[AW] take a breath, count to 3

[Cyrene]

there's too much smoke to see it, there's too much broke to feel this A smile as faint as the crescent moon above descended like a ragged hawk over Cyrene’s hollow, starlit eyes. She had gone without sleep, without rest, for so long it was hard to tell when night had begun and dusk had slipped off its throne of lavender stars. She felt nothing. Fatigue did not nip at the nymph’s heels like anxious dogs, pain did not throb in her chest like drums. Sorrow did not burn across her eyes like fire, and hunger did not steal her strength like a thief. It was almost terrifying, how quickly the girl had stifled her emotions like a tightened noose, until one wondered if she was not merely a shadow, if that, of her previous self. It had happened only once before, this transformation. And that had been a long time ago. Yet now, in such carnage, she did not have the luxury to feel. “Don't move, soldier. That blade is a mere hair from your lung — one lunge, and there will be nothing I can do to keep you from spilling your blood across the sands. It is a painful way to die,” she breathed coolly, amber eyes stripped of their warmth, of their mirth, as she stared evenly into the bloodshot eyes of the Davke girl. “I would rather… die, than be healed… by the likes of you,” she spat, raising her head to snap at Cyrene’s open wings. With a swift flick, crimson feathers folded themselves neatly along her bloodstained, sweat soaked sides. She grimaced as the girl cried out with the pain of her movement, blood dripping in a thin stream from her parched, curled lips. "Are you alright?" Narrowing her eyes, Cyrene ignored the stream of curses flowing from the Davke’s lips like poison as she inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply. It would require utmost precision to remove the sword cleanly. And even then, she would have only seconds to apply the potion and bandages before the soldier would bleed out in her arms. But a chance at life was better, so much better, than a grisly death. “I am not one of them. A Solterran, I mean,” she spoke, her voice soft despite the barbs the flame-haired girl was shooting at her between every blink of those blazing emerald eyes. With a tilt of her curls, a silver vial drifted out from the worn leather satchel strapped across her shoulders. The flap was barely in place, attached by a few measly threads. I’ll have to get a new one soon, she sighed, as she set the vial carefully down in the sands. The Davke girl’s eyes narrowed. “Then why are you here?” she hissed, though her tone was no longer dripping with malice. Merely hinting at it, if that, and Cyrene frowned at her sudden shift in composure. The puddle of blood running out the girl’s heaving sides confirmed her suspicions. She was running out of time. “Because I am a healer. And healers do not choose sides,” Cyrene murmured, a sad smile settling like snowdrift across the drawn planes of her face. “And also, because I hate being told what to do,” she finished, a wry smirk flashing across her lips as quick and sharp as any soldier’s sword. The girl’s hatred seemed less potent, then, but Cyrene wasn’t sure if it’d been because of her words, or because each second she waited, the Davke soldier was inching closer to Death’s door. All mirth, however brief and deploring it had been, was brushed aside. She wasn’t about to find out. --- It was by nothing short of a miracle that the chestnut-coated Davke survived. Cyrene had bandaged her wounds and slipped a sleeping draught between her gnashing teeth, before sparing one last glance at the girl’s sleeping body as she slipped away into the night. Had we met under different circumstances... But she was no longer naive enough to finish that thought. “You’re lucky.” Stifling a gasp, Cyrene dived with uncanny speed for the shadows of a crumbling pillar as a low voice resounded across the deathly silent sands. “The spear missed your heart. Otherwise you would be dead already.” There was someone else there, out in the suffocating night, and from what he had said… was he also there to treat the Davke’s wounded? Two sympathetic souls within earshot of each other were such glaring odds, that Cyrene dared not wander an inch from her hiding spot. Not until she was sure the strange man wasn’t a stray Davke healer — though, did they even have any? — who’d be more than happy to cut her down without a second’s hesitation. For now, she would watch. @Aion | this turned out super long ^^; but hurrah for these two healers to meet at last!

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