"The Re-Fledging of the Rook"
Log Date:
12/5, 12/6, 12/7/00
Log Cast:
Julian, Cynara, Jenara, Nine-Fingered Rab (NPC emitted by
Julian), Grace
Log Intro:
The bargain forged between Cynara, the Lady of Thorns, and Julian
Nemeides has come to fruition. Julian has back not only his name, but also
the control of his House and the care of his daughter and nephew -- and
Cynara has a man she trusts at the helm of the Thieves' Guild of Haven. But
there is one last aspect of the deal between them that has _not_ been seen
through, for all that a good six months have now passed since the abrupt
rise in Julian's power both public and illicit. And so at last, Cynara takes
an opportunity to come to House Nemea and its new Deus in the dark of the
night to discover exactly why he has not yet asked her to carry out her
one remaining obligation to him....
*===========================< In Character Time >===========================*
Time of day: Night (Dawnside)
Date on Aether: Monday, July 2, 3907.
Year on Earth: 1507 A.D.
Phase of the Moon: Last Quarter
Season: Summer
Weather: Partly Cloudy
Temperature: Warm
*==========================================================================*
In the dark of the night, the depths of the latest hour that begins to edge
torward the earliest, in the silence that hangs heavy upon the world, there
is a knock on the door. Quiet yet firm.
Julian these days has a doorman -- Malcolm, one of the Mongrels who's followed
him to Haven from House Nemea, willing enough to throw in their lot with him
rather than remain in the Empyre. But at this hour of the night, that worthy
is asleep and the task of watching the entrances into the home of the Rook
is in the hands of his less... obvious associates. The figure who's entered
the small courtyard goes unchallenged, however. If there is anyone who can
arrive at this place in the dead of night and be permitted to pass by
Julian's night-time watchers, it is the Lady of Thorns.
Tonight, too, Julian is actually awake. And downstairs, staring broodingly
into the small hearth in the sitting room just off the front foyer... and
therefore close enough to hear the quiet knock. Perfectly aware that anyone
who would be knocking at this hour is _probably_ an ally of the Rook rather
than a business contact of the Deus of Nemea, he snaps up his head... and
opts to answer the door himself. There's a knife sheathed at the small of
his back, and one of his hands remains casually back there upon its hilt as
he comes to the door... just in case. It's _probably_ an ally, if trouble is
being taken to knock.
But then again, it never hurts to be paranoid.
It is, in fact, an ally. And one who few people would wish to find at their
door in the middle of the night. She is garbed in a voluminous black cloak
that even manages to hide the brilliant white wings upon her back. The cowl
covers her golden head, but is pushed back just far enough to reveal the
flawless features of her visage as the door opens. Squarish lips hold an
even straight line, though there is the smallest hint of a curve about them.
"Ave, Dominus Nemeides." She greets in a velvet voice tempered with a
sardonic tinge.
Cynara
The heavens cast down a ray of light, a single beam to grace the world
with warmthless radiance. Its glow is captured and refracted within the
crystalline aspect of a young woman. Lustrous locks of spun gold sweep
carelessly over her shoulders and swiftly down her back. Only the foremost
strands are kept shortened to frame a fair face.
Somewhat squared features hold the semblance of the ray's direct
touch, known to fade rival colors a degree while enhancing those it cannot
hope to match, such as the stunning blue of a winter's sky, which is itself
caught and held within her gaze. The hue of innocence and the chill of frost.
An ominous shadow claws its way upon this luminous visage marring the
image forever with a scrawled x, deep pink in color. A brand which names her
the terror from a thousand children's stories. It rides just above the
slender arch of her brows and is usually concealed beneath the golden
curtain of carefully cut hair.
Darkness seeks to assert its dominion over the sun. A partial eclipse
rising in the sheer black silk which floats about her slight frame,
contrasting the lambent essence of her natural appearance with a sinister
arrangement of fluid-like material. Bare shoulders and supple curves no
longer denied, but strategically caressed by soft ripples of fabric to
entice the eye while subtly warning of the danger within. Snowy wings, drawn
close to her body lend their own gentle voice to the fray, leaning the
battle toward day.
A shimmer of silver circles her waist, lightning striking within the
storm. The flashes extend to her feet where barely used sandals of silver
straps glint their defiance at the ground.
If the Rook is surprised that Cynara of all people might choose to arrive upon
his threshold, the only sign he gives of it is a fractional blink of
twilight eyes -- and a surreptitious moving of his right hand to neatly tuck
the loose tail of the midnight-blue shirt he wears back into his breeches,
and back over the knife hidden back there. He inclines his raven head then,
answering evenly, "Ave, Domina; won't you come in?" His right hand sweeps
out in a gracious gesture, as he stands aside to pull the door open for his
visitor.
Cynara's steps are graceful and measured as she steps inside the abode of the
man called the Rook. "Thank you." she murmurs as she brushes past him. Pale
blue eyes sweep over the room, taking in every bit of it. It has been a long
time since she set foot in this home. Eventually her gaze returns to him.
She waits for the door to be closed before pushing the cowl the rest of the
way off her head to reveal a perfectly golden head. Her expression is almost
expectant.
It is the same house as it was in the hands of the last Master of Thieves --
but different, in subtle but undeniable ways. Gone are many of the garish
objects of art that the previous owner of this place favored, to be replaced
by tasteful statuary and weavings. The stonework of the floors has been
redone; did Julian somehow come up with a shaper-mage, or did he (as may
well be his wont) bother to pay the unmagically gifted to come and do it by
hand? Pieces of furniture might be glimpsed out in the main atrium to the
left of the foyer as well as to the sitting room where Julian had just been
brooding; the furniture, too, is different. Less obviously ornate, but
speaking of skill in its making to the eye. Even the door that Julian closes
has received attention, though _it_ is the same door that hung there before.
But its surface and the carving work upon it gleam darkly now; here, most
likely, a shaper _has_ applied his or her gift.
It is not likely that Julian is oblivious to the scrutiny given his new abode;
he certainly shows no sign of surprise, as he turns to face the cloaked
woman before him. As if it were not the middle of the night, he blandly
inquires, "May I offer you something to eat or drink? I've a small fire in
the sitting room hearth, just enough to warm the room. I find it remains
cool, even in the midst of the summer."
The curve of the healer's lips extends a bit as she nods her acceptance, "Tea
would be quite welcome, if you have any. Otherwise, wine." She does not
really care which drink she is offered. Taking in the stonework of the room
as well as the new furnishings she comments blithely, "Yes, stone has that
effect quite often." She should know, she lives under a rock. "It has been a
while since we spoke, how are things fairing for you, Julian?"
"I had a pot of tea out," replies the Deus, gesturing on into the sitting room
and politely permitting his visitor -- she who is ultimately responsible for
the atmosphere of discreet finery that surrounds him now -- to precede him
if she so wishes. This _is_ an Empyrean house; the entranceways between the
rooms are spacious ones, and there is ample area for winged healer and
wingless thief to step into the sitting room at one another's sides, but
Julian is the very picture of polished manners. Did he acquire that with the
house, or is this his truer, older self, come back to the fore? He goes on
as he steps to the hearth into which he'd just been staring, "But I fear it
may have gone cold." Next to one of the chairs in this room stands a small
table, and upon this is an earthenware pot, which Julian touches fleetingly
with his fingertips. Yes. Cold. "If you've the time, I'll reheat it...?"
Twilight eyes flicker to Cynara for a moment, and he does not yet answer her
other question, giving her time instead to settle herself as she wills. The
chair he'd apparently been occupying is meant quite obviously for someone
without wings -- but there's other places to sit in the room as well, places
where someone _with_ wings could be equally comfortable.
Slowly unfastening the clasp at her neck, Cynara removes her cloak, revealing
those perfect white wings she is known to bear. "Yes, that would be fine."
she replies to the suggestion with a nod, "I've got some time." Her brows
lift as she settles down onto one of the chairs for the winged people and
arranges her silk skirts around herself. She waits for the answer to the
question she knows he heard.
With that, then, Julian applies himself to the task at hand, checking the
teapot's contents. A bit more water from a small amphora first, then a few
more dollops of a spicy-scented mixture of leaves, transferred via small
spoon from a delicate silken bag. As he executes the duties of host, he
proves that he had in fact heard the question, answering it without any
further delay. "In terms of our association, last winter put a damper on
things, at least as long as the weather was bitter. Even the most active
pickpocket can't be very successful when the marks have nothing to steal."
He glances up a moment, archly, one corner of his mouth curled upward.
"Aesir goods are still in hot demand, however. My people... relocated two
caches of them, though a few of our newer brethren had to be advised that
relocation of the same goods twice was not a particularly wise idea."
The actions he goes through are watched closely. Not that Cynara has anything
to fear from poisons that may be put into her drink, but there is simply
nothing else in the room to watch. Her smile is sardonic and faint. "I see,
well, I'm glad they were taught their lesson." Almost a chuckle in her
voice. "Things are picking up for you now then? I suspect we should have a
good bit of Varati goods making their reappearance now, hmm? Are you finding
the thieves cooperative enough for you? Are they respecting your authority?"
Crouching before the hearth-fire, Julian takes up a poker to stir the embers
into greater life, before moving a small wrought-metal stand into place just
above them. Upon this he places the teapot, out of reach of hot ash but
within range of the fire's heat, and while he stirs at the contents he
glances back at his visitor, half-smiling. "Some of them. It's been...
challenging, picking out which ones I can trust to see my face. Especially
when I get the most fascinating inquiries from individuals who appear to be
Delphic Adepts claiming they wish to join our merry little fraternity."
Cynara's eyes narrow at this comment. "You've spoken to the one called
Nightmare then?" she asks darkly. She does not like that girl. Perhaps it is
because the little Delphite so casually threatened Cynara upon her own turf,
or perhaps it is simply because she is annoying. "What was your answer to
her inquiry about joining the Guild?" She wants to know.
Both of Julian's eyebrows arch up. "Not the name I was given," he dryly
remarks, filing away this little tidbit of information for future
reference.... as well as the expression of his visitor. "She failed to
impress me, and I've yet to be convinced of a reason to consider her useful.
She claims to wish to traffic in information; I've put her to the task of
bringing me information that will result in profit for my people. I have yet
to hear from her." He straightens up, waiting for the tea to grow warmer
upon the fire, full attention upon the white-winged woman before him now.
Cynara's smirk is darkly amused. "I wouldn't count on her bringing you
anything of use. She is a useless girl. Ah yes, she would have given the
name... Oh what was it... Malantha or something of the sort. In the Delphi,
she is known as Nightmare. In truth, she is nothing more than a pest, I
suspect, not even those of the Delphi like her. And she is a fool who is
lucky to be alive given the manner in which she spoke to me. However, I will
leave that in your capable hands." Her head tilts slowly to one side, eyes
focusing upon his own. "Tell me now, Julian, why is it you have not come to
see me about restoring your wings yet?
They are subtle -- but they are there, the fractional widening of Julian's
dark azure eyes, a tightening and release of a muscle in his cheek. Signals
that the question has entirely broadsided him, though his attention doesn't
waver an inch. And there's a miniscule pause in his voice, almost inaudible
to a casual ear... but not to one who may be looking for such things.
"I've... found that juggling the Guild, the House, and guardianship of four
active children" -- not to mention actual fatherhood of one of them --
"makes for a rather full schedule. I haven't had the time." It's truth
enough, and the Rook can utter these words with easy assurance...
But then again, there was that pause in his voice.
Cynara is indeed watching for such hints about the true reasoning behind his
waiting on this matter. She had suspected it was a nervousness about
receiving the appendages back that he has been without for a very long time.
It was rather obvious from the time she first made the offer to him before
he even accomplished his goals of taking over the Guild and his House. Her
nod is slow and understanding, yet with a discerning spark in her pale blue
eyes. "I see. My schedule has become quite full of late, but I have come
here to begin the restoration of your wings, to keep my part of our bargin.
Are you ready to begin?"
What... _now_? Julian is generally a master of controlling his expressions,
but that thought nevertheless flickers distinctly across his elegantly cut
features before he manages to subdue it. _It's not as if you were sleeping,_
he chides himself, sensing the unease within and annoyed at its presence.
Straightening up just a bit, bolstering his resolve with the image of the
House's collective jaw dropping should servants and children awaken to find
their Deus rather less wingless than he'd been when they went to bed, the
darkling answers, "There's no time like the present, eh? What do you require
to achieve it, in terms of location, time...?" His velvet tenor is now once
again under his control, and there's a slight upward curl of one corner of
his mouth; only his gaze still betrays him, strangely vulnerable against the
easy set of his countenance.
Cynara's cool blue eyes watch his reaction carefully, the slightest of smiles
coming to her lips. She is certain it is a rare sight to see this man even
the slightest bit unhinged, so she revels in her good fortune to be one of
the few who have likely witnessed it. Even if it is barely noticable. There
is nothing but calm reserve about her demeanor as she glances toward the
tea. "Have you eaten tonight? You will need the energy. Other than that, a
bed for you would probably be best, as you will be very weak. Tonight will
only see that you have the beginnings of the wings, I will finish the rest
in two days time, once you've had enough rest." Despite whatever other
engagements he might have had, this will put him in bed for most of the week.
"I ate dinner with the children; that was some hours ago, however. I've slept
since then." On why he isn't sleeping _now_ Julian does not expound; rather,
he focuses upon the cool assurance with which the healer presents her advice
and the knowledge that she has done this before. He does not allow himself
to consider that restoring wings simply tattered by a great sea beast might
well not be in remotely the same league as regrowing them from nothing. She
has done this before; he knows it from Nox, and from the whispered rumors
he's discreetly gleaned ever since the deal between the Lady of Thorns and
the Rook was first forged. He has no intellectual reason for nervousness.
That he is nervous despite this -- well. All Julian can do is admit his
trepidation (to himself, at least), get on with it... and pray that his
white-winged associate will continue to do him the courtesy of pretending to
ignore it, for he cannot help but wonder if her timing was as much to catch
him as off-guard as possible as it was to give them both the privacy of
night. "I... expect we should adjourn to my bedchamber. Will the tea
suffice, or shall I fetch something from the kitchen?"
She has indeed done this before. Restoring the health to Nox's wings was only
a minor act of healing, but she has returned the wings to others since then,
and she is very familiar with how it is done. Standing, Cynara nods toward
the teapot, "The tea will do." she nods, offering the smallest of smiles.
She did chose this night, out of others for the surprise of it. To keep him
from being able to reschedule around his fear. The best way to defeat a fear
is to face it, so she gives him no other choice. Of course, if he thought to
argue, she'd try to convince him that now was best, but she is glad to see
that he does not argue. She waits for him to lead the way.
For a moment or two, Julian goes still, twilight eyes considering Cynara and
her expression, her bearing, her demeanor. One thing with which he must
credit her: the dark of night allows him a minimum number of people before
whom he must force himself to be helpless. That the one person before whom
he must undergo this is _Cynara_ unsettles him in ways he is not about to
admit anymore than he will the prospect of flight restored after half his
life without it... but still, without his willing, the shadow of
apprehension darkens his gaze. It lingers, even as he graciously inclines
his head and turns to gather the teapot and other items that go with it,
settling them all upon an earthenware tray. "Upstairs," he says huskily,
unnecessarily, suspecting Cynara must know the layout of this place almost
as well as Nox.
It is true that most people who have secrets to hide loathe the very thought
of showing any sort of weakness before this branded healer, so his
trepidation is quite natural. It is good that she seems not to have noticed
it, or perhaps she is just being courteous. Though she has been to this
house several times under the cover of night, Cynara has really never taken
time to know the house overly well. Draping her cloak over her arm, she
follows where Julian leads without comment.
In answer to some unconcious summons perhaps Jena appears out of the shadows
to silently take the tray from her Deus' hands. She simply glances at the
infamous Healer and says nothing. In her dark blue gaze however is
compassion and a certain amount of wisdom for one so young. She steps back
and waits to follow her betters upstairs to do what must be done. The
mongrel will serve. As she has always done, as she will always do.
There at the foot of the stairs where Jenara intercepts him, Julian starts and
noticeably so; already disconcerted by what Cynara has come to do this
night, the presence of the young Mongrel woman is enough to knock another
small but nevertheless present chink into the carefully constructed shield
of his composure. "Thank you," he rasps after a moment, before gesturing
both of the women up the stairs. As he moves up them himself, his shoulders
have gone tense beneath his dark blue shirt, his back unconsciously braced.
It doesn't take long to get there; the house isn't particularly large, though
it does seem more spacious than it once had done, now that its new master
has rid himself of much of the detritus of the last occupant and made much
better use of what is left. In moments, Julian's study is achieved; through
it, his bedchamber. "Jenara," he roughly murmurs as he passes into his
private sleeping place, "get the door, will you?"
Cynara gives no reaction to the man's start, taking whatever pleasure she
finds in it, internally. Her steps are graceful and light as she follows the
servant up toward the room in which she is to perform her little miracle.
Her eyes wander around the room instinctively as she enters, immediately
memorizing any exits, be they window or door. The street-rat's instinct
never truly dies.
Jenara easily balances the tray on one arm, as one accustomed to such a task,
and closes the chamber door. She leads the way in seeking a place to set the
tray down. Silent as can be she once again takes a place in the shadows of
the room, avaialabe should she be needed. The other House servants have all
mysteriously disappeared. Jenara with her uncanny knack of knowing what is
needed sent them all abed or to tasks that took them away from the 'action'
so to speak. Knowing an audiance is neither desired or required.
Old habits do, indeed, die hard. And after fifteen years, one of Julian's most
thoroughly ingrained habits is to never, ever, permit anyone to see his
back. There is an ever so slight hesitation -- not even as much as a
tremble, but simply a hesitation -- in his hands as he begins to undo the
tied lacings at his chest. "The... tea should be warm enough, Cynara, if
you'd like a cup before you begin." She did ask for tea, after all. And
disconcerted though he may be, Julian Nemeides is not going to neglect his
duties as a host.
Cynara is quite familiar with that feeling, the number of people who have seen
her own back are very few. "Thank you." she intones in response to him,
finding a chair to place her cloak upon. Her eyes flick to the mongrel girl
quickly, uncertain if she'd be insulting the woman by getting the tea
herself. Not that she really cares, but still, she is a guest, despite the
reason for her being here, no need to offend if it is unnecessary. "If
you've a chair without a back, it would be best if you sit." she adds.
Chairs without backs? Of course they've got them , it is an Empyrean
household after all. With quiet effiency Jenara fetches the chair setting it
beside Julian with only a quick glance to his face and the barest of
encouraging smiles. She then pads over to the teapot and pours a cup handin'
it to Cynara with an impish sort of grin and softly sayin' "I be here..I may
as well be workin aye?" , a glimmer of humour before she closes the chamber
door and melts back into the shadows.
Not entirely certain whether he is more ill at ease or less with the efficient
Jenara on hand -- _what in the name of Tyche _is_ she doing awake at this
hour? Wonder about that later,_ he tells himself grimly -- Julian hauls off
his shirt and tosses it over onto the bed, letting it lie there in a puddle
of midnight upon the only somewhat lighter blue of the uppermost blanket.
Again there is a fractional moment of hesitation as he simply stands there,
features set into stoic lines; then the Deus releases a tautly held breath
and settles down onto the backless chair, still facing the women, lean and
pale in the candle-lit dimness of the room.
Cynara does not need to see his back to do this, therefore, she remains in
front of him. Taking the cup from Jenara, she offers the girl a faint smile,
almost warm. "Thank you." she murmurs again as she sips from the cup and
then sets it on the table nearest the chair in front of the Deus. Her hand
extends toward him, palm up. "Shall we begin then?" As an afterthought she
turns to Jenara, "Is there any strong drink in the house? He may need it."
Jenara nods once and walks the length of the room on cat feet to a cabinet.
She purposefully does not look at the man this may as well be afternoon tea
for the import she seems to give it. With only the softest clink of glass
she returns with a bottle of pear brandy and a glass to her place where the
shadows stretch across the floor. She does look on though once enveloped by
the welcoming darkness that shields her from view. Were one able to see her
one might be surprised by the momentary unguarded expression that drifts
across her face..if one could.
Night-time is always a time of stealth and conspiracy and danger for Julian,
and tonight is no exception. The two women before him are calm, Cynara
reservedly so and Jenara seemingly entirely at ease, unbothered by the
lateness of the hour -- but his nerves are on edge now in a way they don't
generally get unless he's scaling up to a balcony with Hounds below and
Hawks above. He has spent far too many years jealously guarding his
vulnerabilities for his instincts to register anything but danger in having
to show them here and now...
And it doesn't help in the slightest when a quiet knock abruptly interjects
itself into the hushed atmosphere of the candle-lit room. Julian's head
snaps up, an expression of profound aggravation momentarily displacing the
hints of nervousness about his eyes, but before he can get to his feet
Jenara's stepped to the door and cracked it open. "Th' Deus is occupied,"
she murmurs out into the study.
"So I gathered," comes an equally soft murmur from without, "but this young
lady appears to go with our esteemed master's other visitor. Who, I suspect,
may be put out if we do not let her in, and we can't have that, can we?"
Jenara grimaces slightly -- as Julian flashes a sharp glance at Cynara, one
that clearly demands an explanation. "You neglected to mention you weren't
visiting alone tonight, domina," he murmurs, the faintest edge of impatience
in his velvet tenor.
From behind a narrow shoulder peeks an elfin face, drawn in angular lines and
narrow arcs. From within, two eyes that war between blue and green dance
with curiosity, amusment and trepidation as the green-wrapped 'Sylvan' woman
bounces on her toes to peer within.
Cynara is not so surprised by the knock as she might normally be at this late
hour, in the home of a man as paranoid of his privacy as she is of her own.
Pale blue eyes fall to Julian and she replies quietly. "I've asked a student
of mine to join me, so that she may see this done. It is not exactly a
common occurence in our field." She nods to Jenara to allow Grace within.
"Now, drink some of that." she instructs Julian while not looking at him.
Jenara notes Cynara's nod -- but not until Julian gives a short, grudging nod
of his own does she open the door to reveal the slim black-clad figure of
the Mongrel knife-man Nine-Fingered Rab and the winged girl behind him. Rab
steps aside, eyes of a paler blue than Julian's glinting in reflected
candlelight, full of barely repressed curiosity as to what exactly might be
going on -- but all he says is a foppishly drawled, "Go right in then,
miss." That, for Grace. For Cynara, "domina." For Jenara, "And thank you so
much, my dear."
It's almost a parody of Julian, really, but tonight the Rook has no patience
for the slightly manic humor of his -- well, at least his _covert_ -- chief
guard. "Rab," he grits out between clenched teeth, "I do not want to be
disturbed again, unless the Archon herself brings a battalion of Hounds to
my door, or unless Haven is about to fall to fire, flood, earthquake, or
magic. Got it?"
"I live to serve, Sirdar," chirps the knife-man in reply, bowing languidly --
but quickly and quietly taking his leave. Rab may delight in pressing the
boundaries of what he can get away with... but he's no fool, and he doesn't
miss the temper bubbling behind Julian's sapphirine gaze. He retreats,
leaving Jenara to close the door again behind this new intruder upon the
scene.
And towards Grace, Julian sweeps a narrow-eyed stare. "You're not bringing any
classmates with you, are you?" he inquires, tone just shy of the line
between polite and curt.
Grace quirks a half-grin at Rab and slips past without a second thought for
the man. The cloak about her shoulders rouses as if live--but it is live,
feathers dyed into a hundred of green shades. Grace tosses her hair and
replies saucily, "Y' should b' askin' Cynara tha', D'minus. M' just here
b'cause I was told to be." But her eyes sparkle with a hint of more than
that, and there's no hesitance in her step towards the pair. Indeed, Julian
seems to take second place to that of her teacher.
Cynara does not comment on the question that was asked of Grace. If he wants
to ask her, he will. If not, its not important, as there are no others
expected to join them tonight. "I've asked you to meet me here tonight
because I'm going to begin the task of returning this Empyrean's wings to
him after fifteen years without them. I thought you might like to watch, as
it is not exactly common." she speaks to Grace in a teacher's tone. "Now, if
he will just drink, as he was told to do, we'll be started." And with that,
she turns again toward Julian and lifts her brows commandingly.
Julian's gaze smolders at Cynara's tone; there are very few people in Haven
from whom he'll accept such a mode of address. Ordinarily, not even Cynara
is one of them. But tonight, when the Lady of Thorns stands as his means of
regaining a freedom he hasn't had since his youth, a small, clear core of
pragmatic wisdom advises he swallow his pride and let her get on with the
business at hand -- even if he has to permit her to do it in front of a
total stranger. As Jenara lingers by the door, discreetly invisible, the
Deus gives in and lifts up the glass of brandy to toss back its contents.
His eyes shudder closed for a moment as the sweet fermented stuff shoots
down through his system; then he looks up again. "Let's do it," he rasps,
gaze returning to Grace by wary habit he is too on edge now to disguise. She
is an unknown quantity, and instincts already churned up by the impending
lowering of his defenses before two familiar women now fairly scream in
protest at adding a stranger to the mix.
Another flick of bright wings, another toss of silver-gilt hair, and then
slowly all the dance and smile fades out of the girl's demenor. Grace
watches without expression, eyes sharp as a razor's edge. Silent steps bring
her hard up on Cynara and thus on Julian as well, where her possibly
disconcerting gaze can bore into both as if seeking out some core of inner
truth.
Cynara knows that this is not a man to be trifled with, however, she is quite
aware that she has the upper hand here as well, and Cynara has never been
one to not take some small advantage of a situation that is clearly in her
favor. She sits in front of Julian and reaches out her hand for his own
again, with a small smile of humor and reassurance upon her features.
"Alright, lets do this." she echoes him. "Grace, keep your hand on his arm,
and watch with your magic rather than your eyes."
"Y' want me t' do sommat?" Is the quiet reply to Cynara's command.
Grace
On a shaded path, one might mistake this child-woman for a spirit of
the forest, mischief writ clearly on fey features. A bundle of
contradiction, her face and form strain for maturity, but deep in her eyes
is a look too wise for the budding beauty of her apparent youth. In the
streets she is even more the puzzle, savage Sylvan garb of doeskin decked
with porcupine quill and brilliant bead at war with Empyrean idiom and noble
manarisms.
Upon this curious figure the forest's mantle takes shape, thrown about
her thin and wiry shoulders. But, no--at second glance the illusion is
revealed. Wings spring from her back, each leaf in reality a single, soft
plume of her wide wings dyed to a rich and warm verdant hue. The porcelain
curve of her cheek and silver-gilt fall of hair is suddenly obvious as the
balance of Empyrean and Sylvan blood in this halfbreed girl's veins. Her
ears rise to delicate points on either side of her head, and her eyes seem
to be caught in a war between green and blue, unable to decide which hue to
settle upon.
About Grace's throat is a beaded band, comprised of porcupine's quills
and other natural elements. A vest decorated with more of the same is laced
over swelling curves, legs wrapped in a fringed expanse of leather marked
with the pattern of leaves and herbs. The garments reveal the curve of her
neck and throat, long line of her arms and trim ankle above soft moccasins.
Green wings, Julian's mind clinically reports, taking in the details of
Grace's appearance as an automatic defense against the tension shooting
through him, only marginally dulled by the pear brandy. Green wings, pale
hair, pointed ears... halfbreed, clearly. Leaning towards her Sylvan
heritage if her attire and her speech are any indication. Healer, if she's
learning from Cynara. Half his attention lingers on the girl even as he
makes himself clasp Cynara's hand with his own. Bare broad shoulders and
wiry, lithely muscled arms brace as well, perhaps unconsciously, against the
touch of the student's hand.
Eyes still on Cynara, Grace steps a half-hitch closer. Her fingers, as they
lay on Julian's shoulder, hardly seem to contact the skin--so light is her
touch.
Cynara shakes her head at Grace's question. "No, just watch." she answers. A
slow grin begins to form on her features as she watches Julian take in the
wings of her student. She is completely at ease, and so it does not seem out
of the ordinary for her to jest, "Shall we make yours a pretty green as
well?" She teases the oh so tense man.
The Rook, apparently, is not amused. "Black," he grunts, gaze sharp with
barely concealed agitation. "That's how they came in the first time." His
voice has roughened, though it's anyone's guess as to whether that's due to
the liquor in his system or the tightly strung state of his mood. Extremely
aware of both the hand holding his and the one on his shoulder, he draws in
a breath through slightly flared nostrils and lets it out again, gaze
settling on Cynara's face, eyes meeting hers. Damned if he's going to look
anywhere else. And he tells himself grimly to think 'down', remembering
fighting lessons with his old partner Jacob, about the best way to keep your
balance if someone tries to knock you over...
_Stop it,_ he orders himself then, feeling his thoughts threaten to wander,
and forcing himself to avoid wondering whether it's his apprehension or the
brandy getting to him. _Just think -down-._
Grace nods once. Only once. With that, her eyes drift shut. Her touch remains
light on Julian's shoulder, but within there is much more than simply the
touch of her fingers. Unseen threads spin out to 'watch' as Cynara marshals
her own abilities.
Cynara only smiles at him in response, seemingly amused by his serious
demeanor. However, the smile fades mostly as she begins to see to the task
at hand. The aether flows, first going through the preliminary check of his
general health and the status of his weariness, and then eventually moving
toward his back and shoulderblades. The strands find the place where the
bones were severed and murmurs quietly to Grace as she points out with the
magic, "You see here? See how it seems as if there should be something more
here? What we must first do, is recreate the bones that were once there...."
The voice is soft, teaching. Slowly, cells begin to gather and merge, their
natures altering into different types, gradually coming to resemble bone.
There's a slight blunting to Julian's alertness that suggests a man operating
on less than a full night's complement of sleep -- but this is hardly the
first time he's done that. What he loses to having only five hours of sleep
under his belt he gains at least for the time being by the adrenalin boiling
through him and the alcohol accompanying it, just enough to keep too keen an
edge off his apprehension, not enough to impair. He keeps staring at Cynara,
jaw stoically set, breathing set into a controlled rhythm -- and even though
he hasn't managed yet to relax his shoulders, there is at least for the time
being a sense of balance and centered-ness in his posture, keeping him
firmly settled upon the stool.
It's so tempting to try and help. So tempting. Magic seems to have that draw,
to add one's own to it. And yet what is happening is far beyond Grace's
meagre abilities. She watches eyes closed, nodding to Cynara's quiet words.
A faint frown of concentration mars her calm expression.
The tightness of Julian's back is not a hinderance to the work being
performed, not yet, anyway, so Cynara does not relax those muscles for him.
Guiding the cells toward their new life and purpose Cynara continues to
murmur to Grace about what she is doing. "See how I transform them, give
them new directions and show them where to go?" More cells gather against
the others, changing their nature from one sort of cell to one of a
completely different nature. However, all have the same intial components to
be rearranged. Soon the pain of muscles and skin stretching to accomodate
these new bones begins to make its way through the man's shoulders. "You
need to loosen your muscles now, Julian, drink more if you need it."
Jenara is, again, suddenly at the Deus' side. "Yer glass, dom'nus," she
murmurs, still bearing the bottle of pear brandy.
Julian is no mage -- and at least at first when the substance of his body
begins to respond to the power flowing into it, he cannot sense it. But
gradually he becomes aware of a strange, uncomfortable rippling somewhere
between his shoulderblades, and the way his flesh involuntarily constricts
in response. One of his hands is occupied with Cynara's; the other has the
empty glass, and after a moment he lifts it up to Jenara, letting her give
him a second shot of the brandy. Another moment, and he drinks it down, a
fraction slower this time than before.
Jenara, however, is still there. When he lowers down the emptied glass, she
takes it from his hand in silence, leaving her Deus to take a moment to let
the new flow of alcohol within him begin to kindle a small warmth somewhere
in his chest. Then Julian meets Cynara's eyes again, his dark tousled head
nodding once to signal his resumed readiness.
Throughout his drink, the magic does not cease. This is the hardest part of
the proceedure, and the longest. Cynara slept well in preparation for this,
and she knows that Julian is in good enough health to be drained enough for
this change to be possible, but stopping and then starting again is not a
wise idea. So it continues. And throughout the rest of the night, until the
dawn begins to stain the sky with its fingers of pink, Cynara works. When
she is done, from his back extends two nubs of muscle and bone, which can be
moved, but are yet to bear any feathers or wing-like shape. He is exhausted
as is she, when she stands slowly from her chair and orders Jenara to take
him to bed.
As the time slips by, Julian eventually loses track of it. He'd thought he
could bear the pain; after all, he'd borne it when his first pair of wings
were ripped out of him. But he hadn't expected the fundamentally
disconcerting feel of his own flesh and bone changing shape, stretching,
molding under the influence of the will of the Lady of Thorns -- a process
that rakes through nerves already humming with tension, far more than the
comparatively and paradoxically mercifully swift agony of what he'd suffered
at his brother's hands as a young man. More brandy is applied, tossed down
with growing desperation as the Deus focuses every ounce of his will on
trying not to scream.
He doesn't scream, but with his awareness sorely battered by the fire raging
through his back muscles and blurred by almost the entire bottle of brandy,
more of his defenses come down. When at last, a long time later -- how much
later, he is now incapable of knowing -- Cynara lifts her hand away from
his, his gaze is still on her face. He's managed to hold his attention there
throughout the entire grueling ordeal... but as he begins to slide sideways,
overtaxed body seizing the chance to shut its senses down, all traces of the
Guildmaster and the Deus both have fallen away from his face. He might
almost be eighteen again, or even younger, so nakedly vulnerable has his
countenance become.
"I've got 'im," Jenara says, soft and steady, catching him in her arms as he
crumples. She's just as tired as the others... but she manages not to catch
him along those tender buds of flesh and bone along his back. "I've got
'im... I'll tend 'im."
Extremely weary, herself, Cynara only nods as she makes her way out the door
with Grace in tow. "Don't let him out of bed til I return, lay him on his
stomach." Are her parting instructions. Her own wings hang much lower upon
her back as she leaves.
[End log.]