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therisingtempest · 7 years

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{tales} Brotherhood

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The cabin boy they called Rhymer had a grand first voyage. The fourth was brilliant as well. By the tenth, the crew had resigned themselves in one way or another to the child as a permanent fixture aboard Horizon. Most didn't mind it by then. A few had even grown fond of the lad. He had quick feet, shut up when you shouted loud enough, and always seemed to find what a person needed and present it to them with those wide, hopeful dark eyes. It was hard to hate something that brought you rum and ensured he was never underfoot.

He helped the quartermaster the most, a young but tired man the crew called Madrádh for his unique wisdom. Madrádh had served on five ships, each of which had sunk, and most refused him passage for fear of curses and bad luck. Captain Fearghal didn't believe in curses, though, or any superstitions. The crew still wore their charms and performed their wards in private after crossing the quartermaster's path. Rhymer thought it was grand and asked for stories nearly twice a week.

Madrádh had lost most of the dexterity in his left hand after one too many injuries to the arm. He compensated well, and still moved quick enough to cut it aboard a Fomoiri ship, but Rhymer took extra special glee in hauling chests or clambering up to snatch things off high shelves before Madrádh had to fumble. All with the wide grin that demanded to be reflected on the faces around it.

Corvan remained singularly doubtful of the boy, which only made little Rhymer more determined to impress him. He jumped with the rest of the crew when the first mate roared. He scrubbed decks without complaint. He learned knots and practiced them in the dark of his bunk, over and over, even though it meant he swayed on his feet the next day and fell asleep in his rations.

When the captain wasn't busy, Rhymer could most likely be found in his shadow. He was, after all, the cabin boy, meant to serve the captain. And this he did happily. Fearghal had granted him a place on a ship and even took moments out of the day to teach him things. Things like plotting a route, planning an attack, how to charm a border guard and slide smuggled goods right under his nose, and best of all—swordplay.

Rhymer adored swordplay more than almost any other activity. He babied the small cutlass given to him from the ship's armory, even though it was plain and old and well-used. Even when not taking lessons with the captain, he could often be found shadow-fencing, adapting to the weight of a blade in place of the sticks he'd once played with. The shores of Mag Mell seemed so far away, but he never felt homesick.

The captain was a kind master. He took care of most things himself, only ordering the boy to fetch a bottle or his boots when he was too busy with other things to manage. In this it felt more like a partnership than a servant to his master. And Rhymer near glowed every time he could be helpful, every time the captain's duties were made more efficient thanks to his actions and the man smiled. More than once the cabin boy was allowed to stay in the captain's quarters when the navigator and Corvan leaned over charts and discussed routes with Fearghal. It was these times that Rhymer stayed very, very quiet, absorbing everything around him.

But when the captain was busy, duty fell to the first mate to find things for the little whelp to do. He'd begun to get sick of it. As eager as Rhymer was to learn and work, there seemed no end to the lad's energy and he had a maddening issue with following orders at their face, always having to do it his own way or in his own time. While life at sea came with intense bursts of activity, much of it was a neutral sort of down time that made the cabin boy restless. And annoying.

“Corv! Corv, look!”

Corvan did not look. He ground his teeth. He was not going to respond to that.

“Cooooooorvan~”

Someone on the deck crew snorted and Corvan considered tossing them over the side for encouraging the gutter rat. Instead he continued rolling silver-edged dried leaves into thin paper. He licked the edge to seal it.

“Corvan! Corvan! Look!”

He was strong enough to endure this. He’d hunted powerful creatures of the deep as a child. He'd marched into the interior of Mag Mell before he'd been full-grown. He'd faced maelstroms without flinching. He'd choked the life from a mutineer and looked dead into the man's eyes the whole time. He'd sat motionless for hours in pouring rain just for the sake of an ambush. He'd stabbed his father to death for fuck's sake.

“CORV!”

“What?!”

The first mate bolted straight up from his slouch against the mast. Even with flaming eyes and a borderline roar under his response, Rhymer only grinned at him, victorious, though a bit upside down at the moment. The brat had slipped his legs into the ratlines on the deck side and now dangled, flailing his arms and smiling like a fool. More than a few of the deck crew chuckled now. Corvan only stared until the boy's grin faded.

“What've I told you to call me?”

“Aw, come on, Corv,” the cabin boy cajoled, still with that sycophantic grin that had charmed everything from gunners to rigging rats. He started to swing a bit in his position, trying and failing to arch far enough to grip the rail. “We're just floating.”

Rather than respond to that, Corvan pocketed his unlit smoke and crossed the space to the lad. He could feel the deck crew tense up like they were one beast. Rhymer didn't share the same extrasensory alertness. He jolted and writhed when Corvan grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt and dragged him down. He also cried out, clearly not adept at disentangling his legs quick enough to avoid injury.

Corvan did not set him down, just kept walking, hauling the boy—now right side up—to the rail to hold him off the side. The cabin boy locked fingers around Corvan's forearm, kicking and squirming, something dark like anger blackening in his eyes even alongside the fear.

“Floating, sailing, or raiding—you'll call me sir.”

“You can't hurt me,” the boy spat.

Struck speechless, Corvan only stared. The brat was right, of course. Tossing him to the mer wasn't something that could be explained away to the captain. Not to mention half the crew was in love with the little prick now. Usually a taste of fear overrode things like logic and got him obedience. It worked on men far older than the urchin now dangling helplessly in his grip.

Rhymer's expression turned smug in the silence and Corvan nearly dropped him on principle. Instead, he pivoted and released him to the deck.

“Make yourself useful. Haul the anchor.”

“By myself?” The boy scrambled to his feet, out of breath and flushed. “That's impossible!”

Without pause or prelude, Corvan grabbed him again, this time by the mess of loose curls on his head and dragged him, yelping, across to the mid-deck. There, at the bottom of the empty spool, the anchor chain linked and disappeared belowdeck where it would eventually thread out the side of the hull and down down down to the sea. The spoked wheel that sat atop the spool had been hand-carved with tentacle patterns and perhaps had once been brightly painted, though now even the gold accents were faded. Horizon was an old, reliable girl, still whip-fast and well-oiled, but her aesthetics had begun to slip beyond restoration.

The whole contraption was taller than the boy by two inches and likely weighed at least four times his scrawny mass. Rhymer gawped at it and then frowned up at Corvan. It might've been called a scowl if not for the note of fear and lostness under the heat of his embarrassed flush. He'd only ever seen teams of four and six strapping career sailors put their shoulders to this wheel to wrap link after link of mighty chain around the winch. Under their power its ascension always sounded like muffled thunder and the anchor soared up out of the water almost as fast as mer could swim.

“Haul the anchor up,” Corvan repeated, releasing him.

“I can't.”

Corvan's eyes narrowed. Every sailor on deck or above it was watching now. Some pretended they weren't, but they all were. One beast. One attentive beast. The boy, at least, could feel their attention. It wasn't the sort he fancied, Corvan could tell. The heat in his cheeks had flushed down over his neck and collarbones and he looked desperately ready to shout or lash out or maybe cry. No, not cry. Too tough for that. He wouldn't cry until later, muffled into his pillow in the dark. Corvan preferred him like this. The black of his eyes seemed so much more honest than that ingratiating smile.

“I gave you an order, boy.”

To his credit, Rhymer at least seemed conscious of that. His eyebrows knotted together and his lips curled in a frown of deep thought. A strain entered his little jaw and throat, a desire to fulfill and succeed contrasting with his own estimations of limits and reality. It all disappeared into a wrathful glare when Corvan failed to even blink at him, as compassionate as a block of granite. Rhymer stomped to the crank wheel. Lifting his hands up above head height to grip one of the spokes, he set his weight.

Before the boy could begin pushing, Corvan leaned over to flip the locking mechanism at the center of the wheel, then stepped back and folded his arms. The boy put his head down and braced his bare feet and pushed from the small of his back up through his shoulders and—to his shock, the wheel budged.

Rhymer's head perked up, tension gone from his face as he began to take slow but steady steps around the pivot of the crank. He looked across his shoulder at the center of the wheel, at the quiet-running machinations and flawless engineering that allowed even the slightest force to be of use. He looked down where the winch met the decking, watching as link after link of dripping chain appeared from beneath the deck and wrapped around its spool in elegant coils. He'd made three complete revolutions before he turned his awed gaze on Corvan.

The first mate had relaxed some in the quiet. Watching the boy work, he'd even gotten a very small smile on his lips. It looked odd, Rhymer thought, like a crack in a wall through which one could see some other place. Corvan's arms remained folded and his voice was as rough and hard as ever.

“Don't tell me something's impossible ever again. Especially not without fucking trying.”

Rather than respond, Rhymer restored his bright grin like a flash of lightning and braced his stringy thighs harder, pushing his steps faster. The click-click-click of the hauled chain quickened and Corvan moved away, unfolding his arms, withdrawing the smoke from his pocket. Like the tide, as he receded others of the crew advanced, circling closer to the boy and making laughing comments or cheering his progress.

Corvan nearly made it to the rail when the bubbling camaraderie behind him exploded into a geyser of panic and terror. Rhymer screamed, his voice shrill and distinguished from the lower shouts and curses of the experienced sailors around him. Too young. Terrified. More than terrified.

The first mate—already spinning, assessing, taking it all in—had a great familiarity with the different screams those with lungs could make. Cries of pain, of alarm, of grief. Most knew these. But there was another scream, one not heard often. One of a creature absolutely convinced it was about to die. And Rhymer was making it now.

The slender tentacle had come up with the anchor chain, threaded within and around the links with near flawless camouflage. Even Corvan, who'd been standing not two feet away when it began to rise, hadn't noticed. But now the finger-thin flexile appendage had whipped away from the chain, waiting until the boy had hauled it all the way up before uncoiling and splitting. It had to be monstrously long to stretch the whole length of the chain and more, the thinness of each flailing limb making it all the more horrifying. Five—no, six different tentacles, whip thin and twice as fast. They'd already latched onto the nearest target—the screaming cabin boy—weaving up to his chest in a tight webbing. A hunter's snare.

Pain had joined Rhymer's shrieking scream. Toxin? Barbs shredding past skin into muscle? Or were the blind snaky arms much stronger than they looked and already begun turning his bones to shards within his body? This seemed horrifyingly likely as the latching web had begun to drag the boy toward the too-small hole the chain had come up through. Back through the way it had come. Back to the sea. Even the boy's scrawny body wouldn't fit through it. Not in one piece.

Swords were already drawn and hacking by the time Corvan lunged back to the scene. He grabbed the nearest raised arm and almost broke it in his urgency to stop the falling blow, roaring at the rest to hold their weapons and take a fucking step back.

Rhymer had gotten ahold of a spoke on the hauling wheel again, and with the taut tentacles pulling on his lower half, his body now hovered off the deck. His screams had begun to go hoarse and thready. Tears stained dark cheeks and for one paralyzing moment Corvan realized he was a boy. Just a boy. A child who might meet his end right at this very moment, floating on a calm sea. Corvan fumed at his captain, howling words in his mind he wouldn't dare speak to the man's face.

I told you. I told you.

But the captain was still in his cabin and every eye settled on the first mate. Corvan could feel them all. The crew now stood out of range of the loose, searching tentacles. No one else had been grabbed. They'd moved quick enough under his command, but he had no time to be pleased with it.

Rhymer's screams had begun forming words. Help. Help me.

The crew roiled restless but did not move out of the safe zone, eyes burning into their leader. Occasionally one or two would lean back further or take a swipe at the unseeing feelers. There were more now. Seventeen. Some had reinforced the grip on the boy, writhing and weaving around his legs and waist like a living net. Some groped along his spine and his neck, seeking out what it was that kept their prey anchored. The rest strained to their limit, seeking other targets, hungry for more.

“Boy, listen to me. Rhymer!”

The shout of his name finally silenced the sobbing screams and dark wet eyes peered over one shivering arm to lock onto Corvan's cold steel. The first mate only held the gaze a moment, long enough to be sure the boy's panic peak had passed, before he returned his attention to the searching tentacles.

“Listen to me very carefully. You need to go limp.”

“F-Fuck you.”

“Fine. It's your choice. Do you want to die?”

The boy choked another sob. Madrádh elbowed his way through the press of sailors to just behind Corvan and started to address him. The first mate was not interested. Rhymer was the priority here, not a discussion of his bedside manner in combat situations.

“If you go limp, it will loosen its hold on you but it will move fast. Try to drag you down. Wait as long as you can. The more relaxed the grip, the softer the tissue, the easier to cut.”

“Cut?”

Corvan drew a small curved blade, deadly sharp. The last he'd used it had been on a prey ship captain's eye and gums. It gleamed now, clean and polished and eager for more. He tossed it overhand, hard, and the tip dug into the deck below Rhymer, leaving the handle proffered and ready to grab. The cabin boy peered down at it, eyes wide, but he'd stopped whimpering. His jaw flexed and relaxed.

“You won't get through all of it. Cut as much as you can below your feet. It’s going to react. The grip will come hard again, but it'll be in more pain than you. Sloppy. Keep your left arm up. I'm going to grab your wrist and take care of the rest. Understood?”

“I don't wanna die.” Some of the whimper had returned, trembling his tone. “I don't wanna die, Corv.”

“What have I told you to call me?”

Rhymer only panted, shuddering breaths. His eyes stayed locked on the first mate. Corvan nodded.

“Do it. Now.”

The lad lowered his head, pressing his forehead and his eyes against one shaking thin bicep. Corvan thought for a moment he was just going to keep his deathgrip on the wheel and cry there into his arm until the thing ripped him to shreds, but when Rhymer lifted his head, his expression had gone like stone.

He took a deep breath and let go.

Every soul winced as the sweet cabin boy hit the deck full on his ribs. Something clearly must've cracked or snapped, but he only grunted, right hand lashing out to grab the knife. He missed. The tentacles yanked. He flailed with his left and caught the edge of the blade, slicing open his fingers, but tipping it enough that it toppled and slid into his right on his next grab.

It happened in seconds. Impact with the deck, yanked across it toward the anchorwheel. Rhymer, to his credit, waited until the last possible moment before his foot would've been broken in five places to fit through the chain hole. He rolled to his back and bent at the waist and sliced hard with a cry—this time his scream was rage—almost completely freeing one foot and allowing him to brace the sole of it against the wheelhouse and push, giving him leverage for a second swipe with the flashing knife.

Corvan started moving as soon as Rhymer hit the deck. The periphery tentacles had, as he suspected, begun to retreat toward the central mass, toward the sudden wounding. Easily dodging around one or two agonized spasms, slicing one feeler off with a backhanded swing, ducking under another and spinning, he grabbed Rhymer's free forearm and backpedaled hard.

Madrádh—damn bleeding heart—was the first to lunge forward to grab Corvan's belt and help pull. He got a lash across the face for it and if the tentacle hadn't done it, Corvan might've. His balance upset, he almost fell, almost lost his grip on the slippery blood-slicked thin arm in his fingers. But he held on, hard enough to bruise, and dug his boots and pulled, slashing another mass of thin flicking tentacles that shot out for him with alarming precision. More crew added their weight to the quartermaster and Rhymer cut through the last of the tendrils gripping him and the whole lot of them slung backward across the deck and into the rail.

Even half on his back, Corvan kept pulling, yanking Rhymer out of range of the mutilated attacker. The boy smelled of salty tears and desperate sweat and blood, but he wasn't crying anymore. His fingers clutched Corvan's forearm almost as hard as he'd gripped the boy's own.

Fairly tossing him to Madrádh as he rolled, Corvan got back to his feet and called for fire. Lots of fire. The first few singes of it to the creature of water caused the wounded thing to withdraw, snapping back below deck and along the chain it had hijacked. Even when the gun deck crew below reported it gone, Corvan ordered the anchor unhooked and the whole chain unspooled. They'd burn every inch of it, just to be sure.

And then the good captain emerged.

Corvan was glad for the chaos on the deck, for things to do, focus on, control. It calmed the shake in his hands. That old familiar rage that had flung him at his father as a boy, driven that razor-edged knife into the flesh that had raised him. The captain emerged alone, but that didn't mean someone wasn't hiding out in the cabin. But perhaps he'd just been asleep. Perhaps he'd drank a bit too much and the noise hadn't been enough to rouse him quick enough.

It didn't matter.

“Corvan!”

The first mate gritted his teeth and turned to face Fearghal. He wanted to simply stare, to wait out the man's bewilderment until he was asked specific questions. What had happened. What he'd done to fix it. But even that could seem like a challenge of leadership, and after the near-death fight he'd just had, he wasn't in the mood for another spat.

“Hunter from the deep. Camouflaged on the anchor chain. It got your cabin boy, but we pulled him out intact. I've ordered the chain inspected to be sure it's gone.”

Fearghal stopped listening as soon as he mentioned Rhymer. Corvan actually watched his gaze unfocus and shift off his eyes to behind him, where the ship's healer had begun an investigation of the lad. Corvan did not turn. He studied his captain and it was good everyone had become embroiled in either the boy or the chain because in that moment he looked like the merhunter he'd once been. Calm. Collected. Picking out every little weakness.

“Good work.”

It was all the captain said and it was perfunctory at best. Then he was gone, shouldering past Corvan to the little huddle around Rhymer. Corvan took a deep breath of firesmoke salty air and exhaled. He reached for his pocket to find his fresh-rolled smoke, only to remember he'd dropped it when Rhymer screamed. With a soft curse under his breath, he went below to help pull the chain out into large loops. Something to do.

In the end, Rhymer was fine. He needed new clothes and a new scabbard for his cutlass, but he'd got away with only a few easily-mended cracked ribs and some scratching and bruising. Hours later, you'd never have known he’d almost ended up in several chunks sinking to the Depths. He must've told the story a hundred times by nightfall and the crew just kept feeding him attention in a way that made Corvan's back teeth grind.

Captain Fearghal had taken the lad aside at one point. Corvan didn't care to eavesdrop, but it couldn't have been that stern of a lecture because Rhymer came away from it skipping and beaming. As long as the captain hadn't rewarded the fucking prick for almost dying, Corvan could abide it. It all kept the cabin boy occupied. To the point that Corvan wasn't bothered by him at all until late that evening when the day shift was finishing their evening meal and the night crew were readying themselves for the long quiet dark.

Rhymer found him at the bow, smoking next to his empty plate. Corvan had thankfully already completed his ritual of tossing part of his food off the side. The last thing he wanted was to field a thousand questions about it. The rail came up to Rhymer's chest, so he folded his arms atop it, standing on tiptoes to peer over the side. Still, the talkative lad said nothing, only smiled down at the recently-fed mer still playing in froth coming off Horizon's prow as she sailed. It was a different smile here, in the moonlight. Simple soft joy in place of flashy brilliance.

Suddenly Corvan found questions in his throat, but he swallowed them down. He also subdued the mad urge to ruffle those windblown curls set above the strange content smile and black eyes. The cabin boy still said nothing. He said nothing the whole time he stood at Corvan's side that night. It was the first time he'd ever been quiet while conscious. As they watched the same horizon, the first mate foolishly thought there could be peace.

#tales #The Legend of Airn Rhymer #adventures of baby airn #bitty!airn #lord corvan #corv #fearghal #s; the saga of bitchlord and shitbird #long post #frick i'm actually a little sorry about how long it is XD #SORRY I'M ANTI-READMORE FOLKS

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cuthie · 4 years

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Lautner: Goodbye Kel’serrar

War Cries were drowned out by explosions. Stonetalon wasn't being invaded by a solitary war machine and it's engineers. This was a full on battle. The area was thick with smog, bodies from both sides had fallen, the ground would quake and weapons would clash. Gnomes, Elves and Worgen were fighting Orcs, Trolls, Pandas, and other Elves.

This was a common occurrence. The war had been going on for years, sometimes trickling to a cold standstill. After the last demonic invasion many of the Alliance had hoped for peace. Some, like Lautner, had hoped the Horde would try something. They would try and fail and all would be right in the world again. That's how their peace would be obtained.

He should have been more careful what he wished for.

War came at a price.

Every region was a battlefield now. Stonetalon mountains. Why were they even fighting here? So much of it had been destroyed over the last six years of fighting, and now there were azerite weapons and machines to deal with. Was this land worth it? Of course it was. Every inch was worth it if it meant keeping it out of Horde hands.

Lautner had been confused from the get-go. The plan had been to load a glaive thrower with explosives and then rush in and finish the thing off. The ‘thing’ being an azerite fueled war machine.

That’s not how it happened though. Kal’serrar warriors charged the giant metal machine, leaping on top of it and slaying their enemies. Weren’t they supposed to wait? Laut guessed not and came in a minute behind everyone else.

It was so weird, his transition. Not from man to wolf and then to something in between. No, the transition of his nature. He was used to solitude. He just wanted to be left alone. He would have been glad to live and die in Teldrassil.

Every time he had ever tried to fight back, he had failed. Even with the gifts of Goldrinn, he just presented grander failures to the audience around him. He failed in Darkshore and Teldrassil. He failed with the Kal’serrar in Feralas, and then multiple times in Drustvar. Clearly some divine being was telling him that this wasn’t his calling. It had started off as a debt. They had saved his life, so in return he was going to help them. He listened and grew into a more competent fighter, but he had never really met their expectations. He became faster and stronger. His longing for the wilds and the hunt transformed into this bloodthirst. He wanted to hurt his enemies as they had hurt him and everyone around him.

He would fight until he died, and he was okay with that.

Then came Bael’ryn. This pretty mixed boy, part elf part human. He had a way with words, a beautiful smile and Laut got to experience love. Yeah, the L word. He was never mushy, and while that didn’t really change, something had. He would get butterflies, he would envision a future together. He also half suspected that the guy would just get tired of him one day and vanish.

That didn’t happen though. Instead, they became ‘official’. They were in a relationship. Wherever one went, the other would follow. That led to Bae’s confession, the conflict with Kierro, their ‘leaving’ and then returning once again to the Kal’serrar.

Laut didn’t want to come back. He had nothing but failures there. Prejudices. Frenemies. He still wanted to beat Kierro with a sack of bricks. Had Lautner attack Fey until she was unconscious in front of Kierro, would -he- have been so easy to forgive? Doubtful.

But Bae needed them. He needed to know about his father. Maybe they all could go back to being friends, maybe. Or worst case scenario, they could pry that information out of Kierro, then go off to live their own lives. Find a place to settle down. That bloodthirst had died down as quickly as it had arisen. If Drustvar had proven anything, it was that Lautner was in over his head. He wasn’t ready for this, and now all of a sudden he had reason to stay alive. He had found peace, or something akin to it. He had found love.

He just needed to last a little while longer, that was all. Just continue helping Kal’serrar long enough to help Bael’ryn. Maybe things wouldn’t be as dangerous as Drustvar had been, now that they were at least closer to familiar territory.

Alas, Stone Talon happened. The horns were being blown, the elves were panicked and rushing away from their little outpost camp or whatever it was. The Kal’serrar had followed, Lautner had followed. The fog in the air made breathing difficult, which in turn made his head spin. It was so loud and hurried that he had no idea what was going on. All he knew was that he was a big bad werewolf with two giant ass swords. On elf was decapitated, an Orc was pelted with arrows and had fallen overboard. Bombs had went off. Bombs? Had those been the bombs that were supposed to be on the glaives? Psh, they hadn’t even barely -slowed- this thing down. What was option number two in case the bombs failed?

The shut off valves. That tech-guy, Ghost, had named the model. It had two shut off valves. His allies retreated, dealing with the injured as Fey called across to them through the wisps.

“Get the fuck out.” “Guns..” “Cliffside” Laut was having a hard time concentrating. The bombs had went off already, hadn’t they? Oh, he would have liked to knew. He was having trouble concentrating, let alone make out what everyone was saying between the screams and the sounds of war.

There was a gun firing overhead. A massive gun, aimed right towards dear pregnant Fey and Margo, back at the base. That’s where he needed to be. Inside, ripping this machine apart piece by piece. Kill the gunner, then find those two shut off valves.

So he ran up the ramp. He found his way inside and there sat the cringiest greasiest panda ever, gleefully mowing down people. The gunner.

When bards told stories, they allowed the drama to linger. Everything dramatic happened in slow motion, every detail was noted. In reality such things often happened fast. So quickly that one might not even register what exactly was going on. Just a blur of horror and drama and then it was over.

The metal flooring literally peeled up in jagged spikes, thrusting itself at the Worgen who had lingered in the entryway. It slammed into his body, hot, heavy and piercing. His feet had left the ground as he was expelled from the detonating war machine. Like a rocking skipping across a pond, the fortunate circumstance of his landing had him skid across the ironically named Blackwolf River.

Lautner hadn’t registered any of that, nor anything that followed. The floor had torn itself apart, then he lost consciousness when it collided into him.

Just another failure on his part.

Nurturing, rejuvenating magicks could only do so much. People like Lautner, who didn’t practitioner such arts, often assumed it to be the work of miracles. You spoke a few words, drew from a source of power and then POOF wounds were all better. Everybody got to go home with a smile on their faces and little smiley faced bandaids on their booboos.

In reality it was it’s own kind of battle.

Lautner’s body was failing, but the Light and druidic magicks had worked in unison to prevent total failure. There was no magical aura that sealed every wound. There was no magical hand performing necessary surgeries and stitching organs back together. If anything, healing was more akin to boosting the body’s natural regenerative abilities. Sure, one could concentrate and seal gaping wounds, mend the flesh, but what about the internal organs that had fractured metal pieces in them? No prayer was going to eject them, or at least not without knowledge of their existence.

So maybe you had to open them up, investigate? If you had the ability, maybe you could concentrate. Like monks navigating the chi lines, druids could sometimes ‘feel’ their way through the internal highway.

Of course, some situations were more dire. Sometimes you didn’t have the time to search, sometimes you had to act. Sometimes a giant glowing hammer would just slam next to the injured body and pulse the Light into their system.

And so as Lautner laid upstairs on the floor, the Light had bathed him. His condition improved. His breathing normalized, his burn marks had turned to slight discolorations, his wounds became scabs and scars. His body was taken to a bed at the top floor, and he was left to rest and mend.

Everything that could be done for him, was. There was a small comfort in that, but any healer would have stories to tell where everything was done to exact standard procedure and still failed. The gnome father of two who looked healthy and ready to go home to his children would take a turn and die, and the mana starved blood elf with a pole in his stomach would somehow pull through to live a full life of addiction and chaos.

So it was that Lautner did not wake up. The healing magic in his veins had certainly postponed his demise, but for how long? That was up in the air.

#lautner #WRA RP #wrarp

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