[O] Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Printable Version +- HELOVIA || The Way to the Sun (http://helovia.com) +-- Forum: Out of Character (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: Archives (http://helovia.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=11) +--- Thread: [O] Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] (/showthread.php?tid=26850) |
Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Weaver - 03-19-2017 ask no questions Weaver doesn’t even concern herself with his burns. The stallion doesn’t seem concerned about them, so why should she? For all she knows they are old and just hurt, and like her, maybe he’s stubborn and enjoys the pain. Or maybe he’s crazy and thinks whoever sent him to Helovia has some lesson to teach him or something. The dude is definitely a little nuts. Though he’ll fit right in. Somewhere between Beloved and Cassius….crazy and devoted. - weaver - and you'll be told no lies @Wessex @Altar – moved the thread to the Basin! Any healer who wants to come tend to Altar’s burns would be most welcome please and thanks – feel free to pp Raven or Weaver finding them and brining them to the sentinels to meet up with Wessex/Altar Also open to anyone wants to welcome/accept Altar to the Basin! RE: Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Mortuus Nox - 03-20-2017 @Weaver RE: Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Wessex - 03-25-2017 I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF Meet you by the Sentinels, Weaver says before she takes off, and Wessex nods curtly to her departing form. It’s a plan. W E S S E X @Altar @Weaver @Mortuus Nox RE: Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Altar - 03-28-2017 The dragon marked one speaks of snow and he remembers the cruelness of the Mydalr winters, a dull ache pulsing through his chest. His mind is on frost lichen and yule grass when Wessex confirms the smell of water nearby. She asks the winged mare to seek a healer, a request wasted on him and yet he says nothing as the two mares speak. He lived amongst healers, Thord the greatest of them, but he would share no link with a healer here. Not when they were but a name away from strangers to each other. He makes no small talk when they reach the pool, drinking his fill and allowing her to do the same before entering the chest-high water. Despite the salt that cakes his body he does not try to wash it away, the very salt that ravaged his insides would be the same salt to salve his burns. Burns that still had no face, no story to tell the one who’s skin they scarred. The cool water brings back no rush of memories, as he had only mildly hoped, still the scenes would not reveal his own tale. His memories of that night were not stirred, not when they passed the forests that looked so much like Mydalr’s, not when they came through the narrow mountain’s pass, and not when they crossed into the Basin. Before they even reach the sentinels, the blue roan’s ears are laid back against his skull, his posture rigid, his chin tucked slightly. He had never smelled so many different scents so heavily mixed, predator’s musk as thick as prey’s. It smelled of wolf and snake and goat and it was all bound up in the scent of an unfamiliar magic. Altar can taste the sentinel’s iron before it rises in the path before them, “the sentinel,” he says to Wessex, a statement more than a question with a need for validation. The pair continue deeper into the space between the mountains, slowing when a raven circling above two figures in the path comes into view. Altar recognizes the yellow-eyed Weaver, with her wings folded against her slender sides and a stallion beside her, unfamiliar to him. The draft eyes the ram horns that rise from the stallion’s head, the sight still a very much a novel one. Altar’s were a gift and so he had been the only one amongst his kind with horns, but here, they all had horns and none were alike. The black smells of herbs, some Altar recognizes and others he struggles for the name. The scents remind him of the offering burns, where some came to be healed by the fire while others were surrendered to it. But he was rarely involved in the matters of the herbalists, Altar saved his strength for the martyrs, for the messages left amongst the bones and ash. The darkness in the black recognizes his own even before they were within a shadow’s reach of each other. They arrive while the stallion is still speaking, Altar only catching part of the conversation, “and now you need help disposing of the body?” If he had eyebrows, one would be raised, but Altar dismisses it down to banter. The stallion continues, assuring her of his assistance should she need it and though he isn’t sure, he assumes the black is the healer that had been requested on his behalf. The blisters were no longer leaking, now that the morning had begun to cake them with dried salt, “your generosity is appreciated, but my wounds will heal fine on their own.” Prayers long ago prayed to Elr begin to recite themselves in his head, the goddess of shamanic healers and restoration. Reminding him that perhaps she would not take too kindly to him abandoning his consecrated ties for paltry pain relief. Altar’s wounds would heal on their own here, or he would fester away – to be remembered as a fanatic, or far more likely, a fool. The black looked like he had perhaps seen his share of battles –surely, at least he, would recognize his choice as one made of prudence and not conceit. They were but named strangers to him and he to them, their sacraments would be but wasted on his pagan skin. Not yet. Not when his name hadn’t even had time to sour on their tongues.“Can you tell me of the iron horse? Was it you or your gods who built it?” He asks to the three that smelled of mountains and metal, the idea wild and bidding of his interest – if it was the former, their powers were surely greater than his, at least as far as tangible powers went. “What gods do you claim here?” he continues, courteous but forward, Altar had never been one to layer perfumed banalities, a wagging tongue never felt comfortable in his mouth. Perhaps they shared the same gods, although his doubt in that weighs heavier each passing minute amongst the myriad of strange beasts. altar @Wessex @Weaver @Mortuus Nox RE: Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Weaver - 03-28-2017 She knows what demons looks like, she knows the Grim Reaper well. Mortuus strikes her as neither. Though he could have fallen, perhaps, she doesn’t think he did. There’s something good beneath his willingness to explain poisons to her. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe there was a willingness to explain poisons buried beneath the good. Hard to be certain without asking. Maybe one day she’d get the chance to ask. “Mortuus,” she says with a grin, glad as always to see the healer that wasn’t made up of sunshine and rainbows. He seems so much less likely to judge her. “Not me today, though I’m very sure it will be me soon. Maybe not a body soon, but you never know.” She grins at him with a bit of playfulness behind that grin, tempted to ask him to join her for some ‘lessons’ in recreational herbs one evening. But then there are voices, and she finds herself slightly disappointed that their conversation was cut short so soon. She doesn’t even have to introduce the patient, because he straight up declines the offer to be healed. Part of her is really not surprised, but she pretends slightly and says, “This stubborn soul. Mortuus, meet Altar. Altar, meet one of the guys who can tell you you are allowed to stay.” Her words are harsh, perhaps, but the tone is not. It is her usual, half joking, half smart-ass self. “As for the sentinels, Beloved explained them to me, so maybe someone else can explain them to you in words.” Wessex and Mortuus would get that, Altar would not, but hopefully one of them would pick up where she could not. “The God of the Spark is the patron god of the Basin. There is also the Earth God, who owns no herd. The Mood Goddess, of the World’s Edge. And the Sun God, of the Dragon’s Throat.” And then she falls silent, letting everyone else fill in all the knowledge she didn’t yet have. - weaver - @Mortuus Nox @Wessex @Altar RE: Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Wessex - 04-06-2017 I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF A’ight look, Wessex is all for steel spines and stoicism and being a strong individual and taking the boo-boo’s with a grain of salt, buttttttt this is an exception. Some things heal well, she things, and some things don’t. The soldier is about the farthest from a healer that one can get, but even she knows better than to tempt fate. Her face contorts into a severe look, lips pursing together and eyes narrowing at his denial. “Don’t be an idiot.” Starting off very diplomatic, yes, good job, Wessex. “Your wounds look nasty and we don’t recruit folks just to have them die of infection.” Because that would just be a waste of time and effort. W E S S E X @Mortuus Nox @Weaver @Altar RE: Meet you by the Sentinels [Welcoming and Healer Needed] - Erebos - 04-06-2017
“They were created by Ulrik the Engineer, and we’ve yet to find another of his caliber,” the prince shouted, only appearing on the Stygian opus of the horizon at the last set of inquiries, late, nearly unnecessary, but still a tangible bout of curiosity, a strand of sword brutality and rapier might, a brewing cauldron of inquiry and decadence. His voice pulsed again, less wild, less exuberant, but still alive, ignited, incensed by the memories of Rikyn’s father, of days spent watching the crafter build his magnificent oeuvre; an ode to destruction and mayhem, the past brooding and brewing. “They used to ward off intruders and invaders.” He tipped his head towards those gathered – already tempted into the midst of the pavilion and aperture because he’d seen them lingering along the border, two soldiers, one healer, and an unfamiliar beast lurking. But he hadn’t attempted to appear out of the blue, by way of shadow or light, merely inclining his way onward and onward, a steady, pace until he’d reached their plateau and only heard the scraping of questions, the bits and pieces, the finite gathering littered across their landscape – his head tilted thereafter, granting the careful study to each in turn that he hadn’t allowed himself prior. Orsino rested at his feet, meeting steely gazes with his own gilded, ominous decorum; Enyo was a bright speck of youth, batting at the kitsune’s tails when he wasn’t looking – and the General rested his glance upon the newcomer. The wounds were the first thing he noticed, likely in urgent need of care – arching his brow chiefly at Mortuus Nox, presuming the sable stag would work on them promptly, despite the strange refusal (maybe the newcomer didn’t anticipate such a fuss – but the Basin had fine healers, capable of coaxing the Time God’s power to the forefront, reversing the hours, the span, of injuries). “I’m Erebos, General of the Basin. Welcome,” he finally reported, all cheeky grins, all charisma, all calculations behind the generous smiles and the welcoming, genial attitude, cordial and affable to his comrades too – bestowing those bobs of his head for the soldiers who’d dragged the newcomer from the locked corridors and heinous gates. His great, grand skull schemed in the midst and measures, pondered over what this beast would become – where he aimed, where his talents laid, where he intended to press and coax, where he’d lay the foundations of his worth. The scion’s father had always craved the knowledge of others’ capabilities, where to best apply them to the empire, if they could tinker, if they could fight, if they could spy, if they could mend, and the youth tried to follow suit, stepping out from his anguish, from his grief, into the parallel throngs of uniting their broken, patchwork realm. “Do you have any particular skills? We have quite a few ranks that require filling.” In essence, it was an offer, an invitation, one step further into allowing the newcomer into their wolfish halls – instead of being left out in desolation. Erebos i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want |