Dawn broke slowly that morning after the storm, the reaching tendrils of gray light almost tentative as they tried to penetrate the dense cover of fast moving clouds that coated the sky. The cliffs were still slick and wet from the heavy rains that had fallen and on the rocky beaches all manner of trash had piled up, hurled ashore by the fury of ocean and sky and left to dry in the strong wind that still blew hard from the southeast. It chased waves in towards land, waves as tall as a standing bear, and taller still, hurtling in to smash against the rock-face with a force that caused the very ground to tremble and added new material to the rough gravel that coated the shore wherever the cliffs receded.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly as light spread and darkness receded, the ferocity of the surge diminished. The tide was turning, soon it would have receded far enough that otherwise submerged rocks and crannies were thrust up out of the sea and thus exposed all manner of strange and uncanny creatures in the shallow tide-pools. As the steely color of the clouds to the east continued to brighten, animals stirred. The cliffs that had once seemed so barren now teemed with life as gulls fought over rotten fish and crabs with menacing claws battled for their lives against a curious red fox that had left the fields to partake in the feast nature had provided.
The crab won; discouraged the fox moved off and followed the steep shore in search of a breakfast that was both more filling and less demanding. On the rocks above a sheltered cove it stopped and peered down at a pile of assorted rubble below, a sand-covered mound of broken wood, kelp and stinking refuse. The canine's keen yellow eyes searched for signs of danger for a time; then it began to work its way down to the water-line.
Halfway there, a sound caused the fox to flinch and stop in mid stride, tension rippling through its supple body as it listened intently. There it was again; a sound that did not belong on this solitary stretch of rock overlooking the sea. It was not the chattering sound of barking sea-otters or the dull smack of fighting seals, nor was it caused by any bird or beast of the sea-shore. Again it was heard, this time followed by motion as the pile of rubble suddenly heaved and moved. And now the fox saw that it was not a pile at all, but a horse; big and sand colored with sea-weed and kelp tangled all through the dark hair and long legs until hardly any of the body remained visible while it lay still. But it was moving now, kicking feebly with dangerously hard hooves and letting out that weary, hollow noise again, a groan torn from a throat that must be all but shredded by salt and fear during the struggles of the night.
Realizing that there would be no easy breakfast to be had from the unconscious beast, the fox turned and left, loping easily back up the same way it had come. Only once did it pause to look back upon that tangled, flailing heap, and saw that it had gone still and quiet again; another salt-crusted victim of the ocean's reckless temper, no doubt, but too large for the fox to eat. It moved on, not caring that the sand-colored equine was slipping back down into deep, dark unconsciousness, a dangerous sleep from which it might never wake; not if it didn't move before the tide came back in to reclaim its slippery, water-logged domain.
Time was running out, but Finnian knew nothing about that where he lay, with blood from a re-opened wound above the eye trickling steadily down over his face. He could die there, and he'd be none the wiser about it, would never know as he slipped from one oblivion to the next.
It was not the kind of fate he would have envisioned for himself.
In every tyrant a tear for the vulnerable In every lost soul the bones of a miracle
As usual Damascus had taken his morning flight over the cliffs and sea. It was where he had always taken flight of a morning, and was the best place to view the court and assess any potential happenings to their environment overnight. Some days he would spy a new nest on the cliffs or find a new ruin that he hadn't spotted the day before, but that was usually it besides the odd fallen tree after a windy night. Sometimes there was interesting bits of debris, the kind he likes to collect and bring back to his cluttered nest at the edge of the swamp, but most days there was naught but a frenzy of wildlife fighting for best pickings.
Today though, he spotted a wreckage; a live one.
Soaring down to the rocky shore below, the colt of eighteen hands and counting was slightly stocked at the mess he beheld. At first he thought the man to be a rock, though knew quickly from above that he couldn't be - by now the colt knew the location of every boulder on this beach, and besides, This one was not black and volcanic like the rest but rather sand-coloured. Stepping over quickly on gangly legs of scarred ebony, Damascus crooned his large muzzle down and sniffed at the gargling stranger's face. Where in Vespera's name had he come from!? This kind of thing doesn't just wash up?
"Hear me you can?" The boy then asked, flicking his left ear out and aiming to press it gently over the male's throat in search of breath and a pulse. "Beating of heart have you, alive you be" He told the unconscious man, just to make sure he knew.
Luckily for the drowned stag he had washed up upon the one beach where he ought to receive the best care. Terrastella had, by far, the best caretakers in all of Novus. It was this thought that brought Damascus to cheer a loud but slightly panicked nicker in the direction of the court, signalling for help from any caretaker within who might heed his call. "Tare-cakers help you" Damascus then told the man, soon romping to the back of the wrecked dreadlocked fellow and sought to push upon his rump and heave him further ashore.
It was summer, the sun beating down on the whole of Novus and the Dusk Court with its full body; it held no reserves about those that wandered beneath its harsh light, caring for little else save its spot unchallenged in the sky. There might have been water-logged clouds gathering high and near to threaten the sun's current reign, but Rann wasn't focused enough to tell if there was sign of a storm. It mattered little to her, the one from snow and ice, for though the rain was less than impressive she had no attention left to give to the idea.
Someone, they said, had washed upon shore by the cliffs.
She had been in the midst of a quiet conversation beneath open bay windows with Máni, high in the Dusk Court tower. They laid with one another, soft tones filling their atmosphere as gentle breezes played with their manes. Rann was softly tracing the paint marks across his skin while he told her stories of his long journey; to be back, to be touchable and hear his voice, there was little else she had craved so much. The interruption came when one of the court galloped into the tower's yard and yelled for them, for any near enough to hear. They said, with missing breath and a heart too strong to stand, someone not of their kingdom had been found unconscious along the cliff's beach shore where the ocean sloped onto land. Rann pushed herself away from the comfort of Máni's side to make way down the spiraling stairs and out through the entrance; whether he followed or not, she wasn't paying any mind to.
She pulled up short from her race across the cliffs as Damascus worked on separating the stranger from the tides. She glanced for any standing close enough to her (sights set for Florentine's soft body) and called for Yana; the girl of the swamp had gathered enough by now, surely, to have something in her stronghold to help.
"Thank you, Damascus." The words came as she slipped her wolf's coat off her back and placed it over the drenched form in the sand, her slight telekinesis powers using it to rub off the remaining water. The boy was not moving, but he breathed slow breaths and she could only wait until her Champion of Healing arrived with something to stimulate waking him.
Curiosity drove the youth down from the clouds - well, curiosity and a pretty girl.
Lowering himself from the heavens in big, lazy spirals, Raglan's sharp opal eyes noted the prone form upon the shore, the maneless pegasus that leaned over him, and the star spattered mare that stood nearby with authority rolling off of her night kissed skin. As his pale hooves kissed the earth a small distance from either of the gathered Dusk Courtiers, the Silvertongue pursed his lips, his adoration for pretty mares and his need to heal the clearly unconscious stallion warring within his horned skull. With a snort, the winged lad settled for tossing a wink and a roguish grin in the direction of the star spangled mare before making his way to the other winged stallion's side.
"Merry meet, my friend," Came the youth's measured greeting, a small stirring of delight awakening within his breast as he noted the maneless boy was closer to his age than any other he had come across - aside from Crows, that is. Folding his wings closer to his body and gesturing toward the soggy heap of stallion at their hooves, Raglan let his suggestion slip from darkened lips, "He needs Lily of The Valley to wake him up and some Roman Chamomile and Bilberry for that cut of his." Tilting his head to the side and studying the dreadlocked stallion further, Raglan wondered if he would be penalized for filching the golden cuffs from the stranger's mane.
He huffed and stuck his bottom lip out, knowing that the goody-goody children of Dusk would without a doubt make him give the cuffs back. Serves him right for being unconscious, wouldn't you think?
The absolute victory of sol invictus was upon them, a relentless march across the heavens, stealing from the court of dusk their shadows, the night a mere memory, beloved and desired to those unused to the heat. Arion had no quarrels with this fanciful torment, the breeze from the seas, the howling shrieks of her maidenhood a comfortable assault to combat against overheating. He was a stallion of the mountain tribes, and yet, long was his life in the deserts dune, the place of skeletal remains and parched earth. A drop of water worth more to a herd than any fountain of gold. The most precious of crafts, fine gilded regalia, jewels of fine ornaments, carvings and inked lore, all were created with tender care, and traded for the one most precious gift; water. Here, there was no such shortages, a place where the fertile earth blessed be those who walked her ancient halls. The oasis, beautiful in their hostile fragility was nothing to the wealth that dwelled in the swamps, the very air saturated with dampness, cooling his hide where he strode through the waters, his belly, legs and tangled tresses drenched. Whereas others may have found the height of Solis' reign unbearable, he found it a gentle comfort.
His heavy ebony hooves struck against the stone of the citadels halls, a wraith since his coming a near fortnight ago. A fledgling to their odd customs, the easy air a reprieve from the complexities of the Yaghl tribes, Arion had sequestered himself to the dank, damp passageways at the heart of the monolith, led down upon by spiraling stairs. How many secrets dwelt here, deep in shadow? What tales would it hold, of those who came before? It was a curiosity, as well as a retreat, escaping from the rising tenor of voices mixing and flurrying with vibrancy. The halls of the living, the halls of shared words and community. There were times it reminded him of the mountain cities, built deep and wide beneath the great peaks of the east, far from these lands he had come.
Even here, hidden away, shielded by earth and stone, the echoes lingered, a faint rise that would consume his attentions if he offered it a moments attention. The phantom reminds hissed against his skull, the great male tossing his head in irritation, even as he paced towards the hall, his chimera hide cast into a shine from the flames bracketed against the walls. The noise grew the further along he ventured towards the surface. Pausing, his ears rolling forward, sliding along the tattered remenants of his mane, the smith listened to the voices, the rising panic and discord. It would seem something was amiss. To the ascension he began, long, corded limbs making easy work of the wide stairs, until at last he emerged into a wreath of tangled olive. They were numerous, the equine of the Dusk court, murmuring in their gentled worry for strangers and kin alike. That was perhaps the oddest of paradox he had come to accept; this willingness to see good in all things. The willingness to move past grudge and grief. It was an oddly whimsical thing, so used to he was of the prejudice of the tribesmen. Silent, a mere observer in many feats to the Terrastellians, Arion caught the swift orders of the caretakers, a wounded cast from the sea, left to lay bareboned in salt and weeks. He was slow to act, careful, as he turned around, thoughts settling in a careful clarity. Would he even be welcome in crisis of the court, naive as he was to their true creed?
All the same, he wandered, following after the swift shadow of the lady, intent on her purpose. Following after, the venture from the gilded castle in the sky to the desicrate stretch of rock and dead things, Arion seen the gathered masses, an assembly huddled about a single fallen form. "Where did he come from?" a low rumble hummed within his throat, stepping forward, his long tusks lances of white in the dull ashen sand. It was almost tender, pulling the tangled weeds from around his pale neck.
If Finnian had been awake, he might have wondered at the number of people that gathered on the wind-swept shores that morning. He might have played with the thought that the fox had summoned them there to help him; a delightful notion, to be sure, but fanciful in the extreme, more akin to a boys slumbering fancies than a grown man's logical reasoning. While he was at it with the daydreams, he could even have mused that some god or other was watching over him, one that was less fickle and decidedly more benevolent than his patron of old. Uprooted he was, torn from everything he had ever known or loved, set afloat on an ocean of unknowns...
... and now look at him. Washed up on a rocky shoreline like some piece of driftwood, left to live or die as best he could.
For what it was worth though, said beach was neither godforsaken nor deserted, so he might actually survive the ordeal after all.
For the longest time neither rousing words or gentle prodding could stir the young stallion. His body might be moored but the mind remained adrift, lost on dark waters and set upon by dark dreams that he could never quite recall afterwards, save for a vague notion that he had been very sad. He did not stir when a wolf-skin cloak was draped over his wet, chilled body and could do nothing to defend himself against the greedy eyes that lingered a fraction too long upon his few earthly possessions. But something, whether it was the added warmth, the constant murmur of voices above and around him or merely the passage of time, did eventually give effect. As awareness slowly returned to the raven-haired man the rhythm of his breathing changed, grew more labored and more shallow, his chest heaving in a single deep breath that caught off halfway through and set off a nasty cough. Water spilled from his mouth, reeking of salt and brine and the inside of a stomach, the whole of his body laboring under the effort of expelling any remaining fluids.
Then Finnian cracked open his eyes and peered up through salt-crusted lashes at the many silhouettes that hovered over him, looming and ominous against the backdrop of the brightening sky. The clouds had begun to break apart; he could see a sliver of blue up there, pale and wan still but promising a beautiful end to the day so long as the winds would not bring more storms upon them...
He did not really care about the weather at the moment. More pressing matters came to mind; where he was, who they were, whether he would live or was as near death as he felt (surely it had to show how bruised and battered he was, as if he had been slammed repeatedly into every cliff and rock along the entirety of the coast.) But when he tried to speak, all that came across his tongue this time was more coughs, and a hoarse, salty croak that had nothing whatsoever to do with any language he had ever heard.
In every tyrant a tear for the vulnerable In every lost soul the bones of a miracle
The first to heed his booming beckoning was perhaps the last he'd expect. The Lady Rannveig ought to be consumed with duties to hear his babbling cry, and in Damascus's mind he was naught but an ant to her; so it was when she swooped by and gave her words of thanks (she even spoke his name) that his heart began to melt, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and an even greater will to please the Queen. "Him save we must!" the adolescent chortled, one who would finally age into a man in the months to come.
Unfolding his wings and shrouding them around the subject of so much muttering and confusion, Damascus sought to shield him further from the elements as they awaited the arrival of a healer. Another arrived soon after, his coat the colour of a flame. This boy spoke something to Damascus that he didn't quite understand, though the monolithic colt understood it to be a gesture or greeting and so simply bobbed his head and replied with "yes" as anyone ought to when they didn't understand something.
It was when this same slinky character began to tickle his way over the draining sea victim's body and retrieving the pieces from his mane that Damascus spoke up.
The chomp of hooves upon gravel diverted Damascus's attention to another who approached; one who nearly frightened him right out of his skin with those gnarly tusks. He'd never seen anything like that ever before.
'Where did he come from?' the tusked one had asked, which caused Damascus to actually drop his jaw. Where did he LOOK like he came from? "The seas" Damascus spoke matter-of-factly "I finded him"
@Rannveig
08-25-2017, 12:21 PM
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The ruckus from the beach was a difficult thing to miss. The first thing they might have known of her arrival was the idle fall of petals, descending slowly to land amidst their rather chaotic gathering.
The colt, Damascus, with his wings like fire, was booming orders in a voice the cliffs eagerly resonated. Florentine hovered above them a moment longer, her eyes scanning, surveying, before she slowly descended.
Flora’s feet find land beside Rannveig, amethyst eyes bright as she looks to the injured horse. Sand crusted his skin from head to toe, seaweed covering him like wet vines. He was groaning in a voice storm-ragged and sand-grated.
The twilight girl steps toward him, her bag of meager medicines beside her. She had been a caretaker once, for such a brief, brief time. Her skills were paltry compared to Yana, but until word reached their Champion Healer, Florentine’s own meager skills were clearly all they had to help them.
Falling to her knees beside the drowned man she opens her bag, to reveal a flask of water and a select few tinctures. “Don’t try to speak, your throat is too sore from the saltwater and sand. Just focus on breathing for now.”
Slowly her gaze creeps over his bruised body and she huffs softly, she had healed a kitten once with magic, but not like this. She had helped Bexley too, but the Day girl’s wounds were minor then. Finnian’s injuries was far beyond her ability… “Our healer is coming, but for now you have to make do with me, I am afraid.” She says deceptively chirpy. “I have not done this before but I will try my best. I healed a kitten back from the brink of death once, I think that bodes quite well. Maybe.”
Bringing the flask to his mouth she poured a little onto lips, murmuring, “Now, drink what you can, only small sips because your throat will be too sore for any more. Use the water to clear the sand from your mouth if you can too.” Returning to her bag, Flora removed a leaf, small, green and fragile. “Chew this too, it will taste bitter, but it will ease your pain until we get you to the castle or Yana’s home.”
A smile curled the corners of her lips, her amethyst eyes blazing bright beneath the veil of her forelock. “You are lucky, my friend. Not many survive such a washing machine experience as that storm.”
Standing, she moves to her queen, drinking in the crescent moon gleaming atop her forehead. “I have sent for Yana. What I have done should tide him over until she comes. But we need her skills, desperately.”
Then, turning from Rannveig, the twilight girl’s eyes light upon Damascus, the tip of a wing extends to nudge at his shoulder. “He owes you his life Damascus. Who would have known if he would have survived without you finding him?” Her head tips, a small salute, cautiously bright.
When all that you have's turnin' stale and it's cold,
Oh you'll no longer fear when your heart's turned to gold
The starry girl is checking one of her snares when word of the wreckage reaches her. She listens to the news while she works, grasping at the empty trap with her mind to reset it. Most of her attention is devoted to the task -- as she is not yet skilled enough to utilise telekinesis with minimal concentration -- but bits of the message manage to drift in and out of her subconsciousness.
"-washed ashore, by the cliffs-"
A nod of the head. The trap reaches up towards the sky until it dangles from a tree.
"-unconscious-"
A black ear flicks at the mention of her patient's state, and finally the witch dedicates herself to the conversation. She listens carefully now, forming a list of necessary herbs in her mind as the symptoms of a drowned and battered man pile up. I'll need to pack his wounds with Turmeric in case of infection... If only I had Goldenseal at my disposal to stop the bleeding. An irritated snort erupts from black lips at the thought of her sparse selection of herbs; she should have sought to trade with the neighbouring realms weeks ago.What's done is done. If he's lucky he'll have minimal internal hemorrhaging, and hopefully someone has thought to apply pressure to his wounds by now. Grey eyes note the severity of the messenger's gasps for air and deem it unnecessary for the poor soul to guide her. Her low tones are devoid of emotion when she dismisses them, "rest now. And don't set off my trap."
Fortunately the hag is only a brisk trot back to the decaying stump housing her medicines. She rushes to collect everything, grasping the earthy roots in her lips and tangling a strand of garlic in her mane in absence of a proper bag to carry them in. The slick moss quickly turns to mud as the witch makes her preparations, her dark legs flitting from one rotting stump to the next as she thinks of more remedies to treat him with. Valerian root for the pain, perhaps honey to soothe the throat.... Damn it all! There's no time for this! Rolling back on her heels the hag propels herself in the direction of the cliffs, splashing through a puddle remaining from the storm.
The witch thinks of nothing other than reaching her patient as swiftly as possible. Pain lances up each leg with every rushed step, but her safety is not a priority as she picks her way down the steep face of the cliff. Her grey gaze drifts from the uneven stone underfoot to locate the gathering of bodies at the shore below. She cannot make out the figures at first, but the girl becomes a little more certain of their identity with every step. Rannveig, of course... And Florentine, thank the Gods for her message- Her hoof strikes a rock, demanding that she return her attention to the path while she regains her footing. And the tall one... Dark, lengthy wings sprouting from bulky shoulders... Damascus.
Thankfully the root between her lips prevents a smile from forming on them as she joins the crowd around the buckskin. The witch sets to work without a greeting or introduction, gesturing for Damascus to give her some room before nodding her head in approval. The witch drops the Turmeric root in the sand before acknowledging their efforts in a scholarly tone, "excellent use of the furs."
Her gaze intensifies as it slowly moves over his body. She takes note of the gash above his eye and the spittle dripping from his maw.A cough, undoubtedly from trauma to the trachea. I'll need to know what they've managed to do for that. "What have you treated him for thus far?" White hairs are picked up by the ocean air, and the girl tosses her head to free the herbs she has stored in them whilst waiting for a reply.
"We need to get him warm and dry as soon as possible." The words are stated as more of a suggestion than a command: the girl is unused to the power of her position, and isn't certain of the abilities of those around her. Florentine clearly has familiarity with medicine. She can help address the bleeding. Anyone can share body heat with the shivering man, however, and Damascus is the closest to him. At least they've thought to clear the debris away.
"He'll need something to give him strength -- can someone bring him honey? There wasn't much time. I brought only what was necessary." She picks up the root again, talking more to herself than to anyone else when she mumbles, "This is more effective in powder form, but paste will have to do."
I don't know who to tag anymore, but you know we're here! Everyone is welcome to take up Yana's suggestions, or sit and watch. I think it can be assumed that she's begun applying the paste to his wounds, I was just starting to write wayyy too much >.<
Finnian was only vaguely aware of the caretakers ministrations. His eyes were open through the most of it, but his consciousness came and went and announced his presence only as a renewed awareness within the blue, a temporary brightening of the dull gaze before he faded out again. Though he knew they were speaking to him, he could not make sense of the words. The accents sounded strange, almost like a different language entirely, but enough of it passed through his befuddled mind that he could piece together afterwards that he was being cared for, that he had been lucky enough to wash up in a place full of friendly strangers.
It seemed like a very long time passed, but it could not have been more than a few hours that the menders worked on him. By the time he finally managed to stand on his own two feet - wobbly and weak, no more a threat than a newborn foal or perhaps a half-drenched kitten - the sun had burned away the morning dew and beat down upon the cliffs from a sky almost as blue as his own eyes. It was hot against his golden skin, much warmer than the gentle spring glow of his homeland, but Finnian found it comforting. If the seasons were this different, it had to mean he was far from home now, far enough to be safe.
"Thank you" he said, defying the pale tender's instructions not to speak. It hurt, and he sounded like a man who had been drinking hard for weeks upon weeks, but he just had to say it - had to tell them, let them know how grateful he was. "Thank you, thank you..."
It was the only thing he said that day.
In every tyrant a tear for the vulnerable In every lost soul the bones of a miracle
