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Heal. Mend and stitch, consume the wounds, send flesh and sinew creeping across the wound, covering it, burrowing deeper and deeper. Breathe life back into wounds carved and injuries sustained. It is an art, the clever crafting of desecrated flesh.
Tor steps forward to begin, pleas the magic within her to rise and become, not dormant, but alive and wild. She asks it to mend and form, to weave the patterns of flesh embedded in her mind. As it comes rising, rushing out of her and wrapping firm fingers around deadened nerves, the mender half-notices the dog, the companion, nearby.
The draft finds her heart exploding into longing, bursting with the unhoned edge to find her own companion, to have her own bond to cherish and enjoy, the one that so many others seem to love. Long ago, she had been wary of the thought of being connected to another creature twenty-four hours, seven days a week, but now the idea was appealing, enthralling, captivating. It drew her in slowly, a spider nudging and tweaking the delicate threads of its webs, pulling her closer unawares, until now, when it sunk its pincers into her and began to spin the thread around her.
She shakes her head, removing the thoughts of little eight-legged creatures from her mind, and steps back from the giant resting on the soil, withdraws the magic from flesh slowly turned fleshy pink. Burns had always been difficult, but she had done her best to remove the worst of the damage.
"The tissue will be better now, with much less risk of infection, sir." The draft says softly. "May I assist you with anything else?"
"TOR"
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