@onemusemanyfandoms a familiar face ( kly ) - [ x ]
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As soon as she was certain he wasn’t going to bleed out quickly, she withdrew her hand. She used her storm magic to dull his nerves in the area around the injury so he’d be in less pain. Now that the worst of the wound was treated they had to move. Now. Those men would be back soon.
Kly took off her outer robe and pressed it on his abdomen. “C’mon, they’ll be back, and I’d rather we not be here when that happens,” she offered as she started trying to heft him up so he could get his feet under him. She would likely be dragging him most of the way. Maker, she hoped no one had a mabari.
Of all the things to happen on top of what had already come to pass in this day, this “healing” feels more like torture. But she offers it with the kindest, sweetest hand, his head rested upon her lap and her cold hands against his burning skin, seeking out the danger and injury to staunch it.
He hates being touched without permission. If he had a single ounce of strength left in his flagging body, he’d protest, but he cannot. Before he can do anything, in fact, she has her hands on the wound, holding him there, and for his face screwed up with pain, he cannot see the procedure being enacted on him, just that it hurts more than any smite he’s ever suffered, more than any sharp pang of hunger he’s felt on strike or any rack imaginable. He can feel his earthly source roil and fight the magic at play, mana and blood at war with one another. He can’t help that his body fights her magic in this case, but he does recognize one fact: she is a blood mage, just as him, and if she were not, if she were healing with more delicate arts, it would not be like this, and he would not cry out in the pain it dealt him. He’s suffered many pains before, some even self-inflicted, but nothing, never like this.
Rosal has never known a blood mage to be a healer before, though he supposes it makes sense. On more mundane, or those detached from the Fade, there would be little difference. On ordinary mages, they’d not have the slightest idea, save, perhaps, that it seems different in its form. On a fellow maleficar, however....
Once she’s done, and the pain around his side begins to dull, if only slightly, he lets the stick drop from his lips. As well as profanities.
“Bloody void,” he wheezes, tears still leaking from his eyes. “Mythal’enaste, Maker’s tits... fenedhis... flames and damnation... if you need... do that again... please kill me first out of mercy.”
His breathing comes in ragged heaves of air. Beneath him, his legs shake and quiver like a newborn lamb, and the way she hefts him up pulls at the injury rather unkindly. Still, his mind swims with the grips of half-consciousness as he stumbles forth at her bidding.
It isn’t as though he has any other choice in the matter.
" are you gonna shiv me ? " Adlan , you are at least 8 feet long & capable of crushing the poor mage's bones . the tiger spirit bonks his own head against the elvhen apostate's , showing his teeth at the other as a joke that he would eat them . they weren't going to but no oje can really tell the difference . " are you gonna shiv me with that shitty knife or a spike of ice , mage boy ? "
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The Warden pulls back at the sensation of a head bonk, studying the face of the tiger spirit before him. He moistens chapped lips and studies the glow of startling blue, the vivid, lamplight eyes, and narrows his own. He does have a "shitty knife" in hand but it's his. It's been sharpened half-down to its quick, stained by bloody ritual, and twisted in the jaws of more than one Darkspawn. He'd kept it, a prize, from the time he was in the Circle, until now. Two decades has this letting blade been used as his focus. Two decades of scars it has left upon his skin.
"If you touch me again, perhaps I will. Though knives are not my favored way to spill the blood of my enemies, save in extraordinary circumstance." He looks away, sheathes the letting blade at his hip, and takes up his staff.
Rosal does look the part of a somewhat ordinary apostate today, with the dark blue woolen cloak cast over his shoulders, and the brooch clasp holding it shut with a subtle silver gryphon -- the only symbol that he is of a rank to protect himself from few errant templars scattered to the winds.
Not that he particularly needs that aid today, it would seem.
He looks the spirit in the eye once more, alert and sitting tall, ready for a fight. There's a darkness to his tone. "Is it that you want me to stab you, rather? I'd gladly oblige your request."
I'll get a whole meta on his abilities up soon but for now:
Rosal's primary school, which he trained in the circle, is spirit magic, followed by entropy. On paper, he's an arcane warrior. He carries a simple broadsword, and while he's not the best physical combatant, he's not against fighting dirty.
On that: he uses blood magic to his benefit. To evade templars or disruption of his mana flow, he'll tap into more earthly abilities. He sees nothing wrong with hurting himself to give his abilities a boost. (In previous threads elsewhere, he's used his own blood to navigate with his spirit and entropy magic.) Bass boosting it, basically.
While he's not trained with them, he's looking to begin using polearms. It's a staff, but more pointy-stabby. Fits right in with his style.
