closed | it's now or nevarra

[wythersake]

WHO: Flint, Ilias, Leander, Silver, Isaac
WHAT: Meddling
WHEN: Vaguely future-dated
WHERE: Nevarra
NOTES: body horror, bad things happening to horses

threadjack away or make your own TLs i'm not your boss

Comments

[sarcophage]

"He is indeed dead, and yes indeed I can. All right, John? Let's have a look." Briskly delivered; down to business. He's already rolled up his sleeves.

More field medic than physician, having spent more time drawing than mending, Leander has neither the schooling nor experience of Ser Self-Loathing over yonder, but his hands are quick and careful. From some inconspicuous place he produces a little folding knife (not that one) and widens the tears in Silver's clothing so he can see better where arrows penetrate skin.

"Keep still, now." Steady. Composed. No impression of a racing pulse. "Stay just there. This is going to hurt."

And it does, only not for the reason it should. There's no brutal tearing-loose, no barbs shredding on their way out, but a strange whispering twist in the Veil, pain as Leander grasps the arrow, crawling sharp along the embedded shaft, dull sensation of pulling, and a sudden release as it comes loose. The exit is smooth, lubricated by blood filling the channel as quickly as it widens—such a little widening, barely visible to the eye, but nonetheless a thrilling manipulation, and with only moments of enhanced discomfort for the man who wears the flesh. Until now he's never done it this quickly—
Well. Not to a living thing.

Serious, keen eyes, lips pressed thin, he does it again.

"Keep still," a close murmur, focused. With great care, he leans over each wound and pinches it shut, from depth to surface. One final welling of blood as it's squeezed up and out. His posture eases, then, and he presses both hands to Silver's back, and now comes the more familiar healing warmth.

Where another mage might now draw and release the sigh typical of critical success, Leander is quiet.

[katabasis]

Which, by Flint's measure, put them halfway to where they need to be.

If there are questions - are there are a dozen boiling up in the dark and ragged quiet which follows - they can be asked not now. By the time the arrows are deposited into the road, he has unearthed both his sword and the bandit's but hasn't gotten any closer to rising from the position generously described as sitting up. He talks over Leander's work (or under or around or during it; Silver's face and the pain that does or doesn't show there creates more continuity than anything else can). Short of breath, but because it hurts and not because he can't choke down the necessary air:

"We'll bring the archers down to the road." There are two rings on the dead man's fingers. Flint removes and pockets them. Turning the corpse over is more than he can manage, but the small pouch at its side is opened and its contents strewn feebly over the blood soaked earth. A bundle of tinder, a short piece of soft wood carved halfway to the shape of a bird whistle, a stone with a letter scratched into it, a spool of hemp twine, a spoon.

"Take weapons and anything of immediate value from them. Look for a line we can tie. Ilias--" that's not loud enough to carry where he wants it, but he doesn't try again. "--The horse can pull the bodies down where we need them. Otherwise, they'll have to be carried."

Good thing they've all practiced this.

[hornswoggle]

There is no way to brace against this pain. All he has is the impression of Leander drawing at the Veil, and the sense of his magic digging in to John's body. (It drags up a specific memory: arms like iron across his chest, Howell bearing down on his leg, splitting flesh and cracking bone, and pain that wiped away everything in its wake.) Leander's magic burrows beneath the skin. John knows instinctively that he is not practiced the way Isaac is, and that there is something about the technique that isn't quite—

It isn't graceful as Isaac's work had been, nor is it Howell's blunted, precise approach. John has the sense of being shaped, as if Leander is drawing the flesh of his back languidly away from the shaft of the arrow. The momentary sense of something amiss unsettles him, but John hasn't screamed yet, and he doesn't scream now. This is pain he can grit his teeth against and groan through.

And reacting to Leander's ministrations deflects, for the moment, Flint's scrutiny. His hand balls in the dirt beside him as Flint speaks. Leander's timing is almost perfect, with his palms lifting from John's back just as Flint finishes discussing what's to be done with the corpses.

"It would be better to burn them," John says, and he thinks his reasoning is fairly clear. There's evidence here. Too many of these corpses were very clearly created by magical means. That's harder to hide than their earlier staging of the coach.

And then, turning enough to see Leander: "Thank you."

Whatever strangeness he had noticed about Leander's technique, the reaction afterwards, he keeps to himself. Mutual silence is going to have to do for the rest of this trip.

[wythersake]

When he blinks, the picture moves. Overlaps.

A man in black, a pale horse — the sort of thing that used to frighten him in stories, the curling lines of ink and superstition to occasionally adorn even Chantry tomes. The mouth would dry, if it weren’t full of ichor.

Separates: Leander’s speaking; Flint is. His drifting chin snaps up.

Leander's working.

The night stinks of blood and torn bowels, impossible to pick the particular drops. He doesn’t need to, imagination already cradling the means to this end. A warped door, a patient eye. Could you? Et voila,

The sort of thing to frighten him.

Flint’s still speaking. John hasn't screamed. Isaac finds his way up, palms the stone; carries an order. If he mislikes leaving Commander and Conspirator together, it's unavoidable. He’s walking better now, pushes past the pause in his step to lay a hand upon Ilias’. Fingers tangle in cold, damp fur, and his skin crawls. He tightens his grip, past the urge to recoil.

"I’m sorry," Spoken to dead ears, warm flesh. The moment hangs; two of them are breathing. "We need to move the bodies."

The rock and its lonely letter. Ilias’ pocket. His hand moves; they overlap.