Fable - Ask Dust on the Wind

[Charlemagne]

Seemed no matter what he did or where he went, magic was keen on having a presence in his life. Such things were anathema to him during his time stop the mountain peaks. Here in the west, it was evidently as common as the grass that grew around them. He continued his work with the grindstone as she explained further. Shamans he understood quite well, though she seemed to speak the title with a healthy amount of venom. Perhaps some form of rivalry, or simply disdain for something easily confused with the seers.

“If this magic is the blessing of your gods then perhaps they’ve not abandoned you after all,” he mused, glancing up from the blade as she turned toward him. The weak pretense of chivalry he’d practiced toward her up until now was momentarily forgotten. Eyes like filled emeralds narrowed into slits as he appraised her with a martial mind. His foes would find him soon enough. They were too keen on killing his companions and she would surely be on the list if they remained in one another’s company for too long. Still, looking at her now as not a man but a warrior, she certainly looked capable. Even wounded and scarred as she was, her body muscles and sturdy enough. She’d survived being trampled too; perhaps not entirely a liability even with her wound.

“Have these wyrms always been reliable?” He asked, a brow lofted as he stared into her eyes. His appraisal was finished and while she moved with a certain crude banality, Charlemagne was not one to allow himself to be tempted.

His gaze drifted up then, toward the glittering yellow-white light of the sun. “Offerings eh? Maybe that’s why I’ve had a rough time of things lately. Never offered much of anything to anyone.” Ever had his life been a self-centered affair. “Then again maybe they’ve just not noticed me, and maybe being with you they’ll notice my lack of faith. If I happen to be a struck by a bolt of lightning,” he pointed his whetstone in her direction. “Then I blame you.”

She approached with a smile that promised bled mischief. His suspicions of her had abated upon the start of this little healing process and he could only wonder why she looked to amused. It made a bit more sense when the hot bowl was shoved into his hands. He’d absconded of his gauntlets to better sharpen the blade, the the heat he’d not prepared for threatened to have him send the bowl tumbling. It just bounced between his hands a few times instead, a few curses sputtering from his lips as he grew somewhat used to the heat.

“If you’re sure it’ll help you,” he mumbled, visibly perturbed at the prospect of screaming. This was far from pleasant work, but then the most unpleasant business was often the most pressing. He’d carefully set his blade aside and gesture for her to lay across the side of the spring.

“Just uh, don’t scream too loud. I’m the sensitive sort.” A pointless request and a terrible attempt at humor. He’d wait for her to comply before pulling the last bolt of cloth from his bag. No bandages indeed. He’d lay it across the wound as gingerly as he could manage, gaze locked on it as he reached for the bowl. The mercenary drew in a sharp breath as he lingered there with a moment’s hesitation. Then, with a gentle motion, Charlemagne would pour the heated liquid over the cloth and the bloodied gash beneath.

 

[Aeyliea]

She bit back a biting remark. She couldn't let herself forget that this man was an outsider, and that he was completely unknowing of the ways of the No'rei. She had thought she had explained the fickleness of their patrons quite well, but the question of the reliability of the Wyrms proved he did not understand at all.

"Notice, they have. Walk in the Sea, the Seven know all." She shook her head as he took the bowl away from her. "None command Seven. Either power give, or not - fickle, they." She turned away from him and lowered herself to the earth, arms supporting her body off the sandy soil. She prepared herself mentally for what was to come. When it did not, she grunted out a quick command. "Do it. Wait is tortu-"

The fiery liquid hit her flesh, and all the breath was driven from her lungs in a single huff. The muscles on her back rippled as the pain washed over her. It was not from the heat alone; the 'tea' was as bad as pouring the juice of a citrus fruit over an open wound, and then rubbing salt into it for added effect. She let out a low moan of pain, barely above a whisper...but she did not pull away.

The liquid washed the blood away, and then soaked the cloth he had pressed into it. The flesh beneath it seemed to...squirm, as though possessed by a demon. The raw red became a pink, almost like newly formed skin...because that was what it was.

And then the liquid was gone, and she dropped to the sand, body pressed against it, grains sticking to the sudden sweat that stood out on every inch of her body. The trembling in her limbs slowly began to subside, devolving into a panting, quick-paced breathing.

She did not speak for long minutes, not trusting her words to be too loud. As he had requested, she had not screamed, although her jaw was knotted from the effort of not doing so. "Done," she said, nostrils flaring as pain continued to ripple through her. "Need...time to recover. Not long," she assured.

 

[Charlemagne]

There was an uncomfortable uncertainty revolving around the idea that these ‘gods’ were watching him as keenly as they were her. He wasn’t particularly interested in giving any kind of credence to the supernatural, even as it danced about in front of him, daring him to deny its existence.

His jaw was set right as he poured the almost-boiling waters over her wound. How this would help her, he had no idea, but it certainly seemed a special type of agony. He opted for silence as she groaned in pain, eyes narrowing at first with suspicion as the flesh beneath the cloth began to move and twist of its own accord. Suspicion gave way to curiosity, and then curiosity gave way to disgust. It was relatively easy to see the molding of the flesh even beneath the cloth, and the process made Charlemagne’s stomach turn with how unnatural it was. He could look upon a field of corpses and remain utterly unloved; this was something all together different. A defiance of the natural order of things.

His watch continued as the waters expired and Aeyliea collapsed into the sands. His gaze lingered on the patch of pink irritated flesh where her wound had stood out just moments ago, a puzzled expression splayed across his face. “The work of fickle gods is uncanny indeed,” he mused to himself, the furrow of his brow deepening as he pondered the significance of what had just occurred. Was it simply magic manipulated expertly, or truly the blessing of some all powerful being? Had this entire affair been a fever dream induced by heat stroke?

His gaze drifted toward the swirling mass of reds and browns that dirtied the spring, and in those waters did he find his answer. “Take what time you need,” he grunted, fingers moving reflexively to continue the honing of his blade with the whetstone. “I’ll look out for any unwelcome visitors.” His gaze darted from one end of the grasslands to the other. Now would be the opportune time for a predator to make its move. If he was to protect her now, then he’d need to make sure nothing had the benefit of surprise.

Idle thoughts broke his concentration. “Never seen anything like that.”

 

[Aeyliea]

She did not trust her voice for long minutes. She had felt the unexpected magic in the remedy; it was supposed to clean and disinfect, and stimulate healing. It was not supposed to heal the wound - a feat she could not have accomplished on her own flesh even had she desired to. Again, something had interceded on her behalf, and she could not know who, what, or why. It was not hers, of that she was certain.

And, with a sudden chill, she wondered if it had been done on her behalf by one of the Seven...and that without an offering. Such things were not done, and not out of any particular religious reason either.

She stared sidelong at the water. The tinge of her blood was already fading away. The water seeped into the sands quickly, always replaced by fresh. She grunted acknowledgement of his taking the watch, which was just as well. If need, she could spring to her feet in an instant, light-headed or no.

"Never see magick?" she asked of him, suddenly. The heat of the sun beat down upon her bronze skin, but she ignored it easily. "Not believe. Outsiders much magic. Fire, thunder, heal." She herself did not understand where they took their power from, but could only assume that the outsiders had their own deities to contend with.