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Post by PaganStars on Sept 5, 2017 20:59:52 GMT -6
Lorian
Lorian remembered how the sway of a boat, the gentle (and sometimes violent)push and pull of the sea made him absolutely sick to his stomach. The first time on the Abaddon had been torturous, filled with many cracked jokes and Lorian's head dangling off the side of the bow. He had been able to stomach it after a few months, but it took a year before he could actually stand to be on the boat without his stomach giving a violent twist.
Now, Lorian sat peacefully on the lower deck of the great ship, humming slightly as he carefully examined the skull and shattered horn of its first mate, Iskalder. Oh yes, after serving on the ship for however long, Lorian had become accustomed to working his medic skills with the ship tumbling about on the waves, his teke grip steadied and precise after numerous minor surgeries aboard the ship. There was little that could through him off his course, even when carefully picking the remaining shards of horn that stubbornly lay in the stallions forehead and snout. Lorian was removed of all embellishments, head free of the (now dented) mask that he wore when outside. His scarf lay draped across a table, two blades and the helmet resting carefully in the folds. The Abaddon was the only place Lorian felt comfortable enough to remove these items, his face and pelt free for all to see.
Leaning in closely, Lorian let out a semi dramatic sigh as he picked another minuscule shard from Iskalder's forehead "It's a shame, your family carries such a pretty horn shape. Damn those war-forged bastards" he laughed softly, trying to lighten the mood in the dim cabin. Everyone was on edge, especially those related to Vidar. Their meeting had gone...less than well, but they had set out to do. Now all they needed was to wait...which was increasingly hard with the fast approaching winter.
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Post by manabuns on Sept 6, 2017 4:42:20 GMT -6
I S K A L D E R
Bloody Flanks Raider
... ...
Ever since they had made it back to the ship, Iskalder had fallen into a numb existence once his magma coloured hooves had clattered upon her sturdy planks. Present but not quite there, as if a mountain had crashed upon his shoulders and the sea had finally dragged what little he had left down beneath her stormy grey-blue surface. A wraith with flesh trappings and the sullen, dead gaze to go with it. The comfort rock of the ship did little to bring him back, as the Abaddon took them back to Ghost Hold, the feel of the sea spray and salt kissed winds through his hair only offered the most minor of sensations.
The World had looked so bright, and now it seemed like a fever dream all of a sudden.
Iskalder dreaded it, somewhere in the back of his mind. He dreaded to see the ruins of their home, half sunken and flooded while members of his family and clan scuttled to save what they could. If they could, a cruel voice muttered to him in deeper places of his inner walls. They were back at square one, and Iskalder hated it with every fiber of his being.
Each minuscule prick of pain would bring him back for a moment, a ghosting of recognition over his shattered features before he would drift back out again. In and out like the tide. Lorian, to his credit, and to the silent thanks of the shell-shocked first mate, had committed to the task of pulling the remains of his horn from his face with care. Such care was foreign, his own attempts to take care of himself and patch his own wounds were crude at best, determined to keep himself out of the hands of the healers who were needed to tend to their most sick and wounded. Now he sat in front of one with little complaint, laid upon his polar bear cloak to ease the soreness in his bones. His crimson gaze would occasionally drift listlessly to the striking greens that belonged to the healer. Few were the times he had gotten to look at Lorian without all his trappings, he had always wanted to ask, he realized between the mists of his mind, why he adorned his mask and his scarves. Such questions were personal, and Iskalder himself had a penchant for avoiding those.
"It's a shame, your family carries such a pretty horn shape. Damn those war-forged bastards."
An almost silent snort escaped the raider, forehead creased as a pin prick of pain ripped through it with the removal of yet another shard. "I'm not sure how my family would feel, having any part of them called pretty, but thanks." It's a poor attempt at a retort and good humor at compliment, but at least he tried. Iskalder remembered feeling so proud when he realized his horn shape resembled his father's own. It had been a thing of pride, and now one of the mountainous, glittering spires was nothing more than a shadow of it's former glory. It's remains poking pitifully from it's cragged base and the rest of his features. If he had swerved his head a fraction further, that War-forged bastard would of taken both. If he hadn't moved at all, he would of caved in his skull. "It won't grow back, will it?" He doesn't know why he's asking such a ridiculous question, of course it won't. But it's better than the silence, and the not-so-sudden realization it had either been his horn, or his life.
... ... Word Count: 591; Post: 1 |
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Post by PaganStars on Sept 10, 2017 14:04:08 GMT -6
Lorian
Still gently holding Iskalders face and picking out the few stray pieces left, Lorian tightened his hold as he shifted, tsking at him before continuing to his work. Lorian didn't say he was the gentlest of Medic's. Air settling, Lorian laughed a little louder than he had wished, quickly shaking his head and smiling as Iskalder spoke, before being drawn into his own thoughts. Lorian could tell, wondering what the stallion was thinking. He could see a glitter of sadness in those amber eyes, but Lorian merely looked away and finished drawing the last piece, clinking it into the jar with the others. Sighing dramatically, Lorian, unfortunately, shook his head at the first mates question, tuting and flicking his ears.
"I am afraid not, my dear. It may fill in a little, but never again to its full extent." Doing some of his own reminiscings, Lorian thought back to the time he had chipped his horn as a child. Roughhousing with siblings always tended to lead to minor injuries, but the crack at the tip of his newly formed horns had made Lorian burst into tears, running to his mother and asking if there was any way to fix it. She had calmed him and explained that he was still young and his horns had plenty of time to grow and right themselves. She had been right, of course. Lorian's horns, or rather his backward tusks as he liked to call them, had filled in nicely and now did a fabulous job of giving him neck pains.
Sensing the darkening mood, Lorian tried to lighten it with humour once again "Well, look at it this way. Your head has never been lighter, has it?" he laughed, though it sounded like a giggle. Setting his plier down, he traded it for a jar of soothing salve, unscrewing the lid and applying fair amounts of the sweet smelling liquid to his cut "You know, you could always have one of our blacksmiths to craft something similar to a horn for you. I've seen many a horse with metal attachments to their broken or even unbroken horns." It wasn't a bad suggestion if Lorian did say so himself.
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Post by manabuns on Sept 13, 2017 17:11:25 GMT -6
I S K A L D E R
Bloody Flanks Raider
......
Little by little, as each shard was removed, Iskalder felt himself relax into the grip which carefully cradled his damaged face. Pent up lines and bunched muscle relaxed, giving way to the relief and bone deep ache. A slight snort escaped his nostrils in response to Lorian's tsk. "'fraid I'm a bit of a twitchy fuck. Hurts you know." He murmured, trying his best to keep his face still despite the knee-jerk reaction to jolt his head, or dip it further forward. Lips twitched into a minimal smirk at Lorian's laughter, perhaps he had laughed a little too loud, but after so much grim musings and mishaps, it was nice to hear. Helped break up the terrible dark cloud that loomed around him, and urged himself to make the effort to crawl out from under it's suffocating canopy. The distraction could only last so long, Lorian confirmed what he'd known all along, and his own sigh soon followed the Medic's.
"The thought was nice, at least." Iskalder muttered. At least it would fill in, or hopefully, then it wouldn't look so unsightly. All bits of sharp crystal, the fractured remains still glowed prettily in the low light of the lanterns, as if refusing to submit to a dull and miserable existence on his face. He had had a fortunate youth, rough housing with his siblings had ended up with scraped knees and faded scars, rather than chipped horns. His gaze was drawn eventually to Lorian's own set, the impressive sweeping set intrigued him. While they were not made out the glittering crystal his own and many of his family possessed, their simplicity made them stand out. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like to have his own fashioned in such a shape, and then promptly dismissed it as he felt a phantom crick in his neck.
The stallion's gaze flicked back down to the Medic's piercing eyes when his voice filtered through the room again, ears tilted forward in mild interest. He hadn't been exactly sure what he'd expected the medic to say, whatever it had been. It hadn't been what had fallen out of his mouth, the First Mate blinked once before his own sharp laughter filled the cabin. Part of him felt lighter, one anchor falling away from the chains wrapped around him. "You're not wrong, I can see better too." He admitted with a wry grin, stilling once more as the salve was applied to his wounds. Better than some of the salves the other medics applied by far, and some of his own concoctions he'd had to make on the fly. While it stung, it quickly subsided into a much more diluted throb of pain. "I wish I'd had time to properly see his face, when those shards came flying back for him. It must of been priceless, hopefully they took an eye." Or at the very least, disfigured his face enough that when the great lumbering beast looked in the mirror all he could see Iskalder's face grinning in the reflection.
Lorian's idea gave him pause, in a good way. There were plenty of equines in the encampment with various prosthetic and metal attachments, crafted by their skilled blacksmiths, same for some of the lowlanders he'd encountered. It wouldn't hurt to at least ask. "What do you think would look good on me?" He hummed thoughtfully, he hadn't really bothered with anything particularly fancy before. Now he had the chance to somewhat indulge, and cover up the Raider's crude mark. "Thank you," Iskalder suddenly blurted, as if jolted by a stray bolt of lightning and then cringed at himself, "for this." Tilting his head as if to gesture to the covered wounds. "I owe you one."
... ... Word Count: 622; Post: 2 |
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Post by PaganStars on Sept 18, 2017 22:37:57 GMT -6
Lorian
Standing, Lorian snorted as Iskalder's words and laughed himself, beginning to carefully clean and put away his equipment "I wish I had seen it at all, but given the fact that I was currently dragging a stallion two times smaller than myself through a crowd of drunken mercenaries, I would say that my mind was rather occupied. " He laughed once more, eyes twinkling as he recalled the event. It was rather funny now...not so much in the moment. Holding up the vial of twinkling red shards, Lorian looked back to Iskalder "I'm sure he's trying to pick them out of his own hide at this very moment." Setting the bottle down, he quickly corked it before gently folding his leather satchel of tools. The silence that fell between the two was comforting, the only noise coursing through the room being the soft sound of their own breathing, the gentle creak of the boat as waves licked its side and the occasional hoof fall as Lorian moved about the cabin. Lorian understood that Iskalder was probably working through the motions, to figure out what would he do now and Lorian especially understood the healing powers of just having someone in the same room as you, sharing the same breath and being there as a shoulder to lean on. They were raiders sure, but that didn't mean they did not need the help of another from time to time.
When Iskalder broke the silence with a question, Lorian turned from where he stood to observe the stallion for himself. He hummed thoughtfully himself, eyes scanning over the entirety of his face and neck, eyes dipping down to his shoulders before his green gaze meet the amber one before him. What would look good on him? Iskalder was a handsome stallion, that was plain to see for most anyone. He did not need something flashy, nor anything too brazen. Something simple then? perhaps a darker metal to contrast his brighter remaining horn, engraved with something tasteful. His thoughts drifted to his own mask, bright and gaudy among the more darker bloody flanks. Almost laughing, Lorian shook his head and smiled "Something dark and simple, perhaps. Contrast is key" he laughed and shook his head once more.
When Iskalder abruptly thanked Lorian, he paused, teke grip gently holding up the bottle of shards once more. He had been thanked before of course, but never for aiding anyone. His job usually consisted of quickly stitching wounds and setting bones, providing painkillers before quickly shoving them out the door. His time on the Abbadon was a blessing really since no one ever truly got hurt (bless Kaia) So, Lorian turned and dipped his head towards Iskalder, his face sincere "You are quite welcome," he replied softly, cracking a smile once more "But do not think of it. Tis my job, if you owe me one that certainly every soul in the Bloody Flanks owes me one" he snickered, shaking the bottle ever so slightly. Handing it to Iskalder, he grinned "Here, maybe you could make use of these someday"
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