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Post by Deleted on Feb 5, 2018 17:15:46 GMT -6
All Patched Up
Evan | Sesil
Plot:
The Flight has arrived in Sedo, prisoners included. Evan's leg is severely injured and needs amputation, but there are few who are happily willing to work with a terrorist.
Time of Day: Early evening
Weather: Cool and a bit breezy
Location: Osulas, at a savior "camp" as they tend to travelers
Timeline: After Chapter 5 |
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Post by Deleted on Feb 5, 2018 17:32:20 GMT -6
The trip at sea had been brutal, the waves rough on Evan's stomach and the pain that coursed through her body. She and the other Flight members had fought hard, yet she found herself surrounded by not only other Strikers, but Flock members that were abandoning their cause to reside in Seroran lands. At first, Evan had made her opinion of such quitters very well known, her language colorful. She hadnt help slay the emperor and taken an arrow to her knee for her fellow fighters to abandon their cause. This wasnt over yet! This was just the start!
However, her pain and discomfort had started to get the best of her. Just trying to keep herself conscious was draining her energy. She almost wondered if she wasnt going to make it.
The ship docked in Sedo ports and, lucky Evan, she did in fact survive. She pulled herself to three hooves as they were ushered off onto the docks, her leg lip and dragging beneath her as she went. She almost didnt notice it now, the weight heavy on the wound, the lack of blood causing it to numb. She hadnt even pulled the arrow yet, fearing that it would cause her to bleed to death.
She exited the ship limping and dragging a useless appendage. What a wonderful first impression.
The first thing the pegasus noticed was the sand. So much sand. Then it was the beating sun. Sure, where she came from was hot too, but it was humid. This.. this was dry heat. It caused her lungs to tighten and her mouth to run dry. It almost felt as though she was breathing in pure dust, and it didnt help the darkness that lingered in the corners of her vision.
She wasnt given a long time to sight see, as they were soon crowded toward a caravan that was to take them to the main city.. Osu.. something. Evan didnt care to remember. She hated this place already. She fought as they instructed her to lay in a wagon, to rest her leg until they could fix it. She was fine. She could walk like the others. She had never lived a coddled life and she wasnt about to start now!
However, her struggling drained her already lack of energy, and before she knew it, her head hit the hard wood of the wagon, and the world around her went dark.
Several hours later, she awoke to the sound of voices. At first, she thought she was hearing things, but she pushed herself up to find herself on the wagon, being carted down the streets of the city. A small crowd was gathered, looking upon the prisoners and Flight members alike. There were smiles, whispers, and nervous glances. The pegasus's eyes narrowed at all who looked her way, her ears flat against her neck. Mind your own business. She thought to herself bitterly, but then she realized.. she was their business. She was on their land, useless, and injured.
Sighing softly to himself, she tried to ignore them until the audience stopped, and when they did, she found herself looking over several blankets and medical supplies.
Evan hauled herself off the wagon, her wings fluttering for balance. She was instructed to wait for a Savior, and that she did, a bitter, but tired, scowl on her lips.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 8, 2018 13:01:56 GMT -6
Sesil - Serora - Savior
Sesil’s eager return to Sedo had been barely over a week ago, and though Sirith was but a few nights past it already felt like distant vague memory to him. Her gentle soft temperatures had felt like silk sticking to naked skin, uncomfortable and intrusive, her people casting suspicious dark eyes upon him and the Serorans that he had in his company. The behaviour of the locals had not particularly bothered him. Had he been in their place, he would not have trusted them either. But the vagabond thieves, the vermin, had robbed them clean of the great casket of shards they had hauled with them the entire way in order to trade with. Never mind completely eliminating any chance at any sort of business, as Breimians spoke only the language of money, they took a local foal hostage to achieve it.
So much for political relations. It was a mess he supposed their Ambassadors would have to fix, and Sesil didn’t envy the job.
When they finally returned home, greeted by the scorching heat of the desert that he had dearly missed, the Furies flew overhead. Their wings so great they blot out the sunlight. Skirmishers returned to Osulas. Then eventually came the call of duty for the Saviours in Osulas and surrounding areas, and Sesil had heeded it.
“Make way, please.” Sesil states without much urgency –but just enough-, some of the crowd making way for the Saviour as the stallion makes an attempt to wind his way through. He should’ve taken a shortcut, he realizes mournfully, skipping the many stairs and the mob. The fascination of Sedo natives is great as they greedily and with shamelessly curiosity take in the sight of the Strikers and other members of the Flight unceremoniously being transported through the city of Osulas. On every stair and step someone oversees the transportation, some of them armed and all of them with brow furrowed.
Warriors, he hears, voice indistinct and impossible to pinpoint. Prisoners. Refugees. Terrorists. They are but careful and hesitant whispers, perhaps afraid someone may hear them, but shared in confidante. Terrorists within our walls of Osulas. Enemies of Talori. People are afraid, and Sesil understands- many Serorans have isolationist ideals, eager to stay far from conflict. It’s hard to ignore when they are brought to your doorstep. Their leader, bright in colour and furious of voice, has already been locked away and held in chains, her blessing supressed.
Many Serorans argue against helping these terrorists. Some Saviours prefer to turn their attention towards their own instead. Sesil is not one of them. He knows these pegasi are not their allies, and he knows most of them would prefer to see him dead, maimed, or at the very least out of the way. He doesn’t particularly care. They’re of no use to anyone if they rot here on their doorstep. Perhaps this is exactly what defines a herd; how you treat your enemies.
Sesil plans to treat them with respect, and harsh-handed medical care.
“That’s an unfortunate wound.” Sesil comments. The Saviour arrives at the incline where the prisoners are brought, many of them wounded. He can smell the scent of sick in the air. Some of them will be fine after they acclimate to the weather and have a day’s rest with food in their stomach. Not this one. The Pegasus has a long arrow right through her leg- tearing clean from one end to the other. It looks ugly, and Sesil vaguely thanks the fact he’s recently gotten his tools cleaned and sterilized. “My name is Sesil. Seroran Saviour. I suggest you lay down on the cloth there,” he nods with his head towards one of the cloth tarps they’re putting down in the shadow, “we’re going to be here a while.”
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Post by Deleted on Feb 8, 2018 22:48:41 GMT -6
The mare stood quietly, her gaze pointed sharply ahead as she did her best to avoid those around her. She wasnt going to grace them with a glance, or even a flick of her ear. She was here to get medical attention, not to listen to their whispers. It seemed as though it was rare for the Serorans to be looking upon a murderer, but she didnt blame them. She would have never thought that she would have been able to kill a man with her own hoof..
Yet, here she was.
She noticed how several saviors ignored her and her fellow strikers, taking to their own or some of the flight members - no, traitors - who had decided to move in. She didnt let it bother her as she leaned onto her back end, taking weight off her sore front. She would stand here for hours if she had to, to prove she was strong enough. A shattered knee was not enough to bring her down.
“That’s an unfortunate wound.”
Her brow narrowed as she heard a voice, turning her head to find a larger stallion standing beside her, examining her leg. Her ears flicked back as she studied him, sizing him up as it seemed. Doing so was typical for the mare, whether she felt intimidated or not. She was a pony, smaller than most. It was habit of hers to look over those taller than her a few times.. find their weak points.
"Just a scratch." She replied with a flat tone, though there was a hint of sarcasm lingering on the edge of her tongue.
She turned her attention to where he pointed, her brow raising at the cloth bedding placed in the dirt. At least it was shaded, but it hardly seemed sanitary. However, she gave a nod like the good little soldier she was, bracing her wings against her side as she hobbled her way toward the station. Her leg drug after her, but she ignore it, gritting her teeth to keep herself from showing pain. She was not going to show weakness in front of these sand people, even if it killed her.
Once she got to the cloth, she laid down less than gracefully, flinging her mangled leg out before her in order to not crush it. Once she was settled, she let her wings relax beside her, taking in a breath as she looked toward the savior.
"I doubt it can be saved." She said, not one to beat around the bush as she nodded to her leg. She looked to it, studying it, knowing this was probably the last time she would see it.. Good riddance. Now it was gross, bloody, disformed.. an extra weight that she had to lug around, and she was sick of it.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 11, 2018 7:28:09 GMT -6
Sesil - Serora - Savior
With considerable effort she manages to amble herself towards the cloth, straining her muscles dry for the last ounces of strength she’s got. She must be exhausted, running purely on fumes or perhaps on determination, shock, adrenaline, or simply spite. He imagines Flock members cannot wait to return to what’s supposed to be home, to return to the fight and continue the bloodletting. This isn’t over. There’s still much to be fought for. They are essentially prisoners, no matter the welcome Baram had extended for members of the Flock to voluntarily seek refuge here. It was a simple trade; never return to Talori lands again, and find your equality with us.
The emperor died, the sacrifices would stop, and no Flight member would find the alliance between Serora and Talori easy to swallow. With all honesty, neither did Sesil.
“Forgive us the location.” Sesil apologizes, courteously, though his voice and face both stay flat and void of most expression. He approaches her as she lays down, “We’ve had to improvise. There’s a lot of you.”
At the very least it was a pleasant shaded incline, away from all the prying eyes and only occupied by Saviours and the patients they were busy attending going back and forth before turning them over to Officials that would take it from there. Sesil remembers getting a lot of his training here, when he was only a child, under the tutelage of Jordell who’d been Prophet back then. It seemed miles away, another life, another person.
Other Flock members laid on the tarps, those they didn’t feel the need to immediately imprison, some Furies, an odd Skirmisher and Windracer. “We’ll wait until the clinic over there is no longer occupied. I can’t move you up the stairs of Osulas with this.” He wasn’t kidding. Osulas was a city with wings and wind in mind, their stairs plentiful for the poor souls on foot and carefully crafted by earth manipulators and architects like Guiseppe.
"I doubt it can be saved."
As he looks at her wound, he’s becoming well aware she’s not going to do anything on foot for a while. It’s gnarly. He meets her eyes for only a second as though to reassure he’s not going to do anything stupid, and then a piece of cloth simmering with smoke-grey teke holds her leg, gently, moving it very slightly for him to get a better look. The arrow sticks out at a sharp and mean angle, impacting her flesh, splitting the shaft. Ribbons of flesh carefully peel around it. He can pick out the tendons, torn and pinkish white. Some places it’s swollen, inflamed. Infection. He can see the construction of bone, marble, and a sculptural thing. She’s stripped of any excess, turned arrestingly lean. Some time passes- the lucky ones get to walk away after some simple disinfectant. She’s not one of those.
Blessed be that they had not pulled it out. He can see blood, clotted, and fatty little pustules around the wood. Normally, he’d have to drain those. He would have to enlarge the wound, break off the arrow for as much as he could, sand off the ends to make sure it wouldn’t snag, then push it through. But this wound is busted. There’s splinters of bones, there’s only fraying meat holding the leg together.
The only thing he could realistically consider was amputation below the knee. His brows furrow, suddenly very aware of the saw in his saddlebags, the knife, the straps with which he’ll tie her leg off. He may be able to keep most of her joint intact, but otherwise, her leg was as good as gone. She’s so dry about it it’s almost a little jarring. He’s not sure if it’s her way to cope.
Finally, he shakes his head. “You’re right. It can’t be saved. I’ll take care of it. The sooner, the better.” He gently puts her leg down, looking over his shoulder. A saviour steps out of the clinic. She nods to Sesil, and Sesil nods back. Then he turns to the Pegasus in front of him, and stands. His teke hovers around her to help her stand, giving support. He could carry her with ease, but he doubts she would allow him. “Allow me to help. What’s your name?”
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Post by Deleted on Feb 17, 2018 18:24:17 GMT -6
Her ears flicked as she listened to him speak, first apologizing for the location, and then informing her that they would have to wait for the clinic. It was odd for the little mare, as she felt at peace in his presence. He seemed to be no-nonsense, which she liked. He wasnt staring, he wasnt whispering, he wasnt.. judging. Her eyes had started to slowly flutter closed, the strain to keep them open starting to become too much. However, that brief moment of rest didnt last long, a sharp breath sucking between her teeth as he picked up her leg, softly moving it. Her heart rushed in her chest from the surprise, wide eyes watching helplessly as the dead piece of leg flopped uselessly, confirming her suspicions.
You’re right. It can’t be saved.
She frowned at the words, even though she knew it was true. He put her leg down and she shifted to make it more comfortable. It was terrifying, really, to think of losing a leg. Sure, she had lost her eye and had adapted easily, but.. a leg was far more useful than an eye. Her leg held her weight, helped her to walk and run, made her useful on the ground..
Now, she wasnt sure what she was going to do.
Her gaze shifted toward him as he stood, offering his help for her to pull her weight up as well. As much as she wanted to push away the help and struggle through it on her own, just the thought of trying her tired muscles was pathetic. She was supposed to be strong, dignified.. not stumbling around like a useless filly.
She leaned on his support as she pulled herself to her working hooves, her knees wobbling ever so slightly under the strain. Her wings flicked at her sides to help with the balance, and once she was steady, she limped her way toward the clinic. The sooner this leg was gone, the sooner she could work toward bettering herself. She hated feeling this weak.
When he asked for her name, she suddenly realized she had never introduced herself. It was a strange concept to her, as she had lived in such a secluded community. She couldnt remember the last time she had said her own name out loud.
"Evan." She she breathed. Flight Striker, Expert Bomber, the Murder of the Emperor. Her lips curled in an amused smirk at the thought. She was dangerous, yet she felt so helpless.
"In here?" She asked, poking her head in through the clinic curtains before nodding to herself, pushing her way through them without another thought. She just wanted off her hooves. A quick glance around the clinic showed a spot for her to lay down, a blanket on the floor, probably to keep blood from staining the dirt.
She huffed as she made her way toward it, awkwardly laying back down without being told to. She waited patiently, her fiery gaze focused on Sesil.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 23, 2018 14:54:51 GMT -6
Sesil - Serora - Savior
Without wasting a single word on the gesture she accepts his help, if reluctantly, leaning her straining weight against him as she makes her careful way towards the clinic. He can only imagine her discomfort. There’s the pain of her leg, that’s most likely slowly turned into a numbing sensation that’s far more alarming than pain, the numbness meaning complete death of nerve endings. There’s the awful heat. The stares of strangers, in a hostile land where she’s kept prisoner and where no one will tell her what’s going to happen next because quite frankly, they aren’t sure yet either. Getting any sort of help here must feel like being lured into a trap, the very concept of altruism entirely too far fetched.
“Evan.”
He repeats her name, attempting to say it without a Seroran accent and failing, the desert clinging to every letter. His pronunciation is heavy, all elegance lost upon him. But he nods. It’s a good name. He will remember it.
She makes her way into the clinic, the small distance hardfought and an assault on her body, punctuated by the way she quickly lays herself down onto the soft blanket. Her long tail splays behind her. The clinic is at the very least a great deal more private, the temperature cool and in the shade. It was built into one of the many canyon walls of Osulas, a small incline that wasn’t quite a cavern but well suited for the job. It’s stocked up with clean linens, a variety of tools kept in clean clay pots, some heated in a fire to ensure them being sterile.
Evan watches him with an intensity he could only chalk up to resembling fire, the shivers of heat above desert sands. There’s fight in her despite her relative helplessness - her helplessness really only being due to unfortunate circumstance, not personality or mindset. She peers at him through blonde curls, though she is exhausted and most likely at her limit.
He wonders if he should put her under. He has opiates, haggled off vagabonds that in turn had bought the recreational drug from the Isles of the Dead, as well as hemlock and other plants. If burned, he could render her unconscious.
Perhaps the decision seems extreme to an outsider, to take a look at one’s leg and so quickly conclude that it couldn’t be saved and would have to be removed. Perhaps a Breimian doctor would jump through hoops to save it. Carefully treat it, attempt to reconstruct, fight the infection. But Sesil is from Sedo, where the right to live is hardfought. Taught by a hedgewitch who wholeheartedly believed a soft touch meant dirty healing. And Sesil, in turn, is not soft. He didn’t care to endlessly treat her and risk her life by allowing the subsequent infection even an inch, or to leave her with a weak leg and terrible limp with not even a quarter of the sensation and mobility she used to have.
“Let me talk you through it.”
That leg was coming off. Anyone could chop off a leg. That only took a knife. It took a doctor to keep her alive afterwards.
“I will disinfect the area beforehand. Then, I will have to remove the arrow, to allow me a clean cut.”
He kneels by her, heavy lid eyes set on her wound, his ears up tall and alert. “I will make the cut above the fracture, and cauterize the wound shut. Your leg will be gone below the knee. There will be bandaging and continued herbal treatment afterwards to hold off any infection that may form, or attempt to form. I intend to snuff out any chance of that. I can administer anesthetics to you beforehand, render you unconscious. It may not be necessary.”
His eyes tick to her, and he stands up. “It will hurt.” It’s a simple and honest statement. “But if all goes well, the stump should allow a prosthetic.”
He turns his back to her, sorting his tools in order of the procedure, “If you have questions, I suggest you ask them now.”
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