JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
The only favors she ever asks for are from Solis. Though perhaps more fickle than a mortal, she resents owing anything to someone who lacks the divine qualities of a god. So it's with reluctance that she travels to Terrastella, in search of the one they call Rannveig, sovereign of the Dusk Court. In her travels, especially here in the southeastern part of the continent, she'd heard whispers on the wind that the new queen was a gifted healer. With the injuries she had sustained against the Elder Teryr, Inkheart has found herself in desperate need of healing, especially for her fractured bone.
And so, she hobbles into the Dusk Court, wings assisting her progress. She had flown most of the way from the Day Court after the latest herd meeting, after the beast's defeat. Though Solis is capable of many things, this she knows, she doubts he is willing to come down and fix her himself. A mere mortal. No, best to seek out the wisdom of those earthbound creatures. She tries to move softly, to avoid drawing attention to herself. Normally she wouldn't mind crossing the boundaries of the other courts, caring not for laws that were really there to bind the... uncivilized sort. But in her current state, if anyone takes offense to her presence, she may not be able to easily defend herself.
One thing that comforts her, however, is the thought that she might chance upon that gray beast, Morozko. She remembers it so well, their night together. The fire in her blood, the lust in her eyes. The flirting had been almost immediate, the descent into madness quick to follow. She had thought she might have become pregnant, but to her relief, she was without child. Still, seeing him again (tasting him again?) would not be unpleasant.
Time in Jarl strengthened her into the best warrior Hiemsterra had since her ascension to the throne. They all thought it impossible--a female, the princess heir, besting their top fighter to claim the crown--but through the snow and bruised ribs she proved her prowess on the field. But attacking and defending strategies were not all that she had focused on; the aftermath mattered just as much to her, the ripped skin and broken bones, the refusal to let any opponent to become a casualty. She stuck close to the camp's healers, each warrior in their hands passing through for treatment. Some had magic, others used purposefully concocted potions for everything from pain management to cell regrowth. She first learned to treat her own wounds, then progressed well enough to care for her own sparring partners. There was no magic in her veins, so she leaned on the crutch of bandages and ground herbs, various liquids and plants. She carried the knowledge of healing with her to the lands of Novus, to the Dusk Court and those under the gods of the foreign continent. It was there she opened the tower of the court to weary travelers in search of rest or help; those already of Dusk picked up skills of their own, and the court grew to be known for their unmatched healing abilities.
She was alone, the Winter-turned-Dusk girl finding her way toward the tower she spent most of her time. Behind the tower lay a small network of buildings for living and storage, and it was there she had come moments before. In her mouth held tightly was a bundle of different items, empty bottles and small glasses of medicine; the idea was to transfer the bundle for use in the tower. The first sight she was given after rounding the circular building was a figure clearly limping their way across the field. It headed toward her, someone she hadn't seen before, and with one swift motion she ended up at the entrance of the tower and placed the clothed parcel on the steps. A light canter brought her over to the visitor, and a small smile made way across her lips before huffing a greeting, "No fear, I offer aid." She placed one creamed shoulder against the side of the other mare, hoping her wing would wrap around her own painted body for support. Agonizing minutes ticked by without another word from her, and she left the girl's blackened side to rummage through the bundle on the floor. Through the excitement, the thought of giving her name never crossed her mind.
A single bottle was pulled from the pile and she opened its top, carrying it over to her newest company. "It will taste bad, but it will help with pain." She motioned for the winged mare to open her mouth so she could pour the contents on her tongue. Through the various cuts sustained, she didn't know if perhaps something worse rested inside where she couldn't see. A moment passed, then "What are your worst injuries?" Her accent lilted around them as her eyes brushed over the scarred form of the golden-accented.
@inkheart
ahhh here we go! took the liberty to kind of move the healing process along, if you'd like me to change anything let me know! also you can decide what that pain potion tastes like for inkheart c;
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
Just because she had heard of the queen's healing powers, didn't mean she knew anything more about the sovereign of Terrastella. And so when the night and snow painted mare approaches, hurrying to catch the weakened Friesian, Inkheart does not realize that she is the queen, or even her name. There are no introductions, no ceremony passing between them. Only the healer there to help the injured. The shoulder propped up against her wounded side makes her wince, but she lets a tired wing drape over the pretty paint.
But as soon as Inkheart has trusted the other mare for support, the paint moves away to grab a bottle from a pile, and she groans as she has to aid herself again. Warily, she parts her lips at the healer's behest, prepared for a nasty flavor. She swallows, but sputters and wishes there was some way to take back the act. Oh Solis, what fresh hell is this?! It tastes like bitter tea leaves, with a hint of death. It burns in her throat, and she wonders if she can feel it eating away at her organs. Perhaps that's just her imagination? She coughs, trying to clear her throat of the horrible-tasting potion.
Golden eyes lift to meet green ones and there's an unreadable glint in them - a reaction having something very foul in her mouth in addition to her wounds. Through tight lips she manages to respond. "My right leg - above the knee. I think something is broken." She glances at it, and thinking that perhaps it would be better to give herself a rest, she crumples to the ground as delicately as she can. The leg in question stretches out before her and she lies on her side, nares flaring as she tries to stay calm through the pain. Until now she'd managed to stave it off, but as if her leg somehow knew it was the subject of their talk, it throbs just a little harder. "You must be the sovereign. I - I'm sorry for the intrusion, I just..." She doesn't finish the thought. There's no need to. Inkheart does not like being weak, being at a disadvantage. Certainly she does not wish to need anyone else to care for her, and yet here she is begging like a pauper.
There was no assumption on her part that anyone knew who she was; just the opposite, she didn't figure many beside the kings of Day and Night had any idea of even her name. She hadn't traveled to any court aside from her own, too lost in their own visions that she didn't spare a moment for anything else. Perhaps that was a downfall, the Dusk queen knowing nothing save the whims of her own people, but eventually she would have to make claim to the lands surrounding Terrastella if she was to ever be successful for Vespera. There were matters of discussion to be held anyway, so it was likely the visits would be had not long after her encounter with Inkheart.
She was grateful to the injured girl for her easy cooperation, the main concern in the sovereign's breast helping her to feel better. Rann held the idea that though wounds were probably warranted, the lasting pain was not; the job done was over with, despite however much involvement they had, and to heal quickly meant moving on to the next job sooner. It was not for Rann to decide if punishment was necessary or not, or if what they had done was just--merely, she was there to aid in treatment alone. So as the winged mare gave herself over to the painted body, the acting-healer moved swiftly to apply all she could in terms of medicine and bandages.
Willingly, though regretfully, the pain management potion was swallowed and she spared no time to assess the feelings of the girl; she had warned that the taste would be unpleasant, so her concerns were beyond feelings. She might have given a small smirk at the reaction presented, but it quickly vanished when spoken to. She watched the pegasus sink onto the floor, wincing, speaking again. Her mind was drawn elsewhere and she disappeared into the walls of the tower they were upon the steps of. But moments passed when she arrived again with a wooden rod and another bundle of cloths. Finally, she took the time to speak through the working and a smile replaced her previously tightly drawn lips. "I am Rannveig, chosen leader of Dusk." Her voice, through the harshness of her accent, was soft and she looked to the newest addition of her items. With the girl's leg outstretched, Rann continued to use her minor telekinesis to place the wooden stick over the outer side of the broken forearm, wrapping various cloths around to hold it in place. It became a stint of sorts, a temporary treatment to allow the bones time to mend.
The immediate damage (so she viewed) was taken care of, and she gave some thought to what was said. "There is no intrusion for one who requires help," the smile again taking over the shape of her lips. And though the girl could have probably, and just as easily, found someone else to care for her she went there to the Dusk Court instead. A salve of white-ish cream was what Rann took next, applying it to areas of superficial cuts and scrapes. In it held numbing properties, and she hoped it would at least help with the rest of the pain.
"You are of Day." She had stopped with the fussing and application of medicines, simply standing beside the downed equine with sea-green eyes upon her. The necklace of the day's sun was what she based such a statement off of.
JUST LIKE FIRE, BURNING OUT THE WAY
IF I CAN LIGHT THE WORLD UP FOR
JUST ONE DAY WATCH THIS MADNESS
COLORFUL CHARADE NO ONE CAN
BE JUST LIKE ME ANYWAY
Just after Inkheart spoke, sounding more reverent and humble than normal, the queen disappears somewhere into the tower. Her dark lobes can only just make out the rustling sound coming from inside, before the paint reappears with a rod and cloth. Her golden eyes watch the movements in silence, listening as the other mare fills in the gaps in her knowledge, in their lack of introduction. Rannveig! She wonders if that name doesn't sound somewhat familiar. 'Chosen ruler.' She makes note in her mind of the humility Rannveig uses when speaking of her title and position. But Inkheart remains silent, distracted by the horrible aftertaste in her mouth, the pain in her side and leg.
The Friesian observes the care with which Rannveig applies the rod, then wraps bandages around it and her leg, securing them snugly, but without constricting the blood flow. She continues with a salve over the nicks that spatter across the black hide; little tufts of hair missing. The smile Rannveig offers softens the harshness of her wintery accent, warms the welcome to the stranger from a land so distant. With a bit of wistfulness, Inkheart observes that such intrusions would not be tolerated in Solterra.
'You are of Day.'
Inkheart feels tension enter the air then, but after a moment realizes it comes from her, not from the queen. The black woman feels vulnerable, at a disadvantage. She's a downed bird in a field of foxes. She thinks for a moment of struggling to her feet, but the horrible flailing of wings and limbs would be so embarrassing she's not sure she could withstand it. So instead she remains on the ground, helpless, and turns her gaze to meet the one trained on her. "I am. My name is Inkheart, a priestess of Solis." Champion of Wisdom, technically, but it is a title that has little meaning thus far. "Thank you for assistance. I had heard rumors of your great healing abilities." She only hopes that the rumors prove true.
