Re: A silence broken

POSTED: Sat Jul 13, 2019 1:14 pm

For once Tamlin appeared to have met a man more taciturn than himself. Every syllable that left his dark lips seemed forced and reluctant, as though Bellad would have loved nothing more than for Tamlin and Fennore to dissipate before him, returning to his solitude. Nevertheless, he did not stray; he could have made a hasty exit, and neither of the two would have pursued. Hopefully there was some mote within him that enjoyed their company?

Bellad came closer, allowing Tamlin to properly see the granulated flesh upon him. It was true that it seemed to be healing, which was quite impressive for a burn—many Luperci had lost their lives to infection from a fire’s touch. Either Bellad himself was a talented healer, or perhaps someone else they had yet to meet… from the way he reacted to Fennore’s hands, it appeared that he held the talent himself.

He felt uneasy on his feet when the Songthorn made mention of the wounds, his eyes darting between Fennore and Bellad. She had made it quite clear that she didn’t enjoy any of Tamlin’s interrogations on where they came from, though he had ascertained enough to know that some other man had done it to her. Though the lack of other wounds on her person was a bit of a relief, his ignorance on the subject was quite unpleasant. Would Fennore even be willing to unravel the binds she kept so closely concealed from him? The Sunwarden lapsed into silence comfortably, and though he had taken a step back to allow Bellad access, there was a new tension in his muscles as he stood. Trusting and optimistic that he was, some of those ideals went out the window when Fennore was concerned, and a stranger standing close to her so soon after injury was something that kept him wary.

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POSTED: Sat Jul 13, 2019 5:51 pm

Something seemed to stir the stranger into motion, and as he approached the pair quietly, and Fennore was acutely aware of him sniffing the air; the fluid and blood from her hands was lingering all around her, something that irked her. But this did not give him pause for long as he soon returned the introduction: Bellad Songthorn, their coal-furred crooner. Even as his orange eyes turned to address the golden scout, he still spoke of the white woman, mentioning her injury in a sort of nonchalant way.

Her magenta eyes regarded him warily, muzzle lowering somewhat as he returned his vivid gaze to her. She instinctively drew her hands to her chest as if he sought to take them from her — but the straight-faced front she always donned remained staunchly in place, even as he reached a dark arm out to her, requesting to see. She did not move for several seconds, her eyes drifting to gauge Tamlin's countenance; surprisingly, despite the taboo surrounding her ailing hands, he seemed to comply with the man's passive imperative. She had been dodgy about the slashes' origins, but... if this Bellad was a healer, then...

Slowly, her hands moved to unbind each other, the soiled dressings falling to the ground unceremoniously.

The scent of blood and infection intensified, and her ears pinned to her skull in embarrassment. Embarrassment? It wasn't often that Fennore felt uncomfortable in her body, curvaceous and sightly as she was; but the severity of her wounds, the unholy gashes that would scar her palms forever — it was... not a good situation, never mind the dull throbbing pain they brought with them.

"... The wounds are a few days old." Her voice was strained, cold because of her discomfort. "I have been attempting to rewrap them when I could, but... We lack sufficient resources at our camp." She turned away from him, eyes burning holes into the dirt. "I had hoped they would heal better on their own, so that our few supplies could help others with worse injuries than mine."

Did she come across as incompetent or foolish? Would Bellad think her naive for not taking care of herself? Wordlessly she looked back to Tamlin, her loyal scout and support, in a sort of apologetic way. She... had not been honest with him regarding her recovery. Often she would shrug off his concerns, assuring him she was fine — it was clear now to him and the dark Luperci that this was not at all the case.

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POSTED: Sun Jul 14, 2019 5:30 pm

Bellad observed while Fennore explained herself. Her wounds spoke volumes together with what she was telling him. He could see the neglect and wishful reliance on the passage of time to serve as a healer. Alas, here it became an ally not to the ailing Luperci, but to the infection. Still, as she mentioned the scarcity of their supplies, it served as adequate reason perhaps. Adequate, yet leading ever still to a potentially crippling result. Yes, time could heal her, but first it would have to be coaxed into allying with their cause and not that of the sickness in the wounds.

"Tamlin Anor," he addressed, somewhat ceremoniously using the full name he'd been provided with, "have you any pot or bowl in which to hold water...?" He turned his head to the healthier of his two visitors and looked for a bit. There seemed no such object on him. "I see... Then find me a sturdy piece of wood, and hollow it out as though to make a bowl. Make haste. Use what you see fit. Whether tool, or tooth, or claw. I need only the fruit of this task, regardless." Such were his instructions, but he was far from idle himself.

The black Luperci gestured for Fennore to sit and wait, denying her a chance to take part in preparations as her wounds clearly made excessive use of her hands a dangerous endeavor. He joined Tamlin instead, but as Tamlin would search for a larger piece of wood in the vicinity, the burnt Luperci instead looked for dry twigs and firewood. Gradually piling his findings close to Fennore, he once again began to speak, as though reciting teachings far older than he and, perhaps, older even than the three of them combined. "Blood," Bellad began, in tandem with his actions, "is precious within. The life-giving copper most crimson that courses through you." He drew patterns in the ground it seemed, then just as quickly wiped them away whilst clearing a spot for a fire. Weaving some untold ritual into actions of more practical significance.

"Yet show disrespect to a deep wound carelessly, and it will serve as a gate. For things, fearsome and unseen, that shall burn and shall gnaw and shall travel through your very lifeblood." He paused, now placing together the fuel for the fire, building a tinder nest with which to catch the spark. He burrowed an incision into a piece of wood to serve as his fire board, and put a sturdy stick to use as a spindle. The sound of friction never raised above his voice. "Instead of warmth, a fever. Instead of strength, agony. Instead of life... the loss of limb or life. This we must prevent. And to that end," almost on cue smoke began to rise from the nascent bonfire, "must we make flame and heat with which to set roiling the water." With eyes set on the growing flame, he waited for Fennore to prepare the makeshift bowl.
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