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Post by Stix on Apr 9, 2007 23:12:55 GMT -5
After a long few minutes of dragging their semi-conscious, softly howling burden through the grimy streets -- without incident, thank the Powers -- the trio comes into view of a stout stone building. The two arched windows of the Lost Keep's streetside wall glow with warm light, almost giving the impression that the building is smiling.
The heavy, iron-shod door swings open with a considerable push, hinges whining in protest. Within, a large fire crackles on one end of the common room, which appears to be entirely empty at the moment.
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Post by exile on Apr 10, 2007 10:35:42 GMT -5
Hadrian steps into the flickering pool of firelight with notable relief. Finding the common room of the Lost Keep to be all but abandoned, the aasimar looked questioningly towards his companions.
“Hello?” he called out uncertainly. “We have need of a room!”
He could feel the poor sod begin to stir in his blankets and desperately hoped whatever being kept this Inn would not hassle them over his condition. Or at least not so much that a few extra coins couldn’t turn their attention elsewhere.
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Post by Stix on Apr 10, 2007 11:21:15 GMT -5
A faint clatter in the kitchen is followed by a muffled curse. Soft, quick footfalls trace the way to the common room -- something wooden can be heard scooting into place before a figure appears from below the bar. A large, bulbous nose, wide brown eyes, and a thick beard the color of rich Bytopian soil betray the man's gnomish heritage.
"Hello -- oh!" he says with a start, peering over the counter to the group. "A room for the four of you? Is he alright?" asks the innkeeper in rapid succession, leaning forward to peer a bit more closely.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 10, 2007 13:26:14 GMT -5
Spotting the warm glow of the inn, permeating the misty gloom ahead, Wraith heaves an audible sigh of relief. She hurries through the door behind Hadrian, indeed nearly running the last few steps of the way, silently thanking Apollo for their safe and uneventful arrival. But finding the common-room empty, she nearly screams in frustration. Curse the inconveniences of Fate, and dumb luck! At least there was a fire in the hearth... If need be, she'd tend to her patient here, in the common-room, and to the Nine Hells with the berk who protested about it!... A faint clatter in the kitchen is followed by a muffled curse. Soft, quick footfalls trace the way to the common room -- something wooden can be heard scooting into place before a figure appears from below the bar. A large, bulbous nose, wide brown eyes, and a thick beard the color of rich Bytopian soil betray the man's gnomish heritage. Her brief flare of temper cools somewhat, when she realises they're not as alone as she'd first thought, and an embarrassed flush creeps into her pale cheeks. The momentary awkwardness and ire wears off, and she composes herself again with a calming breath. "Hello -- oh!" he says with a start, peering over the counter to the group. "A room for the four of you? Is he alright?" asks the innkeeper in rapid succession, leaning forward to peer a bit more closely. Wraith replies, stepping aside so the innkeeper can see for himself, how seriously ill the moaning sod is. She prays inwardly that he isn't one of those coldblooded Heartless - or Powers forbid, a Sinker or fellow Dead - and so, would be willing enough to aid them. She draws a shaky, uncertain breath, wetting her lips with a quick flick of her tongue. "Please, cutter, we need a room with a warm bed, a hearth, and clean, fresh water." She glances down at her squirming patient again. Anxiety bordering on desperation flits across her face, dissolving all pretense of composure; truly revealing how dire the situation is, to arouse such compassion in a Dustman. Please, hold on a moment longer. I'll get you the help you need... Wraith implores silently, then turns back to face the inkeeper. "The cost is not as important to me, as saving this man's life." |
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Post by Stix on Apr 10, 2007 13:54:53 GMT -5
"My word!" exclaims the gnome, eyes widening. He drops out of sight behind the counter and dashes around to the other side, fumbling with a keyring.
"I-I-I'll start a fire for you -- keep him here for now. Oh! I should bake the sheets," he says excitedly, wheeling about to hurry back toward the kitchen, stubby legs working quickly to keep up with him. "Ah, there's a, a kettle in the kitchen, I'll bring some water. You can worry about the fee later," he continues, voice fading out as he carries on in the back room.
The delirious sod begins to loll his head from side to side, half-lidded eyes blinking lazily as he moans out a coarse "Hhhhnngaaaahhhh...."
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 10, 2007 19:23:00 GMT -5
"Thankyou, Sir Gnome, any assistance is gratefully appreciated." Wraith heaves a relieved sigh, watching - rather, listening - to the little man busily bustling about on the other side of the bar.
She groans, cursing inwardly, as her patient renews his feeble protests, weakly twisting about on his pallet again. She knew his situation was grim, understood that time was running out, but she thought she had more time than this!
"Cutter, I don't wish to rush you, but please, we need water, quickly." She implores the busy innkeeper, and hopes that the urgent edge to her voice won't sound like a rude demand.
"Quick, set him down gently over here, by the hearth. I must tend to him again. There's no time." Wraith says to Hadrian and Angwen, pointing to a cleared spot on the floor before the blazing fireplace. With a crackling hiss and a loud pop, tongues of flame leapt from one burning log to the other, spraying golden sparks up through the stone chimney. Warmth and burnished golden light bathed the bare, scuffed floorboards.
The Dustwoman wrings her hands anxiously, pacing while she waits for the busy gnome to finish making his preparations, and for her companions to set the groaning sod down before the hearth.
[assuming Angwen and Hadrian set the sod down by the fireplace...] She wastes no more time, before kneeling on the ground to check her patient's vital signs, and begins to vigorously rub the warmth back into his extremities. She hopes, and prays, her efforts this eve will not be in vain...
Heal
[dice=20]
+8[rand=177942765172921071683203188665952625423992614461811280879112132638]
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Post by exile on Apr 11, 2007 21:47:26 GMT -5
Hadrian set the litter down as instructed and cleared a space beside the delirious patient. This was Wraith’s show now, and anxious though she might be he had no doubts that she would shine.
“Peace, cutter,” Hadrian offered gently, laying a comforting hand upon her quivering shoulder. “You will need your wits about you now. His life depends upon it. I will remain here as long as I am needed. Ask of me what you will.”
True Hadrian had vested little of his training into the medicinal arts, but often had he borne an injured comrade from the field and sat with their exsanguinated hands in his grasp while the priests dressed their wounds. After so much exposure he could passably set a bandage or splint a broken bone, and where his fingers failed him his blessings saved. He kneeled comfortably at the Dustman’s side, aware that their night’s ordeal had only now just begun and that before its end fatigue would laden down the strongest of spirits.
(OOC: Aid another on Wraith's Heal check (DC 10): [dice=20] +2)[rand=545572629221646365481562093830010612957376880480807291509587686368]
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Post by Stix on Apr 11, 2007 22:51:14 GMT -5
"I'm sorry, my dear, I'm moving as quickly as I can," says the gnome in earnest as he rounds the corner again with a kettle and a wooden goblet. "The cup has a chip out of it, so it might be easier to, ah...." He trails off, tightening his lips grimly as he realizes there isn't much he can say to help the situation.
"I'm going to start a fire in the nearest room -- I'll prop the door open; call if you need anything." If there are no interjections, objections, or other jections of any kind, he darts to a door off the nearby hallway, fumbling with his keys.
It's a long several minutes as Wraith checks her patient's vital signs and searches for any sign of an injury she might have missed at first glance (there is none). Over half an hour, her ministrations, with Hadrian's help, have at least stabilized this poor berk -- he's not yet lucid, but he's calm, warm, and at least somewhat rehydrated. It's the best they can do for the night.
[whisper=Uathach Blackmantle, stix]It looks like he'll recover on his own -- there are a few rare, expensive teas (Krigalan dayblossom comes to mind) that could speed his recovery along, if you want to go the extra mile the following day.[/whisper]
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 13, 2007 10:38:47 GMT -5
Wraith works quickly and efficiently, sparing no time to waste on the nagging doubts that linger just beyond the peripheral of her thoughts. She knows she can help this poor sod, has learned so much, spent so many years honing, practicing - perfecting - her techniques over the years, that no lack of faith in her ability lurks within her heart.
Yet to spite her seeming confidence, harrowing skepticism still niggles at her brain, forcing insidious tendrils of hopelessness and despair into her thoughts. Her shoulders shake, and her hands begin to tremble. She relaxes again after a time in Hadrian's presence, regaining some measure of repose from his assistance, graciously accepting the help he offers.
Seeing her patient's condition improve somewhat has a perceptible effect on her, easing a little of the emotional burden that drags her shoulders down. She talks as she works diligently, pursing her lips pensively and fiddles with her labret stud. Her voice is soft and subdued, as she conveys dark thoughts she's never shared with any other basher.
This solemn, melancholy Bleaker will be the first, yet she hopes he can lend a sympathetic ear, where her fellow Dead do nothing but coldly observe her through their hollow, unfeeling eyes.
"You must think it strange, cutter, seeing a Dead so willing to prolong the inevitable - that slow corrosion of both body and spirit - when it would be easier to let this sod wither and die. But I'll lann you this now: my purpose has always been to help others, however I can. I-I have my reasons for this..." Her eyes warily scan the shadows of the empty common room, and drift back to the door, as though she half expects someone she'd rather not see, stride through...
She shakes her head at last, deciding the worry isn't worth the effort. "I'll confess, in my darkest hours, there have been times when I've felt the crushing weight of existence, and it threatens to break my spirit. I won't let it. I pray I'll never lose my drive to help whoever I can.
Not when there's so much pain, so much suffering in this life. I can't stand back, and watch them struggle and toil needlessly through their various agonies, when I possess the knowledge to make a difference, however slim." She frowns thoughtfully again, sucking her lower lip as she ponders saying more, then discards the thought; besides, she had a stabilised patient to now closely monitor the progress of...
"There's little more I can do for my patient tonight, except keep him warm and hydrated. Although, a herbal tea I know of, Krigalan Dayblossom. could help hasten his recovery. Problem is, it's quite... expensive."
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Post by exile on Apr 13, 2007 19:26:23 GMT -5
Hadrian listens attentively while the tiefling woman speaks, his features stilled and his lapis eyes conveying only understanding compassion. For reasons all their own, many folk considered him to be a reassuring presence and readily opened up to him. It was a gift that had helped heal many broken souls in the Gatehouse. As always, he sat quietly and let them speak their piece without judgment or interruption.
“I do not pretend to know the tenets of the Dead," he began at last when he was quite sure she had finished. "But there is nothing in your actions this evening I find strange. You have a good heart; you need not apologize for that. I remember once hearing from one who wore your robes that Death awaits all of us in time, but our time should never be spent in pursuit of Death. Tonight was not his time. You are to be commended for your wisdom in knowing that, and your selflessness of deed.
“As for this herb you speak of, I am less concerned with its price than with finding a vendor who stocks such items at this late hour. If you know of such a place I will do my best to attain one but unless you fear your patient’s condition is still dire I think perhaps it is best to wait for the light and safer streets.”
The immediacy of their situation abated, Hadrian allowed himself time to breath and to digest the unprecedented events of the evening. He realized that he still did not know the name of the woman with which he spoke. In the urgency of their endeavor, all introductions had been lost.
Holding her amethyst gaze with his own, Hadrian slipped the leather glove from his hand revealing a tattooed raven on the dorsum in the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Extending it to her in welcome he said simply “My name is Hadrian.”
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 14, 2007 15:14:34 GMT -5
Wraith listens as Hadrian speaks, her head bowed in thought, her tired eyes fixed with motherly tenderness upon her patient, and she lays a cool hand upon the sod's reddened brow. She's removed her gloves again, and rolled up her sleaves partway to work. The skin beneath, having never been caressed by true warmth or sunlight, is pale, chapped and scarred from exposure to alkalines and embalming chemicals, yet the nails are kept short and very clean. Upon closer inspection, however, faded lines, like precise surgical incisions, become apparent, crisscrossing the innermost flesh, normally concealed beneath elbow length black leather. "If only more of my fellow Dead cared enough to perform such deeds of selflessness and compassion, Hadrian." She murmurs at length, still observing her patient, and tucks the coverings around him again. Her gestures are slow and deliberate; the motions of a caring physician, or a mother. A faded smile briefly eases the angst etched into a tight webbing of lines around her eyes, and the ink-stained corners of her mouth. It's comforting reassurance to know her patient will recover, in time, but she'll have to closely monitor his progress, and tend to him daily until he's conscious, and strong enough to go about his own way again. Her brow wrinkles in thought for a moment. It would sure be interesting to hear the sod's story. She'd have to poke into that, delicately of course, when he's lucid enough to respond to a few queries... "My patient should recover on his own, given time and close supervision. There's little more we can do for him, until the morn. If you could... obtain some of the tea for his speedy recovery then, I would be very grateful, cutter." At last, her sad amethyst gaze lifts to meet Hadrian's lapis orbs. Her expression is that of an exhausted woman, faithfully determined to stand by, and do what must be done. Ever since she was a girl, her lot in life had always been in service to care for another. She had no childhood to speak of. Her life has never been her own... "Until then, I must remain with him in the event that his condition worsens."Wraith glances down at her patient again, and a pang of remorse briefly contourts her face, edged by a deeper frustration, even a flair of quickly tempered anger. She seems disappointed that she can't do more to help him now, but it's also apparent that she wants to take back a small shred of her own life, to have something else to live for... She snaps out of her thoughtful daze then, seeing Hadrian's extended hand, and clasps it with her own. Her grip is weak, yet steady, her skin cold, almost clammy to the touch. "I am Uathach Blackmantle, Hadrian." She states flatly, almost with a flicker of uncertainty, as though she questions her own identity, and offers the Aasimar Bleaker a tired, gentle smile. "It's always been easier to call me Wraith."OOC note: just to let you know, I made a few minor changes to the wording in the last few paragraphs, to correct a few errors I didn't like.  |
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Post by exile on Apr 15, 2007 16:51:03 GMT -5
”As you wish, Wraith.”
Unlike the hand he held, Hadrian’s was very much alive and warm though it had been roughened over the years by the haft of his spear and the labor of his service. Idly he wondered if he would ever see his favored weapon again. It had been a steadfast companion for a long while now. He would be sad to part ways with it, but he did not regret his decision for a moment.
”You should get some rest if you can while he is content,” Hadrian said after a time. “I will go and settle accounts with our host shortly.”
The following assumes Angwen is still with us, otherwise disregard it…
Turning to address the silent soldier Hadrian offered a tired smile. ”What of you, cutter? Will you be heading back to the Wayfarer?”
He had been pondering the said-same question himself. The walk had not been long but it might prove foolhardy to chance it again, especially without even a pretense of martial threat for deterrence against cutpurses.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 15, 2007 22:34:39 GMT -5
Wraith pensively abraids her lower lip with a pointy bone white fang, drawing a tiny spot of bright blood, which she barely seems to notice. Her sloped, deep sapphire brows knot into a frown. She ponders Hadrian's advice. Some sleep would be a welcome respite after the trials of the evening.
Quality rest had almost become a luxury now, something that eluded her most nights, save for the scant rest she manages to catch in the short hours of the morn; when exhaustion finally overwhealmed her. Even then, collapsed in a deep comatose state, on a dirty pallet and a mess of stained rags, in the rented rooms of boarding houses and gloomy inns, squatting around the Mortuary, troubled dreams still plagued her.
She sighs wearily, stiffling a tired yawn behind her hand, and meets Hadrian's eyes again. Fatigue darkens the delicate skin around her eyes, giving her a wasted, washed out appearance. She looks ready to sleep where she kneels beside her patient, if not for the resolute determination and an iron will that keeps her eyes open, and her mind focused on her task at hand.
Wraith opens her mouth, ready to interject, and stubbornly dispute his advice, and then shuts she it again with a soft click of her jaw bone. Why argue against what she knew to be fact? There was nothing else she could do tonight, he appeared as though he'd survive, her ministrations had proven effective thusfar... Why not rest while she had the chance? She needed her wits about her, to focus and work efficiently the following day.
"Aye, you're right, Hadrian. Some sleep would be... much welcome." She murmurs, stretching her back with a crack, and yawns again. Her eyes begin to water, and lose focus for a moment. "We should move my patient to the same room, so that I can keep a close eye on him during the night."
The Dustwoman slowly rises to her feet again, shouldering her heavy pack and attempts to settle the awkward bundle somewhat more comfortably on her thin shoulders. "And what of you, cutter? Will you remain here, or return to the Wayfarer?" She asks softly of Hadrian again.
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Post by exile on Apr 17, 2007 11:07:50 GMT -5
“I will accompany our friend back,” Hadrian replied with a nod towards Angwen. “It is the least I can offer after the aid he has given tonight. But I will return shortly, and remain until first light when my duties call me back to the Gatehouse.”
Motioning towards the silent soldier for his assistance once more, Hadrian prepares to lift the patient and ferry him into the next room. (Assuming Angwen doesn’t object: ) Peaceful as he was now, the poor sod felt even lighter if that were somehow possible. The accommodations were spartan but adequate, a pair of slender cots lining opposing walls, a battered night stand with an oil-lamp dancing gently upon it and a shabby wooden rocking chair set before the much feted hearth blazing with life giving warmth.
The pair of unlikely comrades set their charge down softly on the nearest pallet, wrapping him in the coarse woolen blankets provided. Hadrian placed his reclaimed bedroll onto the naked floorboards, rolling it into a tight bundle and cinching it with a leather tie. Rising with a tired smile towards Wraith he said “I will not be gone long,” and left to find their gnomish host.
Hadrian was not in a mood for haggling and quickly accepted the Gnome’s terms. Once all accounts were settled, the aasimar turned to regard Angwen inscrutably.
”Let us be off,” he said as he headed towards the door.
Offering a second beseeching prayer towards the All-Father, his Father, Hadrian’s fingers brushed across his faction symbol once more sending it into a flickering blaze before passing out into the night.
(OOC: I will pick up in the Wayfarer if all is well)
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Post by Stix on Apr 17, 2007 12:55:07 GMT -5
When Hadrian approaches him to settle up accounts, the gnome nods with an appreciative smile. "It's a good thing you cutters did tonight. I wish I could give you the room for free, but the Lost Keep isn't mine to make that decision. Six copper pieces for the night."
(Go ahead and start a new thread in the Wayfarer, in the 10 AP hour.)[rand=6000017090793832452408016426120754676750956798749713104657633698]
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 18, 2007 8:52:36 GMT -5
Stiffling a tired yawn behind her closed fist, Wraith gratefully shuffles behind her companions into the rented room, smiling weakly at the Gnome innkeep as she passes, and lowers her pack to the ground beside the vacant cot. She waits patiently, yawning again, while Hadrian makes the final preparations to move out - leaving her and her patient in the room - then turns to face him, when he is done securing his bedroll to his backpack. Her eyes are watery, blood-shot and hollow, yet there's a determined set to her shoulders and jaw suggesting she isn't so easily defeated; not when she has another to care for. "My humble thanks for your kindness this evening, cutters. I'm very grateful for your assistance." She murmurs to Hadrian and Angwen, and yawns again. "Please, be careful, cutter; the streets of the Lower Ward are dangerous this time of night."Wraith watches her companions with an expression of genuine concern upon her soft, haggard features, and when they are gone, she pulls the door shut behind them, but doesn't bother locking it; not when Hadrian said he'd return again soon... Her restless mind, fatigued though it was, found no comfort or respite in the warmth of the flames, the firm, clean mattresses and coarsely woven bedlinen, and her patient's seeming peaceful slumber. She paced the spartan quarters in Hadrian's and Angwen's absence, wringing her hands together if only to stop herself from biting already blunt nails down to the quick, and fretted anxiously. She tried to sit down in the rocking chair by the hearth. Except, the simple, careworn piece of furniture reminded her too much of her old family home - of the long nights she spent rocking Aerin to sleep, by the burnished shadows and light radiating from Great Foundry - and so she quickly vacated it, resuming her aimless pacing. Half an hour of pacing back and forth, back and forth, passes without any real change, her sombre monotony broken only by sporadic glances through the dusty window, believing she might yet catch a glimpse of Hadrian's safe return. Alas, nothing but deep, dappled blackness beyond the warmth of her austere room. At last Wraith gave up. She was much too tired to sit up and wait - she doubted the kind-hearted Bleaker would expect her to, anyway - sinking down on the edge of the vacant bed, to pull off her boots. It is with shaking, bone-weary fingers that the Dustwoman loosens the snug lacings of her corset enough to unhook the busk, draping the well-worn garment over the foot of the bed, and strips down to her linen chemise, drawers and gray woollen hose, pausing to carefully fold her robe. The cloak she drapes over the back of the rocking chair to dry, away from the flames. Fumbling through her pack for her hairbrush, her fingers brush over something she could've sworn wasn't there before. Curious, she pulled it out, discovering it was a water flask. Wraith frowns; "This isn't mine." She mumbles to herself, but glances back over at her patient. Every now and then, the nameless sob murmurs incoherently in his sleep. She glances down at the flask again. There must've been some mistake. She knew it wasn't hers, as all of her belongings were meticulously labelled. Yet, if the contents were clean and fresh... her patient certainly needed it more than she did. Uncorking the bottle, Wraith sniffs the contents - it's clean, far cleaner than she expected - and sits down beside her patient. Propping the sod up enough on the pillow to prevent choking, and being careful not to disturb him too much, she carefully trickles a small amount of water into his mouth, and prays it will be enough to keep him alive through the night... Crippling exhaustion finally sets in, and it's all Wraith can do to stay awake long enough to check her patient's vital signs - body temperature, pulse, breathing, heart rate - settling him comfortably on the mattress again, and stumbles back to the vacant cot. She flops weakly across the mattress, barely taking long enough to wrap herself up in the blankets, and her head sinks into the pillow. Wraith falls into a deep, dreamless sleep within a few moments... OOC Note: Disregard the paragraphs concerning the unknown flask of water in her bag, if Vatndir never actually gave her the water in the Wayfarer. |
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