"Tenderness by Firelight"

Log Date:
	2/5/00, 3/2/00

Log Cast:
	Lyre, Faanshi

Log Intro:
	Faanshi has finally ended her duty in Clan Behzad -- only to discover
that her beloved Lyre has gone missing. An urgent search through some of the
seedier portions of Bordertown has let her turn him up at last, but much to
her dismay, she's found the Mongrel man suffering from a nasty case of lung
sickness. The young shudra, exhausted by the extended efforts she has been
carrying out for Behzad yet desperate to help Lyre as best as she can, has
helped him off immediately to the best source of help she knows: her Sylvan
teacher FallingStar. Faanshi has fortunately found both Samein and FallingStar
within the herb-shop the Sylvan keeps... and with the help of both of the
older healers, has chased the illness out of Lyre's system.
	The Mongrel is, however, also suffering from a deep exhaustion that
healing magic cannot necessarily cure -- and that simple sleep _can_. He's
dropped heavily and thoroughly into slumber, and for many hours has remained
snoring upon the floor of FallingStar's shop. Perhaps the Sylvan has sensed
something of the particular care Faanshi has for this particular bard, for she
has let the young maiden stay close by Lyre's side to take care of him while
he gets the rest his abused body desperately needs.
	And thus, a night or two after Lyre's healing, Faanshi is continuing
her gentle vigil...

----------
In the middle of the night, there is very little sound in the shop. 
  Periodically carts rattle past on the stone road, or merry revellers walk 
  past, laughing and staggering from drink. Inside, however, all is quiet and 
  soft; the banked embers of the hearth provide a slight warmth and an even 
  slighter glow, tinging the room gentle orange. And Lyre sleeps, blanket 
  half-askew and tangled around his legs, bare chest open to the air and one 
  arm flung wide to the side. And he snores, albeit quietly.

Quiet though it may be in the shelter of the herb-shop, Faanshi cannot find 
  peace enough to sleep. For starters, she is not in Atesh-Gah in the dead of 
  night, and this is a rare enough occurrence that it is enough by itself to 
  make her restless. She _is_ in her younger teacher's shop, and half of her 
  cannot help but keep partly alert in case the blind Sylvan might need her 
  help, for whatever reason. And the rest of her... the rest of her is 
  inexorably drawn to the slumbering, snoring figure sprawled out there on the 
  floor. Thus, even as Kosha lies in a large circle of canine fur by the 
  hearth and soaks up as much of its warmth as he can, Faanshi lies with 
  wide-open eyes on the cot FallingStar has permitted her to set up, just on
  the other side of the door into the older healer's back room. And she gazes
  out into the orange-tinted darkness of the front room, listening to the 
  cadences of the Mongrel man's snores. They are small noises, certainly not 
  particularly louder than any other sounds that drift in off the street. But 
  for no reason the halfbreed girl can name, they are occupying far more of 
  her attention, as they remind her that she is not alone in the room. That 
  she is, in fact, effectively alone in a room _with a man_...
With _Lyre_.
A strange, fascinating giddiness lurks somewhere within her, and Faanshi lies 
  there in the quiet darkness, trying to figure out why the simple sound of a 
  man's snores is causing such a feeling.

Snorfle. The bard rolls over a little bit, blanket becoming even more 
  distended as he rolls. Brow puckering in his sleep he shifts his arm around, 
  mumbling sleepily, "...c'mere..." Lyre wiggles his hips a little and ends up 
  lying on his stomach, head pillowed on one crook'd arm. The other arm is 
  stretched out again, oddly enough towards Faanshi.
Of course, he's still asleep. Isn't he? But perhaps, somewhere deep in that 
  oddly bardic mind of his, something dream-like is bumbling around. An 
  elusive feeling that something is missing, whether it be the large dog he's 
  grown accustomed to having sneak into bed with him at night of late, or just 
  the soul-deep need to be nearer to the one he has been seeking for so long.
That, or he's just cold.

Perhaps he _is_ cold, Faanshi thinks to herself; shouldn't he be, the way he's 
  been disturbing his blanket? The giddy feeling in her chest grows, and for a 
  moment she pauses, uncertain... then, before she can really think twice 
  about it, she is rising from the cot and slipping across the room to kneel 
  down gracefully at the prone man's side, reaching gentle hands to better 
  tuck the blanket about him.

The blanket is quite firmly tangled up in Lyre's legs. Ushas only knows how 
  the man manages to tie a blanket into a knot, but somehow he's done so. 
  Talented fellow, that bard! He does stir, though, as Faanshi touches the 
  blanket so near to him. Still lying on his stomach he says quite clearly, 
  "You smell nice."

Oh dear... how in the world can she get the blanket free of his limbs? Faanshi 
  peers over her veil at the tangle Lyre's made of himself, only to freeze and 
  blush crimson at that sleepful murmur of his.
But... her touch is still there. And she _does_ smell nice, doesn't she? The 
  subtlest trace of cinnamon, eased with a hint of orange...

Lyre's hand begins a quest. Pat, pat, pat...FOOT! Aha! Strong fingers, 
  roughened from plucking music out of strings, clasp around Faanshi's 
  ever-so-delicate foot. With no small amount of satisfaction the bard 
  exclaims sleepily, "Gotcha, dove." With a move that bespeaks long practice, 
  the bard lifts his legs slightly and wriggles just once, freeing his legs 
  and propping himself up on his side -- still clasping Faanshi's foot. 
  Sleep-fuddled eyes look up at Faanshi bemusedly, the lines of his eyes 
  somehow made less severe and more innocent by his proximity to dreamland. In 
  the warm orange glow of the hearth his eyes seem to gleam almost umber.

A small gasp escapes the girl, her hands lifting up in involuntary reaction 
  from Lyre's side. "You... are awake," she blurts unnecessarily. And then she 
  blinks a time or two over her veil, trying to confirm this. Just as 
  fascinating as the noises he'd made in his sleep are the changes wrought in 
  his rugged features by slumber, and her gaze settles on the Mongrel's face 
  in shy wonderment. His eyes are nearly umber in the fire-glow; hers, 
  gold-drenched green, like leaves in the summer sun. The blue veil that hides 
  the lower part of her face catches the soft light, too, glimmering in a 
  translucent sheen across the pointed shape that is her chin beneath the silk.

He actually looks a little thoughtful, as if puzzling out whether or not 
  Faanshi is correct. After a moment's deliberation he gives just a little 
  nod, affirming, "Yes. I think so. For the moment." A yawn ripples through 
  him and he lets out a little stretch, idly scratching his head with his free 
  hand as he blinks sleepily up at Faanshi. His other hand, though, remains 
  firmly placed upon Faanshi's foot. Dutifully, his fingers begin to report. 
  Soft skin. Bit of a callous from running about working. Delightful toes. Of 
  course his fingers take the most care possible in this exploration, 
  understanding that their owner would be upset if Faanshi was not treated 
  delicately. A side effect of this might be, sadly, that she is being rather 
  thoroughly foot-tickled.

This is what a shudra girl gets when her footwear is nothing more than sandals 
  and strategically placed rags to insulate her skin against cold, wet, and 
  other hazards of Haven's myriad streets... or what a shudra girl would get, 
  were she not barefoot for the evening, too penniless to afford luxuries like 
  the sorts of dainty slippers a noblewoman might wear at night. The contact 
  of Lyre's fingers against her bare skin, even if that skin might be of a 
  relatively innocuous place like her foot, sends a number of alarming and 
  intriguing sensations through her... enough to make her voice decidedly odd 
  in her own ears as she murmurs tinily, "You... are feeling better? Are you 
  cold?" And, shyly, she ducks her gaze down towards the rumpled blanket, 
  suddenly reminded all over again of the rumpled state of the bard's clothing 
  as well. And the parts of him his shirt is currently failing to cover.

Lyre gives another little stretch, the floor having made him a little bit 
  stiff during the course of his night's sleep. There is consequently a good 
  ripplage of chest going on, since his shirt is almost completely off by this 
  point. He does not seem to notice, though. "Yes...Still tired. But not 
  cold." One errant finger, the rascal, lightly begins to rub itself against 
  Faanshi-foot. Quite naughty indeed! Bad finger. No biscuit.

Her foot is rapidly becoming an awkward place for her to rest her gaze -- but 
  then again, it's either that, or an alarming amount of bare bard skin before 
  her. Faanshi glances back and forth in increasingly fluttery consternation, 
  and at last settles for turning her face back towards Lyre's own, finding it 
  the safest part of him to keep in sight right now. Her hands remain 
  restless, however, slowly flitting this way and that like drowsy or perhaps 
  confused little sungolden birds. And she babbles out in soft, earnest, and 
  almost anxious tones, "Good... you were... very ill, and you should rest 
  a-as much... as you need to... you..." Pause. Her gaze ducks shyly downward, 
  lashes fluttering closed in embarrassment. Then in an even smaller voice she 
  blurts, "You... are not... made like Thomas..."

A frown darkens his features for a moment, just briefly. Even bards are known 
  to be a little jealous sometimes. Still, he does not bring it up more than 
  to say, "Most men are made differently, dove." His stroking fingers make one 
  last pass across her skin before pulling back and away from her to twitch 
  the blanket up to his shoulder again. He lifts his hand and rubs a rough 
  finger across the soft cheek of his caretaker, smiling and saying gently, 
  "You should rest as well, little healer. T'would make me feel better."

"I have been... too nervous to sleep," the halfbreed girl admits. Then, 
  fleetingly aware of that trace of a frown, she blinks a time or two. 
  Jealousy is foreign to the nature of Faanshi, even as the need to soothe, 
  the urge to ease and heal, is part and parcel of it. Softly, timidly, but in 
  utmost earnestness, she murmurs, "You are... beautiful, Lyre...!"

Much as a frown had momentarily crinkled his features, so now does a smile, 
  warm and gentle. Lyre continues his ministrations upon Faanshi's cheek, 
  feather-light, and watches her with that same firelit gaze. "So're you, 
  dove. More than any words can say. And from a self-proclaimed poet...Well, 
  that's quite a lot." He admits quietly, "You are different from other women. 
  Special. I knew it the first time I saw you and it's kept me spellbound ever 
  since." A wry smile tugs upon his lips as he adds, "Who would have thought 
  I'd have fallen so easily?"

It is a dizzying feeling, to be told that you are beautiful and special after 
  spending most of eighteen years of life being reviled and hidden away for no 
  other reason than being the offspring of two parents with different kinds of 
  blood. And to be told on top of this that you hold a man spellbound... well. 
  The wonder of this surges visibly across the maiden's unveiled features, 
  flooding the cheek beneath those roughly callused fingers crimson, and its 
  mate as well. "I... do not... understand such things," she breathes, her own 
  hand coming shyly up to touch the fingers making contact with the soft 
  planes of her face. "So many things I do not understand... may I ask you a 
  question?"

"You may ask me anything. I can deny you nothing." Lyre quirks a grin, 
  tangling his fingers with your own and holding them captive. Tired though he 
  may be, he is also terribly self-indulgent when it comes to spending time 
  with Faanshi. A character flaw, perhaps. He has a weakness for his favorite 
  healer.

It might be force of habit that keeps dipping the shudra girl's gaze downward 
  -- but then again, it might also be a profound shyness unlike her usual 
  timidity seizing her, too. "These lovely things you say... are they... 
  w-what a man says... when he wishes to court a woman? My heart-mother told 
  me once... that a man would say pretty things if he... but I never thought I 
  would... do... do you...?" Faanshi can't finish the sentence, however -- and 
  one might wonder exactly what kind of sentence she's trying to complete, 
  since two or three of them seem to be trying to escape her at once. Her 
  blush deepens all the more, and her hand turns about in your own, trying to 
  clasp it.

He is quiet for a moment; having been single and tromping about the lands for 
  as long as he has, Lyre hadn't given much thought to courting. Slaves are 
  not encouraged to do it outside of their master's household, and Lyre's 
  former master had owned only him. Still, there is an appeal to the idea. 
  Though he might seem younger than he is, the bard is reaching the point 
  where having a home sounds quite nice indeed. And of course, it is his dove 
  speaking. He is swiftly discovering that he'd rather cut his lute strings 
  than lose her. "Yes, dove. That is usually their purpose. Though for me it 
  is merely a speaking of the truth, of what I feel for you...It is how a man 
  tells a woman that he cares for her and wishes to be a part of her life."

"You _are_ a part of my life," is Faanshi's reply, striking a note somewhere 
  between baffled... and the beginnings of a marvelling suspicion she cannot 
  yet quite make herself voice, though it kindles a light within her eyes and 
  coaxes her attention up again. "I am not brave, or wise... about so many 
  things... but this, I know!"

"I am very glad to hear it, dove. It means a lot to me." Lyre teases quietly, 
  "So I'm not to worry about you running off with some strapping Varati lad 
  when I'm not paying attention?"

To _that_, Faanshi makes the tiniest of faces, murmuring in sheepish tones, "I 
  do not think a Varati man would wish to have me as his wife, because half my 
  blood is Sylvan... unless he had other wives already, or concubines, and 
  would not expect me to be a mother to his sons..." These words treble her 
  blush, yet again, as they come out of her in almost a babble. And then she 
  catches herself, pausing and seeming to realize at last what she is saying. 
  Only then does Faanshi conclude, "There is no other man in my heart, Lyre."

Lyre draws her hand down slowly and places his lips against the skin of her 
  hand, kissing it softly. "Those words are music to me." He watches her a 
  moment longer, still smiling, and says quietly, "We should both get some 
  sleep, my dove, lest your teachers find us awake and exhausted when dawn 
  comes."

The urge to stay at his side is very strong, strong enough that for a momentt 
  Faanshi cannot quite breathe with the strength of it. It takes her great 
  effort to remember that a proper maiden, a good maiden, would not be wishing 
  to sleep next to a man she has not married no matter what lovely words he 
  has been saying to her... but still, once her hand is kissed, she does give 
  in to a smaller impulse. Her slender fingers seize up one of the bard's own 
  hands, bringing it up close to her cheek again, pressing it there... and 
  then she kisses those rough fingers, reverently. "Sleep, she agrees, 
  andfinally she pulls back to retreat to the cot where she's been sleeping, 
  back in the other room with FallingStar where a proper maiden would be 
  sleeping.
Her thoughts, however, remain out in the front room of the night-dark shop.
With Lyre.

[End log.]