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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | The mission to bring the Focusing Iris to Wyrmrest Temple was a success, but the Aspects need time to arrange their ritual. It's another week of defense and downtime, and logs include Atley, Baalun, Nylarria, Velrin, Ben, Caspis, Donnall, Kerlo, Oslynn, Vaaria, Ismene, Kenelly, Shun, and Slicket. ~8400 words |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
As the Aspects above work with the Focusing Iris, the gathered combatants and volunteers down below prepare for what will be the last battle. For some, possibly the very last. This thought hangs over many of those present, even if not spoken aloud.
Shifts of defenders move in and out of the temple, those outside holding off Deathwing's minions from gathering in enough numbers to overrun the place.
On the lower floor of the temple itself, those taking a rest from the defenses gather to eat, tend to equipment repairs, or make sure they tell others the important things they have left to tell - while others head to the infirmaries to treat injuries the battlefield healers weren't able to fully address.
Ismene, Donnall, Atley, Vaaria, Ben, Kerlo
Ismene is in the Blue Infirmary, gently explaining to a soldier that she can't regrow hair. His head is intact and for that, he should be grateful.
Beside her is an empty mug of coffee and a half-eaten cookie. One supposes she's eaten more than that today. She also seems to be in the process of brewing potions, given the small travel setup she has on a small folding camp table nearby.
A freckled, brown-skinned dwarf with wild dark locks and braids and feathers saunters casually into the infirmary with one arm CLEARLY dislocated at the shoulder.
"Oh, hey, lass," he says in a slightly raspy voice. "Can I get yer help a minute?" He eyes the bald man. "Yer busy," he concludes before even letting her answer, and legitimately seems on his way back out.
"I'm not," Ismene says, standing. She gives the partially bald soldier a push towards the main part of the temple. "And even if I were, you need help. Goodness, how'd you do that? Dwarves have such strong muscles, it takes a lot to get their joints dislocated." She peers at the arm but doesn't touch it yet.
"Backed up a wee bit too far while casting," he says. "Bit of a cliff behind me. The good news is tha' a' least half a dozen wankers saw me an' got a good laugh." He grins at Mizzy, showing a great number of very large, very white teeth. He does not appear to need any dental care, at least.
Mizzy laughs a little. "Well, at least you're in good spirits about it. Let's see what I can do to put that back to rights. I can stop the pain, but putting it back in joint will be purely a physical operation. What's your name?" That probably doesn't matter to the healing, but she asks anyway.
"Donnall," he says. "And aye, I tried putting it back in meself, but I thenk I made it worse. Will probably need a bit o' magic to finish it off once it's set. Think I tore some fleshy bits tryin ta fix it." He might as well be discussing damage to a weapon, from his detached tone. "I'm shite at healin, fer a shaman. At some point ye gotta admit yer licked an' go crawlin to ma. Figuratively speakin'. Me actual ma would probably just tell me ta walk it off."
"A shaman? That's impressive. I don't think I know any other dwarven shaman." She gently guides Donnall to a cot and gestures that he should lie down on it. "It must be difficult on you here, with so many enemy elementals."
"No worse than bein' surrounded by enemy dwarves, a thing I'm also more'n familiar with." He glares at the cot. "We canna do this standin up? I'm no blushin' bride, ye know. In an out quick is fine by me."
That makes Mizzy grin. "I can't get the leverage I need while you're standing up. If you were some… what's the phrase? Oh yes, some hayseed stringbean from Westfall, I could manage. You're too well-muscled for your own good, that's the problem. Broad shoulders."
Donnall grins and flexes his good arm, which is bare despite the weather, and heavily tattooed.
"Ach, aye, 'tis a curse," he says. "Well, all right, lass, but do it quick before someone comes in here an' sees me on me back like a @#$&in infant."
He flops grumpily down on the cot.
She winces. But it doesn't seem to hurt him so who's she to object? JUST THE HEALER, THAT'S ALL. Mizzy takes a seat by his shoulder and casts a gentle Renew to reduce the swelling and pain in the arm. She folds his arm so the elbow has 90 degree flexion, then begins slowly straightening his arm at the shoulder and rotating it. Every few seconds, another pulse of warmth goes through him. "Now now," she says absently, "if anyone asks, I'll say you're testing the load-bearing capacity of the cot for me."
"Oh, tha's a good one," Donnall says agreeably. He shows more impatience than discomfort at the process. "I could go stoneform to really sell et."
With a sudden effort on Mizzy's part and an audible pop, the joint snaps into place. Another pulse of Renew eases the strain on tendons and muscle. "If you did that, I'd never get your shoulder back where it belongs," she notes, giving him a pat. There there. "How's that feel now?"
He flexes the formerly dislocated arm experimentally.
"Well, I can move me arm, so that in and of itself is a vast improvement. I wish ye'd left a bit more o' the pain so I could remember to nae be such a great bloody gowk next time, but far be it from me ta practice gift horse dentistry. So thank ye, I suppose."
"No thanks necessary," she assures him. "Healing's part of the package when you show up to save the world from destruction. I'm Ismene, by the way. Ismene Hazan."
"Oh!" Donnall stares at her a second. "Hazan! Relation to Lt. Hazan then? I'm wi' Cobalt."
Ismene nods happily. "I'm his wife," she says. "And if you're with Cobalt, that's all the more reason you get free healing with no thanks needed. Part of the package, you know!"
"Mercenaries with benefits!" Donnall says with a grin. "Ye might know me ma, the warrior trainer. Lireen. Or me sister Maisha, she's done more work with 'em than I have."
"I know of them both," she says, "since I also help Cap'n Jo with paperwork in addition to my healer duties. Once upon a time, I knew everyone in Cobalt Company, but it's too big now to keep everyone straight. You answered Jo's call to arms, then?"
"Sure, why not?" he says. "There's worse ways ta die than beside Cobalt Company. Like joinin' the Twilight's Hammer an' gettin' killed by Cobalt Company, fer example."
"I think some might find all this a bit more than they can handle," she says, gesturing around at all the this currently going on. "I say it's greatly to your credit that you came and are helping fight."
"Ach, yer nice," says Donnall. "Ye'll be the first to have a rock fall on yer head," he concludes.
Mizzy blinks. That simply must be some kind of colloquialism. "I'm sorry, I'll be the first to have a rock fall on my head?"
"Aye! Ye know, when the temple starts collapsin'. Or maybe it'll be a stray fireball that gets ye, I dinna ken. Nice folks always seem ta be the first ta go, though. Do ye not find it so?" He seems confused that this isn't obvious.
"Well…" She thinks about it. "I did die once. Came back, though, so there's that! Hopefully I won't die here, but I'd imagine Estel or Mordecai or even Ben will bring me back. I'll always come back for Ben."
"Awww, yer like one'a those sweet-buns. Ye know, the ones that have just a bit o' crusty on the outside so they dinna fall apart, but once ya peel that away it's just this warm soft cinnamon gooey - ach, I'm hungry as @#$&. I should go find somethin' ta eat. Watch fer fallin' rocks, aye?" He winks.
"I'll do that," she promises. "You watch for cliffs." Her eyes sparkle with silent laughter.
Donnall makes a rude gesture at her, grinning, and heads off.
There's a small commotion near one of the entrances as Dane's helmet clatters to the ground. A 7th Legion knight leans heavily against Dane, barely managing to shuffle along. His armor is battered and hanging from his chest in some places. A thick curtain of blood presses against his face from a wound on his forehead. A stone spike the size of a cudgel protrudes from the center of his stomach. "I'm alright, I'm just passing the bridge," the 7th legionnaire mumbles dazedly.
Dane himself is a little worse for wear. There's a smaller gash along his temple, and both he and the Legionnaire are caked in a heavy layer of rock dust. "Healer! Healer on me!" Dane growls, his voice loud, but his tone controlled.
Ismene loses the laughing expression on her face and hurries over. She does nothing to take the injured man from Dane, but bends to see the wound more clearly. "Well, that'll have to come out," she says calmly. She looks up at Dane. "If we get him down, can you pull it free?" she asks.
Dane looks down at her, jutting out his jaw with weary exertion. "I can," he says with a growl, adjusting his hold on his fellow knight as he leads him to the infirmary. "Elementals. This glorious bastard jumped in front of a group f'archers." he explains coarsely.
"Brave," Mizzy murmurs. She doesn't add 'but stupid'. At least, not out loud. She gestures for Dane to put the man on the cot just vacated by Donnall. Almost absently, she brushes a light heal across Dane to fix up his head.
Dane's bleeding stops instantaneously. He lays his fellow down on the cot. The legionnaire tries to rise, until Dane pushes him down. "Settle," he issues sternly. The legionnaire groggily shakes his head. "Tell Beck I've just passed the bridge," he mutters distractedly. "She'll know where I am."
"Give me just a moment and you can tell Beck yourself," Ismeme promises the soldier. She takes a moment to strip off the last vestiges of the man's armor, then looks at Dane again. Her hands begin to glow a soft gold. "Whenever you're ready, Sir Atley," she says.
Dane promptly pins the legionnaire down by his shoulder and yanks the spike out with an angry squelch of flesh. The legionnaire cries out in painful surprise and pushes at Dane, only to be held in place. Dane tosses the spike onto the ground with a clatter. "We've got you —!" he growls tersely.
The spike is trailed by a line of intestines. Rather than stuff it all back in, Ismene draws a dagger and just cuts through it all. What's left slithers back inside. Blood pools in the open cavity, but before it can overflow, she's ready with a major heal that sings with holy light. No sooner has she cast that, then she casts another, then a softer curative for any diseases crawling through his body from the spike and assorted bodily wastes.
It's pretty gross in the Blue Infirmary, is what I'm saying here. It doesn't smell great either, now.
The legionnaire spasms in pain, rattling the cot with the combined weight of his body and armor. Dane keeps him pressed down, hardly seeming to even notice the literal guts, but the cot does shift a few inches with each lurch of the legionnaire's body. Eventually, he grows still and stops talking about Beck, but keeps breathing, if weakly.
Dane slowly looks at Isemene and hesitates before removing his hands from the legionnaire. "Well done," he growls, impressed by her calm demeanor, all things considered.
Warily, Ismene takes her hands away from the soldier as if afraid he'll suddenly burst open again. "He should stay and rest," she says to Dane. "Everything should be knitted together, but it's still quite a shock to his system and he'll need a bit of time before his head believes he's healed."
Her dark eyes search over Dane. "Weren't you at the retrieval of the Iris?" she asks.
Dane listens to her attentively and grunts. He starts walking away, but he turns his head to the side to indicate he's still listening as he swipes his dusty helmet up off the ground. He marches back to the bedside and idly glances at the guts before looking back at her. "I was."
She watches him move, assuring herself he's not limping. "And you were just out there helping hold the line?"
Dane brushes off his helmet and glances back up at her with a grunt. "This whole place is the line, innit'." he growls gently, before gesturing to the legionnaire with his helmet. "You're holding your part. When's the last time you rested?"
Rude. "I rest in between waves of soldiers coming in with spikes in their bellies," she retorts. She grabs a cloth from the pile and flips it over the gross bits on the floor and the spike still nailed through them. Wrapping it all up in a tidy, if somewhat reddish, bundle, she then drops it in a basket nearby full of similar bundles. No one look too close. "And it's also part of my job to make stubborn soldiers take breaks."
Dane scoffs with amusement. "Best of luck to you on that, my lady." He tucks his helmet under his arm and examines her for a long, thoughtful moment, perhaps deliberating on how to word a particular thought. "S'good to see you out and about. Properly. Light knows we need you here. These past months have been trying, but we near the end."
A passing draenei woman with plate armor and a complicated white updo spots Ismene scooping guts off the stone. She pauses and Consecrates the bloodstained area helpfully to purify it before moving on.
"Thank you!" Ismene calls politely. To Dane, she says, "I can only hope you're right, Sir Atley. As to being out and about, well…" She shrugs and smiles. "Where Ben goes, I go. At least if he'll be away any length of time. I try not to trail about after him like some lovelorn puppy, but if he'll be gone for days and days, I can't stand to sit at home and wonder what's happening to him. I'm sure your lady wife must feel much the same, though she has children to care for."
Dane briefly nods to the passing plate-armored draenei and grunts.
"She does," he confirms. "We both do. She's fought her part of this war elsewhere." He briefly raises a cloth to wipe off his face and studies Ismene, standing in the bloodied infirmary with bacteria and virii. "Ben's a fortunate man. He made a wise choice with you."
"What'd I do?" asks a familiar drawl. Ben is approaching from the other direction, his Cobalt tabard grimy, his face and shorn hair speckled with blood — presumably not his own.
Ismene brightens. That may be literal. "Chose me as your wife," she says. "I was just about to explain how I'm the fortunate one. Are you all right? None of that blood is yours, is it?"
Dane tongues the inside of his cheek and turns to casually inspect Ben, or rather, Ben's hair in particular. He grunts. "I'd just grown accustomed to the shine. Fine way to inspect my own reflection." he remarks with a straight face.
"What blood?" asks Ben, which sort of answers that question. He glances down at himself and then up sheepishly and scrubs at his cheek with the back of one hand. "I'm good, I'm okay. And hell yeah I did. Chose you."
He eyes Dane. "S'awright, you ain't missin' much without that reflection," he says, and flashes a chipped-tooth grin.
Danes scoffs with amusement, feigning offense. There's not a lot of effort put into it, as his grim expression barely changes. He replies to Ben, looking to Ismene. "Takes work to look as pretty as I am."
"Yeah? It just come naturally to me," Ben tells him, and then eyes the infirmary area. "You, uh — you want someone should mop over here? I can mop if you give me a minute," he says to Mizzy.
Ismene picks up a cloth and starts wiping at Ben's face though it means rising on her toes to do it. "Mop yourself first," she says. "I'll get the floor, you have enough to worry about."
Dane looks down and grunts faintly at the bloodied floor, as if just now noticing it.
Ben squinches his face up like a toddler as Mizzy wipes at him.
Mizzy satisfies herself that Ben isn't bleeding anywhere on his face parts and puts the rag down. She looks about, then walks over and taps a mop. It's a magic mop, like those magic brooms that sweep stuff up, only in this case it's mopping up blood. Where does the blood go? Do you really want to know? Maybe there's some magical blood dimension. We don't look too closely at these things.
As it mops, she says to Dane, "You are resting, though? And eating more than jerky?"
Dane inclines his head and grunts. "I am. We're properly stocked here." He looks to Ben, and then his hands. "Haven't got any of those sandwiches at the ready, have you?"
Ben makes a spread-handed gesture. "They was out of bread out there in the snow. I tried askin' some of them Twilight fellows but I do not think they are much into sandwiches." He flashes another crooked smile. "If you are hangin' around, though, I can go get washed up good and throw some food together. You want a sandwich, kitten-cat?" This last is presumably addressed to Mizzy rather than Dane, for obvious reasons.
Ismene looks down at her empty coffee cup and half-eaten cookie. "I should probably take my own medicine and eat something more than what I had for breakfast," she admits.
Dane grunts emphatically at her and raises a gauntlet to scratch at his chin, eyes drifting to the sleeping legionnaire.
Mizzy follows his glance and says, "I'll find out what unit he's in and send word that he's here. I wonder who this Beck is."
Dane looks back at her and grunts with a nod.
A platinum -haired gnome rushes in, rumpled but uninjured, pushing his goggles up on his head to reveal deeply concerned likac-colored eyes. "Oh, he made it!" he cries.
Dane turns and lowers his gaze. "Sir Everett?" Dane asks of Kerlo, nodding to the resting legionnaire. "Aye. Barely."
Kerlo rushes over and hovers a bit, though he is careful not to wake him. "It's a miracle!" he whispers, and then turns big, long lashed, slightly weepy eyes toward Mizzy.
Ben leans over to kiss Mizzy's temple briefly. "Back in a bit," he tells her. He nods respectfully to Kerlo and heads off to get cleaned up. And make sandwiches.
Dane shakes his head and politely but gruffly amends, "No miracle. S'her work," he says, nodding at Ismene.
Mizzy smiles a farewell at Ben, then keeps the smile as she turns to Kerlo. Only now it's a hello sort of smile. "Sir Atley saw to it that he got here in time. After that, it was the Light."
"Her miracle work," the gnome asserts in his reedy voice. His own 7th Legion uniform is bloodied, and there are pale rings free of dust and blood splatter where his goggles just were, like a reverse raccoon. He seems healthy and unharmed, though.
"Simply fantastic," he says dreamily. "My daughter is a priestess, too. I suggested she help man the infirmary, but the face she made! So expressive, that one. He'll be all right then? I was so certain he intended to join poor Rebecca."
Dane angles his head steeply to peer at Kerlo, nodding to Sir Everett. "He kept carrying on about a name. 'Beck.' That who you mean?"
The gnome's lilac eyes well up, and he nods. "She was having a picnic with friends in the Park District when—" He can't continue. But we've all seen the Park District these days.
Dane nods slowly, knowingly, and grunts. He looks back to Everett.
Ismene nods as well, understanding. "I hope he's not too disappointed when he wakes up," she says. "Sometimes they are, you know."
"He will be with her in time, one way or another," the gnome says. "And I believe she would be most disappointed if he hurried. You are Ismene Hazan, by the way, and you are Sir Dane Atley the Red. Do you recall me, or shall I introduce myself?"
Dane shakes his head. "Wintergarde Keep. I recall you." Dane says sternly. "And I heard you were at Mount Hyjal, in the Third War. We ought to meet in finer places, Siege Engineer." he jokes dryly.
Ismene refrains from laughing. "Of course I know you. I'd be a terrible assistant to Cap'n Jo if I didn't know Kerlo Quarterflash."
"There is no finer place to meet, sir knight, than at the intersection of scores of brave souls, all determined to save Azeroth from annihilation,” Kerlo says.
Dane regards Kerlo with some faint surprise for a moment, lifting a bushy brow. He grunts.
At this, Kerlo turns rather pink. "She went above, on a mission for the Aspects. I can only imagine at whom she must be flinging fire, eyes glowing like Ysera's breath, hair all in glorious disarray!"
"The enemy, certainly," Dane says with a firm nod. "Speaking of the Captain, the two've you have shared some fine news of late. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sir. The ceremony will be most elaborate, and I insist that you both attend, and bring your families."
Dane grunts. "No finer way to celebrate the end of this madness. Have you got a location decided?"
"I'm very sure I can speak for Ben as well as myself and assure you we'll both be there," Ismene says.
"Exodar!" he says rapturously. "A testament to the sublime beauty that can be found in shattered things, and a symbol of how sometimes, the same things that help us escape during disaster can become home, if we let them. Also the crystals allow us to save money on lighting,"
Dane scoffs with amusement and cranes his head in a nod, casually glancing between them. "A fine place. No other thing like it on Azeroth. Fine reasoning, as well."
"I wrote her a poem, to propose," he says. "And of course she wrote a better one as an affirmative response. She is a legend."
"How romantic!" Ismene says. "I hope you'll have them framed. What a lovely thing to have hanging in your home."
Dane grunts. "It'll be good to see her enjoy a bit of peace. A reprieve from the burden she carries."
"What a crackling idea, I shall see to it the moment we're free of this place. I know just the gentleman to do the calligraphy!" Kerlo then tiptoes back over to the sleeping knight and plants a fatherly kiss on his forehead. "I should let him rest now," he says. "When he wakes, do tell him that dear old 'Kerly-Q' stopped by."
Ismene nods. "I shall. He should be up and around by tomorrow afternoon or evening, depending on how long he sleeps."
Kerlo snaps a little salute, and then wanders out, humming a love ballad to himself in a sweet tenor voice.
Dane inclines his head in farewell before turning to Ismene.
"See to it that you drink somming', and I'll get somming' to eat. Mm?" he growls.
"Agreed," Ismene says, grinning at the growl. "And we'll both rest soon."
Dane grunts, inclines his head again, and walks off to find food.
Vaaria, Baalun, Oslynn, Caspis, Shun, Slicket
The draenei that helped in the Blue infirmary wanders over to a spot where Baalun is meditating and tries to arrange herself in the exact same sitting position he usually adopts, as though she can somehow unlock whatever it is that makes him so good at meditation.
Baalun silently accepts his student's company and leads her along in different breathing exercises to help her focus.
Vaaria studies Baalun's face as he speaks to her, her expression one of attentive respect mixed with a peculiar sadness, but once he has finished with his instructions she turns her face forward and lets her eyes drift closed, focusing on her breathing.
Also returning from Defense duties is a large brown bear with druid markings. The bear flops down dramatically for a nap without changing form. Some of its fur has been burned off in patches, but the skin beneath is perfectly healed, suggesting a proclivity toward fully accepting battlefield healing. For those who know her and her protestations of not trusting anyone, this simple observation may give the lie to those words. It seems that for all the experiences she's had, something in her nature makes her first gut instinct to fully accept and trust at least certain kinds of help, even from complete strangers.
Caspis wanders into the Red Infirmary. He does not seem to be injured. He quietly casts a Lifebloom on Mordecai and sits down nearby. Mordecai can feel a sensation as of a spirit-flower of Life slowly blooming inside him, and a smell of fresh greenery wells up from somewhere inside his mind directly rather than through his nose.
Shun appears in the Red Infirmary out of the blue, carrying a number of supplies with him. He has water, tea, fresh bandages, and various potions.
"Greetings," says Caspis in a deep, drowsy, purring sort of voice. His gaze looks both at and through Shun at the same time from behind a distinctly avian hood/mask. Below it can be seen a darkly-stubbled jaw.
Shun nods to Caspis as a silent greeting.
"Got some supplies here. Where should I put them?" He asks.
Caspis looks around vaguely. "I… am uncertain."
A very small defender stomps over in heavy plate armor and an artistic helm that allows an unusual red-haired mohawk to poke through.
Slicket looks up at the night elf and human and says, "Hey, healers. Can you do something about bruises? Not critical I know, except to my mood."
Caspis raises a hand toward the little gnome without hesitation, enveloping him in a slow, forest-scented regeneration spell that speeds the bruises' natural healing to the extent the patient's mind allows.
Slicket really wants those bruises gone, if that helps. He breathes out a sigh of relief as the nature magic envelops him. "Thanks, pal. Those elementals sure do knock a person around. Starting to feel like a pinball." Slicket glances over at Shun and all his stuff. "Are you a healer or a merchant?"
"Neither," Shun replies flatly.
"Right," Slicket says, peering at the mask. He shrugs. "Man of Mystery, then."
"That is a bit closer to the truth," Shun says while looking around for a good place to put the stuff down, "I do not suppose you are in need of water are you?"
"I could use one, but not a case of it," Slicket says. "Unless you need somebody to distribute around. I can help with that if you want — I have some experience with concessions, and this is not so different."
Shun lets out a grunt as he nods down at the box he's carrying, "Go ahead and grab one then. Also got tea, potions, and bandages. Those are more for the infirmary, though."
Caspis's ears lift at "tea," and his gaze drowsily fixates on the supplies now.
Slicket fetches himself a water, and then looks up to Shun and Caspis. "Want me to distribute a few, to the resting soldiers?"
There's a light shrug as Shun says, "By all means, go ahead."
Slicket cheerfully salutes the two of them, and then loads up his little arms with water bottles. He clinks off to distribute.
The first person he comes to is the napping bear with patchy fur. He is not silent on approach, but he still announces himself with, "Hey Mister or Miss Druid, want something to drink?"
The bear snorts and lifts its patchy snout. It blinks sleepily.
"Awroight," it growls.
Slicket holds out one bottle with his short arm, and considers which paw to set it near.
"Can you open it?" The bear rumbles.
"Hmmm," Slicket sets down the rest of the bottles in one movement, and then opens the one in his hand with a scratchy metal sound.
"Fanks. Oi got no fumbs," it explains. It then seizes the neck of the bottle in its jaws as gently as possible, tipping its head back to gulp gulp gulp. There is slight dribbling.
Slicket gives an approving metal-gauntlet thumbs-up, and re-gathers his bottles. "They've got more at the infirmary if you need, Miss Druid."
"Awroight," says the bear, tilting its head down but speaking around the bottle still clamped between its teeth. "Fanks, Mister."
Slicket waves and then clinks and clanks off to find more people to distribute water to.
Arctic, Kenelly, Atley, Velrin, Nylarria
Arric Falrevere returns from a shift on defense, sparing a startled glance for the water-chugging bear as he walks by, with no idea that this is a person he is meant to introduce himself to. A growing, well fed red raptor hatchling follows close at his heels, her intense blue eyes taking everything in with a slightly challenging expression. Just try it, is her vibe.
Among those tending to the wounded at the Red Infirmary is a young woman with dark brown hair bound up in a braid encircling her head. A thick wool cloak of green, with gold trim, was clearly intended more for keeping warm by a gentle fireplace than holding off the elements — its fine embroidery has already started to fray, and it has endured several blood stains from wounded patients. But Kenelly pays it no mind. It keeps most of the cold off of her, and keeping busy helps her ignore the rest.
Arric strolls into the infirmary and recognizes Kennelly immediately.
"Lord love a duck, I didn't even realize you were here," he greets her. He looks a little paler even than usual. "Pardon my informality, but although the healers were quite adept at sealing my wounds, I believe I've lost rather a lot of-"
He immediately finds a place to sit and put his head between his knees. The raptor hatchling chitters in concern and runs in a little circle.
Kenelly is washing her blood-stained hands when she hears a familiar voice. "Lord Arric? Oh, it's so good to-…oh, Arric!" She scurries to his side, helping him to a recently vacated cot. "Careful now…go slow. Just sit right here. You're sure you're all patched up?" She peers worriedly at him as she fetches a flask of fresh water. Thank the Light for the mages keeping them well-stocked. "You'd better let me look you over," her tone is maternal: gentle, but firm, "in case something has reopened."
"Mmm," he says drowsily, head still between his knees. "I don't feel any bleeding, but I think… my blood hasn't… you know… come back. Can you make it… do that?"
On closer inspection one sleeve of his coat is absolutely soaked with blood, hard to see against the dark brown of the leather. He seems to have no issue moving that arm or hand, however.
"I can encourage your body to speed things along. But you'll need fluids if it's to be any real use. So, drink," Kenelly commands, one hand on Arric's shoulder to gently coax him to sit up while she supports him. "Your arm. Is that where you were injured?" Already, she is carefully tugging at his coat to expose the arm in question.
He helpfully lifts his arm up over his head, and there she can see where something sharp has rent the underside of coat and shirt all the way to the skin. While leather and cloth gape open from just past the underarm to the elbow, the skin underneath is unmarred.
"All fixed, see?" he says a little drunkenly. "Well, except the coat. Damn shame about the coat." Oh my, he cursed, in front of a lady. He is clearly in need of fluids.
Kenelly's fingers briefly touch the bare skin as she inspects him. "Whomever healed you did fine work. That's a relief. It is a terrible shame about the coat, though." She takes hold of the flask and physically lifts it to Arric's lips. "Now drink. If you can keep that down, I have something a bit more potent for you."
Arric steadies the flask with both hands and carefully sips.
Rica settles down at his feet, looking up at Kenelly trustingly.
"Stomach seems all right," Arric observes. "I'm just so bloody light-headed. Hahaha, light headed because bloody…" He goes a little pale again.
Kenelly spares a moment to give Rica a scritch atop her scaly head. "The water will help, but it's not enough. Your body needs iron and salt." She busies herself at her workbench, dropping a variety of ingredients into a mortar, grinding with a pestle to create an unappetizing grayish-green mixture. "Not to mention rest. I expect you to stay off your feet for a time. You'll be no good to anyone if you faint on the battlefield."
Mishell (Brannagen) — 6/4/2025 10:43 PM
"I have never fainted on a battlefield in my life!" he says, a bit snappish. "What do you take me for!"
Rica chrrrrrs at him.
"After a battle, certainly," he says to her, "but there is a time and a place! A man must keep his wits about him when he has a rifle in his hands."
Kenelly stifles a laugh, covering it with a little grunt as she grinds the mixture. "I would never question your manliness, my lord," she attempts to soothe his wounded pride. "There is no shame in shedding blood for a righteous cause. You've certainly done your part, there. Now, please let me do mine in making certain you have all the blood you need to righteously shed." She blends the mixture with water in a clay pitcher, giving it a good stir, then pours the thick mush into a wooden cup. It does not look like something that should be going into the body. "Drink this. All of it, please." She presents the cup to Arric.
He looks in the cup and turns paler than ever.
"Oh, my," he says softly. "I — can't you do it with… some sort of magic? Druid things? That looks rather like something that would come out of a person. A very ill person."
Kenelly crouches to gently pet Rica. "This is magic, my lord. It's not all glowing auras and shapeshifting. There is power to be found in nature. Now…do set a good example for Rica and take your medicine." She scritches under Rica's chin and coos at the little raptor, "You want your daddy to be healthy and strong, don't you? Yes, you do."
"Very well," says Arric peevishly, "but unless you want this all over your boots, I shall require a distraction. Tell me a story, something interesting, so that I think of that while I drink instead of… this." He sloshes the mug disdainfully.
Rica tells them both a brief but riveting story - unfortunately it is in raptor-ese.
"Mm lovely, thank you," Arric says to Rica, scritching her head. Rica chk-chks happily.
"Hmm…a story. Perhaps a Gilnean fable?" Kenelly lets her mind drift back to the stories her father would once tell as she and her brother sat at his feet before their immense fireplace. "I'll tell you the tale of Sir Ederic the Ironrose. Long ago, when Gilneas was young, there was a great knight called Sir Ederic. He was brave and strong, as a knight should be. But most of all he loved his people, and would do anything to protect them."
Arric looks interested, keeping his eyes on Kenelly as he slowly sips his mush. He is very clearly trying NOT to think about what he is swallowing.
Rica looks at Kenelly too, with enormous bright blue eyes.
"One particularly harsh winter, a tribe of trolls had come to the Blackwald. They raided the nearby villages, and hunted the forest's game to bare scraps. When these trolls razed the village of Grym's Hollow, the survivors sent word to Sir Ederic, pleading with him to help them in their plight.
"Sir Ederic could never turn away someone in need. He gathered a mere handful of men — so many were wintering at their family homes and could not be reached in time to make a difference. Only a dozen strong, they rode out for the Blackwald."
Dane marches up to join the conversation from off to the side. He quietly finishes off one of Ben's Famous Sandwiches without interrupting.
Arric is riveted, and almost forgets to drink his mush until Rica nips at his leg.
Kenelly smiles brightly down at Rica, as if she were a human child, listening to a story by the fire. "The trolls' scouts alerted their chief that the knight was coming, and he had roused his tribe to meet the threat. They emerged from the forest to find Sir Ederic and his loyal men upon the Rosethorn Bridge, just outside of Grym's Hollow. The bridge was famously overgrown with Gilnean roses; all attempts to clear the plants had failed, for they always grew back, seemingly stronger and more beautiful than before.
"The troll chief saw the knight and his dozen men and laughed." Kenelly adopts a growly voice that she must imagine sounds like a troll. "'This is all you bring to face me? We are one hundred strong! You have come to die for nothing!'
Arric gulps some more mush, hardly seeming to notice it.
Rica is beginning to look a little afraid, at this talk of a hundred trolls.
Dane finishes off his meal and cinches his thumbs in his belt, helmet tucked under his arm as he listens. His gaze is occasionally drawn towards Rica.
Rica looks back at him. She makes Angy Eyes. You gonna mess with me, big guy? She shows him some teef.
Dane lifts a bushy brow before shifting his attention back to Kenelly.
Kenelly continues, "As the trolls jeered and laughed, Sir Ederic plucked a single rose from the bridge, its petals closed tight against the cold, barely holding on to life. He held it up for the troll chieftain to see, and he said, 'The Gilnean rose does not flee the death of winter. It waits…it endures…and no matter how heavily trodden or chilled by the cold, when spring comes, it always blooms again.'
"The troll chief had no heart for poetry, and immediately ordered his tribe to attack. Though outnumbered, Sir Ederic and his men fought like giants. Arrows pierced Ederic's armor; his blood watered the frozen river below…and yet, he and his men refused to give up an inch of the bridge. Troll after troll fell, but Ederic's determination would not be killed.
"When reinforcements arrived at last, they pushed through and drove the trolls back, routing them into the Blackwald. The handful that survived fled those woods, never to return.
"But as the storm of battle subsided, Sir Ederic was found kneeling on his sword…its blade buried in the troll chieftain's heart…just as the troll's axe had split open Sir Ederic's chest. With his final breath, he held up the flower to his men and whispered, 'Bloom again,' and there he died among the roses."
"To this day," Kenelly says solemnly, "they say the roses upon that bridge are the strongest in all GIlneas…and bloom darkest on the spot where Ederic fell to remind us that Gilneas may be trodden upon or seemingly uprooted…but we will always bloom again."
Dane eyes her closely and grunts before he looks off and away in thought.
"How beautiful and tragic," Arric says. "Tirasian tales are usually either chillingly scary or rollicking adventures." His mug is empty.
He turns his gaze to Rica, who has pressed her entire being against his leg.
"Oh dear," he says. "I think the talk of trolls scared her. It's all right, Rica darling. No trolls are going to get you. Ever again. I swear on my life." He scritches her.
She chrrrs softly.
Dane inclines his head. "That's a fine tale. I've traveled through near every corner of the Northlands, but I've yet to see Gilneas."
Kenelly smiles sweetly to Rica, offering an apologetic rub. She glances up to Dane with a sad sigh. "You would have to brave the Forsaken to see it now. But…in time we will reclaim our homeland. Just as Wolf Cult failed before them, and the trolls before that, the undead cannot stomp out the Gilnean spirit. I hope you will have the chance to see Gilneas in all its glory."
Arric holds out his empty mug to Kenelly. "I think I'll lie down a while," he says, but don't let me stop you talking. I'm Arric Falrevere by the way," he says to Dane.
Kenelly takes the empty cup, nodding her approval. "Good idea, my lord. I'll fetch you a clean blanket."
Dane nods at Kennelly. "I'm certain I shall. Lordaeron's getting reclaimed. We'll have all those lands back, in time."
He looks down at Arric and nods, briefly eyeing the mug. "Dane Atley. Who's your traveling companion?" he asks, nodding at Rica.
Arric, on the point of lying down, sits bolt upright again. "Sir Atley! Forgive me for not recognizing you. I've heard such legends of you since joining Cobalt Company. This is Rica. She hatched right in front of me in Stranglethorn and looks to me as a father. Don't you, Rica," he says tenderly.
Rica looks between Arric and Dane and seems to pick up on the vibe of respect. She chhrs demurely at Dane in greeting now.
Dane sets his jaw, slowly shakes his head, and raises a hand. "Please, rest," he growls calmly. He looks between Rica and Arric. "I warrant she's in for a growth spurt sooner or later. You know if she's a riding beast?"
Kenelly returns shortly with the blanket, waiting for Arric to lay properly so she can bundle him up like a nursemaid.
"I know she was bred and intended to be a mount for a horrid troll," he says, "but as I am not an expert in the feeding of raptors there is no saying exactly how large she will grow under my care. Splendid thought, though, isn't it?"
Arric gives Kenelly a must you embarrass me in front of the knight look, but lies down on the cot.
Dane scoffs with faint amusement. "She's certainly loyal. They're keen beasts, so I hear. Keener than most."
"Xhrrr!" says Rica at Dane in a very "damn right!" cadence.
Apparently, Kenelly must. She tucks the blanket under Arric's feet before drawing it up over him, pausing a moment to see if Rica wants to snuggle under the covers with her daddy.
Rica looks at Kenelly, and at the cot. Back at Kenelly. Back at the cot. Then she does a mildly terrifying vertical LEAP, landing on Arric's chest.
"Oof," he says softly, and repositions her in the crook of his arm. "Mind the claws, my love."
Dane lifts a brow again out of further gruff amusement and glances between the two, paying close attention to Rica after her leap.
Kenelly chuckles and covers raptor and man in the blanket. "There, nice and cozy. I want you to try to get some sleep, my lord. Give that brew some time to work its magic."
Rica settles in, looking nappish. Dane might note a few scars on her from this angle, little stripes without scales, along her back.
"Yes, I am a bit sleepy," Arric says. "But don't mind me if you wish to talk…" His eyes drift closed. "I'll just have a little rest, so I can be fresh for… back in the fight…"
Dane grunts faintly at the observed scars and looks to Kenelly, deferring to her as the healer.
Kenelly steps quietly, moving away from Arric. Looking at Dane, she puts her finger to her lips and beckons him away so the very manly lord who would definitely never faint can rest.
Dane nods and follows along, adjusting the helmet under his arm. "I didn't catch your name, my lady."
Kenelly takes the used mortar and pestle to a washbasin to clean them up. She pauses to bob a little curtsey to Dane. "Lady Kenelly Ashewood, sir knight…of Gilneas, which I assume you surmised."
Dane nods with a grunt. "Are you with the Company as well? Or here by your lonesome?"
Velrin makes her way into the infirmary with Nylarria limping close behind her.
"I'm with the Company," Kenelly clarifies as she scrubs the stone bowl. "I was the first of my people to join, actually. Not that I mean to boast." Still, the pride in her smile is evident. The arrival of a new patient has her attention immediately, and she is suddenly all-business. Quickly drying her hands she hurries over to help Velrin with her companion. "Come along, there's a fresh cot this way. Can you tell me what happened?"
Dane steps aside and looks between Velrin — initially scanning her for injuries — before he shifts his gaze to Nylarria.
“Just a few scrapes.” Velrin says. Her voice is weary but her eyes have their characteristic intensity, “I don’t heal quickly, so I need to look after them myself.” Velrin sits on a cot.
Nylarria kneels by her side. Honestly, she looks worse for wear than Velrin. She’s gaunt, short (being barely Dane’s height) and covered in scars. However the most notable features on her are the black tattoos on her arms and the blindfold she wears over her eyes. She takes out some bandages and ointment from a bag to help.
Dane takes a moment to inspect this demon hunter he's heard about before looking back at Velrin. "Are you getting enough rest?" he inquires sternly.
"Well, you're here now, so you might as well let me look after you," Kenelly says as she fetches some clean cloths and a basin of water that's been warming by a fire.
“Yes. I have my days planned out to make sure I’m as efficient as possible. Including rest.” Velrin answers. Somehow this doesn’t inspire much confidence in how well she’s taking care of herself.
Nylarria takes some fear bandages from Kenelly and soaks them in ointment to put on Velrin’s wounds. Like she said, they’re mostly just scrapes. They look like cuts that failed to fully close using magic.
Dane shifts his attention to Nylarria, now. "You look like you could use some tending, yourself."
Nylarria pauses for a second, “Do I know you?” Her question is genuine, like she’s confused that she knows him from somewhere.
Dane shakes his head. "We've not met. I'm Dane Atley. I warrant you're Nylarria, then," he says.
“Dane… So that’s why…” She doesn’t move to face Dane while she speaks.
Velrin nudges her with a knee, “Say hello. He’s a friend.”
“Why? We’re already speaking and it seems we already know who the other is.” Nylarria asks quizzically.
Dane casually glances between them. "S'best to meet in person," he says calmly, before nodding to Kenelly. "You ought to let Lady Kenelly take a look at you. She knows wot' she's doing and it's wot she's here for." he says to Nylarria.
Kenelly spreads her hands and nods. "It's best if I have a look at any injuries. Even what look like simple scrapes can turn out to be more serious. Use me while you have me."
Dane grunts.
“I’m only doing what Velrin told me to.” Nylarria states.
Velrin gives her a look and she shuffles back with a wince. She takes a seat closer to Dane and lets Kenelly work.
Dane casually, slowly looks between them.
"You're a good friend," Kenelly says reassuringly to Nylarria. She kneels down to examine Velrin's injuries. "Probably nothing too serious," she says. "But let's make sure you don't have any debris or splinters or anything in there." She carefully tends to the scraps with a warm, wet cloth. "This will hurt a little. Just tell me if anything hurts rather more than it should."
Nylarria furrows her eyebrows like she’s not sure what to make of Kenelly’s words.
“Thank you. It’s a little difficult to do this myself.” Velrin smiles at Kenelly, “I have some background in medicine myself, but I’m a bit better at giving injuries than treating them.”
Dane grunts. "The infirmaries here, and those who manage them, have aided the cause greatly." He remains calm and composed, if a bit studious of the two kaldorei.
Nylarria winces and rubs the tender flesh around the brand on her thigh, “You seem very focused on us. Why?” The question comes off a bit harsh, but she seems to be genuinely curious.
Dane idly shakes his head. "I've only recently become acquainted with demon hunters as allies. I find the lot of you and your abilities interesting."
“You do?” Nylarria cocks her head, “Why?”
Velrin giggles and shakes her head, “She has lots of questions. I hope you don’t mind. She hasn’t been able to talk with others very much. I hope it’s alright.”
Dane tongues the inside of his cheek and gives Velrin a brief nod before refocusing on Nylarria. "I ought to say, I'm still getting accustomed to demon hunters as allies. You lot are potent, no matter wot'."
“I suppose so. I’ve trained a great deal to master the meager powers I can manage.” Nylarria says, “I am not used to others seeing me as an ally rather than a benevolent monster.”
Dane grunts. "Times change." He looks between the three. "I ought to leave you three to it, then." Refocusing on Velrin, he says, "Let's venture out together soon."
Velrin nods, “Yes, let’s. Maybe you could see how Nylarria and I work together?”
Dane grunts and looks back to Nylarria. "Indeed," he says, before nodding to all of them. "Ladies." He turns and marches off, producing a book.