Private Tales To Rescue and Be Rescued

[Theolonious Montbank]

Blood marked the pure white wings of Montbank. Wings that trailed the floor of the healer's lodge as they drooped, dejected. He looked down at the tips of his wings as they became further marked. He tried to will his wings to have some dignity. But strength was a distant concept.

Behind him was the sound of healing. Sounds he heard too well with his superior hearing. He pushed himself away from it.

He looked at his chest, adorned with the leatherstraps that held the empty bottles and bandage packs that had all been used in the field, which carried the streaks of bloody handprints upon it, as blood poured from opening wounds as he had flown with precious cargo.

Not my blood.

Harrowed, Montbank went to release the straps of his harness but failed to release it. Exasperated, he abandoned the thought, as much as the harness designed specifically for him had a weight to it, he didn't have the strength to free himself from it.

Taloned hands formed lightly clenched and released with what little strength was left from three trips out to the field.

I can't go out again. I don't have the strength to make another trip.

I'm sorry. I'm spent.

I can't attend this anymore.

Orange eyes tried to blink away the shock of what had just been performed. The sounds at the scene. The fighting performed. His sword had been drawn, and he had to make choices. Who to attend. Who to fight. How long to stay. How much energy to expend.

Even as he stumbled from exhaustion in his exit of the healer's lodge, they were silently made.

He had delivered three fellow comrades from the field of combat who were all in critical condition. Or worse.

He exited and left the door open as he swayed.

The knight felt the cold air of night which was soon to break into day. The clouds were heavy with potential rain, dark and ominous as daylight soon was to break through the blackness of the sky. He found a chair which was propped up against the wall and with a heavy heart and exhaustion threatening to make him collapse, he sat upon on it and felt the world grow heavy and solid around him. It felt as if the world was swirling around him, and his eyes stared at the floor as he felt the exhaustion truly ground him.

He couldn't bear to look at the sky which he had just been flying in for the last two hours.

Numbed he remained still and tried to exist in this moment. His wings sagged completely, pooling around him in their blood marked state in the darkness.

And then the self doubt and criticism took hold. He scrunched up his eyes and inhaled in shuddering breaths. While he had medical training, he was too consumed by doubt to attend his own state of hyperventilation. The world grew heavy.

Montbank almost placed his hands over his eyes, but then looked at them. Blood covered.

Not my blood.

Orange eyes remained focused upon them as Montbank sat in a state of absolute exhaustion as the others did perform their duty to the injured and rescued.

Syr Marden

 

[Syr Marden]

Syr Marden strode quickly and with purpose across the courtyard making a much practiced beeline toward the healer’s hut. He clutched a satchel of valuable poultices close to his chest. The last he had of his private stock that he had kept in his own quarters. “As much as we think we are prepared it is never enough for situations like this.” He thought irritably. “If I myself hadn’t known where these supplies were going I would have accused someone of eating them.”

He had spent most of yesterday and well into the wee hours of the morning attending those who were coming in from the battlefield. If he was being truthful to himself he had run out of energy hours ago, he had simply not found a moment to justify stepping away as his brothers and sisters had been brought in barely clinging to life. There were few times which he did not wish to see but he was grateful he could no longer bare witness to the horrors of the aftermath, not with his eyes anyway.

His stomach which had held itself in a knot since yesterday began to rumble. When had he last eaten? ”At lunch yesterday. Perhaps I can slip away to the kitchens. Will there be any rolls with cinnamon butter left?” Basker, who had been padding along silently beside him huffed in agreement.

He had almost made it to his destination when he heard heavy, quick breaths coming from the wall just left of the hut’s entrance. The vibrations of magic being used in the healer’s hut wafted through the brisk night air allowing him to make out the very distinct owl like shape of his friend. Basker stopped then right in front of Syr Marden and began to paw at his leg. The large dog gave off a sense of panic and dread. Marden smelt the tell tale sings of the battle field. The sour tang of blood and sweat mixed.

“Montbank my friend! Have you just gotten in?” After a few seconds with no response Marden stepped closer to the hunched over form of his friend and set his satchel on the ground. Squatting down, he placed his hand on Montbank’s feathery shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. He spoke again in a lower, clearer tone. “Montbank?”

Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Montbank's leg started to tremor, making light rhythmic tapping on the wooden floor at the sensation of the hand upon his shoulder. His eyes closed.

“Third time in, evac performed,” Montbank said flatly, his voice detached. He opened his eyes slowly, yet didn't look towards Marden. He didn't know where to look. Nothing seemed real.

A few heartbeats passed and the sensation of the hand upon his shoulder urged him to say more instead of the silence which had consumed him earlier. He knew to be more vocal for the benefit of his friend, but was compelled to state the truth of it.

“Don't ask me to go out again,” he said softly, his voice valiantly straining to hold back tears, “I just can't.”

Syr Marden

 

[Syr Marden]

”Don’t ask me to go out again.” Montbank’s voice sounded like a fragile thread about to break. Marden sucked in a big breath of air as his own memories of serving well past his threshold threatened to overtake him. He shook his head as if it would throw those old memories out of his ears. ” To send you out again would be foolish I think. We‘ve both a need to set to set down our burdens for the day. Since when have you eaten? I was just about to raid the kitchen myself, If you haven’t the stomach for it let us at least make you some tea.” Marden stands up and briefly retreats into the healer’s hut to deposit the poultices. Returning to his distressed colleague he gently guides Montbank to stand and begins to walk towards the kitchen. Keeping his arm around Montbank, he slowly begins to lower his vibration in an attempt to tame the overwhelm. He tenderly pulls at the feeling, trying to give that fragile thread some slack that it may be repaired. “After that I will be retiring for a few hours and I suggest you do the same. You cannot coax more wine out of an empty barrel, as they say.“ Theolonious Montbank

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

His mind was that fizzling sensation of charged air before a lightning strike, before touching metal after scrubbing your feet or knees across a fur rug. Dissonant music played in between the crackles, a lilt and an arpeggio here and there, a stylistic flourish across strings, a line or two of word, never producing a full song.

This was the worst breakout of combat he'd been in since before arriving at Astenvale. You didn't forget, of course, but it dulled over time. Lied to you so the next time it happened still shocked you into fierce action.

He'd been sent from the field, having exhausted his mind, body, and magical reserves. Told to walk straight home and do something easy.

Lay down in your-
Go talk to the-
Take me down to the-

The walk home wasn't a problem. He had still been running on the last vestiges of Rush-Blood coursing through his veins. It was the not doing anything strenuous that was a problem. As soon as he walked in, he laid himself down on the padded bench next to the door, still fully armoured, and didn't move for a little while. But the smell of blood started getting to him, and he rolled into the floor to divest it all and scrub off the filth in his washroom before crawling into bed.

Then the magic burst and metal clash and the screaming, screaming for mother and father and teacher began to ring in his ears.

The moons are blue as-
Dance in your eyes-
I heard it-
You best me no-

Staring up at the ceiling didn't make any of it go away. Tea didn't make any of it go away. His hands quaking with exhaustion, hovering over the strings of his lyre like he might- might damage it, might break it, didn't help.

We've got a little-
Lay down in your blood Vel Anir-
Take down your banner, your dress-

"I need people."

---

His hooves were terribly sore, unsteady, on the cobble path he took to the monastery, his arms were bumped with the early morning chill in the air, but at least he could still feel something.

Dance in your eyes like the stars-

He had thrown on a knee-length blue tunic, and tossed a little satchel over his shoulder, containing necessities. His new stiletto with a "D" burnished into the wooden handle. His thumbchord. And a bottle of cheap, strong liquor for when his stomach felt settled. Everything you need on a morning like this. Everything but, of course, the people.

He listened, hyperaware despite his effected state, for- well, almost -anyone. But the place seemed barren save for a busy duo of soldiers carrying in another wounded. Lysanthir hopelessly hoped that would be the last, ears and tail hanging down limp and eyes drawn at the corners.

Finally, a large feathery body, glowing white in the dim light, and a slightly smaller, more human body thrumming with energy, catches his vision, and he staggers towards them with a deep, long sigh.

"-You cannot coax more wine out of an empty barrel, as they say.“ said Syr Marden, kind beyond the exhaustion. Between the calm tempo of his aura and his voice, Lysanthir's mind begins to silence.

Lysanthir falls in stride on Montbank's other side, shoulders hunched forwards, and he runs a hand through his uncombed hair, voice placidly dull.

"Marden, Theolonius. I really hope you two don't mind more company. I need some before I drop dead or go mountainous." he chuckles humourlessly, his heartbeat jostling in and out of tempo with Marden's aura, eyes barely making tired, friendly contact with Montbank's before his gaze finally falls to the ground some strides ahead of them again.

---

Syr Marden Theolonious Montbank

 

[Theolonious Montbank]

Montbank resisted a glib remark directed at Marden as the winged knight's hands flexed. The frustration at the circumstances built within him, as the images of the bloodied and dying flashed in every glance he gave to the faces of those who now shared the night with him. Despite his company he felt alone in what he faced. Not the kind of freeing isolation that the skies offered, but something more trapping, more containing to his goodly spirit. He let the knowledge that he was beside comrades wrestle the feeling's hold on him away. But such was a difficult task. He was all too familiar with the correct bedside manner that Marden delivered, the wisdom in it and that it was well placed and correct. But it reminded him of the resources that those stayed at home had, the luxuries of a calm mind, of being unfettered by the decisions he alone had to make. It gnawed at him like a dog seeking marrow from a bone.

It wasn't a question of the right procedure. It was a question of triage. Consignment. There was never enough time, there was never enough resources, there was never enough energy to do everything you wanted to do. There was no rumination on how unfair the situation was, as Montbank had come to terms with the nature of the task that befell him. He accepted it with a stout heart. But his emotions were turbulent to the conditions he was was besieged by: the grim realities of having to perform curt response and egress from his comrades in arms to save them, and at the same time, abandoning them in the process. It was never a comfortable compromise of valour and necessity. He had few to talk to about it. Perhaps Marden and Lysanthir would hear it and be sympathetic, Montbank thought.

A vicious retort lurked within his brain. How could they understand? They are healers and warriors, but, they don't know the intimate detail of the duty I perform.

He rubbed his eyes to soothe himself from the pessimism that somehow had the energy to strike at him.

All things have an exhaustion point, Montbank thought. The bird knight in his human days had been a hunter upon horseback with bow and horn. The exhilaration of hunting, to tirelessly track down the prey and cast that deadly shot, that had been his primary pleasure. Times had been simpler then. He knew that humans, what he had called himself before his curse, were exemplary hunters for their ability to run and simply exhaust their foe. That he had ridden upon the finest horses and earned many an accolade for his temerity in pursuing the quarry. And now, he knew what it was to be so exhausted that he couldn't run away from being hunted, to take to the skies to escape the thoughts that tracked him down into the corner he found himself. He blinked quickly at the thought and sensation, and thought as he often did to those creatures he had hunted so liberally before he had joined the Order.

Regret wasn't the word.

But then I suppose that was the point of this damnable curse. In that I am fulfilling my duty to the forest's whims in this moment of, whatever this feeling is.

He smoothed his feathered head with a clawed hand as he resisted the path of least resistance that was glowing in his mind like predatory eyes that lurked over vicious snarling teeth. Marden was a colleague. It wouldn't do to snap at him, Montbank thought. But there was the temptation, as clear as the path to the skies, to just let loose. To just let it all go. But Montbank held his tongue. Kept control. Tried to listen and think on the words offered. But the thought of sleep? Mocked him. There would be no rest for a while he knew, not until the mind was settled and the smell of blood was distant. He gripped his head with one hand and tightened the other into a fist as he tried to navigate his own emotions. He smelled the felt the blood on his wings and it curled his expression into foulness.

An explosion of emotion and frustration was building up in him like a pressured pot, at both what he had seen and endured and what trials were yet to come from the doubtless fitful sleep that Marden suggested.

He looked to the skies instead of the floor and even just looking at the sky made him wanting. But he knew that he would barely be able to beat his wings to get away, that it was a form of self centred cowardice to try and explore the skies on his own. The platitudes that Marden provided reminded him of the bedside manner he lacked, and he found they just reminded him of the words he failed to say to the struggling that he had carried. He looked to the door and wondered if anyone had died. His mind wouldn't leave the thought. Sleep would carry dreams and nightmares about it. No. Sleep wasn't the answer, he thought. There were different forms of rest. Maybe wine within a barrel was.

One life. Two lives. Three lives. All in my hands and wings. And I might not have been quick enough. Might not have been fast enough. Might have spent too long fighting the enemy to clear an escape. Might not have fought long enough that caused more injuries. Might have used too little resources in fear of running out.

The logistics and decisions that had to be made within the healing hut were in Montbank's mind a simpler matter. You had the resources to spare, the preparations from the low ranking and high. Potions, remedies, bandages, disinfectant, poultices, fluids. You had the manpower to attend the wounded, the magic and will, rotations of people. But in the field? When you had to make split second decisions between drawing your sword or drawing your comrade from the brink of death, sometimes both at the same time? It was an impossible circumstance.

“Lysanthir,” Montbank said, aware that he had left some silence as he thought such things to himself. His wings remained limp about him and he felt the burning sensation of the ache the recent flights issued in fierce reminder of his exertion. “I need to...I need to get away. I won't be able to sleep for a while Marden. I think I need something stronger than tea. To forget this sorry business. I've done all I can. Let's get a drink and drink somewhere quiet. Or at least, just, get away. I can't be here anymore. Maybe something to eat, a midnight picnic, hell, just, I don't know.”

Montbank extended his arms so to lift himself off the ground. He might have done such a thing with a powerful beat of silent wings, but he was forced to resort to his more humanoid limbs to counterbalance. He stood and felt utterly drained, as if the ground might swallow him whole at a moment's notice.

“Get us out of here Lysanthir. Somewhere quiet. I can hear the laboured breathing of the...” Montbank said and gave an irritated shake of his head to try not to focus on those who he had brought back. “My senses. Well, you know how it is for me,” Montbank said to Lysanthir and Marden, for they knew him well enough to know that he had heightened senses of the owl he resembled.

“Something to eat, something to drink. Perhaps a body of water. I can walk. Can't fly. But I can stand and move enough to get away. I need...I need to wash this blood off my wings.”

He shivered for a moment as if someone walked on his grave. He looked to the skies for a moment and then to his companions for one to lead the way. Montbank had no thought to lead tonight, he had been independent enough for one evening. It was time to follow.

Syr Marden Lysanthir of Arapat

 

[Lysanthir of Arapat]

Lysanthir listens intently to the deathly silence that swallows the three of them after his words, steeped in exhaustion. Listens until- Until-

What am I waiting for?

The crickets sing a melody with the noise of work inside the infirmary, notable even with the door shut, but muddled considerably to Lysanthir's ears. Somewhere in the distance a voice calls out, unintelligible. Lysanthir rattles. Switches his satchel to the other side. Waits. His body sways in time with the spin of Arethil, weight hitting hard from one hoof to the other, just to keep himself upright.

I could fall down. I'd like to fall down, even. It won't help me, but I could.

Lysanthir glances aimlessly around the Monastery. A statue, to the ground. A window, a single candle burning vigil within, to the ground. A small flower, blooming away, gracefully aware of only what it needs to know. Finally he forces his eyes up to Marden, and across to Montbank. Watches the sad, sour expressions shift across his feathered face.

I'd take the harm away for you, if I thought I could right now.

"Lysanthir." Montbank says, body hanging like he's been sodden with a sudden rain. Feathers encrusted.

“I need to...I need to get away-"

Then we will.

"To forget this sorry business-"

You are in luck my friend.

"Somewhere quiet. I can hear-"

Lysanthir isn't particularly sure how the man would feel about physical contact despite Marden's hand on his shoulder, and hesitates in a reach for him.

"I need...I need to wash this blood off my wings.”

He looks to the sky, and Lysanthir feels a pain for him. Then the man has need to look between him and Marden for direction. Lysanthir catches a tang of blood from his wings on the breeze to punctuate his words.

You wound me, Theolonious.

"Come with us then. The Knoll. Can I take your arm?" He grimaces lightly, and presses some feeling into his words as he finally readdresses Marden, feeling guilty for interrupting him in the first place when he arrived, "Marden, have you ever tasted the cuisine of the Falwood?"

If allowed, Lysanthir would take Montbank's arm and place it across his shoulders, and his own arm around Montbank's back if space allowed, taking up as much weight as Montbank let him despite his own weak state. It was the least he could do for the man that could carry so much alone.

---

Theolonious Montbank Syr Marden