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TO LET MY HEART BE MOVED, TO LAUGH FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART,
TO FIND MEANING IN EVERYDAY LIFE...
TO FIND MEANING IN EVERYDAY LIFE...
AL!
The call echoes, and Zyanya fumbles forward, her lavender eyes looking for the source of yelling in what would have been a very calm day in the Basin. Her eyes catch on the short, full body of a stallion painted white and red. From this distance, it is impossible to tell, but Zyanya could swear he is shorter than she is. The concern billows from his body, attracting her to move forward and find out what he was so upset about.
A blur of movement rushes by her head, a flash of white and feathers, but the griffin does not stop. After all, she is not a healer, and the pale colors of her coat often blend in with the surroundings of the Basin. Cool and crisp on the bottom with glimmers of sunlight on the snow.
Trotting easily over to a copse of trees, the pale eyes catch on the crumpled figure of a stallion amid the pine needles and trunks. He looks dead, at first glance, covered in blood and dirt and wounds and laced with age. The stallion (who is the first one Zya has met that is actually shorter than her) pulls out fabric from his satchel and places it over the open wound, easing the visual appearance of the broken stallion. "Are you a healer like Lena?" her voice timidly asks of him, calling out from the entrance of the groves, hoping that the frightened expression on his face is just because the patient is a friend.
Might as well jump in the deep end, doll.
Stepping forward, Zya reaches a place of mental calm, eyes scouring the figure on the ground and surveying injuries. Unfortunately, without formal training, there is not much she knows. However, being a victim of younger siblings and youthful abandonment, she does know how to handle the swelling and bruises with something cold. In her homeland, her mother would have dunked her in the northern springs for a while, but here in the Aurora Basin, they have the luxury of something even better - ice. "I'll be back," her voice is hurried, but her pace even more so, as she rushes out of the trees in search of hard-packed snow. "I think I know what to do, at least until someone better equipped shows up..." her voice trailing into the distance as she moves.
The motion used when said snow is quite comical, forming the small pieces of the snow into a ball and rolling it forward, the shape becoming larger and larger. Iktan showed her the secret to packing snow together so he might play "snowball" with her, one of the few games the serious boy enjoyed. Her lips tug into a smile, wanting to thank her lost brother for everything now.
A large snowball, about a foot in diameter, rolls into the trees carefully followed by Zya's nose. She notices how the pine needles begin to cling before she even arrives at the side of the injured old man, but decides it's better than nothing. Halting the comical snowball next to his chocolate and bearded frame, Zyanya takes to cutting chunks from the edge carefully with her horn. Delicately, she removes the pieces by picking them up gently in her mouth and attempting to place them softly on the battered ribcage. "This might sting at first, but it will start to numb and feel better," she reassures the stallion, remembering quite clearly the rush and sting of the clear crisp waters over her own bruises being more brutal than the initial hit, but feeling much better after.
Nudging the ice block off to the side, Zyanya looks around the copse of trees, hoping that Lena - or someone just as calm as she, would appear to take care of the wound which continues to bleed under the cotton. "Are you cold?" she asks the stallion on the forest floor, pale eyes tinged with worry.
""
ooc -- Hope you don't mind Zya rolling up! She maked this for you, Al.
The call echoes, and Zyanya fumbles forward, her lavender eyes looking for the source of yelling in what would have been a very calm day in the Basin. Her eyes catch on the short, full body of a stallion painted white and red. From this distance, it is impossible to tell, but Zyanya could swear he is shorter than she is. The concern billows from his body, attracting her to move forward and find out what he was so upset about.
A blur of movement rushes by her head, a flash of white and feathers, but the griffin does not stop. After all, she is not a healer, and the pale colors of her coat often blend in with the surroundings of the Basin. Cool and crisp on the bottom with glimmers of sunlight on the snow.
Trotting easily over to a copse of trees, the pale eyes catch on the crumpled figure of a stallion amid the pine needles and trunks. He looks dead, at first glance, covered in blood and dirt and wounds and laced with age. The stallion (who is the first one Zya has met that is actually shorter than her) pulls out fabric from his satchel and places it over the open wound, easing the visual appearance of the broken stallion. "Are you a healer like Lena?" her voice timidly asks of him, calling out from the entrance of the groves, hoping that the frightened expression on his face is just because the patient is a friend.
Might as well jump in the deep end, doll.
Stepping forward, Zya reaches a place of mental calm, eyes scouring the figure on the ground and surveying injuries. Unfortunately, without formal training, there is not much she knows. However, being a victim of younger siblings and youthful abandonment, she does know how to handle the swelling and bruises with something cold. In her homeland, her mother would have dunked her in the northern springs for a while, but here in the Aurora Basin, they have the luxury of something even better - ice. "I'll be back," her voice is hurried, but her pace even more so, as she rushes out of the trees in search of hard-packed snow. "I think I know what to do, at least until someone better equipped shows up..." her voice trailing into the distance as she moves.
The motion used when said snow is quite comical, forming the small pieces of the snow into a ball and rolling it forward, the shape becoming larger and larger. Iktan showed her the secret to packing snow together so he might play "snowball" with her, one of the few games the serious boy enjoyed. Her lips tug into a smile, wanting to thank her lost brother for everything now.
A large snowball, about a foot in diameter, rolls into the trees carefully followed by Zya's nose. She notices how the pine needles begin to cling before she even arrives at the side of the injured old man, but decides it's better than nothing. Halting the comical snowball next to his chocolate and bearded frame, Zyanya takes to cutting chunks from the edge carefully with her horn. Delicately, she removes the pieces by picking them up gently in her mouth and attempting to place them softly on the battered ribcage. "This might sting at first, but it will start to numb and feel better," she reassures the stallion, remembering quite clearly the rush and sting of the clear crisp waters over her own bruises being more brutal than the initial hit, but feeling much better after.
Nudging the ice block off to the side, Zyanya looks around the copse of trees, hoping that Lena - or someone just as calm as she, would appear to take care of the wound which continues to bleed under the cotton. "Are you cold?" she asks the stallion on the forest floor, pale eyes tinged with worry.
""
ooc -- Hope you don't mind Zya rolling up! She maked this for you, Al.
...I wanted to be given permission.
Zyanya
@Albrecht
@Johnny
even if you're lost you can't lose the love because
it's in your heart
Magic & Force allowed, barring permanent changes or death.
