brings the sandal, looking mightily pleased with himself. With Tyler clearly unsteady on his feet, Faanshi has but a single hand free to accept Kosha's offerings, and it requires her to do a bit of awkward maneuvering before she can get the basket hooked onto her free arm, the sandal clutched in her free hand, and her other arm and shoulder devoted to the task of keeping the Mongrel upright. "I was very worried," she says in gently stern tones. "That was very rash of you, the ocean is stirred up--" She staggers once, then catches her charge and continues, "The ocean is stirred up tonight, and you are _not_ Atlantean, Tyler...!" "But ... what if I /was/ ... an Atlantean?" ponders Tyler aloud, having been saved from hitting the sand with his knees by the slight halfbreed. "Would you still like me?" He aims a silly grin at the healer. It's the type of grin that tells Faanshi his mental faculties are currently not sound. An equally silly laugh shakes his chest and shoulders as he stumbles along, winding an arm about Faanshi's shoulders for support. "Where we going?" he eventually asks, the laugh dying off into a groan as he presses the palm of his free hand against an aching temple. It is impossible to miss the ache in Tyler's head, for Faanshi's magical senses. Especially when Tyler is leaning heavily against her. Even as she starts guiding him for the nearest stretch of true ground and street, the young shudra channels as much of her power as she can spare into clearing the dull pain out from behind his eyes. "You need to tell me that," she murmurs, a trifle breathlessly. "You require rest and warmth. Where may I take you?" Behind her, Kosha trots along, keeping steadily to Faanshi's heels; though some of his natural ebullience has reassrted itself, still the hound is too tired to romp. With the thrumming urgency in his head fleeing the maiden's angelic magic, Tyler finds it easier to reason. "The Song," he replies after a long moment, still holding onto the young woman. "The Siren's Song--do you know where it is?" Once the street is encountered, the gladiator must make a true effort to walk. The sand was much kinder, he decides. "I have money ... from the fight." Of course, that means he'll be forced to pay his /other/ debts from the warm nights of comfort he spent in the inn, but he's desperate. "It's not far, either." "I know where it is," is Faanshi's reply. If her own bare foot upon the street gives her any discomfort, she gives no sign of it. With one brief glance behind her to make certain that Kosha is following, she guides her tottering companion away from the beach at last. "Come now..." [And in a few moments...] You leave the abandoned stretch of beach behind and travel toward the main docks to the east. Northern Docks - Haven Here is a wilderness of masts and sails; where great wooden behemoths dwarf tiny fishing boats, and narrow skiffs glide atop the waves as fleet as deer. Here is the main harbor of Haven, and goods are unloaded daily by the burly dockhands, while others are toted aboard ships bound for distant ports. Day or night, the bustle of activity remains constant, and a few rowdy taverns supply drink and entertainment for sailors who've enjoyed neither for months. The smell of the sea--salt, brine, and fish--hangs over the docks, but not unpleasantly so. For those who make their living from the sea--be they shipbuilders, sailors, fishermen, or merchants--it is the smell of home. And whether they've settled down in this seaport town, or are merely passing through, it is a welcome reminder of a life beneath the open sky, with the wind in your sails and the stars above to guide you. Obvious exits: Docks Streets Siren's Song Town Garden Tyler travels in from an abandoned stretch of beach to the west. Tyler has arrived. Through the streets they travel the short distance to the Siren Song's block near the docks and piers that stretch out over the sea--the same sea that just put cocky mongrel in his place. Gradually Tyler exercises control over his exhausted body, until when the struggling pair are nearing the portal, he is striding on his own, if a bit slowly and shakily. "There it is," observes he, glancing to the inn's sign and then back to the shudra. Faanshi watches the sign manifest itself out of the darkness, stoically repressing the relief she feels; though she does not complain, still, trying to help a man noticeably larger than she walk along is something of an effort. "I remember the Imphada Jenean," she murmurs by way of reply. "I hope that she will give you a place to rest...! It will be warm within, too..." But she also blushes behind her veil for a moment or two, recollecting other things about the Song, but too modest to put them to words. "Yeah," agrees Tyler with a slow nod, clenching his eyes shut in a blink as he scratches at the back of his head. "I need a bed." Though he grumbles this realization, he tries the slightest of smiles out for the maiden, discounting all that's happened. "Thanks for ... thanks for all your help, Faanshi," he murmurs in quiet, genuinely grateful tones, even though he'd tell anyone who asks that he only hates speaking apologies more than displaying honest gratitude. He solemnly searches for those leaf-green eyes of Faanshi's. "Oh, and Kosha, too!" he briskly adds, shattering a meaningful silence and crouching to ruffle the big hound's wet head and ears, diverting his attention away from the shudra. "You are welcome, Tyler," replies the halfbreed earnestly, while Kosha yurfs out a cheerful approval of the utterance of his name and the acknowledgement of his own part in that little adventure upon the beach. But the redirection of the gladiator's attention means that he just misses her gaze lifting up, and Faanshi is left to smile -- just a little bit -- behind her veil at the man's scritching of the dog. "And Kosha says so too." Then she gently appends, "Sleep as long as you can... your body will wish it of you. But you should feel better when you awaken." "Got it." The mongrel affirms and straightens his posture with a wobble of uncertain muscles. "I'll see you after I win the games," he says with an over-abundance of confidence, sure that he'll see her soon and definite that he'll win. A wink of a vibrant blue eye and the yellow-haired mongrel is gone, slipping into the Siren's Song with a makeshift stride. Games -- money for winning. Faanshi at last has comprehension dawn, realizing that there are only one string of games on everyone's minds in Bordertown these days, and which the rash Mongrel man must mean. A gladiator, she realizes with a little start. He is a gladiator. She is not entirely certain how comfortable she is with such a thing; her healer's heart lurches unhappily at the notion of men or even women in combat for no other purpose but the pleasing of crowds. But nevertheless she clasps her hands as best she can with a sandal still carried in one of them, and gives a little bow. "Namaste', Tyler," she rejoins... and not until he is safely inside does she take the time to put that sandal of hers upon the foot where it belongs, the better for walking all the way back to Atesh-Gah. So much confidence has the Mongrel fighter exuded that she cannot help but wonder if she will cross paths with him again soon... but as she and her loyal hound finally vanish into the night, it seems to Faanshi that such a meeting might just perhaps be... Fun. [End log.]