The Seed of a Rose

Re: The Seed of a Rose

Postby Suede » Wed Jul 04, 2012 2:06 pm

Khalika's arms were suddenly pinned by walking fiend, and he took that moment to stand up and go retrieve new suturing equipment. While it was strange to see such a creature helping, and disconcerting to be so close to it, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth just now. The doctor knew he'd have plenty of time to reflect on what was going on after he was finished. If there was empathy to him for the scene he hid it well, letting himself fall into that disconnect a doctor can have when dealing with patients so often and focused on the procedure when it was the priority.

Barring any further outbursts from the gypsy he'd piece what he could of Khalika's hands together again, trying to restore damage to fine muscles and tendons that barely held the thread. It wouldn't be a result he'd declare his best ever, but with the conditions and his desire to finish before Khalika might react again he'd be pleased with the result. There was only so much he could do with hands as her's were. He'd have the decency to smooth an analgesic herb over the sutured skin when he was finished as well.
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Re: The Seed of a Rose

Postby Teron_Ashfiend » Sun Jul 08, 2012 11:27 pm

Restraint, mending, pressure, and breaking. These are things that echo throughout the gypsy's body as well as her spirit. The doctor plies his craft, the salve applied, and al became quiet, including the gypsy. A rest after a storm. When she finally stirred at sunset, the last rays unfurling the length of his shadow as a great banner, they had spoken. She confessed Wryin had been a sister, not dead. His rumbling voice, like stones grating against each other, echoed down the corridor as they conversed about why he had remained, because she had asked him to. He asked in response why she came for him in the mountains, and her response was a simple "It was the right thing to do." Her riposte was a query as to why he had not delivered her into death.

"I am done with dying."

A silence then as flickering crimson eyes mark the sun's descent through the window as rays paint the room orange-gold. The hood and scarf remained loose and down, his ravaged and lifeless features drinking in the sun's ghastly illumination that paints him as a blank canvass. The guide's, the liberator's words, echo through the long corridors of his thoughts as surely as the grating words are for those who might overhear them.

"Your sister would not want your ending," Teron offered at length through the remnants of lips. Elysia, screaming in his grasp, flickered over the gypsy's features. The dead did not wish death upon those who were left behind.

"There are things I would say," the words erupted from him beneath the rubble of old, spent fury that choked all honesty and light. "And I do not know how to say them. In my prison, I saw you. And others. I saw all upon whom I had vented my hate," eyes dimmed to embers, once more for that hand she had maimed, armor and bloodles flesh. "I..." a pause for this revisitation of truth, burdensome and sharp to skewer any pretensions and aversions.

"It was made known to me, by my deliverer, that I needed my... enemies." Confessions demanded pauses, and this was no exception, for a hand that threatened to tighten with such disclosures as these in the easy spasms of anger. An easier thing to silence the gypsy, and grant her wish. If hate demanded their relationship continue, how much more then would a distinct... need.

"I knew them and, in a fashion, they... and you knew me. I needed to be known, as if my enemies were also my," and words failed. A sidelong glance for the gypsy's direction as courage trembled upon the memory of lips that gaze for her frame and not her features. Unable to bear the weight of a living person's eyes.

"I am delivered, and yet directionless. There are many I would speak to, and I do not know what to say. My hate endures, yet it is dimmed. I ned a minister, yet there are none who would willingly treat with me. And there is you," and with that he has turned to the gypsy. A gypsy who over the past few moments, in her weakness and in their apparent solitude, has heard more honesty from the ash walking fiend then he had spoken in lifetimes.

"You who need a friend." Arms move to cross over the blackened armor that encases his towering frame. "I who have pledged to remain, to be that, and yet know not how."
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