"The Truth of the Blood"

Log Date:
	8/19/00

Log Cast:
	Serah, Malcolm (NPC emitted by Julian), Julian

Log Intro:
	It has been a difficult transition, but it is now more less done:
the man Haven once knew as the Mongrel 'trader' Richard has taken back his
old name of Julian Nemeides, and moreover, has taken his family House under
his control. With a total of four children now in his care -- his blood
daughter Moirae, his nephew and Heir Momus, and his two Mongrel wards --
Julian has transferred the center of his House activity to Haven. There, he
has begun to try to resurrect the family's merchant connections with what
individuals are most likely to want to do business with a wingless darkling,
along with putting himself back into proximity of certain other connections
he must make on the sly.
	But his return to Haven cannot go unremarked, especially when his
face -- regardless of what name or race is said to belong with it -- is
known to some in Bordertown. And when word spreads of 'Richard' being sighted
at a house in the Empyrean quarter, seemingly behaving like a Son of the Air,
it is only so long before someone must come looking to investigate the truth
of his strange new situation....

*===========================< In Character Time >===========================*
             Time of day:  Night (Duskside)
          Date on Aether:  Tuesday, December 17, 3906.
           Year on Earth:  1506 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  Last Quarter
                  Season:  Winter
                 Weather:  Partly Cloudy
             Temperature:  Chilly
*==========================================================================*

With the sun's light quickly fading into the background. People scurry home, 
  heading this way and that. In the crowd, Serah moves more hesitantly. She 
  stops infront of a house, eyeing the courtyard and architecture. This is the 
  one she was directed too. A sharp breath is taken in as she steps inside, 
  speaks first to the guard, and then to the doorman. "Excuse me? I'm looking 
  for...Richard, I'd like to speak with him?"

Both the guard at the date and the servant at the door are Mongrels, polite 
  enough, though they both critically inspect the woman before admitting her 
  onto the grounds... and then into the house. In contradiction with the signs 
  of ostentation of the architecture, the men are unremarkably clad in simple, 
  good garments, the sort that wouldn't particularly draw the eye... and in 
  further contrast to both the architecture and the garb of the servants, what 
  can be glimpsed from the front foyer of the furnishings and pieces of art 
  within this place speaks of a discreet, stylish taste for color and line. 
  The doorman's voice and accent are gruff, but he does appear to have some 
  notion of manners as he looks Serah up and down. "He's after puttin' the 
  children to bed, miss, so if ye'd be kind enough to wait here a moment, I'll 
  get 'im."
The Mongrel stumps off, vanishing up a stairwell to what is presumably an 
  upper level of the house. And it doesn't take long for him to return, a 
  taller, slimmer man following him down the stairs. The doorman gestures down 
  to the visitor for the benefit of the new master of this place, saying, 
  "That'd be 'er, then, dom'nus."

And Julian pauses at the bottom of the stairs, dark brows quirking for a 
  moment, as he takes in the sight of who's come to see him. "Good evening," 
  he says politely, the bland tone not quite masking the keen glitter of his 
  twilight gaze as he swiftly attempts to ascertain if he knows this woman.

Serah
Hint's of varati heritage can be faintly seen in the angular lines of this 
  mongrel woman. A long face touched with an aquiline nose, and a thin mouth. 
  Brown eyes are often far too solumn, but when she allows herself moments of 
  lightness there can be seen flicks of golden brown which seem to brighten 
  the entire face. 
Dusky and dark skin, both by birth and from the sun, is covered modestly in a 
  dress of dark maroon. It's collar is long enough to show off her slender 
  neck, but the woman was carefull not to let it dip too low. The sleeves are 
  cut short, coming only halfway to the elbows of the lightly muscled arms. 
  The waist is marked by a square of woolen material, wrapped and tied as an 
  apron, and from underneath peeks the plain-hemmed edge of the dress, as well 
  as a pair of dark leather sandles.

Julian
     He is pale -- he's not a Varati. He has neither gills nor fins; he's not 
  Atlantean. He cannot be Sylvan, for his eyes are twilight blue, his ears 
  unpointed. And surely his features are far too refined to be those of a 
  Mongrel... which leaves only one race from which this man could come. He 
  certainly has the build of an Empyrean, leanly muscled, finely boned. At 
  just over six feet in height, he is tall, but slim. Shoulders, limbs, and 
  hands are all in elegant proportion, and he moves like a Son of the Air as 
  well, with a certain lightness of carriage that suggests he might spring off 
  the earth at any given moment.
     But if he _is_ Empyrean... there appear to be a couple of problems. He 
  _can't_ spring off the earth, for he has no wings. And his hair, short, 
  often rakishly tousled, is a pure raven-black. The hue of his hair and the 
  absence of wings may well be the source of an ever so slight glint of irony 
  in his dark azure gaze, or the hint of a sardonic drawl beneath the lilting 
  velvet tenor with which he speaks. Wingless though he may be, darkling 
  though he may be, he nevertheless comports himself like a lord. His manners 
  and accent are impeccable, and he conveys to the world an aura of unspoken 
  assurance and experience, befitting a man who appears somewhere in his 
  mid-thirties.
     Julian is dressed at the moment in a black silken long-sleeved tunic, 
  sleek black breeches, and a midnight-blue tunic upon which gleam discreet 
  touches of gold embroidery. The cut and cloth of each garment he wears are 
  subtly fine, perfectly tailored without ostentation though of a style that 
  owes its origins to designs outside the usual preferences of the Children of 
  Air. Upon his feet he wears soft boots, also black.

Serah took the few moments alone to inspect the knick-knacks closest to her. 
  She /is/ a woman after all, and such things draw the eye. The sound of a 
  voice catches her attention, and the woman turns, hands running over her 
  dress. Understandably, she's self-conscious in such a place, even if she's 
  not wearing her usual work-a-day garb. Instead, she's wearing a blue dress, 
  of fine-spun wool, with embroidery she added herself. "Excuse me..." she 
  can't make herself say dominus, but it would be impolite to address the man 
  by his first name, especially when she barely knows him, so the woman aims 
  for the term she's most comfortable with. "Excuse me, Imphadi, do you have a 
  moment?"

Something about the face and frame -- or is it the voice? -- seem familiar to 
  Julian, but as he finally comes down off the last few stairs he can't yet 
  place why this particular visitor might be here tonight. "Malcolm, thank 
  you," he says first to the Mongrel doorman, who nods gruffly and stumps off 
  to the little alcove from which he'd emerged to answer the door. Only then 
  does the evident master of the house return his attention to Serah, taking 
  in the little flutters of her hands and the deference in her voice. "If I 
  hadn't," he says then, a small smile curling one corner of his mouth, 
  "Malcolm would have not let you in." He does not bother to point out the 
  lateness of the hour -- after all, in his position he'll be surprised if he 
  doesn't receive visitors at all odd hours of the night, on any given day of 
  the week. Instead he merely gestures smoothly off out of the foyer and into 
  what appears to be a sitting room, saying, "How may I help you?"

Serah may be bold, coming here so late, and on such an errand. But...she 
  realizes, at least, the potential rudeness of her coming. And as she enters 
  the sitting room, her eyes lower down to the hem of her long sleeves. "I beg 
  your pardon." A good way to begin, to make her seem not quite as rude, "But 
  I had to see if what I'd heard was true, and this was the only time I had 
  free to come."

"That depends," says the man in the fine black and blue garments, "on what 
  you've heard, Imphada." Julian steps over to a small hearth in the room, in 
  which a small mound of embers casts a dull glow out across the chamber; 
  taking up a poker, he begins to coax a better blaze out of the pile of 
  kindling and ashes therein. But he glances up as he does, giving a nod of 
  his dark head towards one of the nearest chairs, smiling faintly. "Do have a 
  seat, if you like." Once the fire begins to gain strength under his 
  attentions, the light in the room falls more clearly upon the furniture; 
  there's a small half-couch which may well be intended for someone with 
  wings, but the chair towards which he nods is clearly meant for someone 
  without them.

Serah nods her head, lowering herself carefully into that chair. Though a 
  glance is sent towards the couch warily. Even living with Tienne, the woman 
  is far from comfortable around the winged race. "Thank you." Eyes drift 
  towards the fire naturally, a neutral and entranceing spot to concentrate 
  on. "Back in bordertown, it's said that you are living with the empyreans, 
  that you're claiming to be one of them, and acting like...a pureblood."

Julian slips the poker back into its place on the rack, and turns at last to 
  face his visitor squarely once more. A slim silhouette against the 
  firelight, he might almost be a shadow from head to foot save for his pale, 
  fine-boned face. "Ah." It's a single soft exhalation, but much might be 
  heard in his velvet tenor, that one syllable conveying swift enlightenment. 
  His dark azure gaze lingers upon the woman seated before him now, knowing 
  that he's seen her before, and not yet pressing at his memory to bring back 
  where it might have been. It will come, he knows, if he does not try to 
  force the recollection. Something about -- the earthquake. "You are 
  therefore, essentially, here to satisfy your curiosity?"

That is it, of course. Her curiosity, but..."Yes, that is not all though." 
  Edging forward on her seat, Serah's narrow face contorts up, trying to think 
  of how to put this. "You have always been a good man, there are few mongrels 
  that manage to keep themselves independent, and fewer still who act nobly, 
  and you were both." Here a breath and a pause, "It would be a blow to us, if 
  we were to lose you."

The earthquake -- ah. Yes. A stall had fallen upon her, and he'd pulled her 
  free. And furthermore, she'd been the one that Southpaw Rolf had attacked. 
  Which had led to Rolf trying to attack _him_, later. This time he doesn't 
  smile, and his eyes grow rather more solemn. "I am gratified to know I have 
  a good reputation in Bordertown, still," he replies quietly. "If it is any 
  consolation to you, I do not intend to abandon my alliances and my friends 
  in Haven, regardless of what race's blood flows through their veins."

"But you fancy yourself Empyrean? A pure blood?" Serah seems unable to get 
  over that one point. Even as she asks the question, eyes size up the man 
  consideringly once more. He's attractive enough, but to dark for a Empyrean, 
  and what of his wings? No, he /couldn't/ be one of them, and if he was, then 
  what was he doing in bordertown before, but...that would be overstepping 
  bounds a bit. Finally, she lets her eyes meet the man's infront of her, as 
  she awaits his answer. In a moment, she gazes back at the fire, looking 
  someone straight on is a trick she's far from mastered as of yet. Especially 
  if that someone is of pureblood...or acts like it.

The man Serah last knew as a Mongrel named Richard waits for her gaze to 
  finally seek his, before he pronounces simply and straightforwardly, 
  "Imphada, I _am_ Empyrean." Julian's finely-sculpted mouth quirks for a 
  moment, as he notes the scrutiny she's given him... notes how the hue of his 
  hair and the empty space behind his shoulderblades must be responsible for 
  that expression of bemusement she now wears.

Serah looks downwards, her head shaking gently. "No." Her tone is soft, but 
  firm. To those who know her best, this is the voice she uses when she's 
  particularly adament about something. "No, even if you were to grow wings 
  from your shoulders. You'd still be mongrel."

Wings. He hasn't let on to any of the servants he's brought from the Empyre -- 
  or who he's recruited from certain venues in Bordertown which shall remain 
  unmentioned. He hasn't let on to any of the children... and he isn't about 
  to let on to this evening visitor either how nervous the prospect of the 
  restoration of his wings is making him. Julian's elegant features maintain 
  an impassive expression, with only a subtle darkening of his eyes against 
  the fireglow behind him suggesting even a hint of disquiet. That shadow... 
  and a slight roughening of his otherwise velvet voice. "Perhaps," he 
  concedes, "in my experience and education, and in several of my sympathies." 
  For what man could have led the life he has for the last fifteen years and 
  not have remained entirely unaffected? "But speaking strictly in terms of 
  blood... I am Empyrean. My apologies, if this causes you disappointment or 
  grief."

Those words, she could not have said it better herself. He is a mongrel still 
  in many ways. Then, shaking her head, she begins to rise from her chair. 
  "I'm sorry that it seems we /have/ lost you. But this is the life you've 
  chosen, I wish you well in it."

He does not forestall the Mongrel woman from rising, but the wingless man does 
  take a step forward, away from the hearth. "If you would, as long as they 
  are spreading rumors of me in Bordertown, contribute this to the 
  consideration of those who speak and those who listen. No Mongrel will be a 
  slave in House Nemea... and my two Mongrel wards will be raised alongside my 
  daughter and my nephew. As equals." Julian could say more; he could speak of 
  how he will pay good wages to the Mongrels that do choose to serve him. But 
  he does not, darkly aware that if this woman is any indication, the Mongrels 
  of Haven will need to see evidence before they believe. And thus the 
  dark-haired Deus of Nemea limits his farewell to those words he's spoken, 
  concluding only, "I do, nevertheless, thank you for your well-wishes, 
  Imphada. I expect I will need all the ones I can get." Another smile, small, 
  slightly self-deprecating, and once again seeming unable to brighten his 
  shadowed eyes.

Something in the woman's expression sours at the mention of him raising the 
  two mongrel's still, but she speaks nothing of it. "Good evening Imphadi." A 
  step is taken towards the door, but then she stops and turns. "I'm sorry, 
  but there is one more request I would have."

Julian hadn't missed that twist of Serah's countenance; little escapes his 
  notice. So she disapproves of the notion of his raising Roki and Elette, 
  does she? He is not surprised. She isn't the first to have such disapproval, 
  and she doubtless won't be the last. But even as she refrains from voicing 
  her sentiment, so does the Deus avoid remarking upon his suspicion of it. He 
  merely inclines his head patiently, indicating the Mongrel woman's 
  continuing command of his attention.

Serah takes in a deep breath, "You're wards will find it hard to fit in...to 
  say the least. I thought if they maybe spent some time with my son," one of 
  their own kind, that is, "he's about their age, they might have an easier 
  time of it." And not be so disappointed when they grow up and everyone 
  starts treating them as worthless mongrels.

For the first time, Julian's expression eases slightly. He remembers this 
  woman now, but this doesn't necessarily mean that she's trustworthy, not 
  yet. Such a request may well be a prelude to some further, darker purpose -- 
  and for a fraction of an instant, he feels a pang of regret that he must now 
  look for such hidden motives. He does not discount the possibility, even as 
  a brighter corner of his heart asks exactly what the trouble could be with 
  arranging for three children to play together. Or, perhaps more properly, 
  four -- assuming little Momus can be convinced to play nicely with the 
  Mongrel children. For the first time, he lets himself smile a little more. 
  "I would not be adverse to their meeting, Imphada, but we will have to leave 
  it up to the children as to whether they will take well to one another."

Serah lets a small smile come to the front at that. It's been so hard for 
  Gadin to make friends too, what with the both of them moving around so much, 
  this could be good for everyone involved. "I think it would be good to try 
  atleast...I can talk to my Gadin, and then we can arrange something later?"

"And I shall speak with Roki and Elette," pledges Julian, graciously. And 
  Momus, though he expects that that will take careful handling; too young to 
  have his own wings yet, reeling from the loss of his mother, barely 
  accustomed to the presence of his uncle's wards, the Empyrean boy may not 
  yet be a safe element to introduce into this proposed meeting. "Feel free to 
  call here again, if your son is interested. I will be here for the time 
  being." Until certain business is taken care of -- pertaining to that empty 
  space at his back.

Serah nods her head, and then turns to take her leave.

"Imphada... Pu-abi, is it?" The Varati title and the Varati-sounding name 
  might be a trifle awkward in sound uttered in an Empyrean's accent -- if the 
  Empyrean were anyone other than this man. Julian appears to be quite 
  comfortable with uttering them, his brief hesitation a matter of reinforcing 
  memory rather than the oddity of the words themselves. "I shall ask Malcolm 
  to expect your return."

Serah turns and shakes her head, "I have been called Serah for quite some 
  time, if you wish to use that as a name."

Another smooth nod, a momentary closing of his eyes in acknowledgement, as 
  Julian steps forward to escort his visitor out the way she'd come. "As you 
  wish." If there's anyone in Haven accustomed to the shifting of names, that 
  person is certainly he. This other proffered name gives him no more of a 
  pause than the other he'd uttered, or the title to which it had been 
  attached.

Serah inclines her head, before uttering a soft, "Good day." and turning to 
  head for the door.

[End log.]